Spending Christmas in Hell (Diamonds of London #8)

Chapter Two

December 15, 1818

No 6 Thackeray Street

Kensington, Mayfair

London, England

Ten days to Christmas.

Miss Ashlynn Athercrombe blew out a breath and pulled the folds of her cloak more tightly about her person as she scurried along the street toward the building where she lived. Not that the date mattered. It only meant the rent payment for the month of December was fifteen days late.

Again.

Her stomach let out a rather unladylike growl, but then, she was hardly a lady. Not anymore. Not since her father died six months ago and she’d been left to fend for herself. At one time, her dear papa had been a gentleman of some acclaim, a leader within the merchant class. He had been a clockmaker for the upper class; his every day had been filled with appointments all through Mayfair to build or repair all manner of clocks.

That was one thing all classes in London had in common—the need to keep time—and her father was glad to take care of everything clock related to anyone who would ask.

Ah, when he had been at his height, life had been everything lovely. Due to his connections, he had been invited to society events, and thereby she had as well. Always, he’d told her that she could be a diamond of the first water in that same society, for she was certainly beautiful enough.

She’d laughed at him and ignored him; he was naught but a proud father. But she’d accompanied him to those balls and routs and dinners in whatever pretty new gown or frock he’d told her to buy, and she’d mingled with eligible men within that same society in the hopes of finding a man to spend her life with.

Until her father’s health began to decline at a rapid pace and he stopped building or repairing clocks.

When tears welled in her eyes, Ashlynn rapidly blinked them away. It had only been six months, but she missed him fiercely every day. In fact, she hadn’t had the heart to clean or pack anything in the clock shop situated on the ground floor of the townhouse they’d rented. So she’d kept the shades drawn and the door locked. To distract herself, she’d joined the efforts of a charity that brought loaves of day-old bread along with blankets and the occasional bonnet for babies to less fortunate families in neighborhoods around the Seven Dials area. Though it made her feel good inside to help those who most needed it, it didn’t take away the pain, loneliness, and grief deep down inside her chest.

When her stomach complained against its emptiness again, she sighed. It was just past teatime, and as she walked through the falling snow, she couldn’t remember if she had any tea leaves left in the tin by her small stove. Lord knew she certainly didn’t have a lump of sugar to speak of; there was hardly enough coin to scrape together to ensure that she had food.

But that didn’t matter either, not if she could save one more child, not if she could make just one more young mother feel comfortable, not if she could ease an old woman’s suffering with her meager gifts. She might not have much coin for personal spending—in fact what little her father had left her was due to run out by month’s end—but she figured buying loaves of bread and handing them out to the poor was better for her soul than securing coal or eating two meals every day. On the days when she didn’t do deliveries, she kept herself occupied—and her mind off her empty belly—as well as to help work through grief, she had taken up knitting. Would a lady of the ton do that? Of course not. It was considered a labor of the lower classes, but there was a certain satisfaction of working with her hands, and the result was knitted woolen blankets for babies and small children. They would be distributed once she’d accumulated ten or so, and since she’d just let the last lot go, she would need to start over.

Please make all this sacrifice worth it.

The clip clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels over the hard-packed earth of the street echoed in her ears. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted that the thin blanket of newly fallen snow-covered multiple sins and tragedies. Why couldn’t it cover hearts that were hurting or make invisible the harsh divide between the classes?

As she passed by a few people who lived on the same street as her, they exchanged pleasantries. It gave her a temporary buoyancy to her heart, but once she’d passed them, that bit of joy had already faded. Her steps took her past a closed carriage that had just rolled to a halt at the curb, but she barely paid it a glance, giving the occupant a brief wave.

“ Dia duit ,” she murmured, which mean hello or good day in Irish Gaelic.

When she wasn’t thinking of it, her Irish accent came out, and while that made her feel another layer of comfort, it immediately set her apart from many in the area. What she needed were some friends, or perhaps she should try to coax a dog or a cat in off the street. Of course, what would she feed another mouth when she often skipped meals herself?

Eventually, she reached the number 6 building, and when she saw the carved placard over the door to her father’s clock shop, her heart squeezed.

Ah, Papa, I miss you dearly.

Would the ache ever go away? At times she hoped it did but at others, she didn’t want it to because that might mean she would forget him.

Never be ashamed of your heritage, my girl. Your grandparents and I didn’t fight to flee Ireland and have a new life for you to be ashamed of those roots.

It wasn’t so much in her little neighborhood that her heritage stuck out, but sometimes when she mixed with society that some folks took exception to who she was and where her family had come from. The looks and snide comments never bothered her; the whole history of her lineage had been prejudiced against for as long as there were stories.

That only meant she came from a long line of brave people who had overcome the odds.

After moving to the door to the right of the shop door, she opened it, went through, and then slowly made her way up a set of narrow wooden stairs to the living area over the shop. A year ago, when she entered the upper floors of the townhouse, there would be the scents of tea and apple cakes in the air or a roast on Sundays, for her father had adored cooking, but now, it was just the general cold air of emptiness.

With a sigh, she removed her cloak and hung the garment on an iron hook on the wall behind the door. “Well, Papa, another day has nearly come to a close, and once more, I have no idea how I will meet the future.”

Yet they always had. Somehow and some way. She’d reached the age of nine and twenty and had always been blessed. Now that some of the initial grief had moved out of the way, she could concentrate harder on things she needed to do. Unless she figured out a way to make a living or bring an income to herself, she would be tossed from the townhouse to land in the gutter. Absolutely not would she earn coin on her back like so many women in her circumstances, so that meant learning how to sell her father’s clock shop, but right now, she couldn’t bear to part with that last piece of him.

Truly, it would break her heart all over again. Even now, his pipe and the porcelain box that contained the tobacco leaves still rested on the small round table next to the chair he’d always favored. If she put those things away, it would be yet another thing that would cause him to become invisible.

I can’t think about that now.

First, she needed to take care of her stomach. Hunger oftentimes set off a megrim, and everything else would determine the severity of the ache in her head. It was something she’d always suffered from since she’d been a child, and the more anxiety was present, the greater the frequency of those megrims.

After she’d put the kettle on and lit the stove, she busied herself with measuring tea leaves into the porcelain teapot her father had brought to England from Ireland. In a couple of days, she would take a few high value clocks to a pawn shop down the street and exchange them for coin. At least then she could pay the rent on the townhouse, and it would give her the time she needed to figure out what to do next.

Just as she lit a couple of candles in the small front room her father used to jokingly call their poor man’s drawing room, a heavy knock sounded on the door.

Another huff escaped her. Seconds later, she swung open the door. “I realize it is the Christmastide season, but there is no extra coin available here for whatever charity you are calling for.” Without her cloak on, a shiver went down her spine as the outside air seeped into the room around the tall, broad-shouldered man standing there, but she didn’t care. She was cold and tired and disgruntled. Truly, she wasn’t in the mood for the typical holiday things, even if it would be nice to celebrate with someone.

Anyone.

There wasn’t even a dog to talk with.

“Hold, madam. I am not here on behalf of a charity.” The deep tenor of his voice was immediately arresting and made her pay closer attention to him.

“Then what the devil do you want?” It wasn’t uncommon for random men to go astray and land on her doorstep, but she was adept at sending them on their way. But this man was a bit different.

Perhaps a few inches beneath six feet, he had wide shoulders, set off even more by the dark grey greatcoat. A beaver felt top hat sat atop hair of a dark brown or even black she couldn’t determine in the shadows at a rakish angle over his left eye, and those eyes were a deep, mysterious brown. His boots looked as if they had been freshly shined, and the longer he stood there with the cold air seeping around him, the more the scent of cedarwood and citrus teased her nose.

Oh, dear. He smells so good!

The corners of her mouth slightly lifted with the beginnings of a grin that never quite materialized. “I am here to speak with a Mr. Athercrombe.”

A stab of grief went through her chest to hear someone mention her father. “That was my father, and I’m sad to say he passed away six months ago.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” Finally, her gaze tumbled down his torso to his hand where he held a leather folio envelope. She frowned, for that didn’t bode well. “However, you didn’t answer my question.”

“May I come in? I would rather not conduct business in the cold.”

Warning bells sounded in her head, for she would have the disadvantage over him if things went wrong even if this was her home. Yet she was steadily freezing. “Yes, of course. Where are my manners?” Not that she would hesitate to let her Irish dander come out if he attempted to molest her.

“Much appreciated. If there is anything I detest on this earth, it is the snow and cold. Makes a man feel his age and then some,” he muttered as he came into the small room.

Despite her want to smile at the complaint—of which she shared—for the first time in years, she saw her home from a stranger’s viewpoint. Cramped front room that still bore the stamp of her father’s former residency. A smallish back room that contained the stove and kitchen and doubled as a storage space. Upstairs were two small rooms that were bedchambers… and the one where her father had stayed had remained untouched.

Fighting back both rising hysteria and the urge to sob, Ashlynn cleared her throat. Her attention was once more fully on the newcomer, for his presence, though not exactly commanding, seemed to fill the space. He had a quiet air of command about him that both thrilled and intimidated her.

“I shall ask again. Why are you here?”

He snorted and waited for her to close the door behind him. “No vulgarity this time?”

“That largely depends on what you say next.” She crossed her arms at her chest. “Speak. I am not in a good humor.”

“So I can surmise.” The notes in his voice spoke to culture and breeding. Clearly, he was part of the ton , which only deepened the mystery surrounding him. When he opened the folio and rifled through a few papers within, he glanced at her. The candlelight reflected in his dark chocolatey eyes. “Since Mr. Athercrombe is deceased, I need to speak with the next of kin. My paperwork indicates a daughter lived with him. Is that you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes. I am his daughter.” When he cocked a dark brown eyebrow, she huffed. “Miss Ashlynn Athercrombe. I came to London when I was ten with my parents when they fled from Ireland after a few riots and other assorted troubles.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I am Sir Timothy, one of the owners of the Ridgeway and Dashfield counting house.”

“Oh, now I understand why you are here.” She glanced at his folio. “That must mean trouble, but at least you didn’t bring a pistol to force an issue.”

“I am not in the habit of threatening people.” He flashed a half-grin that did strange things to her insides. “Also, I do not need a pistol, Miss Athercrombe. I can defend myself—or you—with my fists if need be.”

How very interesting. Her heartbeat accelerated. “I am not asking you to do so, Sir Timothy; I am only asking you for mercy. Though I am aware my December payment is late, barging in here is not going to help, for there is no coin either way.”

“You are not the first person in this building to offer such an excuse today.” He held up his folio. “According to the terms of the contract your father signed, rents are due at the first of each month. Otherwise, interest accumulates, and if a borrower doesn’t pay by the fifteenth of that month, they have made it known that they have reneged on the contract, rendering it null and voice. And that means the counting house has every right to begin eviction proceedings.”

“Oh!” Pain went through her chest as if he’d physically punched her. Ashlynn put a hand to her throat as the heat of embarrassment came over her. “How dare you!” In that moment, her control snapped, and the grim reality of the holiday season slammed into her. The man deserved a dressing down. Quite frankly, she didn’t care who heard her. “After you just heard me tell you that I lost my father this year, you still demand payment.”

“These are the rules, Miss Athercrombe . It is a sad situation, but I can’t help that.”

“You are such a skinflint who values coin above all things. You have no feelings, and that makes you worse than someone who can’t pay their rents.” As she spoke, she closed the distance between them. “Look around you! Does this look like the residence of someone who is irresponsible with their coin? In the last year, my father encountered financial difficulties, and we have never lived lavishly. We were making ends meet this past year until right before he died.” With every point she made, Ashlynn jabbed Sir Timothy in the chest with her forefinger.

His hard, muscled chest. For one insane moment, she wondered what being held in those arms would feel like, or resting her head against that chest, for she had been alone for far too long. The ability to borrow from someone’s strength sounded like heaven. Just for a few moments.

“But I need—”

“No.” She shook her head. “You need to apologize. How can you live with yourself, coming in here ten days ahead of Christmas demanding money that isn’t there?” Jab, jab. “I am a woman in mourning. Even now, I don’t have the heart to sell my father’s possessions, nor do I know what to do with his shop.” To her horror, tears welled in her eyes. Not because she was sad but due to her anger. That’s how it always was with her. “Clearly you are well off, since the cut of your clothing and your bearing show that, which means you should know better and have at least a smidgeon of compassion.”

“Of course I understand that, yet—”

“No.” Absolutely she refused to stand for this, especially since she was thirty seconds from completely dissolving into tears. Then she reached around him and wrenched open the door. “Get out.”

“I haven’t finished my call.”

“As far as you and I are concerned, there is nothing else to talk about.” As if she had been raised by feral parents, Ashlynn yanked at his arm and then shoved him out of her house and into the narrow corridor beyond. “Good day, Sir Timothy. Perhaps when you have had a chance to think about your actions, you may call again, and we can have a civilized discourse. Until then, I ask that you don’t pester me.”

As he stood gawking at her, she slammed the door. A muffled “ow!” from the other side indicated the fact that the wooden panel had no doubt caught him on the tip of his nose.

“ A chonách san ort !” she shouted back, which basically meant it served him right. The man deserved the pain.

Once she was finally alone, the emotions she tried to hold back beset her. Tears fell to her face, and as she stumbled toward the stove where the kettle had heated, she paused at the small round table where she’d usually taken dinner with her father. As she gripped the back of a chair, a sob wrenched from her throat. All the pain and grief from losing him mixed with the anger and audacity of the counting house man calling and it collided with icy fear at her spine for not knowing what her future held.

Too much to bear, Ashlynn slowly slid to the floor. As if she were a child of ten again and afraid as she and her parents came to England, she drew her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms about them, and cried as if the heavens were crashing down around her.

Just another reason to despite Christmastide.