3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 13

  Ben turned on her. “Yet neither do I believe these are your jewels, mademoiselle. The courts will decide on the matter. Clara, ring for the maid, if you please. A constable and a physician are in order, I think.”

  Crossing to the bell pull near the door, she yanked on the golden rope. Cold air blasted in from the window, and she trembled. What an eventful day. A smirk tugged at her mouth. No, what an eventful holiday. With a sigh, she laid the revolver on the sideboard.

  “I cannot believe what you just did.” Ben’s voice accused her from behind.

  She froze, fearful to face him. Would he scold? Rebuke? Be angry that she’d pointed a gun at him? Oh, sweet mercy! One wrong move and she could’ve accidentally shot him. What had she been thinking?

  “Clara.”

  His husky voice turned her around, and his smile weakened her already shaky knees.

  “Well done.”

  The softness in his gaze tightened her throat, and with the last of her strength, she offered him a frail smile. “Thank you.”

  He stepped closer, smelling of battle and promise. “With those two out of the picture”—he nodded his head toward the subdued pair across the room—“that leaves just you and me. I’d say we are a brilliant team, are we not?”

  “Yes.” For a moment, she reveled in the unity, the embrace of his unfettered admiration shining in his eyes.

  But then reality slapped her as stinging a blow as the next waft of frigid air. Her smile faded.

  Ben reached for her but, inches from contact, pulled back. “What troubles you?”

  “A team may not receive the promised prize.” She bit her lip, working the fleshy part between her teeth. With Mr. Pocket and Mademoiselle Pretents out of the picture, only she and he were left.

  She swallowed. Ought she give up the funds she desperately needed so that he might receive his freedom?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The front door closed on a writhing Mademoiselle Pretents, arm grasped tightly in a constable’s grip, and the lagging Mr. Pocket, shored up by the strong hold of a physician. The thud of wood against wood faded in the foyer like the last beat of a heart. Clara rubbed her arms, chilled by the night air creeping across the tiled floor. She ought to be grateful there’d been no need to call an undertaker. And truly she was, but an uneasy pressure that’d been building since the day she arrived dwarfed her gratitude.

  Fear. What would happen next? Nothing good, considering the way the lifeless lion eyes burned down from its perch on the wall.

  Turning from the door, the maid faced her and Ben. “Will that be all, sir, miss?”

  Ben nodded. “Yes, Betty. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a new day. It will do us all well to end this one, I think.”

  Betty dipped her head. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, miss.” She scurried past them, the scent of silver polish in her wake.

  Clara watched her disappear down the corridor, wondering if the woman would catch a wink of sleep. Would she toil into the witching hours, shining silverware and soup tureens for a nearly nonexistent house party?

  “Shall we?” Ben offered his arm. “I’ll see you to your room.”

  She rested her fingers on his sleeve, and he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Secure. Warm. A queer tinge rippled in her tummy. Was it safe to hope again?

  She peeked up at Ben as they mounted the staircase. “I do feel sorry that neither Mademoiselle nor Mr. Pocket received what they’d come for, and indeed left here with so much less.”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

  She studied the strong cut of his jaw, looking for a humorous twitch, but he held it firm.

  “What else is there to think?” she asked.

  “Well …” Ben peered down at her. “Mademoiselle Pretents came here with the hope of a new position in a new household. I’d say she got both, though a cell wasn’t likely what she had in mind for accommodations. She is, however, up to the challenge of teaching an entire prison population some new obscenities, in English and in French.”

  Clara bit her lip to keep from smiling—a nearly impossible task, for the twinkle in his eyes was almost her undoing. “You, sir, are wicked.”

  “Perhaps, but I am correct, am I not?” He turned to her at the second-floor landing, longing in his gaze—but longing for what? Approval?

  Or for her?

  Soft light flickered from the wall sconces, bathing half his face in brightness, the other in shadows. Fitting, really. Nine months ago his very life had been golden one moment, black the next. As had hers.

  Ignoring his question, she let go of his arm and reached up, tracing a scar from his temple to cheek, one that narrowly missed his eye.

  His skin burned against her touch, his gaze asking questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer. If she leaned closer, raised to her toes, his mouth would be hers once again. She could be his. No one would know.

  Except for God.

  The thought sobered her, and she pulled back. “What, uh, what of Mr. Pocket?” She set off down the corridor leading to her chamber and called over her shoulder. “You cannot say he shall be rewarded with a magistrate position.”

  “True.” Ben caught up to her in three long strides. “But he will be spending some very personal time with a magistrate, hmm?”

  “That doesn’t count, and you know it.” She swatted his arm with a grin.

  “No, but it did coax a pretty smile from you, which was my intent all along.” He winked at her.

  She matched her feet to her increased heartbeat, hastening down the hall. Passing Miss Scurry’s door, she shivered. Now with Mademoiselle Pretents absent as well, she’d sleep alone on this floor.

  “It’s quite empty here without Miss Scurry,” she murmured. “As quirky as she was, I do miss the old lady, but not her mice.”

  “Two more nights. That’s all.” Ben pulled ahead of her and reached for the knob on her door, opening it for her. “Just two, and I shall have my freedom and you your money.”

  “That would be breaking the rules.”

  “After all that’s happened these past ten days, do you really think convention is a priority of Bleakly Manor’s master?” He ushered her across the threshold with a sweep of his hand. “Now then, there’s no need to worry about anything. With Mr. Pocket gone, there will be no more mishaps.”

  She turned to him. “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” Drawing near, he pressed a light kiss to her forehead, whispering “Sleep well” against her skin.

  She stood, dazed, long after he pulled the door shut behind him. Sleeping was out of the question, though she did try eventually. She fought with twisted bedsheets the whole of the night, turning one way and another, until just before dawn when she finally surrendered the battle.

  Faint light leached through the windowpanes by the time she opened her door, dressed for whatever the day might bring. But she stopped on the threshold, completely unprepared for the sight in front of her.

  Across from her door, Ben slept, back against the wall, legs sprawled, head tipped back, wearing the same clothing as yesterday except for more wrinkles. Peace eased the lines on his face. Each rise and fall of his chest breathed life into the boyish good looks she remembered—so carefree, so handsome that the sight made her ache to the marrow of her bones.

  A second later, he shot to his feet, knife drawn, scanning the hall.

  Heart pounding, she grabbed the doorframe for support.

  “You all right?” He peered past her shoulders, into her chamber.

  “Fine, except for the year of life you just frightened from me.” She drew in a long breath, slowing her pulse. “What are you doing here?”

  He tucked away his knife—thankfully—then ran a hand through his hair. “I told you last night there’d be no more mishaps. I meant it.”

  Heat spread up from her tummy to her heart. He’d slept in front of her door all night, watching and protecting her?

  Down the hall, a bobbing
lamp drew near, the halo of light contrasting the maid’s pale face with her ebony dress. Betty bobbed a curtsy despite her filled hands. “Glad to see you’re both awake. There’s a messenger downstairs for Miss Chapman. He said to give this to you directly.”

  Betty held out an envelope with Clara’s name scratched on the front.

  Clara’s heart stopped. This could not be good. With shaking hands, she broke the seal. Each sentence, each word, stole strength from her legs, until she swayed.

  Ben reached for her, his grip on her arm a steadying beam. “What is it?”

  Betty retreated, taking the light with her. Light? La, as if any shone into this manor of despair.

  “Clara?” Ben’s voice sounded far away, somewhere overhead and fuzzy. “What’s happened?”

  She cleared her throat. How to make her voice work at a time such as this? “Aunt Mitchell is not doing well.” The words came out jagged around the edges, but at least they came out. “The doctor says if I wish a goodbye, now is the time.”

  She stared, unseeing, into Ben’s eyes.

  He held her shoulders, firming her up on each side. “Then you must go.”

  Go? Were Aunt to die, then there was nothing for her anymore. Nowhere to go. No means to support herself. But if she stayed another day and a half at Bleakly, then she stood a good chance of being self-sufficient long enough to find another position.

  Could Aunt hold on for that long?

  Ben bent, peering closer. “What are you thinking?”

  “If I leave now, I shall ruin my chances of five hundred pounds. I know that sounds callous and cold, but—” A sob welled in her throat. It sounded that way because it was. “Oh, Ben, what shall I do?”

  “A last goodbye isn’t worth any amount of money. It is priceless.” Cupping her cheeks with his hands, he lifted her face. “I never got to say goodbye to you or my life before being cast away into Millbank.”

  The emotion in his gaze nearly choked her. “You’re right, of course. Yes, I shall go. But I—”

  She what? How to put into words the fear, the terror, of leaving him again? What kind of cruel joke was it to bring them together, then rip them apart for a second time? The dam burst, and hot tears scalded her cheeks.

  Ben brushed them away with his thumbs. “What’s this?”

  “I—I shall miss you.” Loss tasted as salty as the tears on her lips.

  “As long as I draw breath, Clara, I vow I will go to you immediately after quitting this place. I swear it. Nothing, nothing will keep me from you.” A muscle jumped on his jaw. Slowly he sank to one knee, pulling her hand to his lips. He kissed her so softly, she trembled. The hazel of his eyes burned up into hers. “Will you trust in me again? Will you allow me to show you how much I love you?”

  Old memories of the pitiful stares, the whispered remarks as she stood alone on display in front of an altar, cut a fresh mark on her soul. How awful, how excruciating, to be burned twice over with the same fire. But was this time not completely different? Oh, God, please let it be so.

  She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the second-chance coin. Hesitating for only a breath, she held it out. “Perhaps this coin was never meant for me, but for you.”

  His fingers entwined with hers, and his throat bobbed as he took it.

  “I will trust you, Benjamin Lane. But please …” Each word cost in ways that she’d pay for eternity if he failed her in this. “Do not break my heart again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Feeble afternoon sunlight faded into early evening shadows, darkening the library. At a table near the door, Ben retrieved a candle lantern and lit it, his breath puffing a little cloud in the frigid chamber. No stranger to the cold, he tugged the lapels of his dress coat closer and strode from the room. Once Clara had departed, he’d spent the bulk of the day re-exploring the empty manor from cellar to rafters, hoping to find the reclusive master. All he’d discovered was Betty debating with two kitchen staff about the freshness of the fish for dinner, a stable hand who’d come in for a mug of ale, and countless locked doors that hid secrets. Blast! But he was sick of secrets.

  Quickening his pace, he stalked from corridor to corridor, finally stopping in the empty front foyer. He widened his stance and faced the lion head.

  “Why not end the charade now? I am the last one remaining. Show yourself and be done with it.”

  Lifeless eyes stared down at him. Not that he expected an answer—nor the sudden rap of the knocker on the front door.

  Wheeling about, he cast aside convention and opened the door himself.

  A ruddy-cheeked fellow with frosted eyebrows and a red-tipped nose stood at attention. “Is there a Mr. Lane in residence?”

  “I am he.”

  “Excellent. This delivery is for you, sir.” He held out a canvas messenger bag.

  Ben rolled his eyes. This was too convenient. Too coincidental. He glanced over his shoulder, back up at the lion head, feeling more than ever like a pawn.

  Yet what else was there to do at this point but finish the game?

  Stifling a growl, he took the bag with a forced “Thank you,” then rummaged in his pocket for something to give the man. Nothing but Clara’s second-chance coin met his touch. Ahh, but poverty was a cruel master, not only for him, but for the poor delivery man who’d have to trek back to God-knew-where with nothing but chapped skin to show for it.

  Ben met the man’s gaze. “I am sorry, but I’m afraid I have no tip.”

  “No need.” The fellow swiped the moisture from the end of his nose with the edge of his sleeve. “I’ve been paid handsomely. Good night.” He turned and jogged down the stairs, mounted a fine-looking bay, and trotted off into the twilight.

  Closing the door on the cold, Ben tucked the bag under one arm and strode into the drawing room—the one chamber with a fire. He poured a glass of wine, then settled in the chair nearest the hearth as the mantel clock struck five. Untying the leather thong secured around two buttons, he opened the flap. Inside was a large packet, thick and weighty, and three smaller envelopes at the bottom. No, hold on. He fished his finger into one corner and pulled out a scrap of paper. Hasty penmanship scrawled across it, reading: You don’t have to be right. You just have to be.

  His brows pinched. What was that supposed to mean?

  Setting it aside, he withdrew the envelopes and went first for the one that was unsealed. Dumping the contents onto his lap, he riffled through what appeared to be receipts. Many wrinkled. Some torn. All with large sums and different dates spanning the past nine months. A new top hat. A case of Chateau Margaux. Fees spent for villas and servants and travel arrangements to and from a spate of European countries. Ben shoved the papers back into the envelope. What had this to do with anything?

  He paused to swallow a sip of his drink, then drew out the biggest packet and set the bag down on the floor. Perhaps by reading the rest he’d understand the cryptic scrap. Laying the folder on his lap, he flipped it open. Pages of parchment, lots of them, neatly penned. He picked up the first page, then gaped at the title written in black ink at the top: Blythe vs Lane.

  A shock jolted through him as he read further. These were court documents. The papers he’d begged to see before, during, and after his trial. The key to discovering who’d brought embezzlement charges against him in the first place.

  He riffled through the pile, scanning like a madman, revisiting the indictment, the verdict, discovering the names of the members of the jury, and finally the page naming the plaintiff. His hands shook. His whole body did. At last he’d know whom to seek out, whom to pay back all the horrors he’d had to live through the past nine months: George Chapman.

  The paper slipped from his fingers. The name made no sense. Clara’s brother, his friend and colleague, was his accuser?

  He shoved the documents back into the bag and pulled out the other two envelopes. One felt heavier, so he opened that one first. A letter, folded into thirds, was addressed to High Court Just
ice Richard Combee.

  Though his throat was parched, he ignored his glass of wine and shook out the missive, then skimmed the page. The first half was blotted in parts, the ink washed out where some sort of liquid had spilled onto the paper. It mostly looked like salutations anyway. But the words in the middle were clear enough:

  … appreciate your handling with utmost confidentiality

  the matter of Benjamin Lane. As per our previous

  conversation, the sum of one thousand pounds shall

  be yours in exchange for his transportation.

  As always, your servant,

  George Chapman

  The paper crumpled in his hand as if his fingers squeezed about George’s neck. It couldn’t be helped. Such rage, when birthed, could not be shoved back inside any more than a babe could revisit a mother’s womb. Of course he should have known—he just didn’t want to. But it made perfect sense.

  From the time they’d been lads, he and George had competed for everything, from trying to acquire the headmaster’s praise before the other to rowing contests on the River Cam. Landing a partnership at the same shipping company, it was only natural they vied for the ultimate prize—the great Blythe warehouse industry. Had George somehow discovered he would not be the winner? The sweet aftertaste of wine soured at the back of his throat. Were that conjecture true, that meant he would have been the one to take over the prosperous business. Would George truly have been so heinous as to steal the money, cast the blame on him, and leave his own sister practically destitute?

  Drawing in a deep breath to clear his head, he tucked the letter into the envelope and tossed back the rest of his drink. Steady, steady.

  He opened the last envelope and pulled out a single half sheet. A block cut of a steamship adorned the left corner. At the right, written in red ink, the word copy. Across the top, the title of Liverpool, London & Glasgow Packet Company spread out in swirled letters. The line below that listed the destination—New York—and the departure date: January 5. Tomorrow, then. At ten in the morning. Berth No. 12. Balance due $0. Wapping Wharves. And the bearer’s name—George Chapman.