3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 22

  A smile curved Uncle’s mouth, crinkling his skin well up to the corners of his eyes. “Well said, my boy. Well said.”

  Alice reared back her head, barely disguising her breathed out “Pish!”

  Percy collected his papers, stacked them in a neat pile, then shoved the whole thing toward Uncle. “Facts over sentiment, I always say. Read for yourself, on this top document right here, you will see—”

  “Excuse me. I won’t be but a moment.” Will pushed back his chair and stood before Percy launched into a lecture on the merits of steam engines. With his cousin so diverted, this would be the best time to safely see to Mina.

  He strode out of the dining room, and as soon as he stepped into the corridor, Mina urged him away from the door with a tip of her head. Intrigued, he followed.

  “I must speak with you,” she whispered. “Alone.”

  Something dreadful crept in from the edges of her voice, and he reached for her hand. “Very well. Come along.” He led her down the passage and pulled her into the sitting room.

  “What is it?” He spoke low, her clear desire for secrecy tempering his tone.

  “I think I have your proof.” She held out an unfolded slip of paper.

  Collecting it, he scanned the words.

  Picks at his food.

  Wishes to live with unicorns.

  Believes in fairies.

  Outbursts claiming brimstone beasts.

  He frowned at the gibberish, then met Mina’s gaze. “What is this?”

  “Your cousin Percy has been taking notes all evening. Every time your uncle does something questionable, he writes it down. Oh, Will—” Her voice frayed to a ragged thread. “I think he’s documenting things out of context to incriminate your uncle, preparing even now to have him committed.”

  The truth of her words punched him hard, and a growl rumbled in his throat. What a cur! What a wicked, grasping cur. The confirmation of Percy’s true intent tightened his gut, and the paper shook in his hand. This had to stop, here and now. He wheeled about and strode to the corridor.

  “Will?” Mina’s voice trembled behind him—and he hated the fear he’d caused by his abrupt departure. But it couldn’t be helped. He never should have dragged her into this.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He upped his pace, not daring to give her an answer. What he’d like to do would land him behind bars.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  If our affections be tried, our affections are our consolation and comfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between this world and a better.

  Nicholas Nickleby

  Mina sped after Will. She’d never seen him take such a warrior stance—and a shiver slid across her shoulders. She’d hate to be on the receiving end of the wrath she’d witnessed hardening his jawline.

  Will stalked into the dining room and slammed the note down in front of Uncle Barlow, the movement knocking loose a pile of papers she’d not seen before she’d excused herself from the room.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Percy scrambled to collect the fluttering pages.

  “There is one paper my cousin neglected to show you, Uncle.” William jammed his finger at the note. “Read it.”

  “What are you going on about—” Alice’s words crashed to a halt as her gaze landed on the scribbled writing in front of Uncle Barlow. She reached to snatch the incriminating paper away, but Will’s uncle beat her to it.

  Uncle Barlow’s lips moved as he read over the words, then he frowned up at Will. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “The meaning, sir, is that my cousins intend to have you committed to an asylum.”

  Mina held her breath. The sudden silence in the dining room was a living thing. A breathing monster. The kind that writhed and nipped. She huddled closer to Will. Were this a novel, she’d skip to the next chapter to see how things turned out.

  Percy shoved his glasses tight against the bridge of his nose, as if battening down the hatches before a great storm. Then he threw back his shoulders and faced Uncle Barlow. “I assure you, Uncle, whatever doubts my cousin is trying to implant in your head can be nothing but a scheme to garner himself the inheritance.”

  Uncle Barlow grunted. “Did you write this note, Percival?”

  “I did.”

  Mina blinked. How stunning. He admitted to the offense without hesitation?

  But even more stunning, Percy slid his narrowed gaze to her. Lamplight flashed off his spectacles like lightning bolts. “The real criminal here is William’s wife, for she stole the paper from my pocket.”

  “Mina?” Uncle Barlow turned in his seat, the questions in his gaze driving her back a step. “Did you pick Percy’s pocket?”

  “I—I … no!” She gasped. How had things gotten so turned around? “I took nothing from his pocket. The paper fell out and was about to plummet to the floor, when I simply caught the thing. I thought to give it back, but I—I—”

  “There is no need to defend yourself for retrieving a fallen paper, Mina.” Will reached out defiantly and entwined his fingers with hers. “The only crime here is Percy’s clear indictment of you, Uncle.”

  “Indictment? Flit!” Percy swatted his hand in the air as if slapping away an annoying black fly. “Such skulduggery can only be imagined in the mind of a deviant. I was merely keeping notes of this momentous evening for posterity’s sake.”

  A snort ripped out of Will. “You seriously expect us to believe that?”

  “I should think my word is of more value than that of some law clerk wastrel and his no-account bride. Her ill breeding was apparent even before she resorted to thievery. She suits you though. Far better than Elizabeth ever did. Two unscrupulous peas in a pod, I’d say.”

  “Enough!” Uncle Barlow roared, and all eyes swung his way. He stood and slapped both palms on the table. “I can see my decision will require more effort than I first anticipated, as you’ve all given me quite a lot to think about. In light of such, we shall reconvene at my country estate over Christmas. Arrive the week before. Until then, I bid you good night.”

  Uncle Barlow strode from the room, leaving them agape with the sudden departure. So many questions tumbled about in Mina’s mind that she was glad for Will’s strong hold of her hand, grounding her. Of course she couldn’t possibly go to Uncle Barlow’s country estate. How would Will explain that? And who was this Elizabeth that kept getting mentioned?

  Percy jumped to his feet, his chair teetering on two legs. He stalked toward Will and speared his chest with a podgy finger. “This isn’t finished, Cousin.” He emphasized each word with a jab.

  “No, it is not.” Will spun, his grip on her hand pulling her with him. “Come along, Mina.”

  Her feet double-timed to keep up with his long stride, though she couldn’t blame him. She wished to leave Percy and Alice behind every bit as much as he. In the foyer, a servant waited with their wraps, and Will helped her into her coat before he donned his. By the time Alice’s and Percy’s footsteps clipped onto the marble floor, Will led her out the front door.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to her. “Mind if we walk a bit before I hail a cab?”

  She glanced back at the town house. No sign of his cousins yet, but they were sure to appear soon. “Well, I don’t fancy waiting here.”

  He didn’t say anything, but the approval in his eyes warmed her in the brisk evening air. They didn’t stroll far before a hansom rolled along and Will flagged it down. He opened the door for her and helped her in, then hopped up himself, calling out to the jarvey, “The Golden Egg Inn on Chicory Lane.”

  She settled her skirts on the seat as the carriage lurched into motion, springs squeaking and bouncier than normal.

  Across from her, Will took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. The glow of a streetlamp shone in the window, tracing a grimace on his face. “I am sorry, Mina, about the whole evening. I should not have exposed you to my family in the first place. Percy and Al
ice had no right to say such ghastly things about you.”

  Despite the chill of the evening, his defense of her wrapped around her shoulders like a warm embrace. “Well, if nothing else”—a small smile ghosted her lips—“this evening has made me realize that perhaps life at the inn isn’t as bad as I imagine it to be. Father is strict, but at least he is not spiteful. Our cook may be outspoken, but her words are kind. And”—her smile grew—“I did get to dine in a London town house just like a real lady.”

  “Oh, Mina, you are a real lady. You are—” His voice cracked along the edges, and he cleared his throat. “You are something special. Very special. I hope you know that.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, unsure if he could even hear the words for the way her throat closed around them.

  Will blew out a disgusted breath. “But blast that Percy for being a scoundrel. To have such blatant evidence brought against him and then turn it around that way. The devil could learn a trick or two from him.”

  His head hung, and her heart broke. Gone was the carefree man laughing over a mug with his good friend. This William Barlow was a stranger, with his shoulders bowed by the weight of how to rescue his uncle. That he loved the old fellow was more than evident.

  Her admiration for him grew, as did her pity. “What will you do now?”

  He straightened, yet said nothing more. For a while he looked out the window at the passing streetlights, then eventually heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. There’s nothing to do but look for more evidence, I suppose. Christmasing at Uncle’s estate ought to give me ample time to find something.” He turned his face back to her. “Mina, if you are willing, and if I approached your father, do you think he’d give you permission to travel with me?”

  “Over Christmas?” The words squeaked out of her. What a dream that would be. Snowflakes and sleigh rides and an estate swagged with greenery. What a story to live inside of! But as the carriage juddered along the cobbles of London’s streets, reality smacked her hard. What was she thinking? Father would never let her go. And besides, continuing the charade would only cause more harm than good, for surely they’d be found out. An afternoon tea or an evening dinner was a far cry from spending an entire week together.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It may be time for you to tell your uncle the truth of us. Surely if you explain we were only trying to save him from the possibility of an asylum, he would understand.”

  Will grunted. “He would have, had I not ruined my testimony in my younger years.” His haunted gaze met hers. “I came up with some fancily embroidered lies in the past in order to gain my uncle’s money. I am certain he cannot help but wonder if I have changed. Sometimes I wonder myself.”

  His mouth twisted as if he sucked on bitter whortleberries; then he sank back against the cushion and rode in silence the rest of the way, apparently lost in thought.

  So did she. How did one make someone believe the truth when the truth had been based on a lie? The question played over and over in her head until the cab jerked to a stop. Will helped her out and faced her. Even in the darkness, a strange light gleamed in his eyes, and he stepped closer.

  “Mina …” Her name on his lips was like a kiss, and he bent closer.

  The space between them came alive with promise. Her heart pulsed in a crazed beat, throbbing in her wrists, jittering her knees. If he leaned, just barely, his mouth would be on hers.

  She swallowed. What was she thinking? He was a man of means and possibly a future heir to an estate. She was nothing but a girl who ran mugs of ale and plates of sausages to hungry men. It had been a lovely dream—but one built on a lie. It was time to be done.

  “Good night, Will,” she blurted, then whirled toward the front door.

  Her fingers pressed against the wood, about to thrust the thing open, when she froze. She couldn’t very well waltz into the taproom wearing her best coat and gown and not expect to meet a few tawdry remarks. Or worse—run straight into Gilbert Grimlock.

  She hesitated, waiting for the cab door to close and horses’ hooves to clop off, then darted around to the back. What a ninny. So many things had happened tonight that she hardly knew what to think.

  Shoving open the courtyard door, she slowed her breathing, then crossed to the kitchen entrance. She eased the latch handle open, releasing the lock. If God smiled upon her, Martha would either be dozing in her corner chair or absent altogether.

  Slowly, she nudged the door open, bit by bit, then slipped inside. A single lamp glowed on the counter. Clean dishes sat atop cupboard shelves, and scattered on the worktable were Christmas pudding moulds of various shapes and sizes—most dented, all tarnished. The sight pulled her brows into a frown. No doubt Uncle Barlow’s kitchen contained moulds that shone like an August sun.

  Holding her breath, she slipped her glance to the corner—but no Martha. No “peas and porridge” or “peas and anything,” for Cook’s chair sat empty. Her gaze drifted to the work clock ticking away on the wall. Eleven o’clock? By faith! It was later than she’d accounted.

  A slow smile twitched her lips. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Mr. Grimlock was surely abed by now. She needn’t have rushed the evening after all.

  The tension in her shoulders unwound, and she turned to secure the door. She’d just have to take care when she climbed the stairs and passed by his chambers on her way to her own. The floorboard in front of his door was notoriously squeak—

  “Mina?”

  She whirled. A gargoyle stood on the threshold, beak nosed and beady eyed, blocking the escape to her room.

  Gilbert Grimlock.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures … hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help it?

  Great Expectations

  Mina clutched her hands in front of her, vainly seeking some kind of support to withstand the malignant gaze of Gilbert Grimlock. Riffling through a hundred excuses she could offer the man, she discarded each one in turn, even while knowing the longer she stood there without saying something, the guiltier she appeared to be.

  “I—I thought you to be abed, sir. I …” Her words languished. Apparently opening her mouth and expecting some sort of alibi to slip out wasn’t the most brilliant of strategies.

  Mr. Grimlock stalked from the doorway, advancing toward her. He was a boggy sort of fellow, with his ever-present sheen of perspiration winking on his brow and coating his upper lip. The fabric beneath his arms darkened in circles, lending to his appearance of being perpetually moist. The man was a fungus. A black mould, the kind that if inhaled would settle deep in the lungs and force one to cough out the violation.

  He stopped inches in front of her, far too close for propriety, bringing with him the sickening smell of potatoes left too long in a cellar. “There are still a few patrons in the taproom. My duty is the management of this inn during your father’s absence. I can’t very well do that with my eyes closed.” Bending, he studied her, his dark gaze spreading over her skin like a rash. “I thought you suffered from a headache?”

  “I do—I mean I did.” It took everything in her to keep from fleeing out the back door. Instead, she forced her hands to smooth down her skirts, hating that her palms had acquired the same moistness that Mr. Grimlock embodied. “My headache is much better now. Thank you for inquiring, and I am sorry if I disturbed you. Good night, Mr. Grimlock.”

  She edged past him.

  But he sidestepped, blocking her, and grabbed her shoulders. “Your coat is cold and damp. Where have you been at this time of night?”

  “I—” She froze. What to say? She certainly couldn’t admit to romping about the London streets in a carriage alone with a man. “I had a previous engagement I could not miss.”

  Mr. Grimlock’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. Small dots of perspiration glimmered on his forehead from the movement. “What kind of engagement could you have possibly had at this time of night?”

  “A private one.”

/>   “Private?” With the crook of his finger, he lifted her chin. “I wonder what kind that could be.”

  She stiffened beneath the touch of his calloused skin, rough and far too heated. “Excuse me, Mr. Grimlock, but it is late, and I should like to retire.”

  He bent closer, nearly nose to nose, his knuckle drifting down from her chin and tracing a line against the bare skin of her neck.

  This was not to be borne! She wrenched away. “How dare you!”

  One of his brows arched, and a single, crude drip broke free from the collection of wet dots on his forehead and trickled down his temple. “How dare I? I am not the one roaming the streets at night. Unless you tell me what you’ve been about, your father shall hear of this.”

  Fury ignited deep in her belly, shooting up sparks and shaking through her. “I will not be bullied around by you, sir. You can be sure my father will hear of this, for I shall tell him of your untoward behaviour.”

  She darted sideways.

  But his hand shot out, and he grabbed her arm. “Not so fast. You never did answer me, and I will not be put off. Where were you tonight?”

  “It is none of your business. Good night, Mr. Grimlock.” She jerked aside—and his fingers dug into the tender part of her upper arm, clasping her all the tighter and pulling her to him. Even through the thickness of her coat and gown, the moisture of him seeped into her clothing.

  “The business of the inn is my business until your father returns.” His breath landed hot on her neck, leaving a clammy vapor behind where it touched.