Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  One might question the museum’s methods of acquisition, or its moral right to retain possession of certain artefacts, but none could doubt the institution’s worthy intent—for it had led the way in opening its doors to all, regardless of means or station. Meanwhile, no expense had been spared in creating a space adequate to the task. More than twenty years had passed since electric lighting had been installed—the first to grace any of London’s public buildings, and enabling the Reading Room to stay open until seven throughout the winter months.

  Naturally, the museum continued to add fresh treasures to its halls; Ferdinand de Rothschild’s bequest, for example, and, newly arrived that very week, unique artefacts from the lost city of Palekmul.

  Cornelia already knew a great deal about the site and the marvels unearthed there but she longed to view the exhibits first-hand. Twice, she’d sidled down the corridor to the Palekmul gallery, but her attempts at poking her head in had been abruptly thwarted. No-one beyond the designated curating team was to see the wonders therein; not until the grand opening.

  It was most annoying, although she understood the need to take precautions.

  The Palekmul dig had captured the nation’s imagination in a way far beyond the usual, causing a spectacular stir; all those mysterious ruins, hidden for centuries in the jungle!

  What Cornelia found less palatable was the obsession with the expedition leader—one Ethan Burnell, citizen of the American state of Texas. The mania had reached almost hysterical proportions, much to Cornelia’s disgust. The newspapers were citing his arrival on British shores as ‘an occurrence guaranteed to set ladies swooning’—not least for his good looks, which were being compared to those of Lord Byron, but also for the family fortune he’d inherited.

  Certainly, if she happened to meet Mr. Burnell, she’d have a hundred questions she’d like to ask, but the notion that he might think her flirting with him, as other ladies would inevitably do, was too distasteful to bear. Her interest was in his work, not in the man himself.

  Not that she was likely to find herself alone with the lauded explorer.

  Her interest was only in gaining access to the room in which the exhibits were being prepared. She might wait, viewing them with everyone else in due course, but there was something rousing in the idea of perusing the artefacts while they were fresh from their crates.

  So far, her efforts had been rebuffed but there was nothing to stop her from trying again. She checked her pocket watch once more. By this time, most of the curating staff would have left, surely.

  The exhibition room doors would probably be locked, of course, but there was only one way to find out.

  Cornelia pulled at the ties of her work apron, then stopped. Better to keep it on, perhaps. That way, she’d look more ‘official’ if she were caught in the act. Picking up her lamp, she walked briskly through the service corridor towards the northern wing. The staircase further along would bring her out almost directly opposite where she wished to go.

  Ordinarily, she disliked wandering the gloomy basement passageways alone but, tonight, she was relieved by their emptiness. The curating staff would have left some hours ago. There were always soirées and concerts to attend at this time of year. Some went skating in Hyde Park, others visited the shops, or enjoyed any number of festive pastimes. Unlike Cornelia, most of the staff had somewhere else they wished to be—even if it were only their own hearth.

  Emerging through the door at the top of the stairs, Cornelia scanned the high-ceilinged lobby connecting the Americas rooms. As she’d hoped, all was silent. The galleries had closed to the public an hour ago, and only a handful of electric lights remained glowing. Lamps were still relied upon in the bowels of the building but expressly prohibited from the main galleries, for fear of fire. Turning hers low, she left it at the top of the stairs.

  Though the far corners of the vestibule were in shadow, the illumination was sufficient to make out the glass case at the centre, containing sculptures from Isla de Sacrificios and Tikal.

  On soft feet, she made her way to the double doors at the far end. With the curators finished for the day, the guards should have locked up the exhibition hall, but it was always possible someone had overlooked their duty. Pushing down upon the handle, she heard the mechanism release and slipped through, closing the door gently behind.

  None of the wall lamps were lit but the moon swept through the large Eastern window. Dust motes floated in the silvered shaft of light. Cornelia caught her breath. Several large crates remained, but most of the artefacts appeared to have been unpacked, positioned at intervals around the circumference.

  Coming further into the room, she wrinkled her nose. There was a strange odour in the air; not the usual mustiness but something more pungent—a preservative of some sort?

  She’d have to watch where she stepped. It wouldn’t do to knock over a bottle of limewater, or whatever it was they were using.

  Reverentially, Cornelia approached a sarcophagus, reaching for the curving serpent engraved thereon—symbol of rebirth and renewal through the shedding of its scales. What had the Maya believed? The snake was a conduit, was it not, between the physical world and the spirit realm.

  The surface was cool to the touch but she imagined it in the place from whence it had come. There, the sun had warmed the hand that held the chisel; warmed this very stone.

  She was the only living thing within the room; yet, she had the sense that each piece around her remembered what it had once been and to whom it had belonged.

  Across the chamber, her eyes lit upon two towering columns spanned by a wide lintel. Stepping closer, she shivered to see what was carved there—a scene she’d studied some weeks before: ink drawn in a far-off place and reproduced for subscribers to The Geographic Journal. Now, the original was before her. The male figure was the ruler, Shield Jaguar, and the woman beside, his consort.

  The depiction was starkly violent, bizarre and sadistic, but the woman’s pain was self-inflicted, for the weapon raked across her tongue—studded with razor points—was drawn by her own hand.

  And then her breath froze in her chest, for there was a scraping sound and something moved at the shadowed base of the monolith.

  Not something, but someone. A crouching figure—here, where no-one should be—rubbing at the stone, and so absorbed in his task that he’d failed to hear her footfall.

  A thief? She needed to raise the alarm; to find a guard to arrest the intruder. But, the next moment, the trespasser stood and turned, moving into the moonlight. The man wore no jacket and had rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms tanned dark. His hair was tousled and his face bore unkempt stubble. A ruffian, without a doubt.

  Seeing Cornelia, the brute let forth a growl of displeasure and took a stride toward her. How tall he was, and powerfully built; easily strong enough to overcome her.

  Cornelia whimpered. Might she run? She sensed he’d catch her before she even reached the door.

  On impulse, she delved into her apron pocket and pulled out her measuring rule, clutching it in her palm. She remained half in shadow. Gulping back her fear, Cornelia made herself shout. “Don’t move. I’m armed, and…and, I’ll fire if I have to!”

  The man stilled but his voice was filled with threat. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’ve picked the wrong person to mess with. If you’ve plans to steal anything in this room, you’d better be prepared to fire that thing. Just know that, if you do, you’ll only get one attempt.”

  Steal? Cornelia’s hands shook. What on earth did he mean? She wasn’t the one sneaking in to meddle with what wasn’t hers.

  Well, perhaps she was, a little—but her intentions were harmless. She was only satisfying her curiosity. This cur, meanwhile, might have already caused irreparable damage.

  Those of criminal bent, she’d heard, saw only black-heartedness in others. The fellow had brazenly entered to do his foul work, and must believe she planned the same.

  A wave of anger fuelled her
courage, so that her voice hardly quavered. “Lie down and don’t try anything foolish. I’m a… a crack shot.”

  Though he scowled, to Cornelia’s relief, the man did as she asked, descending slowly to his knees, keeping his hands visible all the while.

  Wasn’t there some Sherlock Holmes tale in which the detective had subdued the villain and then looped rope from wrists to ankles to keep him from escaping? There was string also in her apron pocket. Might it be strong enough? Cornelia felt doubtful but there didn’t seem to be anything else on hand and she could hardly leave him as he was. Her only hope was to restrain the scoundrel—and before he realized that her “gun” was no more than a sliver of wood.

  As soon as he was prone, Cornelia inched closer. “Hands behind your back, and remember, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

  Giving her a last, black look, the intruder did as she bade but, as Cornelia bent forward with her length of twine, there was a flash of movement.

  The man’s arm whipped forward and there was a sharp jerk upon Cornelia’s ankle. With a scream, she fell backward, landing with a thump on her backside, and her ‘gun’ skidded across the polished floor.

  The next moment, his arms were braced on either side of her, his body pressed the length of hers. His eyes, jet black, sparked with fury.

  Cornelia whimpered, all too aware of her helplessness. “If you murder me, you won’t get away with it! There are guards all through the building.”

  “Murder you? Dammit, woman. You threaten to shoot me, and now I’m the one bent on killing? I had you figured for a crook, come messing with what’s not yours, but I guess you’d have come prepared with more than a measuring stick if you were.” Leaning back, he surveyed her face. “You ain’t one of those Bedlamites on the loose, are you?”

  Cornelia grimaced. “Certainly not. I'm neither deranged nor criminally minded.” Though her recumbent position made asserting herself difficult, she summoned her most imperious voice. “I happen to work here, and I was acting as anyone would, to protect the valuable artefacts in this room. You, sir, with motives I can only begin to guess at, should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Speaking the bold words, Cornelia struggled to keep her lip from trembling. The rogue had straddled his legs on either side and his hands remained firm, pinning her down.

  It was entirely unseemly.

  Improper. Indecorous. Indecent.

  No gentleman would ever treat a lady in such manner, but he was clearly no gentleman, and she was at the rogue’s mercy.

  If her heart was beating thunderously, it had nothing to do with the unyielding weight of his body, radiating heat, nor the contours of his upper arms, pressed against the linen of his rumpled shirt. She glanced down. His upper buttons were undone, revealing a chest sprinkled with dark hair and tanned as deeply as his arms. The man had been labouring without clothing upon his back. His uncouthness was further confirmed by his hair, curling onto his open collar and, though his face had been shaven at some recent time, his jaw bore the stubble of at least a few days.

  Everything about him spoke of uncompromising masculinity.

  Had some private collector sent the scoundrel to steal some of the smaller pieces, or was the man’s presence here more malicious? Goodness only knew what he’d been doing when she'd interrupted him.

  He was scrutinizing her again, scanning her features with perturbing concentration, as if searching for something within her countenance. Cornelia blinked several times. Whatever happened, she would not allow a tear to fall, nor would she be cowed. To the last, she would be stalwart.

  Nevertheless, as the ruffian removed his grip upon her shoulders, she let out a small squeak and closed her eyes. Was this to be her end? Would he strangle her? She ought to scream, at least, or struggle—but she knew it would be hopeless. No one was near to save her.

  It appeared, however, that this was not to be the moment of her death, for the weight above her lifted and two large, warm hands clasped hers, pulling her upright.

  For a moment, she swayed, then opened her eyes again, only to find her nose pressed almost to her assailant’s torso. He smelt vaguely of perspiration, of wood and leather but also of soap. She took a slightly deeper breath. A hint of lemon, definitely, and something else, harsher—glue?

  When he spoke again, it was in a far gentler tone; not that of a gentleman—at least not an English gentleman, but there was something gentlemanly in it.

  “I don’t rightly know what to make of you, but I reckon you’re telling the truth and I likely owe you an apology—what with sending you sprawling like that. Whatever you think I am, I can assure you ma’am, you’ll come to no harm from me. If you were acting as you say, looking out for the safekeeping of what’s here in this room, I ought to be thanking you rather than wrestling you to the floor.”

  One large hand returned to her shoulder, but softly this time. “I hope that behind of yours ain’t too covered in bruises.”

  Cornelia felt herself blushing. If he were a thief, he was certainly a clever one. Whatever tactic this was, it had her off guard—distracting her from the matter of the fellow explaining himself. She knew some women were terribly good flirts, but there were men of that ilk as well—the sort who said whatever was necessary to acquire what they wanted.

  She cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, I must ask again, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  Cornelia raised her chin, letting her gaze travel upward—past the stranger’s open collar and tanned neck, past his jaw, until she settled on the curve of his mouth. There, her inspection stopped. There was something about his lips, neatly bowed and hitching to the side, which commanded her to look.

  As if knowing they were under inspection, the lips twitched. “It may be a mite arrogant of me, but I was under the impression most folks were familiar with my profile.” With that, he took a small step back and adopted a dashing pose—as if looking into the distance, one foot forward, one hand upon his hip.

  Cornelia frowned. Though his shirt was smeared with something grey and his hair was gypsy-wild, he was tall and lean and darkly handsome. Something about the set of his jaw spoke of a determined spirit.

  Turning his chin back toward her, he raised an eyebrow and she caught again a flash of merriment—not just in the quirk of his mouth but within his eyes, glinting wickedly.

  Had they met before? Impossible, surely. And yet, something in his appearance was so very familiar.

  Cornelia clamped her hand to her mouth.

  It couldn’t be!

  The photograph most commonly accompanying stories of his exploits, in which he posed alongside guides and porters, before Palekmul’s Temple of the Jaguars, showed him standing a head taller than all the rest but had failed to convey the impressiveness of his physique—and the sketches in The Times hadn’t captured the intensity of his eyes.

  Cornelia’s hand flew to her mouth. “I… I’ve made a terrible mistake. You’re…you’re not a thief. You’re…”

  “Ethan Burnell.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  Ethan Burnell! Cornelia suddenly felt rather ill. “I hardly know what to say. I might have… I was going to…”

  “Shoot me with that bit of wood, then tie me up with that measly twine?” His lips curled upward. “As to being a thief, there are some who’d say I was the worst sort.”

  He inclined his head to where he’d been crouching. “You might think it was stone, thanks to the layers of colour we’ve stippled over the plaster, but the real thing is where it should be. I don’t believe in taking more than’s necessary.”

  “Plaster?” Cornelia squinted at the columns. “But it looks so real. Is it truly?”

  “See for yourself. The final layer’s mostly dry. We created the moulds in situ and the plaster casts afterwards, following Charnay’s technique—the same as Maudslay did with the Yaxchilan lintels. Mighty proud of the way it’s turned out, I don’t mind saying.”

  At his nod, she approached and touched the surface wit
h her fingertips. The smell filling the room wasn’t glue or preservative, but paint. “That’s what you were doing. I thought…”

  “You believed I was up to no good, and you did what you thought you had to. I can hardly feel sore about it, and you being so brave. After all, if I were a varmint sneaking in here to vandalize or pilfer, I’d likely be armed.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.” Cornelia rubbed at her temple. “It appears I’m more foolish than brave, and I’m the one who must apologize.”

  She glanced back to where he stood. His head cocked on one side, he was surveying her in that disturbing way again—as if she were hiding something and he might ferret it out if he looked hard enough.

  Not that she was in the habit of telling falsehoods, but she hadn’t been altogether truthful. After all, she didn’t exactly ‘work’ for the museum, her time being given voluntarily, and she certainly didn’t have permission to be inside this gallery.

  All in all, she’d be wise to beat a retreat and hope Mr. Burnell didn’t report her transgression. Her position was fragile at best and Mr. Pettigrew would readily use the infraction against her. She could hear him already, telling the Board of Trustees that she was unsuited to continuing in the post her father had procured for her after Oswald died; that they’d indulged her long enough, and it was time she devoted herself to more feminine pursuits.

  Despite his dishevelment and rather plain way of speaking, Mr. Burnell was undeniably handsome; and that deep, rich voice of his, which wrapped around one like a caress. It really was rather a shame that she needed to make her exit—but she knew she’d better leave while the going was good.

  “Now that we’ve established you’re entitled to be here, and aren’t in need of tying up, or maiming of any sort, I’ll be on my way, Mr. Burnell.” Striding past him, she summoned her most cheerful smile. “A pleasure to meet and no harm done.”