by L. J. Oliver
“You know what I am, Ebenezer. I’m the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman. I have a brother who is an opium addict. He is weak and needs to be cared for. I’m no fit wife for any man who plans to rise in the world of business.” Her words were direct, focused, and enunciated. She had rehearsed them well.
I tried to argue, but she held up her hand.
“My family will always come first for me,” said Adelaide, with tears in her eyes. “As your business will always come first for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday, December 25th, 1833
Christmas Day
I WAS SPENDING the holiday alone with a dust-covered bottle of cheap gin. My feet rested upon my desk, my offices were cold and dark. Since Sikes robbed my offices, I could no longer afford coal for the fireplace, let alone oil for my lanterns. It would be a long time before I earned the money back, and in the meantime, I would certainly mind each penny with more frugality than even before.
I might have parted my curtains, it was early enough, sunlight still played about the laughing, singing children as they breezed down the street. I would have none of it. I was aching from my many wounds, only a handful of them visible upon my flesh. Adelaide and I had barely spoken a word since the nightmarish events at Rutledge’s country home. Even now, she sat at the side of her sleeping brother, her father with her. She would forgive Tom any sin, it seemed. But I could not. Had it not been for Thomas Guilfoyle’s weakness and guile, my oldest friend, Reginald Fezziwig, might still be alive.
Even after that warming embrace, we had argued over this and parted not on the best of terms. Yet I was still haunted. Not by spirits—Fezziwig’s ghost had of course not reappeared given that it had merely been a symptom of stress, indigestion, and woman’s folly—but by the lingering feeling of Adelaide’s hand in mine, and Belle’s suggestion that perhaps my only hope at future happiness lay in that bold young woman’s direction.
“You’re a sinner, Ebenezer Scrooge,” I told myself in the distorted reflection cast upon the smoky green bottle I’d held. “A prideful beast. And an absolute fool!”
A knock came at my door. With shaking hands, giddy as a schoolboy, I hid the bottle, wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve, and bounded to the door.
Adelaide! It had to be her.
I hauled open the heavy wood door—and found myself confronted by a woman I’d never seen before. Her age was difficult to discern. She was handsome enough, not quite comely, perhaps one and twenty, perhaps one and thirty, I simply could not tell.
Her wealth, however, was instantly apparent from her stunning dress, fine jewelry, and near regal carriage. “Excuse me, hello, is this the counting-house of Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge?”
“Madam, I believe that is what’s written on the sign upon the door you’ve just come through. Perhaps you could set my mind at ease to that fact, as you walked through it more recently than I. Now, if you are seeking a charitable contribution—”
“I am not,” she said swiftly and decisively. “I am here on a matter of utmost urgency. A fiduciary matter, in a way, as I certainly intend to compensate you for your time.”
I spied beyond her a gentleman standing on the street before a carriage. He frowned openly in my direction.
“Wait for me out here, Mr. Pocket,” she commanded. “My cousin, you see. He’s quite protective.”
I showed her in, gestured at my finest visitor’s chair, yet she simply stood. The woman gazed into my eyes as if mirrors lurked behind them, and in whatever reflection she beheld, she might take full measure of not only the man I was, but the one I would be.
A thin smile etched firmly in place, she said, “I was referred by a former associate of yours. A Mr. Jacob Marley?”
I reeled, thunderstruck. Surely this was another blow, another move in my former associate’s game of revenge?
But what if it was? I wasn’t exactly busy, and there was no further I could fall. I was ruined financially, my life in all other regards equally in tatters.
“Perhaps you might sit,” I said, gesturing at the leather chair, “and tell me how I may be of assistance?”
“My name is Miss Havisham,” she said, rushing forward, taking my hand, and squeezing it with surprising fierceness. “And you must save me. You see—I think I just killed a man!”
L. J. OLIVER is the pseudonym for a New York Times bestselling writing team brought together by their shared passion for British mysteries, Victorian London, and Charles Dickens. They are making their collaborative debut with The Humbug Murders, the first in the Ebenezer Scrooge mystery series. Visit their website at www.scroogemysteries.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by L.J. Oliver
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First Pocket Books paperback edition November 2015
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ISBN 978-1-4767-9234-7
ISBN 978-1-4767-9239-2 (ebook)
