What Happens At Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  He drew his brows together. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I think you might wish to know, while Camille and I may look exactly alike, in many ways that’s where the resemblance ends.” She hesitated, as if determining how much she wished to confide. “While Camille has certainly seen gentlemen since Harold died, to my knowledge, and she would certainly tell me something of that nature, she has not had any, well, affairs. She’s not opposed to them,” she added quickly, “I just think she’s never found someone worth the, oh, effort. And I think she wants more.”

  “Then she and the prince?”

  “Goodness, Grayson.” She huffed. “Don’t make me say it.”

  “I see.” And wasn’t that interesting?

  “I don’t want to see her hurt.” She returned her attention to her sister and Pruzinsky. “She’s much more romantic than I am. Although one would think that after growing up in this household with Mother’s constant procession of usurped dukes and overthrown monarchs, she would be a better judge of character. Still, Nikolai might be exactly who and what Camille thinks he is, but I wish to be certain. To that end, I initiated an inquiry before I left London.”

  He turned toward her. “Have you learned anything?”

  “Not yet.” She shook her head. “But the moment I do, when I have proof, I will inform Camille. I truly hope he is what she thinks he is. And yet . . .”

  “You don’t trust him.”

  “No, I don’t. But then”—she met his gaze directly—“I don’t trust you either.”

  He stared. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  Beryl’s eyes narrowed. “Because you broke her heart.”

  He gasped. “I did what?”

  “You heard me. You know full well—”

  “What are you two talking about?” Camille joined them. “You both appear entirely too intense, as though you are discussing something of great consequence.”

  “It’s been an intense sort of evening.” Beryl raised the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic manner. “The stress and strain of a performance is quite exhausting, you know.”

  “Actually, we were saying how well the evening went,” Grayson said quickly. “Singing carols was a brilliant idea, Beryl.”

  “Oh, I am full of brilliant ideas.” Beryl smirked.

  “No doubt,” he murmured.

  “Any more brilliance shall have to wait. There’s a great deal to accomplish and time is fleeting.” Camille ticked the points off on her fingers. “There’s the decorating to oversee.” She glanced at her sister. “We shall have to foray into the attic and find the ornaments for the tree. There are any number of other Christmas details to attend to as well. I must speak to Mrs. Fortesque about Christmas dinner. I have already ordered a turkey.”

  “Turkey?” Beryl frowned. “But Mother always has goose for Christmas.”

  “Mother is not here,” Camille pointed out. “And since Mr. Scrooge procured a prize turkey for the Cratchit family, turkey is what Nikolai expects, and turkey is what he shall have.”

  “I like turkey,” Gray said in a helpful manner.

  “No one cares what you like. You were not invited.” Camille pinned Gray with a firm look. “However, I do expect you to make yourself useful tomorrow. And you may do so by engaging Nikolai in some sort of manly, out-of-doors pursuit.”

  “I could take him out and shoot him,” Gray said under his breath.

  Beryl choked back a laugh.

  “I was not going to suggest shooting, as you will more than likely have Mr. Henderson with you and I’m not at all sure you wish to give him a gun.” Camille glared. “Do you?”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps not.”

  “I thought not. But you once knew this estate as well as your own family’s property. Perhaps you can take exercise together. A lengthy walk should do nicely and occupy most of the morning.”

  “It’s rather cold for a long walk.”

  “Then you shall have to walk briskly. It will do you good.”

  “We could look for a tree,” Gray offered.

  “Not necessary.” Camille waved off his suggestion. “Before I sent the gardener off on holiday, he selected a tree and arranged for a boy from the village to cut it and deliver it on the day before Christmas. Decorating it should take much of the day and then we shall gracefully slide into Christmas Eve. After that is Christmas Day, which shall take care of itself, followed by Boxing Day, which will be interrupted by news of a monetary crisis.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” Admiration sounded in Gray’s voice. He was right; she was not the same girl he once knew.

  “Nearly everything.” Camille raised a brow. “Surprised?”

  He grinned. “Shocked.”

  She ignored him. “I suggest your walk tomorrow takes you down to the pond. If it’s frozen, we could skate in the afternoon. I’m sure Nikolai would adore that and it would nicely fill the rest of the day.” She nodded. “And tomorrow night after dinner, we shall play games. Cards perhaps or charades, something along those lines.”

  “I do so love organized activities,” Beryl said wryly.

  Camille scoffed. “You always have.”

  “Is that it, then?” Miss Murdock called from across the room. “Are we done for tonight?” Her gaze flicked to Gray. “I know I am ready to retire.”

  “Not yet.” Camille crossed the room and tugged at the bell pull. Fortesque appeared almost at once. The man had probably been listening at the door. Camille directed him a firm look. “Your troupe, Fortesque, needs further rehearsal.”

  “I thought we did quite well,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells said in an aside to Gray. “She’s very fussy, isn’t she?”

  “You have no idea,” Beryl said.

  “You.” Camille pinned the older woman with a hard look. “Need to remember your name.”

  “I know my name.” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells picked at invisible threads on the arm of her chair.

  Camille’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is it?”

  The actress considered the question thoughtfully. “Let me think.”

  “Regina,” Henderson prompted in a less than effective stage whisper.

  Miss Murdock glanced at the others. “I thought it was Florence.”

  Camille looked at her sister. “And do you have any suggestions to offer?”

  “Absolutely not.” Beryl shook her head. “I know my name.”

  “As well you should.” Camille turned her gaze toward Fortesque. “You will resolve this?”

  He nodded. “Without fail, my lady.”

  “Excellent.” Camille addressed Miss Murdock. “You need to restrain what is obviously a natural desire to flirt. I gave you all dossiers on my family, and nowhere do I recall saying my youngest sister was a tart.”

  The actress again glanced at Gray. He couldn’t resist a slight nod of the head. Miss Murdock raised her chin. “I am playing this part as I see it. And doing a fine job of it as well. Don’t you think so, Mr. Elliott?”

  “I’ve never seen Delilah in better form,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Miss Murdock smiled smugly. “The prince seemed to like me.”

  “What man wouldn’t?” Beryl said with a pleasant smile.

  “And Mr. Henderson.” Camille turned to the older man. He smiled pleasantly, but it was obvious he had had one brandy too many. Or perhaps four. “While, all in all, I think you did a splendid job of it, perhaps you need to make your anecdotes a touch more realistic.”

  “I am an actor, my lady,” he said gruffly. “I make them sound real.”

  “Come now, Mr. Henderson,” Camille said gently. “Some of your stories were distinctly Shakespearean in tone. Honestly, being shipwrecked—”

  “Entirely possible.” He huffed.

  “And misplacing your twin sister?” she continued.

  “I understood Uncle Basil is a twin,” Henderson said staunchly. “I studied my role quite thoroughly, my lady, and I am certain he has a twin
.”

  “A twin brother, Mr. Henderson.” Camille sighed. “My father.”

  “Oh.” Henderson winced. “Must have missed that.”

  “I assure you, Lady Lydingham,” Fortesque said quickly, “we shall thoroughly go over our roles before we retire for the night.”

  “See that you do.” Camille nodded in a weary manner, started toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, and do tell Mrs. Fortesque that dinner was excellent. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Good evening, then.” Camille smiled shortly and took her leave.

  Now that Camille was gone, Gray could continue his conversation with Beryl, but she, too, bid the others a good night and left the parlor. He had no intentions of letting her get away that easily. What did she mean: He had broken Camille’s heart? What utter absurdity. He started after her.

  “You’re leaving as well, Mr. . . .” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells frowned in confusion and glanced at Fortesque. “Who is he playing?”

  “He is Cousin Grayson. A very distant cousin.” Miss Murdock’s gaze caught Gray’s. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Elliott?”

  He nodded. “It is, indeed. And as Lady Lydingham had no criticism of my performance, I believe I, too, shall make my exit and retire for the evening.”

  “But it’s not at all late.” Miss Murdock pouted. “And now that Lady Lydingham is gone—she’s rather a nervous sort, isn’t she?”

  Mrs. Montgomery-Wells snorted.

  “She can be,” Gray said.

  “As I was saying, now that she has retired for the night, I thought we might get to know one another better. I was hoping to convince you to show me the library and perhaps help me select a good book. You can learn so much about a person by the type of books they read.”

  “We shall have to save the library for another night, then, perhaps,” Gray said smoothly.

  “I had no idea she read,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells said in an aside to Henderson. “She doesn’t seem the sort, does she?”

  Miss Murdock flashed the older woman a sharp look. “I like nothing better than going to bed with a good book.” She returned her attention to Gray. “Don’t you?” The look Miss Murdock directed toward him belied her words. It was obvious that there were other things she liked even better than a good book in her bed.

  Fortesque cleared his throat. “We still have work to do, Edwina.”

  “Yes, indeed, one can never be too prepared and we don’t wish to incur Lady Lydingham’s wrath. Good evening.” Gray nodded and hurried out of the parlor. He was grateful for the older man’s reminder of the need to practice their parts, and grateful, as well, for Camille’s insistence they do so. Edwina Murdock was a dangerous creature and he vowed to keep his distance.

  He started for his room, then paused and changed direction. Miss Murdock’s suggestion about the library had more merit than she intended. If he recalled correctly, the Millworth Manor library was stocked not only with classic literature and current offerings but with all manner of referential material as well. Camille’s father had been something of an amateur scholar. Perhaps there was a book in the library that could help him discover more about Pruzinsky and whether or not he was legitimate.

  He pushed open the door, surprised to find a lamp already lit. And surprised as well to find Pruzinsky standing in the shadows near the desk, replacing a book on the shelf.

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

  Pruzinsky studied the shelves in front of him. “I found I was entirely too restless to sleep and thought perhaps a book might help.”

  “Miss Murdock suggested the very same thing a few minutes ago.” Gray nodded at the shelves. “It’s been some time since I’ve been in the manor’s library, but it doesn’t look as though much of anything has changed. Perhaps I could help you find something suitable.”

  He glanced around the shadow-filled room. Even in the dim light from the single lamp on the desk, the room looked exactly as he remembered. Shelves flanked either side of a massive fireplace, reaching from the floor to a wide plaster frieze beneath ornate carved molding and a coffered ceiling. The room was longer than it was wide, with one end dominated by a bowed window, covered at night with heavy drapes. What walls didn’t host shelves had portraits of ancestors dating back generations. To the right of the door hung a portrait of Camille as a girl, together with her sisters and mother, exactly where it had always hung.

  “That would be most kind of you,” Pruzinsky said in a polite manner.

  Gray moved to his side and perused the shelves. This section primarily held books of history, records of ancient civilizations, discourses in philosophy, treatises on economics. There was, as well, a large set of encyclopedias and several rows of nothing but various years of Debrett’s and Burke’s guides to the aristocracy.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular? I know there’s quite a bit of Shakespeare on the other wall, as well as Dickens, Thackeray, Trollope, Ruskin. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Something that isn’t the least bit interesting, I should think. As the purpose is to put me to sleep.” He smiled coolly. “Something quite dull should do nicely.”

  “I suppose dull is as much in the eye of the beholder as beauty. Personally, I have always found works of a philosophical nature to be most efficient at inducing sleep.”

  Pruzinsky nodded. “Philosophy it is, then.”

  They studied the shelves for a few moments in silence.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” Pruzinsky said at last.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You don’t trust me with your cousin.”

  “I would not trust anyone with my cousin.” Gray shrugged. “She has a significant fortune and a tendency toward impulse. Which is not to say she is not intelligent. She has simply always allowed her emotions to rule her head.”

  “Then we have much in common.” He paused. “You do realize I intend to marry her.”

  And I intend to stop you. “I suspect that depends on whether she wishes to marry you.”

  “Oh, she does.” He smiled in an overly smug manner.

  “But you have not yet proposed?” Gray held his breath.

  “A minor detail.” Pruzinsky waved off the question.

  “Well, then, allow me to be the first to congratulate you.”

  “As her soon-to-be fiancé, I must say I do not like the way you look at her.”

  Grayson started. “How do I look at her?”

  “Not like a cousin, no matter how distant.”

  “Camille and I have always been close,” he said slowly.

  “And yet you didn’t see her for”—Pruzinsky glanced at him—“eleven years, was it?”

  “I was abroad and engaged in enterprises that fully occupied my time and thought.” Even to himself, he sounded somewhat defensive. “Surely, you understand how the demands of business supersede all else?”

  Pruzinsky cast him a condescending smile. “I know nothing about business, nor do I imagine I will ever be engaged in such.”

  Gray clenched his jaw, but kept his tone level. “Nonetheless, I would think there are any number of demands put upon you by the very nature of your position. Being the heir to the throne and all.”

  “It is a position I was born to,” he said in a lofty manner. “But admittedly, the responsibilities of state can indeed be most demanding. However, at the moment, as I am far from home and traveling on my own, my time is free to do with as I please.”

  “Ah yes, you disdain the accoutrements of royalty when you travel.”

  “I find travel without accompaniment to be both exhilarating and enlightening.”

  “Still, you can’t travel forever. You must return to your country eventually. To assume the throne, if for no other reason.”

  “My father is in excellent health, and, God willing, it will be many years before I take his place as ruler. However, I intend to return to my country soon in the new year.” H
e met Gray’s gaze. “With my new wife.”

  “I see.”

  “I am a man used to getting precisely what he wants, Mr. Elliott. I want Camille. I am fairly certain she wants me as well.” His eyes narrowed. “You would do well to remember that.”

  Gray forced a light note to his voice. “I could scarcely forget it.”

  “See that you don’t.” Pruzinsky nodded. “Good evening.” He started for the door.

  “Count Pruzinsky, I believe you have forgotten something.”

  Pruzinsky turned toward him. “Oh?”

  “Your book.” Gray pulled a book off the shelves and offered it to him. “Samuel Bailey’s Letters on the Philosophy of the Human Mind should induce sleep rather quickly, I would think.”

  “Ah yes, this will do.” Pruzinsky accepted the book. “Once again, I bid you a good evening, Mr. Elliott.”

  “Count.” Gray watched him take his leave. Even if he didn’t have all the facts yet, regardless of Win and Beryl’s caution in the matter, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Pruzinsky was a fraud. Why, the man talked about assuming the throne of a country that no longer existed. Still, Beryl was right. Solid proof was needed.

  He turned toward the shelves, then thought better of it. If Miss Murdock noticed he had gone to the library, after all, she might well follow him. No, he could return to the library in the morning for this.

  A few minutes later, he was in his room—a room with a distinct lack of frills and fripperies obviously designed for a male inhabitant. A spacious four-poster bed dominated the space, accompanied by a large wardrobe, matching dresser and comfortable chairs positioned before the fireplace. It was directly across the hall from Camille’s room and well worth the money he had paid to a footman. After all, if he was going to help Camille, it would be wise to stay as close to her as possible.

  His bag was sitting untouched on the bed. In a fully staffed household, it would have been unpacked and his clothing attended to, although someone had seen to the fire and he was grateful for that. He smiled and opened his bag. Fending for himself was a small price to pay for being at Millworth Manor. In truth, he hadn’t had a valet since he had left Fairborough Hall. But if he was to remain in England, a valet would be expected for a man in his position. As would an appropriate house in the country and a respectable place in town and . . .