by J. A. Rock
“It will be loud,” Gale cautioned him. “I have sisters. At least four, and possibly as many as seven.”
“What a treat it will be to meet them.”
“You think that now.”
Chant grinned. “If I do not enjoy myself this evening, I shall hold you personally responsible and will resent you all my life.”
“Well, if that resentment dampens your willingness to accompany me on what is proving to be a rather dangerous investigation, then perhaps I shall pay my sisters in confections to sabotage the evening.”
Chant took his arm gently, ignoring the way Gale’s expression flashed from surprise to alarm to irritation in a single second. “It is your safety I am most worried about. I realise you do not need or want my assistance. But I promise to keep my presence as insignificant as possible throughout the investigation if you will promise not to make any moves on your own.”
Gale stared at him. “I cannot promise that.”
“I have nothing to offer to secure your word, except a sincere plea. I… I do not know if my wishes mean anything to you, but I appeal to that decency that you so wish to deny. Please, Gale. Do not endanger your life.”
“I may well have to. But I shall not endanger yours along with my own.”
“Any attempt to locate lost dogs or sinister captains will be safer with two of us,” Chant insisted, gripping Gale’s elbow a bit tighter.
Gale continued to hold his gaze, which surprised Chant. The fellow’s typical reaction to outbursts of feeling was to turn away, but he didn’t, not this time. He seemed to reach some decision, one which softened his expression for a fleeting moment. He pried Chant’s hand gently from his elbow. “I will try. That is all I can promise.”
“All right.” Chant sighed. While Gale’s answer was not what he had hoped, he noticed that Gale still held his hand, and it was suddenly quite difficult to recall how to breathe.
Gale ran his thumb over Chant’s knuckles, then let go. “I am sorry I cannot offer more.”
Chant was not sure what to say. He understood that his unofficial position as Gale’s assistant was tenuous. But Gale had said we, over and over throughout the day. He had come to Chant’s home specifically to discuss the investigation with him. If they were indeed a we now, then Chant ought to have some say in how they proceeded. The trouble was, he had little idea what this investigation would require—of himself, of Gale, of the two of them together.
He nodded.
Gale’s lips parted slightly, and then there was a small inhale and a furrowing of the man’s dark brow. “I will see you for dinner at seven. And while you are there… might you ask Elise if she will accompany us to your home tomorrow to identify that cursed mutt?”
“You could ask her yourself, couldn’t you?”
Now Gale did turn away. “I suppose.” His gaze flicked back to Chant. “But… couldn’t you do it?”
“Are you afraid of a very small child?”
“Not afraid! But she will respond better to you.” He paused, and Chant saw him struggle to make his next admission. “I fear saying the wrong thing.”
One corner of Chant’s mouth curved up, and there was, in his chest, a rather disconcerting mix of tenderness, exasperation, and a sort of pleasant fizz as though he’d just sipped champagne. “I see. Very well, Lord Christmas. That shall be my collateral. I will speak to the very small child for you if you promise to invite me on all errands pertaining to the investigation.”
“That is hardly fair.”
“Do not be petulant.”
“I am not petulant.”
“You are a bit petulant.”
“I am leaving now.”
“And I shall see you soon.”
Chant caught the hint of a smile on Gale’s angular face. He felt a moment’s melancholy, soft and faded by time, as he recalled how he used to draw Reid out of sour moods. A small smile, just like Gale’s, had always been the first sign that his efforts were yielding results. Reid would spend another few seconds feigning dourness, and then a laugh would spill out of him, bubbly as a young girl’s, and he’d come willingly into Chant’s arms. Chant missed the feel of him—the weight of Reid against his chest, the softness of his hair. That voice, always a bit breathy, higher than most men’s, but so lovely to listen to.
That memory carried him into another, in which he tried to cheer another man the same way. A man who sat in the same chair, day after day, staring at the same wall. A man who had lost his daughter—the joy and light of his life. Chant was a poor substitute for Jenny, but he’d tried. Tried until he could not try any longer.
His heart pounded. If Gale thought him a good man, he was sorely mistaken.
“Are you quite all right?” Gale asked.
“Yes. Just thinking about… de Cock.” It was all Chant could come up with.
Gale’s eyebrows lifted, and he nodded. “I assure you, I am too.”
Chant snorted. “Will the joke ever grow stale, do you think?”
“Not any time in the near future,” Gale assured him. He gave Chant’s shoulder a light squeeze, and there went a flame through Chant’s core—hotter and more persistent than the warmth he’d felt earlier. “See you tonight, sir.”
And then he was gone, his long legs carrying him back toward St. James’s Square.
When Gale reached his home, he had to stand outside for a moment to compose himself. The ease he’d come to experience in Chant’s presence had fled, and his stomach knotted up. How long had it been since he’d had dinner with his family? For weeks, he’d spent his evenings in Russell Street, or at his salons, or in bed with some moll. He rather felt he should be commended for attending the Harringdon ball with Clarissa, but knowing his mother, that wouldn’t count for much.
Upon entering, he had only just had his overcoat taken off him when he was accosted by Anne-Marie.
“Have you found out who murdered Elise’s father?”
“It was a drunken fight that got out of hand. Mr. Howe is not considered a man of consequence. Kindly forget the whole thing.”
“You always say everyone is of equal consequence.”
“No, I always say everyone is equally inconsequential. Human beings are a blight on this planet, but that does not mean that the rich should be served justice while the poor are not. Pay attention, Annalise.”
“Anne-Marie.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Will you just tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“If you found the murderer!”
“That area is full of murderers, I’m afraid. It’s rather like looking for one murderous needle in a murderous haystack.”
She blew a raspberry. Then straightened as though something had just occurred to her. “There’s been a letter for you.”
“Where is it?” Gale asked at once.
“I shall give it to you if you promise to tell me its contents, should it concern the murder.”
“There will be a murder in this very room if you do not tread carefully.”
“Ugh! You’re horrible.”
“I’m told I’m rather a decent fellow, actually.”
She snorted. “Who has told you that? They may need their head examined.”
“The Honourable Benjamin Chant. He’ll be dining with us this evening.”
Anne-Marie squealed. “You two are in love!”
“We are mild acquaintances at best, and we tolerate each other just barely.” Gale tried not to recall placing his head in Chant’s lap. The wretched indignity of experiencing such pleasure over so small a thing as Chant’s fingers passing gently through his hair.
“Then why have you invited him?”
“To give you and the others something to gossip about.”
“Oh! Oh, this is so exciting.”
“I do aim to please.”
“Did you get me a pastry?”
Gale sighed, cursing himself inwardly. “No. I forgot. I am sorry, truly.”
“It’s all
right. You were busy investigating a murder.”
“I was not!”
“Christmas, stop fighting with your sister.” Their mother glided into the drawing room, wearing a gown of pale green with rose lacework crossing the bodice. Her gauzy shawl matched the gown, and its beading caught the lamplight as she moved.
Their mother was tall and slender with large, dark eyes and glossy brown hair that she wore in intricate curls pinned tightly atop her head. Gale didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman of her age more beautiful—if a fellow could think that about his own mother without it being indicative of some sort of Oedipal malady. She was also the most imposing figure Gale had ever known. “Anne-Marie, go elsewhere. I need to speak to your brother alone.”
It was all Gale could do not to gulp as though he were a young boy once more, and his tutor had just told his mother that he was “rebellious in spirit, if not in action.” His mother had enjoyed a good laugh about that, actually—after she had lectured Gale to within an inch of his life about giving the man grief.
Anne-Marie stuck her tongue out at Gale and crossed her eyes, then hurried from the room.
“Well,” his mother said as soon as she was gone, “what is this about a dinner guest?”
“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve invited Mr. Benjamin Chant to dine with us.”
“Anne-Marie!” his mother suddenly bellowed.
“What?” came Anne-Marie’s distant voice.
“Tell Cook we will have an extra guest!” She returned her attention to Gale.
“We have a bell, Mother, so you may speak directly to the servants without shouting.”
“Ah, but it feels so good to shout once in a while.”
“Far be it from me to criticise the way you run your household.”
“Don’t be clever.”
“I cannot help it.”
She held out a small envelope. “A letter arrived for you.”
“So Anne-Marie said.” He took it from her, intending to open it, though the sender had been rather over-enthusiastic with the sealing wax. “Do tell me it’s a document from our solicitor, legally emancipating me from this family.”
“We see you so scarcely, I dare say you are already emancipated.”
He leaned against the wall near the mantle, sliding the letter into his pocket. It was likely some old fool writing to him about their daughter’s nephew’s haunted sheep farm, but just in case it was Fernside with news of Visser, he ought to read it as soon as his mother finished with him. “I went to the Harringdons’ last night, did I not?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I hate balls.”
“Well, I was there, protecting my sisters’ virtues the whole night.”
“In that case, let me see if I might have a statue of you commissioned to stand in our courtyard titled Loyalty Itself.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Mr. Benjamin Chant, you say?”
“Yes.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Clarissa said you danced with him last night.”
“I did.”
His mother took a seat on a baroque chair that Gale imagined even Louis XIV himself would have thought gauche. The woman successfully walked the fine line between high-class and gaudy, but her taste in decor fell firmly into the latter category. “Clarissa has had a proposal.”
“Really?” Gale was genuinely startled. “From whom?”
“Lady Alice Faber.”
“Good Lord. That family is money all over.”
His mother sighed. “Yes. Clarissa wishes to think on it. She likes Lady Alice well enough, but marriage is a big decision.”
“Of course.”
“Anne-Marie was paid considerable attention last night as well.”
“That’s… good?” Gale ventured. In truth, he did not much like the idea of anyone paying his sisters attention. He supposed they all had to marry eventually, and at least marriage would get them out of his hair, but it put him off-kilter to picture them all grown up and moved away.
“Society has turned its eye upon our family in a way it has not before. And that is thanks to you.”
Gale was not sure whether it was a compliment or an accusation. Coming from his mother, it could be either.
“Seven children,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, unsure where this was going.
“That is a lot of children. And children are expensive.”
“Rather shortsighted on your part, wasn’t it?”
“I blame your father.”
“Always a safe bet.”
His mother’s lips twitched. “It would behoove us to get the girls married as quickly as possible. And with the attention you have garnered, we might be well on our way. Should Clarissa accept Lady Alice’s proposal, or any other in the next few weeks, she’ll be wed at nineteen. Anne-Marie is now turning heads at eighteen. If the Lord is merciful, they’ll both be matched by the end of the Season.”
“He is not merciful. Nor is He real.”
“Christmas Gale, don’t you dare bring your atheism into this house.”
“On close personal terms with God, are you? Name literally anyone from the Bible, Mother.”
“Goliath. Oh, we should have had you thrashed regularly when you were young. But you were so appealing in a bony, Gothic-orphan sort of way.”
“I shall consider myself fortunate that my bleak, traumatised countenance called forth some trickle of pity from the stone of your heart.”
His mother smiled fondly. “I did love how mournful and haunted you seemed. As though you had witnessed far more of the world before you were out of leading strings than I had in my whole life. Now that I am older, I see that men like to appear world-weary, as though they are shouldering a great burden by laying claim to all the power they have placed at their own fingertips. When they are, in fact, no more worthy of that power than a group of chimpanzees would be. Still, the brooding is a nice effect.”
“Flatter me any further, Mother, and I shall start to get an inflated impression of myself.”
“No, my flattery stops here. But speaking of bony, traumatised orphans…”
“Ah, yes. How is the one I left in your care?”
His mother grew serious. “She wept all morning.”
“Well, it is understandable that she—”
“She kept asking when you would return.”
“Me?”
“Oh, your sisters eventually got her involved in some games, and then she was quite content. But she missed you.”
“Well, I was busy… you know…”
“Trying to determine who killed her father? Did you find anything of interest?”
“I discovered much, but I cannot say anything for certain at the moment.”
His mother nodded.
“I do not wish to take her to the parish just yet.” Gale tried for brusqueness but did not quite succeed.
“No,” his mother agreed.
A silence.
“I think she would like to speak to you.”
Gale swallowed hard. “I must get ready for supper.”
“We’ve put her in the blue bedroom. With Eugenie.”
“Well, I will… I will try to speak with her.” It was an impossibly daunting prospect. He would rather wait for Chant to do the speaking for him.
“All right, Christmas. I look forward to meeting your friend.”
“Friend?” Gale was momentarily confused.
“Mr. Benjamin Chant.”
“Right. Yes, of course.”
She flashed him a knowing smile. “It’s been such a long time since you’ve invited anyone to dinner.”
“I had Darling here not two weeks ago.”
“Oh, Christmas. Darling isn’t a friend. You know exactly what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.” And yet, he did.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve joined us for dinner.”
That was most certainly an accusation. “I have been busy.”
“You have been over-interested in yourself.”
That ought to be something he wore as a badge of pride. But the thought of disappointing his mother was somehow every bit as mortifying now as it had been when he was a boy. “I get quite nervous in… company.” He did not know why he finally felt able to admit this to her after twenty-odd years. It was not as if she didn’t know of his anxieties—she could read every shift in his expression the same way he read the face of a suspect under interrogation. But he had never before said the words out loud. If forced to guess, he would say Chant was responsible for this unpremeditated confession. Chant, who did not consider Gale’s aversion to socialising a horrible flaw in his character.
“We are your family.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Christmas. Look at me. I feel as though I have not made a proper study of you in days.”
He glanced up, meeting his mother’s gaze with a shrug that was equal parts guilt and apology. How far he now felt from the Lord Christmas Gale who had sat in Bucknall’s not two hours earlier, casually orchestrating a search party for a dog as though the answer to the entire matter was only a stack of threepenny pieces away. His mother saw through all of it. Not just the carefully cultivated misanthropy and the chronic sarcasm, but the way he used the solving of outward problems as a shield against having to know anyone too deeply. Finding a missing heirloom couldn’t put a broken family back together. Uncovering an imposter did not get at the heart of why people lied about who they were. He knew that. It was just so much easier to focus on missing heirlooms than on the missing pieces of people’s hearts.
His mother assessed him for another moment. “You are too thin.”
“You’ve been saying that since I was five years old.”
“And it’s always true. Get something for yourself when you go to buy pastries for your sisters.”
“I do.”
She glared at him sceptically. Then softened. Her eyes, which normally glinted like the edges of blades, sparked instead with tenderness. “It was a good thing, what you did for Hartwell.”
He lifted his brows. His mother could change subjects as the wind changed directions, trusting always that he would follow. And, if he were honest with himself, he usually did. “Hartwell? What does he have to do with anything?”
