Simon and the Christmas Spirit

Simon and the Christmas
Spirit

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Bonnie Dee & Summer
Devon

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
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Dedication

A morsel of sweetness for all our readers at
Christmas time. We hope you enjoy Simon and Christopher.

Chapter One

London, 1884

“
It’s nice to see you,
sir. And may I wish you a happy Christmas, sir,” the porter
said.

“
It’s not for two days
yet,” Simon muttered. The porter looked as if he was about to
apologize. Simon quickly added, “and a happy Christmas to you as
well. Of course. Thank you. Send round a brandy, if you
please?”

Feeling even more churlish, Simon
walked to the club’s cardroom. Smoke hung in the air, too much
tobacco plus an ancient fireplace that refused to draw properly.
The furnishings in this room were scratched and water marked,
though clean, except he could see that one of the deer heads
decorating the wall had dusty antlers. Many of the stuffed animal
heads had sprigs of evergreens perched on them like sloppy hats. No
doubt a few drunken, younger members had managed that.

He belonged to two clubs, though he
rarely visited this one because Simon had no desire to gamble or
drink too much—usually. Tonight he hoped a few rounds of cards
would push him out of the haze of angry self-pity. He might not
have many talents, but he was good at cards. Though as Millard had
once said, counting and numbers were hardly a matter of
talent.

Be gone, Millard.
He’d been chanting that silently to himself for
nearly the last twenty-four hours, ever since he’d seen his
ex-friend at Lucinda’s wedding
.

One of the club’s regulars drifted
over to Simon’s spot near the smoky fire and plopped down in the
worn velvet chair across from him. Percival Jenks, an amiable
chatty sort in his forties, with hair like a hedgehog and eyes like
a toad, had the tendency to pry into one’s business.

Simon wished he hadn’t picked this
club after all. But the worst that could happen would be he’d
infect someone else with his dreadful mood—and Jenks was not likely
to catch anyone’s darkness.

Jenks sighed heavily. “Dratted slow
time of year. Everyone and his brother has gone to
ground.”

Someone barked with laughter. Simon
glanced at the tables.

Jenks waved. He used the hand with the
glass, so some of the straw-colored liquid spilled out. “There’s
some new fellow who’s far too noisy.”

“
Hmm.” Simon took his
snifter of brandy from the tray held by a waiter.

Jenks sipped from his glass and
goggled at Simon. “Not used to seeing you here. Had enough of being
the head of your family, eh, after that wedding? All the best to
Mrs. Mallard. Ha, sounds like a duck, eh?”

“
Mrs.
Millard
,” Simon corrected, because
he had to get used to saying the name again. “She married a nice
chap,” he added. And if he was lucky, Simon would never have to
attend any family event with Lucinda’s new family.

“
Ah. Millard. That fellow
you were so thick with last year.”

“
No. She married his
younger brother.” Thank goodness for small favors.

Simon had introduced Lucinda to
Millard’s younger brother back when he still thought himself in
love with Thomas Millard, the firstborn.

Hang it, he
had
been in love with
the man. Why else would it still rankle months later? He sank lower
in his seat as if he could escape the memory of the embarrassing
note he’d found one summer day.
“Boring
old Simon is predictably sentimental. It’ll be our anniversary
soon. I should wait to get a gift before I finally extricate
myself. No worries, I shall sell it as soon as possible, whatever
it is.”

Some of what he’d found in the
unfinished letter lying on the divan hadn’t been news to Simon;
after all, Millard had long called him Boss which stood for Boring
Old Simon. Funny that Simon had considered it an endearment; he’d
supposed Millard had thought of him as strong and
reliable.

He’d called Simon Boss yesterday, when
they’d met at Lucinda’s wedding.

During and after the wedding, Simon
had tried to avoid Millard, and that effort failed spectacularly.
Every few minutes, the man had appeared at his elbow, acting as if
they were old friends reunited and happy to see each other. And of
course, for Lucinda’s sake and for appearances, Simon had gone
along with the farce. He’d ached to smash his fist into Millard’s
face but had only smiled weakly and waited for him to go away. He
still haunted Simon.

Simon folded his arms and
stared into the fire.
Go away,
Millard.

“
Take my advice and
swallow that down as soon as possible. You look like a man in need
of a drink,” Jenks said.

Simon smiled. “You look like a man
who’s taken his own advice.”

“
I’m squiffed,” Jenks
announced solemnly. “I shall remain potted until New
Year’s.”

Perhaps Simon could try that method.
But first he’d attempt to lose himself in a game. He rose to his
feet, excused himself, and walked among the tables. Only one group
actually played cards.

He recognized two of the players and
immediately decided not to join the table. He didn’t know the
laughing man, the new member, who had dark hair and light-colored
eyes and the sort of mouth that seemed to quirk into a smile even
at rest. Perhaps the man’s nose was overlong and his mouth too wide
for ordinary standards, but Simon thought him strikingly
attractive. When the man actually smiled or laughed, his whole face
joined the fun. That expressive face seemed out of place in the
muted cardroom, or perhaps the off note came because the man was in
need of a shave and his clothes didn’t fit quite right, as if he’d
borrowed the finery.

Simon forgot everything when the
stranger looked up, met his stare, and smiled at him. “Will you
join us?”

That exchange felt significant, as if
the man invited him into an adventure or into bed. Simon blinked.
“Er, no thank you.” He grabbed a seat not far from the table. It
was considered bad form to watch others play, but he couldn’t stop
himself from sitting near the stranger. He picked up a newspaper
and pretended to read. When he looked at the man, he didn’t feel
like boring old Simon, or a growling, self-pitying curmudgeon. His
heart beat a bit faster and his blood moved more quickly. He forgot
Millard almost entirely.

This meant nothing more than a respite
from the real world, and he wasn’t foolish enough to think the
happy gentleman’s spirit was contagious. He would do nothing more
than enjoy the moment. Reflected sunlight, he supposed.

The waiter stood near the table as
well. One expected the servants to be on hand, yet no waiter had
ever been as attentive as this one. He groaned softly when the
smiling stranger lost a hand.

The waiter had gone pale and bit his
lower lip.

Simon turned his attention back to the
game. He rose to his feet and walked past the table to see if he’d
guessed correctly. Yes, the cards had the distinctive marks he’d
noticed the last time he’d played with Billings. The tiniest bit of
a scratch on one card, a nick on the edge of another. He’d long
suspected Billings was a cheat. But one did not call out one’s
fellow club members unless there was absolute proof. In any case,
Simon didn’t create disruptions.

The waiter had drifted closer to the
card table. He cleared his throat. “Would the gentlemen care for
another drink?”

The three startled players looked up.
One of the players tut-tutted, while another said, “You’re new here
and whatnot, but I daresay you know better than to interrupt
play.”

Billings raised his chin and glared.
“We’ll let you know.”

The stranger shrugged and grinned at
the waiter, raising his dark eyebrows theatrically. The others had
turned their attention back to the cards but Simon saw that the
server glared at the sparkle-eyed cardplayer and mouthed some words
at him.

“
I say, waiter,” Simon
called.

The man ghosted to him at once. Simon
crooked a finger, and the waiter bent over politely. Simon quietly
asked, “That extra man, he doesn’t belong here, does
he?”

The waiter went upright immediately,
his back ramrod straight. “Sir? Did you need a drink? May I get you
something to eat?”

Simon sighed. “He’s someone you know,
then, eh?

“
Sir?” The waiter’s eyes
went wide, and he shifted from foot to foot.

Simon crooked his finger again, and
the waiter bent, but not as deeply now. It was as if he wanted to
be ready to dash away. Simon spoke in a low voice. “I couldn’t care
less that someone slipped in when the porter’s back was turned. But
if he’s, ah, low on funds, he’d do better to avoid playing at that
table.”

“
Sir?” The waiter glanced
at the table and back at Simon, clearly trapped in indecision about
what he should do.

Simon took pity on the man. “Shall I
slip him a note, do you think? Let him know that it’s a mistake? I
shan’t do more than that.”

The waiter closed his eyes and seemed
to mumble something under his breath for a brief moment. “If you
think it best, sir. Please, yes. Thank you for your tolerance, sir.
It’s not that I thought it a bad plan, it’s just that. Well.
Christopher won’t be stopped.”

Simon stared at the waiter. He’d never
heard of such a thing, but perhaps friends of waiters sneaked into
clubs all the time? “However did he manage this without a club
member to sponsor him?”

“
Mr. Billings was kind
enough to vouch for Christopher, and, so near the holidays,
nonmembers are allowed in certain rooms.”

Simon pressed his lips tight. “Yes.
That’s not surprising about Billings. Christopher, is he? What’s
his last name?”

“
Why, same as mine, sir.
Andrews. We’re brothers.”

“
Ah, I didn’t know your
name. You are new since my last visit.”

The waiter apparently regarded Simon
as a confidant or new friend, for he muttered, “I’m Will, and I’m
recently employed, soon to be unemployed, if Christopher doesn’t
stop behaving like a fool.”