Simon and the Christmas Spirit (2 page)

“
Why did you allow him to
come here?”

The man shrugged his hands out to the
side, palms up. “He beats us soundly at cards, and he came up with
this scheme… Never mind, sir. Best we get out while we can. I mean,
get blasted Christopher out.” The more he spoke, the more his
accent slipped into something less genteel.

Now that Simon had had bothered to
watch him, the waiter proved nearly as vivid as Christopher. Where
a proper servant would be stolid and blank-faced, this man smiled
and grimaced and showed fear. He was taller than Christopher and
had pleasant but unremarkable features.

“
I can discern that you’re
brothers,” Simon said dryly.

He was disappointed the two were
related—he had rather liked the idea of witnessing devotion due to
something stronger than fraternal affection. Thus far in his life,
he’d never seen a happy sort of a pairing like the one he’d once
hoped for. Yet the fact that they were brothers meant that
Christopher might be…

No.

Simon must ignore the way his heart
beat harder as Christopher paid happy attention to a story told by
one of the other players. How would it be to have a man look at him
with just such a smile?

Simon walked to the
battered desk in the far corner, where the book of debts and other
records were kept. Under the watchful eye of a snarling stuffed
tiger, he found a piece of paper and pencil and wrote without
bothering to sit down or thinking too much, though he was pleased
with the note’s vague and threatening tone.
Cease playing cards as soon as possible. You must stop. This
is a warning for your own sake. A member.

He summoned Andrews and placed the
note on a silver tray. The waiter hurried from the room. Good that
the man was smart enough not to simply walk the ten paces to the
table and hand the note to his brother.

Simon returned to his other more
comfortable seat and watched Christopher lose another hand. When
Billings looked up, their eyes met, and for once, Simon didn’t look
away. Nor did he smile. Billings coughed and blinked and turned his
attention to fumbling a cigar from his inside jacket
pocket.

Simon picked up the newspaper and
actually read it. He’d done his part to stop a less-than-wealthy
man from being fleeced by Billings. He half listened for the sound
of Christopher’s laughter, which still came easily, though surely
by now Andrews the waiter had delivered the paper.

Ah well. He hoped the losses wouldn’t
ruin the poor fool.

Simon leaned his head back and stared
up at the wood-paneled ceiling made darker by shadows and years of
smoke. Perhaps he’d end up like Jenks, middle-aged and without
close family, with no ambition because he had no need for one. He’d
be discovered some day with a newspaper draped over his chest, just
as he sat now, only he’d be dead, and no one would notice that the
eyes were as lifeless and glassy as those of the animals on the
wall…and were dead men’s eyes glassy? His would be dull, as dull
as—

Someone touched his shoulder, and he
nearly jumped out of his skin. The paper fell to the
floor.

“
Here now, sorry about
that.” Christopher Andrews stooped and picked up the newspaper,
folding it neatly and handing it back. He walked over to a chair,
hefted it, and carried it to sit next to Simon, all performed with
absolute grace.

A waiter who wasn’t his brother glided
over to them. “I’ll have a pint, if you please, Curtis.”
Christopher winked.

The waiter sniffed and gave him a dour
look and made it thoroughly obvious he knew Christopher was an
imposter. He turned and left the room.

Simon’s breath came hard as if he’d
been running. He wanted to get up and move away; instead, he sat
and waited for Christopher to speak.

Christopher looked at him sideways.
“So. Why’d you send that note to me?” he asked so quietly, Simon
had to lean closer.

“
Did your brother tell you
it was I?”

For a second, Christopher’s expressive
eyebrows arched up and his mouth drew into an O of surprise, but
Christopher calmed down immediately. “My brother?” He managed a
convincing air of innocent confusion, proof he could be
subtle.

Simon folded his arms. “Yes. Will told
me your name.”

“
Nobody told me who sent
the note. I watched you write on the paper and fold it
up.”

Simon sipped the brandy he still held.
He’d cupped the glass long enough that the liquid was warm against
his lips and in his mouth. “You’re an observant sort,” he
said.

“
I am indeed. What should
I do to keep you from telling the majordomo? Or, I dunno, go ahead
and tell him, but leave anyone else out.”

“
You mean your
brother.”

Christopher snorted. It seemed the
conversation truly amused him. He held out his hands as if offering
a huge tray of nothing. “For some bizarre reason, Will likes this
position.” He leaned closer and in a quiet voice said, “Before
this, he worked at a stable, and he says this place is cleaner, but
only just.”

Simon laughed despite
himself.

“
Aha! You’re amused.
I
knew
I wasn’t
wrong,” Christopher sounded utterly pleased. “That note wasn’t
about peaching on me. What was the reason you sent it,
Mr…?”

“
Harris.”

“
Oh! Indeed. Like the
theater impresario? Any relation?”

Theater explained a great deal—the
hand gestures, the face that didn’t remain still, the subconscious
grace. “No he’s no relation of mine. I take it you’re an
actor?”

Christopher laughed. “Ah, too obvious,
eh? We were raised to play to the back of the
establishment.”

“
We?”

“
All five of us are
actors.”

“
Brothers?”

“
Three boys and two
sisters, I should say two boys now, because Will wants a quiet
life. And there are plenty of others to step in.”

“
And you? Do you aspire to
play a Shakespearean villain or hero?”

“
Whatever comes my way
here in London. We’re from Brighton, and London treasures her own.
It’s hard to break into the business.” He grinned. “But I do indeed
have ambitions.” He paused.

“
Go on, I’m quite
curious.”

“
I want to be the
dame.”

For a moment, Simon wondered why he’d
wish to be female, and then he understood. “You want to be in the
panto? Why do you wish to dress in women’s clothing and prance
about the stage? It’s simply ridiculous.”

Christopher waved one
admonishing finger back and forth. “It’s
beautifully
ridiculous. Why? Because
people who never go to the theater make the effort once a year.
I’ve been going to the various performances this season to see the
dames. I can do what they do standing on my head. And, ah-ha, a
good sight that would be.” He grinned. “Polka dots or frills. Or
both. Skirt over m’ head.”

Simon came back to reality. He was
sitting in the club on a cold wet evening talking about nonsense
with a fey young man. Though perhaps not so young. He could see
fine lines radiating from the corner of Christopher’s eyes, signs
of past laughter.

“
You’re
absurd.”

Christopher’s eyes widened until the
whites showed around the hazel irises. His mouth turned down and
trembled. He blinked rapidly. Good Lord, were those tears in his
eyes? The expression changed in a flash into one of boredom before
almost relaxing into something more natural. “Well, of course I am.
Tell us something new.”

Simon snickered. It wasn’t even funny,
he told himself as he laughed harder, recalling how Christopher’s
face had gone tragic, then bored, then friendly in seconds. The
timing, perhaps?

“
That’s what I like to
hear, you see?” Christopher tapped his knee. Simon tried not to
jump. Everything near Christopher seemed far more vivid, even his
own responses.

Christopher said, “People laughing.
Especially people who aren’t used to it. You’re not, are you? I saw
you straightaway. There’s a man in need of laughter, I
thought.”

“
Jenks suggested I was in
need of drink.”

“
Oh no, that way madness
lies.” Christopher might have been serious, but Simon wasn’t
certain.

“
You’re a better actor
than your brother,” he said.

“
That long-dead deer
hanging on the wall is a better actor than Will,” Christopher
whispered. “But I’ll deny it if you say anything. He dances like a
fiend, though. No one better at clogging—with a touch of acrobatics
thrown in? And he’s so good-looking, he’s a sure winner.” His voice
might have held a note of envy. He scowled a little. “And speaking
of winning unfairly. You were trying to warn me of Mr. Billings,
weren’t you? It wasn’t to force me to leave the club.”

“
Yes,” Simon whispered. “I
rather think…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He
cleared his throat and managed one word. “Cheat.”

“
Ha! Just what I had begun
to think. Although I don’t know how he manages it.”

“
I believe fingernails on
the cards.” Simon couldn’t believe he’d said these words aloud. He
quickly added, “But of course I’ve never seen him doing
anything.”

Christopher shuffled his chair to
partially face the table where he’d been playing. He snapped his
fingers with an abnormally loud crack. “Cheating, yes. Fuzzing the
cards,” he said in a particularly loud and assertive voice. No
sound could echo in the well-muffled room, but his voice reached
the table where he’d been playing.

Simon wanted to tell him to be quiet,
but then the part of him that had laughed hard and was still
recovering was too curious to stop the scene.

Billings jumped to his feet. “Pardon,
were you speaking to me?”

Christopher scratched his
head, miming perplexed amusement. “Why on earth would you think I
was talking to you, Mr. Billings? Seems odd that you’d assume such
a thing. But now that you’ve taken offense, I have to wonder.” His
smile was broad but didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t talking to
you.
About
you,
now that might be a different matter.” He spoke loudly enough that
nearly everyone in the room could hear—and it was a largish
room.

Simon wanted to applaud. At the same
time, he wanted to flee the premises, never to return.

Billings sputtered. “That is
slanderous, sir.”

Christopher laughed. “I hope you will
take me to court.”

“
I shall ask you to leave.
You are not a member here.”

“
I had a member in good
standing vouch for me,” Christopher said. He slapped his forehead,
another clownish gesture. “Oh, dearie me. That was
you
, wasn’t it. Perhaps
not such good standing after all!”

He rose to his feet and bowed deeply
to Billings, and then, noticing that everyone watched with
amazement, he bowed to each corner of the room.

Billings sat down again and hunched
over the table. The other players at the table examined their
cards, then put them down. All of them stood and walked away. No
one made a fuss, not yet, but it might spell the quiet end to
Billings’s card-playing days.

Christopher turned his attention back
to Simon, and that dazzling smile seemed real. “Mr. Harris, would
you care for a game?”

Simon felt himself turn red under all
the fascinated gazes. “No, um. Thank you, though. I think I shall
say good evening.”

How had he gotten involved in such a
public spectacle? He felt absurdly on show when all he wanted was a
quiet evening to pull himself from his depressing thoughts. As he
rose from his chair, he realized he no longer felt
morose.

“
Oh no.” Christopher put a
hand on his shoulder, and Simon managed not to flinch wildly,
though his breathing hitched.

Christopher removed his hand, and in a
low voice, he spoke quickly and earnestly. “I’ve put my foot in it,
haven’t I? I’m extremely sorry, Mr. Harris. I was overly indignant
at being cheated, and I behaved badly. Don’t you leave. I
shall.”

“
No, no. I have somewhere
to go. I’ll be late, and I’d best be on my way.”

“
Somewhere to go,”
Christopher repeated and even looked relieved. Then his brows drew
down in a heavy scowl. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“
You don’t know me well
enough to call me a liar.” Where had that come from? Simon
immediately added, “I beg your pardon. That was quite rude of me
and—”

“
I watched you since you
entered the room. You moved slowly, and you have the air of
melancholy that…that…” Christopher shook his head. “You haven’t
checked your watch or the big old clock in the corner.”

Simon burst out with, “Are you always
so forthright with your unsolicited views?”

“
Hmm.” Christopher grinned
at him, a smiling invitation to laugh. “Not always, but often
enough to get me into trouble. I can tell you are never as rude as
I. It must make a nice change for you.”