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Authors: Victoria Alexander

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BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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“No.” Gray laughed.
“I would have been magnificent on the stage, you know.” Win sank back into his chair. “And I would like to offer my assistance in this endeavor. Whether to Camille or to you, I'm not sure.”
Gray narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Because you're my cousin, my dearest friend, even if you have treated me abominably—”
Gray snorted.
“And I only wish to see you happy. If you have now decided, after all this time, to truly pursue this woman—as you failed, again abominably, once before—then you have my full support and all the assistance I can render.”
“You have my thanks, but should I decide to do so, I am confident I can manage without—”
“Furthermore,” Win continued, “I have not been as cordial to Camille these past eleven years as I should have been because I was under the mistaken impression that she had toyed with your affections. Not that I have had many opportunities, mind you. Camille and I have only seen one another in passing at one social event or another. I have long thought she was actively avoiding me.” He shook his head. “Now I understand why.”
“I was an idiot, I admit it.”
“As long as you admit it.” Win studied him closely. “Given your accomplishments, I suspect you are no longer an idiot, although that may not be the case when it comes to Camille. At least there is hope. You have insinuated yourself into her household under the guise of lending your assistance. That's rather clever.”
Gray smiled modestly.
“Now what can I do to help?”
“Nothing, really, I . . .” Gray paused. “There is something. . .”
“Oh, I do hope I get to wear a costume.” Win grinned.
“Nothing like that, but this prince of Camille's . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don't trust him.”
“Because he has interest of a prurient nature in the fair Lady Lydingham?”
“Not entirely, although I admit I would be distrustful of any man who looks at her the way he does.” Gray paused to pull his thoughts together. He was probably being absurd about Pruzinsky. Still, there was something about the man that did not sit well with Gray. His instincts had served him in the past, and instinct now told him something was not right. “He travels alone, without retainers or accompaniment of any sort, claims it's a tradition in his family.”
“And this is a genuine royal?”
“Apparently.” Gray nodded. “Prince Nikolai Pruzinsky, of the Kingdom of Greater Avalonia.”
“ ‘The Kingdom of Greater Avalonia'?” Win frowned. “Are you sure?”
“That's what he said.”
“That is interesting.” Win got to his feet, crossed the room and studied a shelf of books.
“What are you looking for?”
“Give me a moment.” Win ran his finger along a row of books. “This is it.” He pulled a book from the shelf and leafed through it.
“What are you looking for?”
“Patience, Cousin,” Win murmured. “Aha! Here it is.”
“What?”
“I thought so.”
“Thought what?” Impatience drew Gray's brows together.
“The Kingdom of Greater Avalonia was annexed by Russia nearly seventy years ago after the death of the last king.” Win scanned the page. “It says here his son, Crown Prince Alexei, renounced all claims to the throne after Russia annexed the country. A wise move, no doubt, as Russia would certainly crush a small kingdom without any hesitation.”
“So there is no Kingdom of Greater Avalonia?” Gray stared. “No castle overlooking snow-covered mountains in December or green valleys in the spring?”
“I imagine the mountains and valleys are still there,” Win said absently. “Apparently, the crown prince had a younger brother.” Win raised his gaze from the book in his hand and looked pointedly at his cousin. “Prince Nikolai.”
“Then he is legitimate,” Gray said slowly.
“Not unless he's a descendent.” Win snapped the book closed. “This Prince Nikolai would be well into his eighties.”
“But there is no Kingdom of Greater Avalonia?”
“So it would seem.”
“Camille thinks she's going to marry him and live in his castle in Avalonia.” Gray tossed back the last of his drink and stood. “She needs to know the truth.”
“Perhaps, but you don't really know the truth as of yet, do you?”
“Of course I do. You just said—”
“I said his country no longer exists, whether or not he is really a prince is another matter altogether.” Win slipped the book back into its spot on the shelf. “And, as Camille's mother, through the years, has long welcomed homeless royals, you have no idea what Camille does and does not know about this particular prince. Even though his country is gone, it doesn't mean he's penniless. He might well have a royal fortune. Many deposed monarchs do, you know. Family money spirited out of a country as a precaution against revolution. For that matter, he may well have a castle somewhere in Europe as well.” He shook his head. “If I have learned nothing else from four fiancées—”
“Four?” Gray stared. “I thought it was three.”
“Three, four, one loses count.” Win shrugged. “As I was saying, I know women. They do not like to have their mistakes pointed out to them, nor do they like to be proved wrong. However, as you will be staying in Millworth Manor, it should be easy for you to discern the truth.”
“And if he is a fraud”—Gray narrowed his eyes—“I shall make her aware of it.”
“And she'll be so grateful, she'll throw herself into your arms?”
“That had occurred to me.”
“You weren't listening, were you?” Win cast him a pitying look. “Do you wish to win her affections?”
“I really hadn't considered it. I simply wish to . . . to protect her. As one friend would look out for the best interests of another. As her friend, I feel it's, oh, a duty on my part.”
Win's brow rose in disbelief. “A duty?”
“You may rest assured that is my only desire.” Gray hesitated. “Admittedly, there is something as yet unfinished between us, but there's nothing more to it than that.”
Win stared. “I don't believe you.”
“Believe this, then.” He leaned closer and met his cousin's gaze directly. “The possibility of winning Camille's heart is the furthest thing from my mind. Indeed, until I saw her again, I thought anything between the two of us was all over and done with and in the past.”
“You don't lie well, you know.”
Gray sighed. “Certainly, there might be some affection, but no more than that of, oh, a brother.”
“Are you sure?”
Gray paused, then nodded. “Quite.”
“Don't muck with her life until you are.” A warning sounded in his cousin's voice. “You did it once, don't do it again.”
And she was still angry.
“Does she know you are now quite wealthy?”
He shook his head. “I don't think so. Nor do I wish her to know.”
“Why?”
“I'd rather money didn't play a part in this.” He shrugged. “That's all.”
“I see. And isn't that interesting?”
“Why?”
“It just is.” Win paused. “Well, regardless of whether you wish to be her friend or something more, the last thing that will improve your standing in Camille's eyes is for you to tell her she's been deceived by another man. You need to make her aware of the truth without making her feel like a fool. You were her friend once, you need to be her friend now. At least until you decide whether or not friendship is enough.”
“That makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose.” In spite of his words, was friendship really all he wanted? Still, Win was right. For now, Gray would be her friend.
“Well, then.” Win crossed the room, picked up his glass and drained the last of his whisky. “Your bag should be packed by now. And we should be off.”
“ ‘We'?” Gray said slowly. “What do you mean
we
?”
“Why, I am coming with you, of course.”
“Camille does not need another cousin or a brother.”
“While I heartily disagree, and I hate to pass up an opportunity to be part of this theatrical enterprise, I have no intention of adding to the cast.” Win smiled an altogether too mischievous smile. It did not bode well. “I am simply paying a call on Lady Lydingham and her family to wish them felicitations of the season. As any good neighbor would do.”
“You could have delivered the basket,” Gray pointed out.
“And then where would you be?” Win started for the door. “Besides, I should like to meet this prince. I am an excellent judge of character, you know.”
“As evidenced by the growing number of fiancées,” Gray said mildly.
“Exactly.” Win nodded. “But I am most astute when it comes to men.”
“You would have to be.”
Upon reflection, it wasn't a bad idea to get Win's observations of the prince. Besides, the theatrical machinations at Millworth Manor were just too delicious not to share.
“Perhaps on our way, you could tell me just how many betrothals you have had and why none of them led to matrimony.”
Win laughed. Gray grinned. It was indeed good to be home. Especially now that, at long last, he had realized what he wanted. Camille's little Christmas play was exactly what he needed. While she was busy trying to control her cast and impress the prince, he would be busy gaining her forgiveness. As for what happened after that, well, that remained to be seen.
And the curtain was about to go up.
Seven
“I
think it's all going surprisingly well, don't you?” Beryl said in an aside to her sister.
“It's only the first day,” Camille said more to herself than her sister. Still, Beryl was right, at least thus far.
The tableau in front of them did look rather perfect. Nikolai sat on the sofa between Mrs. Montgomery-Wells and Miss Murdock. Both women gave him their utmost attention; even if, at any given moment, the attention of one or both of them was a bit more flirtatious than Camille would have preferred. Why, she might as well have had Mother here if impropriety was what she wanted, although Nikolai certainly didn't seem to mind. Mr. Henderson sat in a nearby chair and was—all things considered—rather more charming than she had expected. He played the part of Uncle Basil with enthusiasm, even if the stories of his military exploits were vaguely Shakespearean in tone, as was the actor's manner. Nikolai didn't seem to notice. He was, however, smiling and nodding quite a bit, which struck Camille as beneficial. After all, he couldn't question what he didn't understand.
“I don't think it's wise to leave them by themselves.”
“Nonsense,” Beryl scoffed. “We're scarcely ten feet away.” The sisters stood near the tea cart, which had been placed, at Beryl's direction, closer to the door than to the guests. It was, no doubt, an effort to provide a discreet method of escape. One could simply fill one's cup and slip out of the room without any undue effort. Why, one would think Beryl had absolutely no confidence in Camille's plan at all. “And I, for one, needed a momentary respite from inane conversation. I find it surprisingly wearing to watch every word I say, as well as every word everyone else says.”
“I remember the winter of '78,” Mr. Henderson began. “Damnably snowy that year. Why, I recall . . .”
“As long as the conversation is confined to the weather,” Camille murmured.
“ ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind,' ” Mr. Henderson continued. “ ‘Thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude. ' ”
“Shakespeare,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells said cheerfully. “From
As You Like It,
I believe.” The woman had no trouble remembering obscure quotes written hundreds of years ago, but her name was an entirely different matter.
“And perhaps Shakespeare,” Beryl said. “That seems safe enough. Besides, we can't be with them every minute. Like any good director of plays, you must step aside at some point and trust in your cast. They are professionals, after all.”
“One can only hope.”
“Even the food is better than expected.” Beryl filled her cup from the pot on the tea cart.
“The food is excellent,” Camille said with relief.
She had considered at least hiring a real cook, but Mr. Fortesque had assured her that his wife was a far better cook than she was an actress. While Mr. Fortesque's troupe might not be the most accomplished actors in England, it was a relief to know he had been fairly accurate as to their abilities as servants. Although the very idea of former servants turned actors now in the role of servants made her head swim.
“All in all, I think it's going quite smoothly.” A confident note sounded in Camille's voice. She wondered where it came from.
“That alone should be cause for concern. As you noted, it is only the first day,” Beryl said wryly. “Still, no need to borrow trouble.”
“No, of course not.” Camille blew a long breath.
There would be trouble enough when their
cousin
returned. Why on earth Grayson had decided to become a part of all this was beyond her. No doubt he was just trying to be annoying, which then begged the question of why.
Her gaze settled on Nikolai. He was everything she'd ever wanted. Handsome and charming and perfect and, well, everything a prince should be. It was as if he had stepped directly from the pages of one of the fairy stories she'd devoured as a girl, tales of dashing princes rescuing fair maidens from fire-breathing dragons. But he was a real prince with a real kingdom and she was a grown woman now, a widow of independent means. Certainly not a fragile, delicate creature that needed to be rescued. Not by Grayson and not even by a prince, real or fictional.
Then why on earth was she so determined to have a prince at all? The thought popped into her head without warning.
“I met a grand duke once, you know,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells's words drifted across the room. “Charming man. Do you know him, Your Highness?”
“I cannot say,” Nikolai said with a smile. “There are any number of grand dukes, I should think. Which one are you speaking of?”
“Let me see.” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells frowned; then her expression brightened. “The tall one! That's right, he was the tall one. Quite dashing, I must say.”
“Come now, Millicent,” Mr. Henderson chided.
“Bernadette,” Beryl said under her breath.
“Florence,” the older actress said.
“Are you sure?” Miss Murdock asked.
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells nodded. Camille winced.
“As I was about to point out,” Mr. Henderson continued, “just because one is a prince does not mean one knows every other prince or, in this case, grand duke who is floating about the continent. Isn't that so, Your Highness?”
“Well, I—” Nikolai began.
“I knew a grand duke once,” Miss Murdock said thoughtfully. “Or at least he said he was a grand duke.”
Mrs. Montgomery-Wells shook her head. “You can't always be certain, my dear. One should always ask for credentials of some sort. They very often carry, oh, medals and the like. Great, gaudy things worn on sashes. Most impressive.” She turned toward Nikolai. “Isn't that right, Your Highness?”
“Please, Lady Briston,” Nikolai began. “As we are among friends, I would much prefer not to be addressed by royal titles, ‘Your Highness' and such.”
Mrs. Montgomery-Wells sucked in a sharp breath. “My word, Your Highness, we couldn't possibly. You are a prince, after all. It wouldn't be the least bit proper.”
“Surely, Lady Briston,” Nikolai said in a kind manner. “As I am traveling as Count Pruzinsky, and it is Christmas, we can relax formality.”
“But, Your Highness”—Mrs. Montgomery-Wells leaned forward and patted Nikolai's hand—“we all have roles to play and yours is the prince. If we do not play our roles as scripted, why, they'll be nothing but confusion and . . . and anarchy.”
“Can't have anarchy,” Mr. Henderson said darkly, as if hordes of anarchists would stream through the doors of the parlor at any minute, should formality lapse and the prince be addressed as anything less than royal.
Nikolai stared. Obviously, the poor man was too confused even to smile and nod.
Beryl sighed. “We'd best—”
“So much for everything going smoothly,” Camille muttered. She and Beryl quickly crossed the room and returned to their chairs.
“Mother,” she began in a firm tone, “we do want Nikolai to feel at home here. As he cannot be with his own family in his own country this year at Christmas, it would be lovely if we made him feel as much a part of ours as possible. You don't call
Delilah
Lady Hargate or
Beryl
Lady Dunwell.” Camille emphasized her sisters' names in the hope that the actress might remember somebody's name. “And you certainly don't call me Lady Lydingham.”
Mrs. Montgomery-Wells's gaze slid from Camille to Beryl. She lowered her voice and spoke in an aside to the prince. “They look so much alike, don't you agree? Why, I can scarcely tell them apart. It's most confusing.”
Nikolai smiled weakly and nodded.
“Although that one”—the older woman nodded at Beryl—“has a look in her eye as if she is keeping a most amusing secret, whereas the other one”—Mrs. Montgomery-Wells's eyes narrowed—“she looks as if she is about to explode in some sort of nervous fit.”
Beryl coughed in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing.
Camille's teeth clenched. Mrs. Montgomery-Wells was very close to the truth.
Mr. Henderson sighed. “Now, now, Millicent—”
“Florence,” Miss Murdock said.
“Eloise,” Beryl offered.
Camille cast her a scathing look. Beryl smiled innocently.
“Constance,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells said firmly.
Camille bit back a groan. Her comment to her sister pounded in her head like a bad refrain. Or a curse:
“It's only the first day.”
“As I was about to say,” Mr. Henderson began again, “as he is our guest, and we are among friends—”
“Family,” Camille said.
“Family, then.” Mr. Henderson nodded. “If the prince does not wish to be addressed as ‘Your Highness,' then we should honor his wishes. Even if ‘yet looks he like a king.' ”
“Richard the Second,”
Miss Murdock noted.
Mr. Henderson favored her with an approving look. For her knowledge of Shakespeare, no doubt, and not for her ample bosom, which threatened to escape from the altogether too low cut of her bodice. Still, didn't his gaze seem directed somewhat lower than her face? Camille shuddered at the thought that she had traded one lascivious uncle for another. Although, admittedly, the man was playing his part accurately.
“But I digress,” Mr. Henderson continued. “I once met a prince in India, son of the ruling raj of the province, who felt exactly the same way about traveling sans retainers or . . .”
Camille breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else, the actor could be counted on to fill the conversation with relatively interesting anecdotes about whatever happened to cross his mind. Whether they were real or imagined, Camille didn't particularly care. In that respect too, he was much like the genuine Uncle Basil.
“Admittedly, on occasion the prince's penchant for . . .”
And just like with the genuine Uncle Basil's stories, Camille allowed her mind to drift. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, Grayson was right. This scheme of hers was not at all well thought out. Once again she had jumped into something without giving it due consideration. Of course this was on a scale rather larger than usual. Typically, her ill-advised impulses leaned toward rash purchases of things she couldn't possibly use but seemed exciting at the time. There was the life-size mechanical monkey, which had struck her as charming when she had purchased it, but sitting in her parlor was really rather unsettling. The eyes did tend to follow one. There was the ill-fated expedition she had invested in to recover the lost gold of South America. It was most exciting, even if, as it turned out, not entirely legitimate. Then, of course, there were all those llamas . . . and the incident at Brighton, which she refused to think about. In each and every instance, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
And now she wanted a prince, even if she was no longer sure why. Damn Grayson, anyway. He was the one who had put doubts into her head. Nikolai was not at all like the monkey or the lost treasure or the llamas. This was not an impulse on her part. She had always wanted a prince; and when a prince unexpectedly walks into one's life, and one seized that opportunity, it's not impulse. No, it's fate. Certainly, she hadn't known Nikolai for long, but they would have the rest of their lives to better know each other. Wasn't that what marriage was for? Besides, knowing someone well—as well as one person could know another, really, or thought one did—did not ensure there would be no startling revelations—revelations that one was not prepared for. Did not expect. Had never dared to dream of . . .
Nonsense. Grayson's abrupt appearance had simply muddled her mind. Confused her as to what she wanted in life. There was nothing more significant to the odd thoughts that kept popping up in her mind than that. And if he was determined to become part of her effort to give Nikolai the perfect Christmas with the perfect family, well, it was the least he could do to make amends.
For saying he loved her or for not doing anything about loving her? She ignored the unwanted question.
“Psst.”
A soft hissing sound caught her attention and she glanced toward the doorway. Fortesque stood just outside the open parlor doors, beckoning to her. She mumbled an excuse and rose to her feet. A moment later, she closed the parlor doors behind her and glared at her alleged butler.
She kept her voice low. “You do realize real butlers are not supposed to go
‘psst'
?”
“Forgive me, Lady Lydingham, but I didn't know how else to attract your attention.” He leaned closer in a confidential manner. “The gentleman who was here earlier, Mr. Elliott, has returned. And he has”—Fortesque closed his eyes for a moment as if praying for strength—“luggage.”
“Blast it all, I was hoping he'd change his mind.” She huffed. “There's nothing to be done about it, I suppose.”
BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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