He loves no-one and never will.
Lord Christmas Gale is a genius and a misanthrope, and, quite to his disgust, adored by all of Society for his capacity to solve mysteries. When a man approaches him seeking help in locating a lost dog, Gale rebuffs him. But what begins with a missing dog ends in murder and intrigue—two of Gale’s favourite things, if it weren’t for the orphan that comes attached to them. Oh, and Benjamin Chant. He has sworn to never love again. The Honourable Mr. Benjamin Chant isn’t sure how he got swept up in Gale’s mad investigation, but there’s something intriguing about the man—a vulnerability that most of the world doesn’t notice, but which captures Chant’s interest, and his sympathy, from their first meeting. After a disastrous love affair in the past, Chant has sworn to never give his heart away again. Especially to a man who does not want it. But it isn’t just their hearts at stake. When their investigation takes a dangerous turn and their lives are threatened, both Gale and Chant are forced into the realisation that perhaps two imperfect men might fit perfectly together—that is, if they can outwit the killer who is intent on seeing them both dead. A Case for Christmas is the second book in the Lords of Bucknall Club series, where the Regency meets m/m romance. |
"A Case for Christmas is just plain amazing. Sumptuous in period details, incredibly well written, and so full of clever scintillating dialogue that a review could easily be filled with one quote after another, it’s one to remember."
- Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
- Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
Reviews for A Case for Christmas:
Dear Author
Joyfully Jay
Love Bytes Reviews
Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
Two Chicks Obsessed
Phoebes Randoms
On Top Down Under Reviews
Dear Author
Joyfully Jay
Love Bytes Reviews
Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
Two Chicks Obsessed
Phoebes Randoms
On Top Down Under Reviews
An excerpt from A Case for Christmas:
The ball was every bit as horrid as Gale had been imagining. Clarissa quickly found a couple of her friends, and they’d gone to get punch, leaving him stranded on the outskirts of the Harringdons’ drawing room. Gale tried to look as though he were casually taking in his surroundings, rather preparing to be executed. But his palms sweated; the air in the room felt very thick. And what a room it was. As though somebody had taken the most ostentatious aspects of Oriental and Gothic design and beat them together with a broken whisk. He did not know whether he was in more danger of having the ghost of a murdered bride beseech him to bring her killer to justice, or of tripping and impaling himself on a truly egregious amount of bamboo. He was earning glances from people who’d never had a glance to spare for him before. Even Clarissa had commented that he was receiving as much attention tonight as any Incomparable. He'd hoped the sheer sternness of his visage would be enough to deter members of the ton from speaking to him, but one by one, they were darting in and take bites of him, as though he were a wounded beast marked for death by a thousand cuts.
Lord Abel wished to know details of his confrontation with Lord Balfour—Gale thought it prudent to keep those details to himself, as they would compromise his friend William Hartwell and the sulky little addle-pate Hartwell had wed not even a week ago, Joseph Warrington. Mrs. Crayston claimed her neighbour had been acting suspiciously, and asked if he might stop by on the morrow to investigate. Miss Karina Bellborough said he must be very brave to go around confronting jewel thieves and forgers. And Lord Thurston wondered in a low voice whether making people disappear—as opposed to finding them—was a service Gale offered.
Gale attempted an escape, but somehow found himself even closer to the dance floor, where the crowd was thicker. He wished he'd worn a jacket of a darker colour, for his underarms were sweating excessively.
A young lady bumped him into the path of a young man, who jostled him into a small group. He stumbled away, and two young ladies walking side by side parted neatly to pass around him. His breath became harsher. Where was Clarissa? He’d lost track of her, and it seemed at once that everyone in the room might be Clarissa, or none of them at all. A voice behind him said, “Excuse me, I was wondering if I might ask you—"
“No,” he barked, closing his eyes as his anger reached a boiling point. “I am not going to find your sister's missing necklace, or cleanse your opera house of its roving spirit, or locate your missing dog. I have had quite enough questions for one night, and I will thank you to leave me alone!"
Though the ton went on chattering around him, and music still played, it seemed as though his words had landed in a horrible silence. Surely the force of his anger and frustration should have cut through the gaiety of the soiree. But nobody seemed to have noticed his outburst. Nobody except for the man who had spoken, and whose presence Gale could still feel behind him.
He whirled, prepared to give the fellow an earful. Then froze.
The man he faced was about his height—perhaps a couple of inches shorter. Large-boned and well built, wearing trousers that fit just a touch more snugly than was the fashion. His dark coat was precisely the shade of grey Gale wished he had thought to wear to hide his profuse sweating, and his cravat was tied loosely, almost sloppily—which set him quite apart from all the men here who looked as though their cravats were strangling them. Just seeing the looseness of the knot made Gale breathe a little more easily.
But it was the man's face that truly held his attention. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, and slight furrows running from his nose to the corners of his lips. As though he spent a great deal of time laughing. Gale hated laughter, personally. But it was oddly pleasing to think that this man enjoyed it as a pastime. His eyes caught the light of the room and held it. They were a deep blue, narrow but tremendously alive. And the corners of his well-shaped lips curled upward as though he were privately amused by everything he saw. He had a sharp widow's peak, and wore his gold hair—for that was its color; not wheat or flaxen or ash or any such thing, but a pure and shining gold—longer than was fashionable, tied at his nape with a ribbon.
As Gale stood and stared mutely, the other gentleman spoke. “I was going to ask if you would like to dance?”
Now Gale was well and truly frozen to his spot. This man actually wanted to dance with him? This man? He reminded himself sharply that the whole thing was likely a ploy. Perhaps the man had recently had a priceless family heirloom stolen, or a younger brother kidnapped by bandits. Once he got Gale on the dance floor, he would request his aid; nobody spoke to Gale unless they wanted something.
Yet his initial shock at the request was so great, and his confusion so complete, that he dipped his head in a manner that probably looked to the stranger like a nod. It most certainly did, because the stranger said, “Wonderful,” as though it truly were wonderful, and took his hand to lead him onto the dance floor.
* * *
The Honorable Mr. Benjamin Chant wondered if Lord Christmas Gale planned to ask his name at any point. They did not know each other—well, Chant knew of Gale, from glimpses here and there at Bucknall’s, and, more recently, from the Gazette—and while he had intended to do the polite thing and introduce himself right away, he had become a bit lost in Gale's eyes, which were soft and dark as a hound's. He found that an absolute delight, since the rest of the man was so sharp. Long limbs, bony elbows poking at the fabric of his coat, cheekbones like blades. A cravat he wore as if it were a bandage keeping his head attached to his long, slim neck. But oh, those eyes were an agony of softness. As was his hair, from the look of it. Thick, shiny. A dark red when the light hit it just right. Brown when the light couldn't quite catch it.
Yes, Chant had spent a good bit of time admiring Gale before approaching him. The sketch in the Gazette did not do the man justice at all.
Gale moved with a rigid determination that was echoed in the set of his jaw. It’s as though he's never danced before, Chant thought, hiding a smile. Ah well. Chant would continue his relaxed, happy turns about the floor, and hope his companion might soon uncoil.
“Aren't you going to ask me whatever it is you've got to ask me?” Gale’s tone was weary, but with a hint of belligerence that made Chant’s lips twitch. “What is it? Did your grandfather leave behind a box of mysterious letters? Do the doors in your house open and close by themselves? Does your portrait of the queen have a treasure map hidden behind it?”
“I have already asked you to dance,” Chant replied. “Which was what I wished to ask you. Do you wish to ask my name?”
“Not particularly,” Gale replied. But Chant was well versed in the difference between rudeness for rudeness's sake and rudeness born from an anxiety that was rapidly becoming unmanageable.
When the music shifted, he took Gale’s elbow. “I could use some air. What do you say we go out to the terrace?”
Gale looked as though he might like to bash Chant over the head, but he was far too pale for the glare to be fully effective. Chant led him toward the French doors in back. Behind them, the band struck up a rousing tune, and revelers flocked to dance. By the time Chant drew Gale outside, they were nearly the only two on the terrace. He let go of Gale’s elbow and watched carefully as Gale went to the balustrade and leaned with his forearms braced upon it. Bent slightly like this, it was apparent just how thin he was.
Chant quietly approached the rail and leaned on it as well. Gale’s breathing had become more labored, and he passed a hand over his mouth. “I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he said tersely.
“It is quite noisy in there,” Chant replied. “And too stuffy.”
Gale made no reply. When his lungs truly began to rattle, Chant stepped closer and placed a hand between his shoulder blades. He half expected Gale to buck him off, but all that happened was that the fellow tensed as though he had never been touched before in his life.
“Draw your breath in slowly,” Chant advised.
“I do not require instruction on how to breathe,” Gale snapped.
“Of course not. But perhaps you could humour a new friend.”
Gale gripped the balustrade and dragged in a breath through his nose.
“That’s very good. Now let it out, as slowly as you can manage.”
Gale exhaled, his rigid shoulders softening a bit as he did.
“There, that’s the way.” Chant rubbed the back of Gale’s jacket. Gale still did not shrug him off, which Chant thought was something.
After a moment, Gale drew another uneven breath and muttered, “I do not like people. At all.”
Chant smiled, though Gale wouldn’t be able to see it. “Ah. I like nearly all people, it seems. Generally speaking.”
Gale cast a glance at him, then stared out across the lawn once more. “I have no choice but to conclude there is something gravely wrong with you, sir.”
“You are probably right. But it seems easier to like people than to dislike them. For me, anyway. Resentment takes such a lot of effort.”
“I assure you it comes quite naturally to me.” Gale attempted another breath, and Chant winced in sympathy at the effort it took.
He removed his hand from Gale’s back and stood beside him in companionable silence. Then he began to talk, as silence also seemed to him to take such a lot of effort. He commented on the roundness of the moon, which would be full in two days’ time, and the light it cast on the branches of the Harringdons’ sycamore tree. He spoke of his carriage ride here, and how the driver thought one of his horses had thrown a shoe. Once Gale’s breathing steadied, he asked, “Do you wish to go back inside?”
“I have never wished anything less,” Gale responded faintly.
Chant laughed. “I thought that might be the case. Will you allow me to see you safely home?”
Gale straightened abruptly. “I shall go to my private room tonight. I’ve no need for company.”
“You are welcome to use my carriage if you do not wish to draw attention by taking your family’s.”
Gale’s eyes flashed in the moonlight. “My sister. Good lord. Clarice, or Cadence, or Clarissa, whatever the hell her name is. I am supposed to be chaperoning her. My mother will flay me alive.”
“Perhaps you could find someone to—”
“No. No, I’ve shirked this duty often enough, and I promised tonight...” The shiver that passed through Gale was impossible to miss. He reminded Chant, for a bittersweet instant, of Reid. The long lines of him. Shoulders stooped under the weight of the world.
“Lord Christmas,” Chant said quietly, quirking his eyebrow at the half-wild glance Gale shot him. “I’ll not keep you from your duty. But I feel it is my duty to remind you that I will be in there as well. Should you find yourself overwhelmed again, you may seek me out at any time, for conversation, or a trip to the terrace—”
“I was not overwhelmed!” The harshness was back in Gale’s tone. “And I require no rescuer. I have attended dozens of these functions; I could chaperone Candace in my sleep.”
Chant raised his hands slowly, more amused than insulted by Gale’s prickliness. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”
Gale blew out a breath. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back inside.
“Well,” Chant murmured to himself. “I’d say that went quite well.
The ball was every bit as horrid as Gale had been imagining. Clarissa quickly found a couple of her friends, and they’d gone to get punch, leaving him stranded on the outskirts of the Harringdons’ drawing room. Gale tried to look as though he were casually taking in his surroundings, rather preparing to be executed. But his palms sweated; the air in the room felt very thick. And what a room it was. As though somebody had taken the most ostentatious aspects of Oriental and Gothic design and beat them together with a broken whisk. He did not know whether he was in more danger of having the ghost of a murdered bride beseech him to bring her killer to justice, or of tripping and impaling himself on a truly egregious amount of bamboo. He was earning glances from people who’d never had a glance to spare for him before. Even Clarissa had commented that he was receiving as much attention tonight as any Incomparable. He'd hoped the sheer sternness of his visage would be enough to deter members of the ton from speaking to him, but one by one, they were darting in and take bites of him, as though he were a wounded beast marked for death by a thousand cuts.
Lord Abel wished to know details of his confrontation with Lord Balfour—Gale thought it prudent to keep those details to himself, as they would compromise his friend William Hartwell and the sulky little addle-pate Hartwell had wed not even a week ago, Joseph Warrington. Mrs. Crayston claimed her neighbour had been acting suspiciously, and asked if he might stop by on the morrow to investigate. Miss Karina Bellborough said he must be very brave to go around confronting jewel thieves and forgers. And Lord Thurston wondered in a low voice whether making people disappear—as opposed to finding them—was a service Gale offered.
Gale attempted an escape, but somehow found himself even closer to the dance floor, where the crowd was thicker. He wished he'd worn a jacket of a darker colour, for his underarms were sweating excessively.
A young lady bumped him into the path of a young man, who jostled him into a small group. He stumbled away, and two young ladies walking side by side parted neatly to pass around him. His breath became harsher. Where was Clarissa? He’d lost track of her, and it seemed at once that everyone in the room might be Clarissa, or none of them at all. A voice behind him said, “Excuse me, I was wondering if I might ask you—"
“No,” he barked, closing his eyes as his anger reached a boiling point. “I am not going to find your sister's missing necklace, or cleanse your opera house of its roving spirit, or locate your missing dog. I have had quite enough questions for one night, and I will thank you to leave me alone!"
Though the ton went on chattering around him, and music still played, it seemed as though his words had landed in a horrible silence. Surely the force of his anger and frustration should have cut through the gaiety of the soiree. But nobody seemed to have noticed his outburst. Nobody except for the man who had spoken, and whose presence Gale could still feel behind him.
He whirled, prepared to give the fellow an earful. Then froze.
The man he faced was about his height—perhaps a couple of inches shorter. Large-boned and well built, wearing trousers that fit just a touch more snugly than was the fashion. His dark coat was precisely the shade of grey Gale wished he had thought to wear to hide his profuse sweating, and his cravat was tied loosely, almost sloppily—which set him quite apart from all the men here who looked as though their cravats were strangling them. Just seeing the looseness of the knot made Gale breathe a little more easily.
But it was the man's face that truly held his attention. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, and slight furrows running from his nose to the corners of his lips. As though he spent a great deal of time laughing. Gale hated laughter, personally. But it was oddly pleasing to think that this man enjoyed it as a pastime. His eyes caught the light of the room and held it. They were a deep blue, narrow but tremendously alive. And the corners of his well-shaped lips curled upward as though he were privately amused by everything he saw. He had a sharp widow's peak, and wore his gold hair—for that was its color; not wheat or flaxen or ash or any such thing, but a pure and shining gold—longer than was fashionable, tied at his nape with a ribbon.
As Gale stood and stared mutely, the other gentleman spoke. “I was going to ask if you would like to dance?”
Now Gale was well and truly frozen to his spot. This man actually wanted to dance with him? This man? He reminded himself sharply that the whole thing was likely a ploy. Perhaps the man had recently had a priceless family heirloom stolen, or a younger brother kidnapped by bandits. Once he got Gale on the dance floor, he would request his aid; nobody spoke to Gale unless they wanted something.
Yet his initial shock at the request was so great, and his confusion so complete, that he dipped his head in a manner that probably looked to the stranger like a nod. It most certainly did, because the stranger said, “Wonderful,” as though it truly were wonderful, and took his hand to lead him onto the dance floor.
* * *
The Honorable Mr. Benjamin Chant wondered if Lord Christmas Gale planned to ask his name at any point. They did not know each other—well, Chant knew of Gale, from glimpses here and there at Bucknall’s, and, more recently, from the Gazette—and while he had intended to do the polite thing and introduce himself right away, he had become a bit lost in Gale's eyes, which were soft and dark as a hound's. He found that an absolute delight, since the rest of the man was so sharp. Long limbs, bony elbows poking at the fabric of his coat, cheekbones like blades. A cravat he wore as if it were a bandage keeping his head attached to his long, slim neck. But oh, those eyes were an agony of softness. As was his hair, from the look of it. Thick, shiny. A dark red when the light hit it just right. Brown when the light couldn't quite catch it.
Yes, Chant had spent a good bit of time admiring Gale before approaching him. The sketch in the Gazette did not do the man justice at all.
Gale moved with a rigid determination that was echoed in the set of his jaw. It’s as though he's never danced before, Chant thought, hiding a smile. Ah well. Chant would continue his relaxed, happy turns about the floor, and hope his companion might soon uncoil.
“Aren't you going to ask me whatever it is you've got to ask me?” Gale’s tone was weary, but with a hint of belligerence that made Chant’s lips twitch. “What is it? Did your grandfather leave behind a box of mysterious letters? Do the doors in your house open and close by themselves? Does your portrait of the queen have a treasure map hidden behind it?”
“I have already asked you to dance,” Chant replied. “Which was what I wished to ask you. Do you wish to ask my name?”
“Not particularly,” Gale replied. But Chant was well versed in the difference between rudeness for rudeness's sake and rudeness born from an anxiety that was rapidly becoming unmanageable.
When the music shifted, he took Gale’s elbow. “I could use some air. What do you say we go out to the terrace?”
Gale looked as though he might like to bash Chant over the head, but he was far too pale for the glare to be fully effective. Chant led him toward the French doors in back. Behind them, the band struck up a rousing tune, and revelers flocked to dance. By the time Chant drew Gale outside, they were nearly the only two on the terrace. He let go of Gale’s elbow and watched carefully as Gale went to the balustrade and leaned with his forearms braced upon it. Bent slightly like this, it was apparent just how thin he was.
Chant quietly approached the rail and leaned on it as well. Gale’s breathing had become more labored, and he passed a hand over his mouth. “I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he said tersely.
“It is quite noisy in there,” Chant replied. “And too stuffy.”
Gale made no reply. When his lungs truly began to rattle, Chant stepped closer and placed a hand between his shoulder blades. He half expected Gale to buck him off, but all that happened was that the fellow tensed as though he had never been touched before in his life.
“Draw your breath in slowly,” Chant advised.
“I do not require instruction on how to breathe,” Gale snapped.
“Of course not. But perhaps you could humour a new friend.”
Gale gripped the balustrade and dragged in a breath through his nose.
“That’s very good. Now let it out, as slowly as you can manage.”
Gale exhaled, his rigid shoulders softening a bit as he did.
“There, that’s the way.” Chant rubbed the back of Gale’s jacket. Gale still did not shrug him off, which Chant thought was something.
After a moment, Gale drew another uneven breath and muttered, “I do not like people. At all.”
Chant smiled, though Gale wouldn’t be able to see it. “Ah. I like nearly all people, it seems. Generally speaking.”
Gale cast a glance at him, then stared out across the lawn once more. “I have no choice but to conclude there is something gravely wrong with you, sir.”
“You are probably right. But it seems easier to like people than to dislike them. For me, anyway. Resentment takes such a lot of effort.”
“I assure you it comes quite naturally to me.” Gale attempted another breath, and Chant winced in sympathy at the effort it took.
He removed his hand from Gale’s back and stood beside him in companionable silence. Then he began to talk, as silence also seemed to him to take such a lot of effort. He commented on the roundness of the moon, which would be full in two days’ time, and the light it cast on the branches of the Harringdons’ sycamore tree. He spoke of his carriage ride here, and how the driver thought one of his horses had thrown a shoe. Once Gale’s breathing steadied, he asked, “Do you wish to go back inside?”
“I have never wished anything less,” Gale responded faintly.
Chant laughed. “I thought that might be the case. Will you allow me to see you safely home?”
Gale straightened abruptly. “I shall go to my private room tonight. I’ve no need for company.”
“You are welcome to use my carriage if you do not wish to draw attention by taking your family’s.”
Gale’s eyes flashed in the moonlight. “My sister. Good lord. Clarice, or Cadence, or Clarissa, whatever the hell her name is. I am supposed to be chaperoning her. My mother will flay me alive.”
“Perhaps you could find someone to—”
“No. No, I’ve shirked this duty often enough, and I promised tonight...” The shiver that passed through Gale was impossible to miss. He reminded Chant, for a bittersweet instant, of Reid. The long lines of him. Shoulders stooped under the weight of the world.
“Lord Christmas,” Chant said quietly, quirking his eyebrow at the half-wild glance Gale shot him. “I’ll not keep you from your duty. But I feel it is my duty to remind you that I will be in there as well. Should you find yourself overwhelmed again, you may seek me out at any time, for conversation, or a trip to the terrace—”
“I was not overwhelmed!” The harshness was back in Gale’s tone. “And I require no rescuer. I have attended dozens of these functions; I could chaperone Candace in my sleep.”
Chant raised his hands slowly, more amused than insulted by Gale’s prickliness. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”
Gale blew out a breath. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back inside.
“Well,” Chant murmured to himself. “I’d say that went quite well.