Simon and the Christmas Spirit by Summer Devon

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