Dear Sinners,

  * * *

  This year’s Christmas story is a little different, and it’s all your fault. Last December I did an Instagram giveaway of two holiday books—A Christmas Promise by Mary Balogh (Regency Christmas romance) and One Hot December by moi (contemporary rom-com set in a ski chalet on Mt. Hood in Oregon). I asked readers where they would prefer to spend Christmas—an English country house or a sexy ski chalet on Mt. Hood. Again and again, readers replied they wanted to spend Christmas in an English country house IF Søren and Kingsley were there.

  * * *

  And thus was born this year’s Christmas story—an Original Sinners novella set in Victorian England starring not Father Stearns but Baron Stearns and not Eleanor, a reformed car thief but a reformed pickpocket and now Søren’s ward. And Kingsley, of course, plays Søren’s valet, a valet devoted to all his master’s needs.

  * * *

  So in the spirit of "Once More, With Feeling” (the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and “Atomic Shakespeare” (the legendary Taming of the Shrew episode of Moonlighting), I offer you A Midwinter Night’s Dream, an Original Sinners Victorian Christmas novella.

  * * *

  Enjoy!

  P.S. Finally, an Original Sinners wedding. And of course, a wedding night…

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  More Books by Tiffany Reisz

  To Anthony Trollope, my favorite trollop

  1

  23rd of December 1871

  London, England

  The Baron was dead. Long live the Baron.

  Those had been Kingsley's exact words when his master received the news that his dearly despised father had finally kicked the bucket. The new Baron was properly addressed as Lord Stearns or My Lord or after acknowledging the title as Sir. Yet, Kingsley and the new Baron had known each other—intimately and biblically—since the ages of sixteen and seventeen respectively, and therefore when Kingsley addressed the newly minted Baron Stearns, he did so in his usual manner.

  “Søren,” Kingsley hissed, then gently kicked the new Baron in the shin.

  The new Baron—Søren to his intimates as it was the name his beloved mother, not his detested father had given him—lowered his copy of the The Times just enough to peer at Kingsley over the top of it.

  “We’re back in England,” Kingsley said.

  Søren glanced out the train window and said, “What do you know? We are back in England. This is why I keep you in my employ. To remind me what country I’m in at all times lest I forget.”

  “Also to beat me and bugger me.”

  Søren held up his newspaper. “Yes, also that.”

  “Søren,” Kingsley said, kicking the new Baron in his other shin.

  “As you reminded me,” Søren said, “we are in England again. You’ll have to at least pretend to respect my rank while we’re here.”

  “Yes, My Most Honored and Gracious Lord and Master.”

  “Better. Now what do you want?”

  “Will we be paying a visit to Lady Claire while we’re in town?” Kingsley asked. Town meaning London, of course. “Or returning to Paris immediately?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Lying sodding bastard.”

  Søren lowered his newspaper again and arched his eyebrow at Kingsley.

  “I mean, lying sodding bastard, My Lord.”

  Søren carefully folded his paper and set it on the empty seat at his side. They sat across from each other in a first-class train compartment which would deliver them to London in now—Kingsley checked his pocket-watch—eight minutes.

  “Valets who wish to keep their tongues firmly attached to their bodies will refrain from speaking when it is clear their master wishes them silent,” Søren said. “In other words—shut it, Kingsley.”

  “You’re more rude than usual now that you’ve got the title,” Kingsley said. “And that’s saying something. You were a high-handed knob to start with.”

  “You should be nicer to me,” Søren said. “My father’s just died after a long and difficult illness. I’m in mourning.”

  They met eyes. Kingsley looked at Søren. Søren looked at Kingsley.

  They both burst into laughter. A train conductor walked past, and Søren kicked Kingsley in the shin.

  Kingsley fell sideways onto the train seat, cradling his leg.

  “You kick much harder than I do,” Kingsley said. Søren merely stared out the window until their train pulled into the station.

  They both stood, donned their overcoats and hats, and found the nearest empty cab.

  “Mr. Fitzsimmons’s office, Surrey Street,” Kingsley instructed.

  London somehow managed to be both frigid and clammy that December twenty-third and soon Kingsley was both shivering and sweating as the cab made slow progress to Mr. Fitzsimmons’s office.

  Søren, however, looked the picture of perfection, as always. Gray suit, gray waistcoat, tie white as a new-fallen snow, shoes impeccably polished, and not a single strand of his golden hair was out of place.

  “You’re staring, Kingsley,” Søren said. “Stop it.”

  “Trying to picture you with a beard. Look,” he pointed out the window at the men of business on the sidewalks. “We'll have to grow enormous mustaches to fit in now.”

  “We’ll just have to be unfashionable.”

  “Suits me,” Kingsley said. “I’ve yet to meet a girl who ever got wet from a walrus. Unless one splashed her.”

  “Don't make me laugh,” Søren said, glaring. “I'm attempting to look bereaved for our meeting. Is it working?”

  “No,” Kingsley said. “Try to think about how much your father suffered. Does that help?”

  “It makes me want to break out into song. Are there any songs about evil men dying of syphilis? If not,” Søren said, “someone should write one.”

  “Won’t be me,” Kingsley said. “I can never remember how to spell ‘syphilis.’ Never know where to put the Y and if there are two Ls or one.”

  “I'll give you a dictionary for your Christmas gift,” Søren said.

  “I'd rather you just give me what you gave me last year.”

  “What was that again?“

  “A beating and then you buggered me. That’s also what you gave me for my birthday. And your birthday two nights ago. And the Catholic feast days, all two-hundred of them.”

  “Yes, well,” Søren said. “I’m very devout, as you know.”

  The cab lurched to a stop in front of Mr. Fitzsimmons's impressive offices. Kingsley paid the driver enough to wait for them. This was sure to be a short meeting.

  Mr. Fitzsimmons, a man as round as he was tall, greeted them heartily as they entered his private office, bowing and scraping to Søren and calling him “My Lord” so many times, Kingsley thought for a moment they were in church.

  “My deepest sympathies upon the death of your father, My Lord,” the rosy-cheeked solicitor said, hand over his heart.

  “Shallow sympathies will more than suffice,” Søren replied.

  Mr. Fitzsimmons blinked. “Yes, of course. Shall we begin then?”

  The solicitous solicitor indicated a large leather armchair. Kingsley stood behind Søren, waiting attendant as Mr. Fitzsimmons sat at his desk.

  “I won’t beat around the bush, Lord Stearns,” Mr. Fitzsimmons began once he'd perched his spectacles on his nose, “you know as well as I do that your father was a very wealthy man. Investments he made paid off handsomely. The estate is free of all debts and the yearly income stands at—” and here Mr. Fitzsimmons mentioned a figure so large Kingsley’s knees nearly buckled.

  Søren only sighed, however. “He was as covetous as he was cruel. Did my father leave anything to my half-sister, Lady Claire.”

  “She’ll inherit forty-thousand on her twenty-first birthday.”

  “Better than nothing,” Søren said. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I assume the rest of the estate goes to the Crown?”

  “Not quite,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said. “You, Lord Stearns, are also a beneficiary.”

  “Of what?” Søren asked, scoffing. “A one pound note wrapped around a rock thrown at my face?”

  “Your Lordship inherits the title, of course, free and clear. As to the remainder of the estate,” Mr. Fitzsimmons continued. “The townhouse at Regent’s Park, the family seat, Edenfell, and the accounts…all yours, My Lord.”

  “I don't believe that,” Søren said. Neither did Kingsley. “My father would rather have left his fortune to a one-eyed tabby cat in Yorkshire than to me.”

  “He did insert a condition which you must fulfill in order to inherit. And...unfortunately, in order for your sister to inherit, as well.” Mr. Fitzsimmons coughed.

  “Go on,” Søren said.

  “You will have to marry to inherit,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said. He coughed again. Then he said something that sounded like, “Today.”

  Kingsley blinked.

  Mr. Fitzsimmons coughed a third time.

  “Today?” Søren repeated. “I have to marry—today?”

  “Or tomorrow morning, Sir. You must marry within one day of the reading of the will. If you do, you

and your sister will inherit. If not, then it’s all to the Crown.”

  “That can’t possibly be legally binding,” Kingsley said. “Banns have to be read.”

  “Not if a license is procured—easily done if one has rank and wealth. And I understand Lord Stearns is a Catholic,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said with some barely concealed distaste. “You’ll simply need an official present at your ceremony to validate it.”

  “Can’t Lord Stearns contest the condition?” Kingsley asked. “His father was mad as a hatter.”

  “I wouldn’t risk it,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said. “In the event Lord Stearns does not fulfill the condition, the Crown inherits. The Courts routinely side with the testator’s final wishes, no matter how eccentric, and they will have a vested interest in ruling against His Lordship. Your father was…”

  “Evil,” Søren said.

  Mr. Fitzsimmons replied, “I would have said ‘cunning.’”

  “Yes, that as well.” Søren rubbed his temple and Kingsley couldn’t stop himself from reaching down and squeezing his shoulder to comfort him.

  “Forgive me, Lord Stearns,” Mr. Fitzsimmons went on, “but it’s now half noon. I don’t mean to rush you along, but for your own sake…”

  “Of course.” Søren rose quickly from the chair to his full and impressive height. Mr. Fitzsimmons rose as well, at once. “Good day, Mr. Fitzsimmons. We'll be in touch, I'm sure. Come along, Kingsley.”

  Kingsley followed Søren out of Mr. Fitzsimmons’s office and onto the street where their cab waited.

  “Death by syphilis,” Søren said, “was too good for the man.”

  2

  Kingsley waited until Søren was in the cab before giving the driver their address. The cab lurched forward. Once they were moving, Kingsley drew the shades down. They were master and servant no more, but two lovers, alone and talking.

  “Just when I thought,” Søren said, eyes closed and head back, “that I had plumbed the depths of my father’s evil…he does this to Claire.”

  “Marriage isn’t evil,” Kingsley said. “Boring, useless, and monotonous, but not evil.”

  “The last time I spoke to my father,” Søren said, “I swore to him I would never capitulate to any of his schemes to make me marry. Now he’s found the one way to do it—by using my love for Claire as a weapon against me. I almost want to applaud him for his ingenuity.”

  Søren’s tone was light, but Kingsley sensed the brewing rage underneath his words.

  “Your father’s in Hell being spit-roasted on the fiery cocks of Satan and Beelzebub as we speak.”

  “You’re trying to cheer me up. It’s not working.”

  “Just get married,” Kingsley said.

  “Just get married? Wonderful idea. Tell the driver to stop by the Bride Shop. I need to buy a bride. We’ll take two. One for me and one for you. Perhaps a third to keep as a spare. Grand idea. Brilliant.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm. You’re a fucking Baron with the face of Adonis, the body of Michelangelo’s David, and the cock of…I don’t know. Some mythological or biblical figure with a very large cock. There are dozens of poor Lords in this town who’d sell their daughters to you for ten quid and a new horse.”

  “You get what you pay for,” Søren said.

  Kingsley sighed. The time for joking was over. “Søren, you know—”

  “Don’t.” That one word was an order and a threat. Kingsley ignored both.

  “Talk to her,” Kingsley said. “That’s all.”

  “She’s my ward,” Søren said. “She’s barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “She’s nineteen now, almost twenty. More than old enough to marry.”

  “She despises me.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “We haven’t spoken in three years. My first words to her can’t be ‘Hello, Eleanor. Sorry I left you without saying goodbye, but I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to marry me?’”

  “She was destined for prison or the workhouse before you came along and saved her. She owes you.”

  “I’ll tell her that,” Søren said. “But I’ll make certain you’re standing in front of me so that when the gun goes off, the bullet hits you, not me.”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  Søren fell silent a moment.

  “He knew I wanted her,” Søren said softly.

  “Your father?”

  He nodded. “I took Eleanor in, made her my ward, and somehow he found out. When I saw him last, he mocked me, saying for all my pride, all my self-righteousness, I was no better than he was, taking home a fifteen-year-old girl.”

  “Your father forced himself on your mother when she was barely seventeen, and he only married when he found out she was carrying you. And that was the least of his crimes. All you did was give a good home to a poor motherless girl whose wastrel father had forced her into a life of crime. You didn’t lay a hand on her.”

  “I wanted to, though,” Søren said. “God, I did want to. The thoughts I had…” He closed his eyes, took a long shuddering breath. “At midnight, the night before we left, I found myself standing outside her bedroom door, the doorknob in one hand, a leather strap in the other. She was sixteen by then, and I was twenty-nine. What decent God-fearing man dreams of strapping and sexually violating his sixteen-year-old ward?”

  Most of them, Kingsley imagined, but he didn’t say that aloud. He knew a rhetorical question when he heard it.

  “You didn’t do it. That’s what matters. I want to slit your throat most mornings when I’m shaving you,” Kingsley said. “I don’t. The thought isn’t what counts, only the deed. You did not do the deed. Not only did you not do the deed, you packed up and left for three years. You are nothing like your father. In fact, you are his opposite.”

  Kingsley knew what he had to say to convince Søren to talk to Eleanor. He knew but hesitated to say it because it was as manipulative and cruel as it was true and certain. But needs must when one is being buggared from the grave by an evil insane Baron.

  “If you don’t marry your Eleanor, someday…some other man will.”

  Søren’s eyes flinched, just his eyes, and Kingsley knew then exactly the expression Julius Caesar wore when he saw the knife in his belly put there by his dearest friend, Brutus.

  “Tell the driver to take us to Regent’s Park,” Søren said.

  Regent’s Park. The townhouse where Søren’s sister lived. And Eleanor, his ward.

  Kingsley replied, “Where do you think the driver’s been taking us the last ten minutes?”

  3

  Lady Claire greeted them with an enthusiasm most unladylike. Kingsley stood behind Søren in the elegant entryway of the townhouse. Claire, a pretty brunette with her brother’s aristocratic eyes and nose, but not his cold beauty, appeared at the top of the stairs in a fetching gown of lavender. She squealed in delight and practically threw herself down the stairs in her rush to greet them.

  “Frater!” She yodeled the word before launching herself off the penultimate step and into her brother’s arms.

  “Yes, quite lovely to see you as well, Soror,” Søren said. Frater and Soror—tender pet names for each other, Latin for Brother and Sister. Kingsley found it stupid, but that was his jealousy talking. He’d had a sister, Marie-Laure. Not that he’d ever met her. She’d died of scarlet fever the year before he was born.

  “Spin me,” Claire said, as she clung to her brother, her dainty lavender slippered feet a foot off the floor. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment for three years, and in my dreams you always spin me.”

  “Must I?” Søren asked.

  “I’ll kiss Kingsley if you don’t.”

  Søren spun Claire in two complete rotations before he set her down on her feet again, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist.

  “Calm down,” Søren said, then pushed down on the tip of Claire’s nose.