The Dickens with Love
A quirky holiday romance about Faith, Hope, and…er…glow-in-the-dark condoms!
Three years ago, a scandal cost antiquarian “book hunter” James Winter everything that mattered to
him: his job, his lover and his self-respect. But now the rich and unscrupulous Mr. Stephanopoulos has a proposition. A previously unpublished Christmas book by Charles Dickens has turned up in the hands of an English chemistry professor by the name of Sedgwick Crisparkle. Mr. S. wants that book at any price, and he needs James to get it for him. There’s just one catch. James can’t tell the nutty professor who the buyer is.
Actually, two catches. The nutty Professor Crisparkle turns out to be totally gorgeous—and on the
prowl. Faster than you can say, “Old Saint Nick,” James is mixing business with pleasure…and in real
danger of forgetting that this is just a holiday romance.
Just as they’re well on the way to having their peppermint sticks and eating them too, Sedgwick
discovers the truth. James has been a very bad boy. And any chance Santa will bring him what he wants
most is disappearing quicker than the Jolly Old Elf’s sleigh.
Warning: This book contains an ocelot, songs by America, Stardust martinis, tinsel, long-lost
manuscripts, Faith, Hope and…Love.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
The Dickens With Love
Copyright © 2009 by Josh Lanyon
ISBN: 978-1-60504-837-6
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Natalie Winters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Firs
t Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: December 2009
The Dickens with Love
Josh Lanyon
Dedication
To my editor, Sasha Knight, who gave me a new publishing home and brand-new subgenre to write
for Christmas. Thank you and Happy Holidays.
Chapter One
“Anything you have to do,” Mr. Stephanopoulos said, pouring sherry. “I
must
have that book.”
“Anything?” I repeated carefully.
We stood in the spacious living room of his Century City penthouse. The Palladian windows looked
out over a city alight and twinkling on this rainy afternoon four days before Christmas. In one corner of the room was a large and particularly vulgar Christmas tree that managed to convey all the holiday charm of a sequined dildo. In the other was a plasma television set, sound muted.
It’s a Wonderful Life
—the scene where Clarence explains to George Bailey how angels get their wings—played a silent background to our
conversation.
Stephanopoulos smiled, handing me the fragile amber glass of sherry. “Short of murder, of course.”
“Of course.” Was that supposed to be funny? What a prick he was. What a godawful, odious
prick
.
“I don’t want to know details. I want results.”
I sipped the sherry. It was probably excellent sherry, if you liked sherry. I prefer brandy, but Mr.
Stephanopoulos hadn’t asked. The Mr. Stephanopouloses of the world don’t.
“Well?” Mr. S. demanded when I didn’t immediately answer.
I said lightly—although the mockery was more for me than him, “Have I ever failed you?”
“No. You have not. And no one knows his Dickens like you do, James.”
He managed to make it sound lascivious. That was unlikely his intent; Stephanopoulos was staunchly
heterosexual. One more reason to be glad I was born gay.
I watched him savor the sherry, wet glistening on his plump red lips. He looked like a Tim Burton
version of Father Christmas.
“Crisparkle. That can’t be this professor’s real name.”
“Why do you say so?”
I quoted, “‘Mr. Crisparkle, Minor Canon, early riser, musical, classical, cheerful, kind, good-natured, social, contented, and boy-like.’ Canon Crisparkle is a character in
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
. He helps Neville Landless escape to London when he’s suspected of killing Edwin Drood.”
“That’s right. How could I forget?”
How? Beside the fact that Mr. S. had never read
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
? Actually, I doubted if Mr. S. had read much of any Dickens. I don’t suppose he even liked Dickens. He thought Boz was a smart acquisition. And he was right. The previous week an 1859 first edition of
A Tale of Two Cities
—illustrated
The Dickens with Love
by H.K. Browne and bound by Birdsall & Son from the original seven monthly serial installments—went for $6,950 on the Advanced Book Exchange.
Though Mr. S. ruthlessly and relentlessly collected Dickens for investment purposes, his personal
preferences ran to 1920s erotica. Primarily naughty pictures and, ideally, French. Hey,
c’est la vie
.
“I believe it’s his real name, though,” Mr. S. said. “Sedgwick Crisparkle. He’s a Professor of
Chemistry at the University of London.”
“
Sedgwick?
He’s having you on.” As in totally yanking the fat man’s chain. Still, what did it matter to me? I would be paid for my expertise whether the article in question was genuine or not.
“And how did this professor of chemistry get hold of a lost Dickens manuscript?”
Mr. S. said vaguely, “That’s all part of the mystery. Not that I give a fuck how he got hold of it so
long as I get first crack at it—assuming it’s the real thing.”
I smiled politely. When it came to ethics, Mr. S. made the House of Medici look like the Waltons. Say
goodnight, John Boy. Only I couldn’t say goodnight. If I didn’t want to live in a cardboard box under Los Angeles River Bridge come the New Year, I had to have this commission.
“You’ll have to be discreet, though. If Crisparkle knows you’re acting as my agent he won’t sell the
book to you. Regardless of the money involved.”
Interesting.
I said only, “Discretion is my middle name.”
Stephanopoulos smirked. I resisted the temptation to dash my drink in his face. Desperation makes
ugly bedfellows. Anyway, a thimbleful of sherry was a ridiculous gesture. He’d probably just lick it off.
Stephanopoulos handed me a slip of paper with a phone number. “He’s staying at the Hotel Del
Monte. It’s crucial that you get a look at the book and, assuming it’s genuine, that I’m able to make an offer before LAABF on Saturday.”
LAABF was the Los Angeles Antiquarian Book Fair. The fair was held every other year. It was
neither the largest nor the most prestigious of such book fairs—not in the state and not in the country—and I wondered why Professor Crisparkle had decided to auction his valuable manuscript here. It seemed one more indication that all was not kosher. Not my problem.
“Hotel Del Monte. He must be expecting to make a killing,” I remarked, examining the phone
number.
“With good reason.”
I made a noncommittal reply. Well, however things went down, I’d treat myself to a few hours in the
Hotel Del Monte’s legendary Champagne Bar. It was one of my favorite places in Los Angeles though
generally right out of my price range. The good thing about working for Mr. S. was that he paid promptly and well.
Mr. S. said jovially, “To Dickens’ Christmas books. God bless ’em every one!”
7
Josh Lanyon
We clinked the crystal glasses. They made a brittle chime. Somewhere a disheartened angel tumbled
off a Christmas tree.
~ * ~
This is for all the lonely people…
America’s
The Complete Greatest Hits
was blasting from the apartment next door to mine. Darcy, my neighbor, was—in her own words—a HUGE fan of the English-American folk rock band. Actually the
greatest hits album was an improvement over
Holiday Harmony
, the group’s Christmas album. I’d heard that album at least twice every single day for the past month. Now I understood why so many suicides
happened around this time of year.
Darcy’s door flew open as I was quietly inserting my key into my door lock.
“James.”
“Hey.” I smiled distractedly and turned the lock.
Darcy was a few years older than me. She was a chubby, dishwater blonde with a fondness for baggy
jeans, plaid flannel shirts and animal-shaped barrettes. I liked Darcy. She was a good neighbor and a kind and conscientious person. But despite the fact that I had broken it to her early on that I was gay, I was uncomfortably aware that she still, as they used to say,
entertained hopes
. I did my best not to encourage her.
“Did you decide if you’re spending Christmas day here?” Her expression was studiedly casual.
I’d known the question was coming, so I’m not sure why I didn’t have an answer for her. I
did
have an answer; only I didn’t want to deliver it. Nobody should have to be alone at Christmas.
And Darcy knew I didn’t have anyone to spend it with, so to refuse was just…personal.
Thinking that love has left them dry…
She was lonely and God knew I was lonely. What did it matter if she was a little dull, a little
desperate? The same could be said about me.
Darcy swallowed, met my eyes, and found a cheerful smile with which to meet my impending
rejection.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Christmas. Christmas would be… Thank you. Yes.”
Darcy’s face lit up. “
Really
?”
I nodded. “What do I—? Should I bring something?”
“Just yourself.”
“I can do that. That I can do.” I was nodding encouragingly—encouraging myself—like one of those
bobble-headed dogs.
She was still beaming at me and I was still nodding as I let myself in my apartment. I waved, she
waved, and I shut the door, leaning against it.
8
The Dickens with Love
“Is that supposed to be your idea of a good deed?” I asked aloud. It was rhetorical. I had no answer
and there was no one else to answer—and hadn’t been since Corey kicked me out of our Laurel Canyon
home nearly three years ago to the day.
I really didn’t want to start thinking about Corey Navona. It was only the time of year, and
Stephanopoulos’s crack about the Louis Strauss debacle—but that was all ancient history. I had a job. A real job instead of the usual slinging books at “barnsonovels”. Things were looking good.
I shoved off the door and opened the mini fridge that served as an end table to the room’s only
comfortable chair. I scanned its contents. That took approximately one and one half seconds. I had the choice of two eggs, a jar of raspberry preserves, a jar of possibly moldy Hoisin sauce and a bottle of white grape juice.
I finished the white grape juice and sat down to phone Professor Crisparkle at his hotel. I was
astonished to find that my palms were perspiring. Was I afraid the mysterious professor wasn’t going to agree to see me? No. Because I wouldn’t accept his refusal. I was more resourceful than that. If he turned me down, I’d go to the hotel and find his room and camp outside it until he let me have a peek at that manuscript.
Or was I afraid he
would
let me see the manuscript? That once I saw it I’d know it wasn’t genuine?
Wouldn’t it be worse to know that it was genuine and I was purchasing it for Stephanopoulos?
I couldn’t afford to start thinking like that.