“Cressmouth,” Benjamin corrected firmly. “Let us not overstate the matter.”
“He gave me a post when others would not,” said a young girl with a scarred face.
“That’s because they’re foolish where you’re from,” said the woman in the apron. “Mr. Marlowe wasn’t foolish.”
“Not one bit,” agreed a gentleman leaning on a cane. “Why, without him there wouldn’t be an annual biscuit festival.”
“Annual biscuit festival,” Benjamin echoed, deadpan. “Hedidinvent Christmas.”
“What was it like?” asked a stableboy breathlessly. “To have a grandfather as wonderful as Mr. Marlowe?”
“What do you suppose it was like?” A man with dirt-stained fingers cuffed the lad on the back of the head. “A miracle, no doubt.”
“A marvelous influence, I reckon,” a different woman piped in. “His Grace is known as the most powerful lord in parliament. When the crown needs something done, they put the Duke of Silkridge in charge. Who does that sound like, if not our Mr. Marlowe?”
Benjamin ground his teeth. It did not sound like his grandfather at all.
It sounded like a duke who gave up sleep, gave up hobbies, gave up every spare moment he ever had for the betterment of his country. It sounded like skipped meals and ink-stained fingers. It sounded like audiences before the Regent and impassioned speeches to the House of Lords. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for playing at Christmas because he was too busy doing his part to keep England safe and secure for the people in this room and every other corner of the country.
Grandfather hadn’t been there for any of it.
“Why is Mr. Marlowe’s grandson on his feet?” someone yelled.
“A chair, if you please!” someone else called out. “Mr. Marlowe’s grandson needs a seat!”
Benjamin could not believe the reasoning. Here in Cressmouth, he was famous not for being a duke, but for being related to his irascible grandfather.
A young lady popped up from her chair. “You can have mine.”
“I’ll stand,” he bit out. “I will not steal a lady’s seat.”
“I knew you wouldn’t,” she said with a self-satisfied smile. “When it is his turn to do so, the sparrow always leads into the wind.”
Benjamin stared at her more closely. “Weren’t you the young lady hunting for a duke?”
She nodded. “I found him prancing between the verdant tree and fake bear, as a duke is wont to do.”
He blinked. “I vow that I have never in my life—”
“You are not the only duke in Christmas,” she said vaguely.
“So I’ve gathered.” He couldn’t be gone quickly enough. “I suppose there are two of us, then? Perhaps three?”
“There are twelve dukes in Christmas.” She cast a proud glance toward her neighbor as if to verify such an absurd claim.
“Twelve dukes of Christmas?” he repeated in disbelief.
Bloody hell, she had actually gotten him to say Christmas instead of Cressmouth.
“It’s too bad Tiny Tim isn’t a duke,” murmured her neighbor. “Then we could have thirteen.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said another. “I suppose we have Mr. Marlowe to blame for that.”
It was all Benjamin could do to keep his head from exploding. He was not going to ask who Tiny Tim was, and he definitely wasn’t going to ask what on earth his maternal grandfather had to do with anyone becoming a duke. Benjamin’s title had been the last gift from his father. Grandfather had given him nothing but heartache.
A gong sounded on the side of the dais and then the solicitor took center stage.
“Shh!” Several ladies shushed the crowd. “The reading is about to start.”
