A Thief Before Christmas by Jennifer McGowan Read Free Book Online Page B

found myself in an entryway that branched around a large central chamber. I turned to my right to explore a bit, but I heard the conversation well before I came upon the room.
    Loud, earnest voices ricocheted around the space, young men’s for the most part. I hesitated as I approached the doorway, holding back for a moment before I made myself known.
    â€œI’ve made up my mind, Father,” came the first voice, young and high and full of life. “I’m nothing but an added body, when I could do so much more for people who truly need it.”
    â€œBut you’re needed here, Henry!” asserted another voice, older but still robust. There was a rumble of agreement in the room: two other voices. In the darkness, I allowed my eyes to widen. So Henry was with his father. But rather than announcing his intentions to wed Annabelle as I’d feared, he was . . . saying he was going somewhere else entirely? How did that make any sense at all?
    â€œI’m not needed and well you know it,” the young man I suspected was Henry replied, his tone resolute—though there was kindness there too. I found I rather liked his voice. “You’ve more than enough men here to help you, and my brothers besides. And no—don’t you start up with me, too. I’ve decided to join the Church. It’s really the best course.”
    If I hadn’t been schooling myself to stay quiet, I would have squeaked in surprise. The Church? Was he a madman?
    I mean yes, certainly: the Church was a viable destination for many a third son. Despite the Reformation of King Henry’s time, which had dealt a heavy blow to the Catholic faith even as it spurred the Church of England into life, there was still a living to be made if you were a man and part of the church. You could have your own vicarage, caring for a village flock of faithful. You lived in part on the indulgence of the people you served, and if your family had money, you could live even better as long as you kept your needs simple. You could marry, also. So I supposed he could still marry Lucretia, but . . .
    â€œBut why go all the way to Wales? We’ve need of you here, even if you wear a priest’s robes!” The father was sounding a little desperate now, and I had to say I couldn’t blame him. The Church was bad enough, but Wales? There was no way Lucretia could leave her family and travel so far.
    â€œI have to go, Father,” Henry said, and I narrowed my gaze in the darkness. His voice had taken on the unmistakable sheen of desperation. He was pleading for his father’s sanction. But why? “I cannot stay here—I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
    â€œThe women will be so disappointed,” drawled another young voice. “Word has it that Lady Farthington has set her cap for you to wed her fair daughter.”
    â€œAnd that cannot happen,” Henry said sharply. Anguish had now replaced desperation. Verily, the man changed tacks faster than a sailboat in a winter’s squall. “Father, I should never do you the disrespect to disobey your direct request. I know that were I to remain, you would be pressed to accept this suit. It is for the best of the family, I know it. And yet I cannot marry the girl.”
    Surprisingly, Henry’s father did not jump in to support him. “She is a fair enough chit. And her family is rich. . . .”
    â€œThis is exactly why I must leave!” Henry cried. His voice rang with passion, and I remembered the enraptured letter he’d written to Lucretia—a letter that he must have realized was fruitless, what with the plum of Annabelle Farthington about to be dangled in front of his father. “I want nothing to do with the life of merchants and commerce, but to devote myself to the common good of all. I do not even know that I will marry!”
    This caused another mini-uproar, one decidedly more ribald, and I rolled