Chapter Eleven

A lthough Harry had no taste for religion, this situation was precisely why he allowed a select number of clergymen to enter the hallowed halls of his club. You never knew when you would need a priest—even if it was a drunk one.

Ernest was at their heels as Harry towed a flushed Ruthie inside the club. "Who's here?" he called over his shoulder, dragging his fiancée toward the stairs.

"Father Brian, Father Samuelson, and several others, I think. I'll find out," Ernest said, earning his substantial salary. Even though Harry's thinking could run a bit wayward at times, Ernest never had a difficult time reading it. He knew exactly what his employer was planning.

Harry stopped halfway up the stairs, cushioning Ruthie while she bumped into him. He gave his butler a pointed look. "Find one quick," he said, before adding, "Preferably one that can still stand and doesn't reek of perfume."

"Certainly, sir." Ernest nodded and hurried down the staircase. Harry appreciated the man's speed. It matched his own. There was no time to waste. He finally had Ruthie in his home; he aimed to keep her there.

When he got to his room, Harry finally released her hand. Going straight to his bureau, he opened the side door, brought out a small black case, and carried it to his desk, using both hands so as not to upset its contents. He could feel Ruthie's eyes on him as he took out a small set of keys from his breast pocket and located the one he needed.

The case opened with a thrilling click. Harry appreciated jewelry even less than he appreciated clergyman, though he admitted that it, too, had its uses every once in a while. Glorious and resplendent rings of every color and size glittered up at him.

He turned to face Ruthie. Hands clasped in front of her, she appeared lost and a little frightened standing alone in the middle of the space. He couldn't believe she was still here. She'd chosen him. Harry had a feeling he'd been the lesser of two evils, but he wouldn't complain, and nor would he look this gift horse in the mouth. Most of the people he came into contact with thought he housed a little bit of evil—what did it matter if his wife did as well?

"Come," he said gruffly, moving out of the way, giving her a full view of the rings. "Pick anyone you want…or all of them." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, an odd feeling of inadequacy coming over him. "I suppose they're all yours now anyway."

Ruthie's steps were short and tentative as she did as he ordered, though when she made it to the table, her fingers remained strangled together in front of her, almost as if she were afraid of the precious metals. She leaned over the desk. Her eyes widened, but they still weren't as round as some of the stones in the case.

"How did you… I couldn't possibly…" Her breath was hushed and fast. "They're too grand. How do you have these?"

Harry frowned. Did she not like them? Did she not want them? Suddenly, it occurred to him that he desperately wanted to put a smile on her face. Not doing so seemed like the ultimate failure. "You know how I have them."

Ruthie shook her head, and more hair broke loose from her bun. Harry closed his eyes, refusing to let the asymmetry ruin the moment. When he opened them again, he watched Ruthie run her fingertips over a tiny stone the size of a red-berry mistletoe. "How could people just give these away?" she murmured.

Harry shrugged, confused by her sobriety. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel sorry for reckless fools. He needed her to feel lucky that all of his was now hers. But he hadn't counted that Ruthie would mind if everything he owned came from the misfortune of others.

He stood next to her and picked up the ruby ring, holding it up between them. In his fingers, it seemed such a dainty thing, not worth the tremendous debt it had been used to clear. But just as beauty was in the eye of the beholder, so was a thing's worth. What was priceless to one person was trash to another. To a man who grew up on the streets, Harry understood more than most that value was given and not born.

He took Ruthie's hand and placed the ring at the tip of her finger. Her nails were shiny and clean, her fingers long and elegantly tapered. He remembered how well they'd fit together that first night they shared, how scared she'd been of him, how much he asked of her, how much he continued to ask.

And she'd still come to him.

"People give me their most precious items because they have to make a choice," he said, staring down at the ring, trying to find the courage to inch it further on her finger. To find its home. "They find themselves at a wall. They can either turn back and face the consequences or find their courage and climb it."

Her hand began to tremble. "It doesn't seem like that hard of a decision."

"Every choice is difficult," Harry growled. "Every choice is the ending of one life and the beginning of another. Each day is filled with these tiny deaths and births, these new versions of the person you choose to be. I suppose right now I'm asking you to be the person who would spend the rest of your life with a person like me. And that won't be easy. But if you bet on me, right here and now, I promise that you will never lose. Not once."

Ruthie's smile was winsome, gentle. And because Harry lacked the courage to do it, she was the one who slid the ring down her finger.

The sparkle in her eyes rivaled the ancient stone. "As I said, it isn't a hard decision."

*

Harry could feel his butler panting down his neck like an asthmatic dragon, but he kept his eyes on the bustling room. "Yes, Ernest?"

"It's just…" The butler fidgeted, his breathing growing heavier, causing Harry to wince. "Don't you have someplace you should be?"

Harry glanced at his pocket watch and sighed. He didn't know why he even looked at it. He knew the time perfectly well. He could have told Ernest what it was down to the second. One thirty-two in the morning. On his wedding night.

Harry lifted his chin, avoiding his butler's all-knowing eye. "I'll be up shortly."

"That's what you said an hour ago," Ernest pointed out. "And the hour before that."

"I'm busy," Harry snapped. "Being married doesn't change that."

"I understand well enough, sir. I do," Ernest returned in not nearly enough of a placating manner. The word "but" hung in the air. Harry didn't have to wait long for it. "But," Ernest continued, "your new bride might not appreciate that fact. She might be lonely up there. She might want some company from her husband. Poor thing has had a bit of a day, if you don't mind my saying."

Harry did mind. Of course he minded! No one's butler should speak to him in that impertinent manner. But Ernest wasn't an ordinary butler and Harry was no ordinary master. Besides, the incorrigible servant was right. Ruthie had had "a bit of a day." And Harry was, no doubt, only making it more trying.

The wedding certainly hadn't helped. If Ruthie had come to Harry hoping for romance and chivalry, he'd failed her. Giving her the ring had been damn near perfect. Unfortunately, every moment after had left much to be desired.

Harry hung his head at the memory. Father Brian. Fuck. Why had it been Father Brian, of all people?

"The ceremony wasn't all that bad," Ernest said in a nails-on-a-chalkboard conciliatory tone. "I'm sure Miss Ruthie didn't mind."

Was his butler a mind reader now? How could he know that the ceremony was running on a loop in Harry's head? Oh, right. Because it had been a fucking disaster. A calamity of errors of epic proportions.

Ernest's words continued to scald the back of Harry's neck. "On his best days, Father Brian has issues with his memory. The man is seventy-five, after all."

Harry's fists tightened at his sides. "He couldn't remember one name?" he spat. "One fucking name—the bride's! He called her everything under the sun except her own."

"He called her Ruby once… That was rather close."

"And he swayed like a goddamned tree in a storm!"

"It was barely noticeable."

Quick as lightning, Harry spun on his butler, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. "Do you think she noticed when he got sick all over the floor in front of her?" he shouted. He was causing a scene. He could sense eyes veering toward him, but the visions of his tragic wedding ceremony blocked everything neatly away. All Harry could see was Ruthie's dainty silver slippers. He'd fixed on them as she'd jumped out of harm's way, lifting her skirts from the mess when the priest heaved all over himself. They'd seemed so delicate and innocent…so deserving of something better than a sick priest and hasty, clandestine nuptials.

Harry's shoulders fell. He closed his eyes, running a hand though his hair. If he could have torn out every inch from his scalp, he would have. That pain was nothing compared to what was going on in the hells of his conscious.

His words came out in a rasp. Pitiful. "She deserved better."

"Yes," Ernest agreed. "And she also deserves a husband on her wedding night. Is that why you're not going to her? You're embarrassed?"

Harry huffed. Yes . "Embarrassed? Hardly."

"Then why are you still down here? Vine can handle it. I'll let you know if we need you, although you know we won't."

Harry lifted his head to the stairs. All he had to do was take them. Just a few little steps and he'd be exactly where he wanted to be. With Ruthie. But his feet were soldered to the floor.

When his master didn't speak, Ernest took it as a sign to continue pleading his case. "Miss Ruthie will forgive you. She laughed when you threw the priest out of the room."

"What else was she going to do?"

Ernest seemed to consider it. "She could have screamed. She could have cried. I understand that women can fall into hysterics."

"Not Ruthie."

"No, not Miss Ruthie. Or should I say, not your wife. Not Mrs. Holmes."

Harry's spine clicked straight. He liked the sound of that, Mrs. Holmes , More than he cared to admit. It felt incredibly right coming out of his butler's mouth. Everyone in the entire world should say it with equal reverence—from the pope to the queen.

Harry looked back at the stairs. "You'll tell me if anything happens down here?"

Ernest would never roll his eyes at his master in public, but Harry could tell he wanted to. "You know I will."

Harry stared at him for a few long seconds before finally nodding. "Good." He turned toward the staircase, taking a deep inhale.

He heard Ernest chuckle behind him. "Most brides and grooms are nervous on their wedding night. It's natural, sir."

But Harry couldn't laugh. He couldn't find anything funny about this situation. Ernest had no idea what he was talking about.

Nothing was ever natural for Harry Holmes. And, unfortunately, his bride was about to find that out.