by Merry Farmer
Alistair’s eyes met Joe’s. The strength of the heat there could have lit a bonfire in the middle of the park. Joe leaned closer, good sense leaving him so fast he could feel himself lifted up as though he’d suddenly lost twenty pounds. His lips were only inches away from Alistair’s and the distance was closing fast.
“He’s a good dog, I swear,” the boy said, reminding Joe that they weren’t alone.
Joe cleared his throat and moved his hands from Alistair’s face to brush dirt and grass off his shoulders. “I can see that,” he said as he circled around Alistair, continuing to swipe at Alistair’s jacket from the back, like he would have when caring for the clothing of any gentleman he was responsible for. It took everything he had to resist brushing his hand over Alistair’s backside.
“Is someone else with you, minding the dog?” Alistair asked with what sounded like an attempt to remain casual, though his voice was pitched half an octave too high.
“Nanny is just seeing to Lucy down there,” the boy said, pointing to the other end of the park, where a harried woman in black was chasing a girl who couldn’t have been more than four as she dashed from bush to bush, screaming for no apparent reason. At least the girl wore a smile as big and bright as her pink hair bow.
“Perhaps you and Barkley should help Nanny out,” Alistair suggested with a smile.
“All right,” the boy said. He stared at Alistair and Joe for a moment, but instead of the question Joe was certain would be asked, he shrugged and turned to run back across the park, Barkley loping along beside him.
“That was…interesting,” Alistair said, then cleared his throat.
Joe moved around to Alistair’s front, brushing him a few more, unnecessary times. It was physically painful for him to pull his hands back to his sides, breaking contact. Although he might as well still be touching Alistair with the amount of emotion that filled Alistair’s eyes.
Joe offered him the handkerchief the way he should have to begin with. “You never know what’s going to happen on an innocent walk through Mayfair,” he said in a low, teasing voice.
The corner of Alistair’s mouth twitched up and mirth danced in his eyes. “Do I look all right?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I don’t look…guilty, do I?” He glanced down at his front.
If the man were any more endearing, Joe would have expired on the spot. He peeked deliberately down to the level of Alistair’s hips. Of course, with his thick winter coat, the man could have had an erection the size of the Rock of Gibraltar and no one would have been able to tell.
“Everything looks fine from where I’m standing,” he said with a grin. “And as a valet, I would know.” He ended his comment with a wink as the two of them continued to walk on.
“I trust the offices of Dandie & Wirth aren’t that much farther,” Alistair said, then shot a sidelong look to Joe. “I’m not sure that I trust myself any longer than necessary in your company.”
Joe couldn’t have contained his grin if he’d tried. “I do believe I know exactly what you mean.”
Chapter 6
It was preposterous to think that a walk across Mayfair could turn the world on its head, but as Alistair strode purposefully onward with Joe at his side, he felt as though he was treading on new and magnificent ground. He could still feel the touch of Joe’s hand on his face, the brush of his thumb across his lips. The part of him that constantly sought excuses to explain things away tried to tell him Joe was only doing his job as a valet and he’d just been ticklish, but tickling did not leave one with an erection the size of an obelisk.
Well, perhaps if it was done right.
He tried not to imagine him and Joe tumbling across a bed, wrestling and tickling each other and getting hot and hard as they tussled. He tried not to blush as they crossed onto the street where the offices of Dandie & Wirth were located. Most of all, he tried to not to let his heart throb within him or to entertain the idea that there was such a thing as love at first sight. The notion was ridiculous, meant to soften the minds of schoolgirls or trick them into what their parents considered a suitable marriage before they woke up to the binding realities of class and marriage.
But it was no use. Joe was like a fever Alistair had caught fast and couldn’t shake.
“This looks like it,” Joe said, the flash of a knowing smile in his eyes as he mounted the stairs and opened the door for Alistair.
“Thanks,” Alistair told him as he crossed into the front hallway of the stately building.
There was more than one business with an office on the ground floor of the building. To one side, a placard on the door simply read “The False Chronicle”. Alistair blinked at that, wondering what sort of a business that could be, before turning to the opposite door. It’s stylish, brass doorplate read, “Dandie & Wirth, Solicitors”.
“Looks like we found it,” Alistair said, reaching for the door handle to let himself and Joe in.
It took half a second for Alistair to know both he and Joe had come to the right place. The offices of Dandie & Wirth, by all appearances, were no different from any other solicitor’s office. The front room itself was slightly bigger than Alistair had expected, with tall windows on two sides that let in a copious amount of light. Bookshelves lined the spaces between the windows, but in addition to holding just books, they were loaded with ledgers, piles of loose paper, statuettes in marble and porcelain, trinket boxes in a dozen exotic styles, and artifacts from ancient civilizations, all arranged in an order that made perfect, stylish sense.
A pair of leather sofas were arranged facing each other in the center of the room, as though they graced a drawing room, not a solicitor’s office. A few, elegant side tables complimented the sofas. One held a vase of fresh flowers in colors that matched the muted tones of the wallpaper exquisitely. A squat stove stood in one corner of the room, providing warmth and heating a kettle on its top. An open doorway stood off to the left, through which Alistair could see a second office, equally as beautiful as the front room. But the most dominant feature of the office was a large, mahogany desk, set in front of one of the windows in such a way that the man sitting behind the desk appeared otherworldly.
Alistair instantly corrected his assessment. The desk wasn’t the dominant feature of the room, the man sitting behind it was. The more Alistair took in, the more he realized every tiny detail in the room was designed to draw attention to the man. He was by far the most beautiful creature Alistair had ever laid eyes on, and he radiated an aura as if he knew it. Even seated, it was clear the man was lean and graceful. His suit was the epitome of style, though he didn’t wear a jacket, and his waistcoat matched the flowers. He had the most arresting face imaginable, with luminous, blue eyes, flawless, pale skin, strong cheekbones, and a sensual mouth that made Alistair’s mind jump immediately to sin, in spite of everything he felt for Joe. The man didn’t have a hair out of place, his clothes fit a little too well, and the way he stared at Alistair and Joe as they entered the office made Alistair feel as though he’d come to seek an audience with an oracle.
There was absolutely no doubt whatsoever, within a split-second of being in the man’s presence, that he was a homosexual. He couldn’t have hidden who he was if his life depended on it, a truth that was underscored when he sat a bit straighter and asked, “Can I help you?” His voice was sweet, soft, and high-pitched.
Alistair swallowed, confused by how intimidating such a delicate, androgynous man could be. “We were directed here from The Chameleon Club,” he said. “I was told that a Mr. Lionel Mercer might be able to help with a problem I’ve encountered, and my friend here was instructed to speak to Mr. David Wirth about a separate problem.”
The man behind the desk stood, his every movement as controlled as a dancer. “I’m Lionel Mercer,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk and coming to meet them.
He extended a hand toward Alistair, who shook it. Alistair’s assessment of him shifted again, as the handshake was firm and commanding. And unsettling. Men as
beautiful and sylph-like as Lionel Mercer should have come off as effeminate, but somehow, he didn’t. He radiated power.
Alistair was saved from the unnerving feeling Mercer gave him as a second man strode into the room from the other office, studying a ledger in his hands as he walked, with a far more ordinary presence.
“Who do we have here?” the man asked, looking up from his work only when he was several steps into the room. He was tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a serious frown that lent him an air of intelligence and grounding.
Mercer glanced to Alistair, lifting one eyebrow slightly, as if demanding he answer.
“Alistair Bevan,” Alistair answered, letting go of Mercer’s smooth hand to nod to the newcomer. Only as an afterthought did he add, “Lord Farnham.” It seemed odd, somehow, to lead with his title when he was clearly still part of the classless world of The Brotherhood.
Disconcertingly, Mercer’s expression lit with recognition and excitement. “The reclusive viscount emerges at last.”
“I’m not a recluse,” Alistair said, not quite able to meet Mercer’s smile.
“But you aren’t one for society,” Mercer told him, as if he’d read the book of Alistair’s life and was recounting the story. “Not that I or anyone else blames you. I understand you have quite a lot on your plate, what with your father’s health. How does Lord Winslow fare these days, by the way?”
Alistair’s mouth dropped open at Mercer’s sudden concern and familiarity, as though they were and always had been friends. “I…I don’t—” he fumbled.
“Lionel, stop scaring our clients,” the other man said. He deposited his ledger on the corner of the desk, then moved to shake Alistair’s hand. “David Wirth,” he introduced himself, then shook Joe’s hand with the same openness and respect that he presented to Alistair.
“Joseph Logan,” Joe said, shaking Mercer’s hand as well.
“Don’t mind Lionel,” Wirth went on with a sideways smirk for Mercer. “He’s rather too proud of the fact that he knows everyone in England.”
“Not everyone,” Mercer said, glancing between Alistair and Joe, narrowing his eyes slightly at Joe, as if trying to place him. “Most people,” he continued, shifting his weight to one leg. “I’m not placing the name Joseph Logan, though.”
“You wouldn’t know me,” Joe said, sending a sideways grin to Alistair, as though they were at some sort of brilliant, theatrical entertainment. “I’m valet to Lord Burbage.”
“Oh.” Mercer took in a breath, and his expression lightened. “The tailor from Leeds.”
Alistair gaped harder at the man. “I was informed that you knew everyone, as Mr. Wirth said, but I had no idea….” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Mercer brushed his stunned silence away with a wave of his hand. “When you’ve been in the professions I have, you learn who everyone is and every aspect of their business as a survival mechanism.”
Alistair had no idea what to say to that.
Wirth chuckled and shook his head. “Ignore him. He’s in high spirits today. He’s even more insufferable when he’s in a bad mood. You say The Brotherhood sent you here to help with certain problems?”
“Yes,” Joe answered. “I was told you might be able to help me search for my sister who has gone missing.”
“And it was suggested to me that Mr. Mercer might know a woman who could satisfy my father’s wishes that I marry,” Alistair blurted out before he lost his nerve, feeling himself turn bright red as he did.
“Call me Lionel,” Mercer said. “Mr. Mercer is my father, God damn his soul.”
Wirth chuckled, shook his head, then gestured for Joe to follow him to his office. “We can speak in here.”
“If you don’t mind,” Joe said, holding his ground and glancing to Alistair, “I’d like Alistair to be part of the discussion about my sister, since he offered to help me find her in any way he can.”
“And I have nothing to hide from Joe,” Alistair added, continuing to feel as though every word that came out of his mouth made him sound like a soft-headed moron.
Lionel and Wirth glanced between Alistair and Joe, then exchanged a look with each other. Alistair’s embarrassment deepened. He was as transparent as glass, and both men knew it.
“All right, then,” Wirth said, extending a hand to the sofas. “We’ll talk here. Please, have a seat.”
Lionel surged forward, taking Alistair and Joe’s coats as though he were a butler at Buckingham Palace and hanging them on a stand near the door. Alistair and Joe moved to sit on one of the sofas, Alistair uncomfortably. He might as well be sitting there naked, the way his personal business was on display for the others. Wirth took a seat opposite them, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, his darkly handsome face knit in a frown of thought. Lionel, however, finished with the coats and perched on the arm of the sofa like an exotic bird, a phoenix who might burst into brilliance at any moment. The stare he fixed Alistair with was unnerving in its keenness.
“You need a bride who will suit your family’s importance without demanding too much,” he said, stating Alistair’s dilemma concisely.
“Yes.” Alistair nodded.
Lionel narrowed his eyes, gazing so hard that Alistair was certain the man could see into his soul. “Let me think on it.” He glanced to Wirth.
Wirth raised his dark eyebrows at Lionel, his mouth pulling into a lopsided smile, then turned to Joe and cleared his throat. “Tell me about your sister,” he said. “Who is she and how long has she been missing?”
“Her name is Lily, and she’s only fourteen,” Joe began.
Alistair leaned back slightly against the sofa as Joe told the rest of the story. Hearing it again only made Alistair’s nerves bristle. He hated the idea that a young woman could simply disappear, and he couldn’t shake the feeling his earlier conversation with Joe had given him that Burbage was somehow involved. But even that uneasy feeling was eclipsed by the way Lionel continued to stare at him, his brow knit into a frown.
“And you say she isn’t the type to run off with whatever money she’d earned to pursue some fancy, or even a young man,” Wirth said as Joe reached the end of his story.
“Not at all.” Joe shook his head. “Lily is a good girl.”
Alistair resisted the urge to reach for his hand in comfort. Even in present company, it would have been too great a risk.
“Did she have any other friends in London?” Wirth asked on. “Anyone she knew from home or had befriended since arriving in London?”
“No one from home,” Joe said. “She may have made a friend or two since taking the position in Eccles House, but if so, she didn’t write home about them.”
The information seemed to weigh heavily on Wirth, giving Alistair the impression that he had an idea about what could have happened.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Alistair said, voicing his thoughts.
Wirth blew out a breath and sat straighter, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wish I were,” he said. “But this isn’t the first case of a young person disappearing that I’ve heard of recently.”
Joe’s eyes snapped wide and color splashed his face. Alistair’s heart thumped harder in his chest at his friend’s reaction. “What have you heard?” Joe asked.
Wirth’s expression grew hard. “Rumors only, at this point. Young people and children who are otherwise models of good behavior and hard work simply vanishing. And yes, there are always the stories about naughty or ambitious young people disappearing. Those stories may be connected. It’s the fact that children who shouldn’t go missing have vanished, and from situations where they should have been safe, that concerns me.”
“Who has gone missing?” Alistair demanded, sitting forward. “How many are we talking about?”
“It’s only whispers and casual mentions in passing so far,” Wirth said. “Friends saying that they’ve heard something or buried items in one newspaper or another that seem unconnected. Your story, Mr. Logan,
seems to confirm, at least for me, that there is something else at work here.”
“Lady Matilda Fairbanks,” Lionel blurted suddenly.
His interruption came so fast and seemed so out of the blue that Alistair felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Lady Matilda Fairbanks,” Lionel repeated. “She’s who you need to pursue.” When Alistair—and Joe, and even Wirth—merely stared at him, he went on with, “Unless I am mistaken, your father has a curious friendship with Lord Chisolm.”
Alistair blinked, completely thrown for a loop. “He does. They don’t get along, but they remain friends.”
“And they like to upstage one another,” Lionel continued with a nod. “Chisolm’s son is Burbage. Burbage is married to the former Lady Katherine Fairbanks, Lady Matilda’s sister.”
Alistair’s expression tightened. “You would have me court the sister of my father’s worst enemy’s daughter-in-law?”
“It would be a perfect match,” Lionel said, tilting his chin up and grinning as though he’d written the latest drama to grace London’s stage. “Provided you are looking for a wife and not a friend. Lady Matilda despises her sister, and nearly everyone else in society, and would go to any lengths to upstage her. She is not a warm woman. Considering your father’s poor health, she would see a match with you as her means to become a countess before her sister, since Lord Chisolm isn’t going to give up the ghost any time soon. As such, she would be willing to put up with a man who doesn’t want her in bed. Knowing her, she’d probably prefer it, as long as her place was secure. And really, she’s not as much of a shrew as most people believe, she just doesn’t suffer fools wisely. You may be able to form an agreeable alliance with her after all. Just don’t expect affection.” He sat straighter, a smile spreading across his cunning face. “Yes, Lady Matilda Fairbanks will do nicely.”
