He was dimly aware that he wasn’t being quite fair. But still. This could have gone on quite nicely, with Martin bearing the brunt of any emotional complications. But since that evidently was no longer possible, he had to decide what to do. He supposed they could carry on, which was what Will had suggested. “I’m going to keep loving you,” he had said, as if it were a threat, and just the memory sent a warm thrill through Martin’s body. They could carry on, and then at some point stop carrying on, and Martin would go to his aunt and proceed with her plan. If Will were halfway sensible, he wouldn’t let Martin’s marriage—and lord did that phrase sound impossible, like Martin’s elephant, or Martin’s summer house on the moon—change things between them. Will’s parents hadn’t even been married, for heaven’s sake. Will’s father had been married to another woman, and all three adults had been perfectly aware and content.
It was not, he feared, a good sign when he looked at the Sedgwick ménage as a model of common sense.
But Will was not going to be sensible. If they carried on, this spring would become the beginning of a tragedy. Will wouldn’t quickly get over it. And the last thing Will needed was more tragedy in his life.
As soon as Will fell asleep, Martin dressed and walked to the inn, pausing only to kick rocks and then grumble when he hurt his foot. He was being a sulky child, but he fucking hated having to do what he was about to do. It was so unfair, just so bloody unfair, that Martin couldn’t even have a good thing for a few weeks. He was no saint, and he had made bad choices, but now that he had determined to do the right thing it was just so annoying that the right thing always involved Martin doing things like giving away houses and giving up the man he loved.
No, he reassured himself, he wasn’t walking away. There was nothing so simple as walking away where he and Will were concerned. He was just putting a period to this part of their friendship. It was a minor thing, really, and years from now they’d probably look back fondly on the short time they had spent in bed together. That was all.
At the inn, he dug in his pocket and realized he hadn’t any money at all. But Daisy was behind the bar and gave him what he needed, waving away his protests. “I’ll put it on Mr. Sedgwick’s tab.”
“Don’t you dare put this on his tab. Not this.”
She studied him with narrowed eyes while she trimmed the nib of the pen and handed it to him. “You look right—”
“Not in the mood,” he said, not even able to muster up enough enthusiasm to insult her.
“That bad?”
To his horror, Martin realized his eyes were hot and prickly. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose to spare himself some modicum of dignity. “It is exhausting to be a decent person. I could be a villain with no effort whatsoever. It would be like rolling downhill.”
“Why don’t you, then?” she asked, and her tone held more challenge than it did curiosity.
“Because there’s enough bad in the world. I’m trying to put my weight on the other side of the scale. Which I know is both futile and self-important but there you have it.”
“You should talk to my mum,” Daisy said as she handed him a sheet of slightly crumbled paper.
Martin pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, and set about writing his letter.
“I’m sorry,” Will blurted out as soon as Martin walked in the door.
Martin shook his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re a dramatic bastard and I should have guessed.”
“Then we’re all right?”
One corner of Martin’s mouth hitched up in something resembling a smile, even though it didn’t get anywhere near his eyes. “We’ll always be all right.”
Will felt a wash of relief sweep over him, and even more so when Martin put his arms around him. He didn’t tell Martin that he loved him, not then, not when they were tangled together in bed, not in the morning when they drank tea or the evening when they read by the fire. It was always there, in his heart, on the tip of his tongue, but he was afraid that speaking those words aloud would only make them rehash that last argument. Saying those words would be the end of something.
Two days later, when the sound of hoofbeats woke them from an afternoon nap, he had occasion to realize that “We’ll always be all right” didn’t mean much of anything.
“What the hell is that?” Will asked, sitting up in bed. The lane was wide enough for a pony cart but he had never seen any conveyance come within a hundred yards of the cottage. And now he could hear that this was no pony cart—he could make out at least two separate sets of hoofbeats. He got out of bed and stepped into the first pair of trousers he laid his hands on, then scrambled into a shirt and waistcoat. He collected the clothes he had removed from Martin a few hours earlier and tossed them onto the bed. Martin’s hair was rumpled and his lips were still swollen with kisses. Will hoped whoever this was would promptly go away.
Will waited until Martin was decent, then unbolted the door. In front of the cottage was a chaise and four. Two liveried servants rode on the chaise, one in front of the body of the carriage and one behind. One of them hopped down and swung open the carriage door, which Will could now see was emblazoned with a coat of arms. As he watched, the servant helped a woman step down from the carriage.
“What the hell,” Will muttered. The woman was swathed in about an acre of dark green fabric, and on her head was a hat the approximate size and shape of a punch bowl, apparently consisting of feathers dyed the same unlikely shade of green as her gown, or cloak, or whatever that sort of getup was called.
Will’s first thought was that Martin had found some rich woman to hire Friars’ Gate and neglected to tell Will about it. He knew Martin had written to his solicitor some weeks ago. But in that case, surely the new tenant would confine herself to correspondence with the solicitor, rather than squeezing her elaborate chaise down a cramped country lane and calling at a tiny cottage. Whoever and whatever she was, she didn’t belong here. As if to prove him wrong, Martin came up beside him, and Will was forced to remember the fact he had been trying to shove from his mind all these months—Martin didn’t belong here any more than this stranger with her elaborate hat did.
“Oh no,” Martin muttered.
“Martin?” the woman said. “Well, you aren’t dead. That’s something, I daresay.”
“Aunt Bermondsey,” Martin said faintly.
“This is your aunt?” Will said. “This is your aunt?” The way Martin talked about her, Will had imagined a dragon of a grand dame, at least sixty, with gray hair and a certain amount of gravitas. This lady was not much older than they were, although it was difficult to tell with her face shadowed by the brim of that hat. She was willowy and unmistakably fashionable. When she tilted her chin up to get a look at her nephew, he could see that her mouth was set in a familiar wry twist.
“Lady Bermondsey,” Martin said, “this is William Sedgwick.”
Will managed a small bow, and she flicked a glance at him as if surprised to have been introduced to a servant.
“How did you manage to find me?” Martin went on. “In my letter I only told you that I was well.”
“And that you were in need of stagecoach fare,” she said, dropping her voice as if loath to be overheard speaking of such common things.
“Stagecoach fare?” Will repeated. Both Martin and his aunt ignored him.
“Some weeks ago, your solicitor kindly informed me that you had requested his aid in finding someone to let Friars’ Gate. He mentioned that you were staying in one of the outbuildings.” She spoke as if Martin had been living in a root cellar or milking shed, and Will had the mad urge to defend their cottage against her insults.
“I specifically requested that he not divulge my whereabouts,” Martin said. His face was a mask of bored passivity that Will realized he hadn’t seen in a while.
“Well, then, I suppose you can number your lawyer among those who don’t wish to see you die in poverty. Not a bad qual
ity in a solicitor,” Lady Bermondsey observed. “In any event, I didn’t seek you out immediately. I waited to hear from you. You may congratulate me on my restraint when we’re back in town. You didn’t think I’d actually let you take the stagecoach, darling. If we leave now we can be back in London before dusk.”
“Thank you for your solicitude, ma’am, but I’m not prepared to leave quite yet.” Martin’s hands were clenched into fists by his sides. “As I said in my letter, I have business in town at the end of April.”
Will’s mind reeled. That business in town was Will’s play. “I thought we were traveling up together. If you had wanted to go earlier, I would have given you the money for the fare.”
Martin didn’t look at him. Lady Bermondsey, however, lifted a lorgnette to her eyes and peered at him closely. “Nephew, have you been living entirely on the charity of this man?”
“No!” Will said. Martin said nothing. “It’s his house,” Will added feebly.
“Mr. Sedgwick and I grew up together and he kindly looked after me during my last illness. I hesitated to trouble him for any further expense. That is all.”
“To trouble me—” Will shook his head. “The money from the play is sitting there on the chimneypiece and I’ve told you to help yourself.” And Martin had even done so a few times to do the marketing. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to take a sum as large as the stagecoach fare. Or perhaps he hadn’t wanted Will to pay for Martin to leave. That latter explanation sent a chill down Will’s spine. Had Martin not thought he was permitted to leave? Did he think he was as much a prisoner here as he had been in his father’s house? Will steadied himself with a hand to the door frame, trying to make sense of what was happening.
“How long do you need to pack your things?” Lady Bermondsey asked.
“Martin, may I speak to you indoors, please?” Will cut in, and stepped through the still-open cottage door, Martin directly on his heels. “You do know I wouldn’t have stopped you from leaving, don’t you?” he asked as soon as the door shut behind them. “If you want to go, then by all means go. I would never try to stop you.”
Will expected Martin to be relieved, but instead his jaw tightened and he refused to meet Will’s eye. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell me, though?”
“I didn’t know she was going to come and get me,” Martin said, his gazed fixed somewhere over Will’s shoulder. “I thought she’d give me a draft on her bank for the coach faire, and then I’d go up to town a day or two ahead of you.”
Will furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t you have just gone up with me?”
“I wanted to part here, rather than at Charing Cross.”
“Part?” Will repeated.
“It’s time for me to stay with my aunt. What we talked about the other day, we both know it’s going to only get worse if we keep doing this. Let’s cut our losses.”
Will pressed his lips together so he didn’t say anything he’d want to take back. He knew that by our losses, Martin meant Will’s losses. It had been Will’s inane crisis the other day that prompted Martin to write to his aunt. He was trying to spare Will future pain. He was trying to make a sacrifice for Will, not to hurt Will. “Were you going to tell me beforehand?” he asked, as gently as he could.
“Honestly, I was hoping that after we got to London you’d be distracted.”
Will tipped his head back on the closed door. This was all so typical of Martin. Evasive, passive, intent on stepping sideways around his meaning. He was used to his desires being treated with scorn at best and punishment at worse, so he had learned to appease. And now he was treating Will as a person who needed to be appeased, someone who might turn on him. That, more than anything, came close to breaking his heart.
Will took Martin’s hands in his own. “I’m not going to be distracted from how I feel about you, you know. But if you want to end things now, if you want to go with your aunt, then I’m not going to stop you.” He wanted to try to persuade Martin that he was wrong, that they didn’t need to do this, but he was afraid that Martin would see that as Will trying to pressure or manipulate him. He told himself that this was what Martin needed, and tried to ignore the sensation that felt suspiciously like his heart splitting in two.
Now Martin looked at Will almost as if he expected Will to say more. “You’re telling me to go,” Martin said when Will remained silent.
“I’ll be in town next week and we can see one another then,” Will said, trying to sound happy about it.
“Will,” Martin said, and it sounded like a protest, but Will couldn’t understand what Martin was protesting.
“It’ll be fine,” Will said. “We’ll still be friends. Just like before. It’ll be easy, you’ll see. We’ve been through worse than this, right?” And then, because he had to, he had to do it one last time, he took Martin’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I’ll see you in a week,” Will said, pushing aside the jealousy and sorrow and reminding himself he was doing the right thing.
Chapter Fourteen
Martin supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when his aunt refused to have the carriage stop at Bermondsey House until Martin had visited the tailor. “All your things are still in your room,” she said. “Including your clothes. But I daresay nothing will fit you anymore, so we may as well buy new.”
Martin, having been cast out of the cottage and sent packing to London, found that he didn’t much care where he was, and let his aunt and the tailor hold lengths of fabric in front of his person as if he were a sofa in need of reupholstering.
“Six pairs of pantaloons, I should think, and another six pairs of trousers,” Aunt Bermondsey said. “Mostly pale gray. Waistcoats in gray, black, and various blues. Coats in black, gray, and blue. All the usual shirts, cravats, underthings, and so forth.” The tailor’s assistant took furious notes, while another assistant pulled bolts of fabric from the shelves that lined the room. “If you have an ensemble he could wear immediately with minimal tailoring, that would be even better.”
Martin allowed himself to be led behind a folding screen, then went through the motions of removing his clothes with a sort of mechanical detachment that he suspected was just his mind’s way of holding off a tantrum. He was breaking his heart only a week before he meant to; surely that shouldn’t matter so much. He had always thought that doing the right thing would offer some sort of moral reward but it turned out it felt like complete shit. No wonder people resorted to villainy.
One of the assistants dropped a clean shirt over Martin’s head and a pair of dove gray pantaloons of the softest wool were placed in his hands. The feel of crisp linen and expensive fabric offered some distraction from his dark mood. There really was something to be said for decent clothing, and it probably was only further proof of his bad character that he thought so. The threadbare shirts and loose trousers he had been wearing in the country were perfectly fine, of course. But this felt the way clothing was meant to feel. He slid the pantaloons over his hips and buttoned up a subtly striped gray waistcoat with no small degree of enthusiasm, then stepped out for his aunt’s approval.
“I knew I was right about the gray,” she said, regarding him through a lorgnette that she could not possibly require. “But those pantaloons need to be taken in. So does the waistcoat, for that matter.”
“The pantaloons fit perfectly,” Martin argued. He pinched the scant inch of fabric at his hip.
“On a man twice your age or twice your size loose pantaloons would be forgivable, even advisable. But on you, they need to be snug.”
“I can’t imagine how you expect me to sit in anything more snug than these,” Martin protested.
“Who said anything about sitting? Just lounge and lean, darling. You’ll thank me.”
A mere half an hour later—he did not dare contemplate what this service was costing his aunt, because if she wanted to be idiotic with her money, he wasn’t going to stop her—he tried on the altered pantaloons. Regardin
g himself in the cheval glass, he had to concede that, yes, his aunt had been correct about the grays. She was probably also correct about the pantaloons. He had never wasted time in considering his looks beyond an awareness that he was attractive in the way all the Easterbrooks in the portrait gallery at Lindley Priory were attractive; he had always had graver matters to occupy his mind, things like bad lungs and despotic fathers and empty bank accounts. Besides, even if he had once been handsome when he was at the peak of his health, he was now underweight and pale. But his reflection looked . . . elegant. Perhaps a trifle delicate—there would be no concealing his thinness or the pallor of his cheeks—but he looked rather like the drawings of men in fashion plates.
He spared a small, stupid thought for all the things he’d never do in these clothes—all the pigs he wouldn’t catch and laundry he wouldn’t learn to wash. It was a fistful of dirt on the grave of a life he hadn’t ever quite believed he’d have, and which he knew he didn’t deserve. His attempts to be useful now seemed laughably inadequate. The fact was that he had no idea how to even keep himself fed without someone else’s aid. And if he couldn’t keep himself fed, then he couldn’t hope to look after Will, if Will needed him.
He remembered those frantic months after his father died, trying to scrape together the funds to get Will out of London. He had failed miserably, succeeding in nothing more than harming his tenants and providing himself with enough shame to last a lifetime. He still received rents from those farms, but had directed that it all be deposited in the parish poor box or put toward the running of the charity school that now occupied Lindley Priory. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the money, and didn’t think he could live with himself if he tried. No, the only hope he had to be useful to Will was by making the sort of marriage his aunt wished for him.
His aunt caught the attention of a passing tailor’s assistant. “Please also furnish Sir Martin with all the usual country attire,” she said, not bothering to look up from the stack of fabric samples on her lap. He nearly gagged at the sound of his title, but his aunt was using it relentlessly.
Two Rogues Make a Right Page 14
