Martin felt himself preening, almost, at Will’s admission that he’d do bad things for him, and then caught himself. “Only a rich and powerful nun, though.”
“Of course,” Will said, with the first hint of a smile since they had left Hyde Park. “Did it ever occur to you that we were together even before we were . . . together? I mean, you’re always at the front of my mind, even when we’re hundreds of miles away. You’re the most important person in my life. Even if we had never gone to bed together, even if neither of us fancied men, we’d still be together. We just wouldn’t have a name for it.”
“Did it occur to me?” Martin repeated faintly. “Yes, William. It occurred to me. Did it occur to you that even if we had never gone to bed together, you might still be jealous of any wife of mine?” Will looked up at him with a round-eyed surprise, but he didn’t deny it.
Martin didn’t know which of them stood first, or which of them led the way toward the bedroom. Half an hour earlier he wouldn’t have thought it possible that either of them could have wanted this. Will was shaken and anxious; Martin was tired and ill. But there they were, peeling one another’s clothes off, kissing with more affection than heat. He had always thought sex was something base and animalistic, and maybe sometimes it was. But it was also this—a comfort after a long day, a reminder that there was someone who wanted to take care of you, a small piece of mercy in an unyielding world. When Will lay back and Martin bent over his lap, he was astonished by the gentleness of the act, the tenderness of his own lips and tongue, the sweetness of Will’s hand in his hair. And then, later, his face buried in Will’s neck, he found that there could be a sort of surrender in his own release, a slackening of the line between what he needed and what was possible.
Martin woke up warm but still tired, Will’s back plastered to his chest. Will was very much asleep, and if Martin knew anything about his friend’s morning habits, it would be at least another hour before he even cracked an eye. Carefully, Martin eased himself up to sitting position, extricating an arm from underneath Will’s chest and a leg from over Will’s hips. Will let out an unsatisfied little huff and tipped over onto his stomach.
This gave Martin a view of Will’s dark curls tumbled over the pillow, one wiry arm flung out to the side, and the lattice of scars that covered Will’s back. In the morning light, some were faint and fine, mere pale slivers that might have passed unnoticed if not side by side with their raised and ropy mirror images. He knew, from the few things Will had said and the many things he hadn’t said, that these marks had been the work of months as the Fotheringay made its slow progress from the West Indies to Portsmouth.
Martin had always thought that officers in the navy were spared floggings. It turned out that this was true only insofar as officers were spared public floggings. What went on in the cabin was quite a different matter. What went on when the captain was a power-mad despot was a different matter still. Martin bent down, pressing a kiss between Will’s shoulder blades, then raised the sheet to Will’s neck.
The man they had met in the park yesterday had said Will saved lives. Martin wasn’t certain exactly what Will had done—whether he had spoken to the rightfully disgruntled sailors and then been punished for it, or whether it was simply a matter of allowing himself to be used as a scapegoat—but if there was any man in the world who could have done it, Martin believed it would have been Will. And somehow, despite that nightmare, despite the year of oblivion he had sought upon coming home, Will still found joy. He still trusted and loved. Martin wasn’t much given to considering the existence of any divine creator let alone going so far as to thank it, but Will’s continued existence seemed like nothing less than a miracle and just looking upon him overwhelmed Martin with gratitude.
He might have spent the rest of the morning petting Will’s hair and in general behaving like a daft fool but he needed to cough. His lungs were never at their best in the mornings, mornings in London even less so, mornings after a traipse across town followed by a night in a close and dusty room even less still. He grabbed his clothes and silently shut the door behind him, then coughed as quietly as possible in the tiny sitting room. There was no blood, which was a good sign.
Feeling slightly better, he dressed and sat in the hard-backed chair near the window. The sun was out, at least as far as it was ever out in London, and he could see the room with a clarity he had not the previous night. There was a shelf with a handful of books and a cupboard that held a couple of mugs. When Martin fished his new spectacles out of his pocket, he saw that the books and cups were covered by a layer of dust. Will had distinctly said he was staying with Hartley, but if these were Hartley’s rooms he did not live in them. He certainly had not stayed in them last night, nor had Will expected him to return.
On a writing desk was a stack of papers written in Will’s familiar scrawl. Martin could tell at a glance that it was a play, and based on the names of the characters listed along the left-hand side of the page, it was a new play, not the one that was to be performed later that week. Martin picked up the sheaf of papers. Will had let him read the last manuscript, so he didn’t think this was forbidden. He took his spectacles out of his coat pocket, sat back in the chair, and started to read.
An hour later Will was still asleep, the sun was visible even through the hazy sky, and Martin placed the manuscript on the table where he had found it and walked down the stairs to a small sitting room he remembered passing through the previous day.
He found Hartley deep in conversation with the tall dark-skinned man who had been behind the bar when Martin and Will arrived. Martin vaguely remembered having seen, if not precisely met, this man in Hartley’s company last winter at the peak of his illness. He almost certainly owned this public house and—unless Martin had things entirely wrong—was the person Hartley actually lived with, the dusty rooms upstairs existing only to keep up appearances.
“Oh,” Hartley said blandly, looking up from a cup of tea. He did not look pleased to see Martin, but then why should he? “So you did stay the night. How’s Will?”
“Will’s asleep.” Martin was horrified to realize he was blushing.
“This is Mr. Fox,” Hartley said, gesturing to his companion. “He owns this tavern.”
“Sir Martin,” Mr. Fox said.
“Mr. Fox.” Martin bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I’d like to apologize to you, Hartley.”
Mr. Fox got to his feet, kissed Hartley on the top of his head, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“You needn’t look shocked,” Hartley said, his lip curled in a faint sneer, but the tips of his ears bright pink.
“I’m not,” Martin said honestly. “I just didn’t expect to be let in on the secret.”
“It’s not like you don’t know my . . . proclivities.” He stared directly at Martin, a plain challenge.
“Hartley,” Martin sighed. “I just spent the night in bed with your brother. I really don’t think we need to pretend that either of us are anything but what we are. Besides, if you’ll let me, I really do want to apologize to you.”
That seemed to catch Hartley off guard. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
“May I sit?” Hartley shrugged, and Martin sat in the chair Mr. Fox had vacated, his heart racing and his mouth dry. “I’m sorry for blaming you for my father’s squandering—” he paused, reflecting that this was not the correct phrasing “—for my father’s choices. I thought he looked upon you as a son and I envied you so much I hated you for it, but now I know better.” Hartley stared into his teacup and said nothing, so Martin went on. “We were friends once and I know I ruined it.” He really looked at the man sitting across from him, saw the traces of the boy he had been friends with, and his eyes got hot. “Oh damn,” he said, and took off his spectacles, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I didn’t mean to do this.” He got himself together. “I apologize for not being a friend to you when my father was treating you in an unspeakable manner.”
&n
bsp; “Apology accepted,” Hartley said tightly. “Is that it?”
“No,” Martin said, almost laughing. “I’m sure it isn’t. I haven’t done anything right in years and doubtless there are dozens of other things I ought to be apologizing for, but I don’t even know what they are yet.”
“My brother seems to disagree.”
“Will has always had a blind spot where I’m concerned. I could set fire to a village and he’d make excuses for me. Let’s not pretend he’s an accurate judge of my character.”
For whatever reason, this was what made Hartley soften. “Well, our hearts are all idiots.” He glanced at the door through which his companion had exited, and Martin realized that Hartley Sedgwick was arse over teakettle in love with his Mr. Fox.
“I read Will’s draft of the new play this morning,” Martin said, because this was why he had come downstairs in the first place. “I assume you haven’t touched it yet?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s . . . filled with . . . feelings. Will’s feelings. He just . . . puts them in the play, for actors to read and for all the world to see. I don’t know how he can be like that.”
Hartley gave him an odd look. “That’s why I begged him to let me rewrite his first play. I had to. It was—it made me cry. I couldn’t let other people see it, and also no audience wants to sit there and cry without a little bit of comedy to serve as a shield.”
“And you’ll do the same with this play?”
“That’s the idea. He writes the sentiment, I dress it up in cleverness so it isn’t quite so naked, I suppose.”
“Oh, thank God.” Martin felt wildly grateful. “Obviously, if he wanted to just put his heart out there for all the world to see, that would be his choice. And I suppose it’s worth something that even after everything, his heart is so—” He swallowed. “There’s no ugliness in there.”
“No defenses, either,” Hartley murmured.
“I’m glad you’re there to protect him,” Martin said. He glanced at Hartley, and to his surprise, the man was smiling—a tiny twist on one side of his mouth, but still it counted.
“That was exactly my thought. I said as much to Sam and he thought I had run mad. But he didn’t know Will before, so he doesn’t understand. There’s still a bit of tea left in the pot, if you don’t mind it being a bit stewed. You’ll find a cup on the dresser.”
Martin realized he was being issued an invitation, and he seized it. When he returned to the table, teacup in hand, Hartley was watching him and not bothering to hide it.
“Thank you for bringing him home yesterday.”
“I’ll always do my best by him. I hope you know that this winter, I didn’t ask him to walk away from his life here to look after me.”
Hartley looked puzzled, then opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the door opening.
“Good morning,” Will said, still bleary-eyed and sleep rumpled. “My two favorite people,” he said, smiling crookedly. He squeezed Martin’s shoulder and reached over to ruffle Hartley’s hair.
Hartley swatted his hand away, then got up and pushed Will into the empty seat. “I’ll make more tea.”
“Where is everybody?” Will asked, yawning.
“It’s past nine,” Hartley said. “Closer to ten. Sadie and the baby are doing the marketing, Sam’s waiting for a delivery from the brewery, Nick and Alf are in the kitchen, haven’t seen Kate since yesterday, and Sam’s aunts and cousins are everywhere, threatening to feed me if they catch me without food in my mouth. Beware.” Hartley flushed slightly at the end of this recitation, and Martin marveled at having lived to see Hartley Sedgwick look so pleased. Hartley murmured something about inventory and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Do you have anywhere you need to be today?” Will asked, spooning tea leaves into the pot.
“Nothing in particular, but at some point I ought to reassure my aunt that I’m alive.”
Will looked up, alarmed. “I didn’t even think about that. Will she be frantic that you were gone all night?”
“She was aware that I might not return. She knows how things are between us. She guessed, that day at the cottage,” Martin said, recalling how he had felt the previous afternoon when he realized Will could be open around his brother, and understanding that he might have something similar with his aunt.
“Oh,” Will said, pouring the now-boiling water into the pot. “She’s trustworthy?”
“Yes,” Martin said, surprised to feel defensive about his aunt. “And I never actually confirmed her suppositions. I only refrained from denying them.” He didn’t say that it had been rather nice to be known, and to not be reviled. “I hope you know I’d never be reckless with your safety.”
Will nodded. “I do know that. I’m just . . . not exactly overflowing with trust in the aristocracy, present company excluded. While we’re on the topic, Hartley knows, of course. And if Hartley knows, then Sam knows.”
“Mr. Fox kissed Hartley in front of me, so I’m aware of that situation.”
“Did he?” Will poured tea first into Martin’s now-empty cup and then into his own. “There are a handful of safe people here, people who know about Hartley and Sam. And quite a few people involved with the theater know about my, um, amatory habits, who would be safe for us to be ourselves around.”
Martin turned that thought over in his mind. Will had an entire community of people with whom he could be himself. This city that seemed intent on ruining Martin’s health had also provided Will with friends, family, safety, a career. Will’s life was in precisely the place where Martin needed not to be.
Chapter Nineteen
Martin knew he had no particular talent for polite conversation, but before his night with Will he had been getting on tolerably well.
“I’m not entirely certain I can invite them back,” Aunt Bermondsey said mildly after a disastrous lunch. “You know, you can just ask about the weather. Or the latest fashions in hats. Or whether they prefer cats or dogs. You don’t have to sit there sullenly.”
“I’m aware I don’t have to sit there sullenly,” Martin snipped. “But I can’t think of anything to say. If I remark on the weather, and then they remark on the weather, then I’ll just have to say something else, and the very idea makes me want to run screaming out of the house.”
“Running screaming out of the house would have been more engaging than sitting there like a lump,” his aunt remarked. “My word. I’ll concentrate my efforts on balls and musicales and other engagements that don’t require much conversation.”
“I can’t dance.”
Aunt Bermondsey shot him a withering glance. “It is a skill that can be learned.”
He wrinkled his nose, then decided he had spent enough time acting like a petulant child. “I’m afraid I’m not in an agreeable mood.”
“No!” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I never would have guessed. What do you do to amuse yourself in the ordinary course of things? We’ll just have to find similar diversions.”
That question brought him up short. Left up to his own devices, Martin would live out the rest of his years sitting in a comfortable chair, reading anything he could get his hands on. He might have thought that after getting a taste of freedom, he’d want a go at something different than how he’d spent most of his first twenty years. But maybe he found comfort in the familiar, or maybe he just liked books and indolence. “I’m not entirely certain,” he said at length. “I haven’t had much of a chance to find out. There was very little opportunity for me to exercise my own preferences when my father was alive.” He watched his aunt’s face harden. “And after his death, I was preoccupied with caring for a friend who was in difficult circumstances.”
“And then with your own illness, I suppose?”
“I wouldn’t say that my illness preoccupied me. Perhaps it should have. I think I could have spared myself and my friend a good deal of trouble if I had stayed with you last autumn instead of leaving and making
myself more ill.”
She regarded him levelly. “I don’t think you regret how it turned out, though.”
“You are correct, ma’am.” He didn’t know why he was being so honest with her. Maybe it was because sometimes when he looked at her he caught an occasional glimpse of a mother he knew only from a portrait. Maybe it was because her unconcealed hatred for his father endeared her to him. Or maybe it was just because he didn’t have anything to lose. “I can’t marry,” he said, trying to make his voice as firm and unyielding as he could. “I know it’s the logical solution to my predicament, but it’s out of the question.” He felt almost sick with the knowledge that he was going against her wishes. She had been kind: she bought him clothes and took him to the oculist for spectacles and now she would tell him that he had to do as she said for his own good. There was a part of him that expected his father or a nurse or tutor to materialize and lock him away until he was ready to be compliant.
She looked at him for another long moment and then poured him some tea. “Have it your way. I suppose I can get you a post as a secretary.”
Martin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Secretary. You can read and write, can you not? Despite ignoring my letters for years and years?”
“Yes, of course, but—” He didn’t know how to say that he had expected her to fight him, to persuade him.
“Don’t tell me you look down your nose at work.”
“No! I just didn’t expect you to listen to me.”
Aunt Bermondsey regarded him curiously. “There are other ways you could make a living. Being a secretary is the most obvious, if only because certain men would feel extremely important if they had a titled secretary. But you could also get a post in the Home Office. Nothing too taxing.”
He spent a moment imagining this future in which he could earn a living. It was a fantasy—he would be sacked from any post after his first bout of illness, and any work in London or another city was out of the question. But even the theoretical possibility of being able to pay his own way made him feel . . . valuable, maybe, in a way he hadn’t conceived of. Then he gritted his teeth and returned to reality.
Two Rogues Make a Right Page 18
