Dances Long Forgotten

by Ruby Moone

  He took a deep breath and let it out. He didn’t seem to be able to calm his heart down. It had been racing all day as he alternately worried about Hessledon, where Winsford had gone, and why he hadn’t seen Lyndon. He really wished the guests would disappear so he could speak with Vincent, but even he’d had been busy all day.

  Once he was tweaked to perfection, he dismissed Coombes with a smile and headed to dinner. It was a much smaller affair than the night before, only about twenty guests, but still far too many for Hugo’s liking. He joined everyone in the drawing room for drinks and did the pretty amongst the guests. Jossy was doing a sterling job of holding court, with Vincent acting as host in Winsford’s absence. He still struggled to believe that Winsford would leave her to do this alone.

  A swift evaluation of the room revealed that Lyndon was not one of the company. Hugo’s heart sped up again. Where was he? Bamford and Cripps were still there, as was Lockford, but no Lyndon.

  He waited until he was able to get Vincent on his own and asked, as casually as possible, “Any news on Winsford?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Other than he doesn’t mean to stay away long and will be back as fast as he can.” He shrugged. “I’ve no idea what maggot he’s got in his head, but it looks like there is no shaking it.”

  Hugo was trying to work out a way of asking about Lyndon, when Vincent beat him to it.

  “I did as you suggested and looked at who else might have left. It’s quite a few. One of your school friends has gone, Cross. I’ve a note for you from him.”

  “Really?”

  Vincent nodded. “I’ll get if for you after dinner. Can you see any link between Winsford and Cross?”

  “Thank you.” Hugo shook his head. “Ah, no, no connection that I can see.” His words were soft, polite, and bore no indication of the screaming that had set up inside him. There was most definitely a connection. Had they been found out? Had Winsford thrown him out? Why hadn’t he said anything, and for crying out loud, could he go and get the letter now?

  Hugo was forced to breathe in and out, in and out, for a moment or two. It was only his upbringing that made it even remotely possible to offer his arm to a charming matron and lead her into dinner, sit, and chat as thought nothing had happened, and wait until Vincent could go and get the note. Even then, he’d have to wait until the evening was over. In the meantime, his imagination filled in every possible scenario that culminated in Winsford discovering their assignation, challenging Lyndon to a duel, and them both being dead on a common somewhere.

  After dinner, once the port had been passed, and the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies, Vincent arrived with a missive in hand. It was sealed.

  “Here you go.”

  Hugo took it and secreted it safely in his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  Hugo shook his head with commendable nonchalance under the circumstances. “We were talking about meeting up when we get back to London. It will be to do with that.”

  Vincent nodded and moved on whilst Hugo moved about the room, chatting as he did so, until he reached the door and was able to slip out unobtrusively. He closed the door, looked both ways about the corridor, then ran to the library.

  Inside, he closed the door, and leaned on it for a moment. The library was, as ever, silent. Fire burning gently in the grate. He hurried to the leather chair by the side of it, sank into it, and pulled out the missive.

  Lord Hugo,

  It was most pleasant to renew our acquaintance this festive season.

  Please accept my most humble apology at having to leave so soon, but

  I have something which requires my urgent attention. Something I cannot ignore. I hope to have this dealt with quickly, and if you find yourself in London before Christmas Day, I sincerely hope you might consider paying me a call.

  It was a delight to relive our school days, to discover dances long forgotten, and to remember the snow.

  Yours etc.

  Cross.

  Hugo read it twice and put it in his pocket. An emergency? Was it entirely coincidental that Winsford had left too? He doubted it. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Lyndon hadn’t given him his direction; he had no idea where to find him or to contact him. Someone would know, but he didn’t want to betray an interest by asking.

  He sucked in a breath and scrubbed his face. Jossy. He could always ask Jossy. She invited him, so she must know. He was plotting about asking her lady in waiting when the door to the library opened and Vincent came in.

  Hugo stood to greet him.

  “Thought I’d find you in here.”

  Hugo nodded.

  “Are you worried about Winsford?”

  He nodded again and rubbed the back of his neck. “I am. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

  “He will always try and do what’s best for you.”

  Hugo’s smile was weak. “I’ve disappointed him horribly.”

  “Not really. He’s over protective because you are the baby of the family.”

  “I know, but I’d consider it a signal favour if everyone could remember that doesn’t mean I’ve bats in my attic, or I’m incapable. I’m a grown man. I know sometimes I might not make the best decisions, but I’m considerably older than seven.”

  Vincent’s laugh was affectionate. “I know. I’m sorry. We must drive you to distraction.”

  “You do.”

  Vincent cuffed him gently on the arm.

  “Do you think Winsford has gone to London?”

  “It’s possible. Though the plan was to spend Christmas here and then return in the new year.” Vincent was watching him carefully.

  “I know. I may go back to London too.”

  Vincent groaned. “Must you? The girls will be devastated. My boys adore having you here.”

  “I don’t know… I …” Hugo didn’t know what to do. “I just… thank you. Thank you for not raking me down and making a scene. I appreciate it more than I can tell you.”

  Vincent shook his head. There was sadness in his eyes. “It’s not an easy path, Hugo, but for what it’s worth, you’re still the best of brothers.”

  Hugo was shocked when Vincent pulled him in for a brief hug. He clapped him on the back and let go. “Come on. Let’s get back before they send Jossy to find us.”

  Chapter 8

  The morning saw Hugo up unnaturally early, so much so, his valet was notably shocked. Once presentable, he made himself sit through breakfast before seeking out his sister with a well rehearsed bland, nonchalant air about him. He found her at her small desk in her sitting room, neat as ninepence in a charming lace cap, working through a pile of correspondence in the weak winter sunlight. He entered, and apologised profusely for the intrusion, and was welcomed with a smile. She joined him on the small settee by her fire.

  “It’s nothing, really, I just wondered if I could trouble you for Mr. Cross’ direction? I forgot to ask him, and I’d like to pay him a call when I get back to London.”

  Jocelyn took off her spectacles and regarded him with a look he remembered of old. His heart sank.

  “Well, if I was unsure that there was something afoot before, I’m certain of it now.”

  “Afoot?”

  She folded her spectacles carefully and took a breath.

  “Mr. Cross wasn’t actually invited to the party. I invited Mr. Bamford, Mr. Cripps, and Lord Lockford as Vincent said you might enjoy seeing some of your old friends, but I didn’t invite Mr. Cross.”

  Hugo’s heart seemed to have ceased functioning along with his brain. “I don’t understand.”

  Jocelyn looked at him. “Neither did Winsford when he asked me the exact same question last night.”

  “Winsford asked about him?” Oh, God, oh, God.

  “He did. With exactly the same look in his eye that you had. The one that always told me that you were up to something.”

  Hugo managed to unglue his tongue. “Mr. Cross is cer
tainly a good friend from school. So, am I to understand it, he wasn’t actually invited, and Simon was asking about him?”

  “That’s the long and the short of it.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Oh, Hugo, whatever is going on? I don’t understand you men. Why can’t you simply speak up?”

  “Darling Jossy. Nothing is going on. I was genuinely delighted to see Mr. Cross, as well as Bamford, Cripps, and Lockford,” he said, the lie tripping easily from his tongue. “However he came to be here, it was a genuine delight. I have no idea why Simon may be interested in him, but Mr. Cross did mention that he works for the Foreign Office so it’s entirely possible it is something to do with Simon’s position in the Lords.”

  Jossy’s frown lifted. “The Foreign Office? Well, now you mention that, I can see Winsford may well be interested in him.”

  As he said it, Hugo knew it could be true. Simon took his position in the House of Lords very seriously and could have seen Lyndon as an interesting connection. In his heart, though, he knew it was much more likely that Winsford had somehow found out about the two of them.

  “There you go.” He stood up, and Jocelyn stood with him. “Mystery solved. I’m sure Winsford will give me his direction if he knows it. I’ll look him up in the new year.”

  Jocelyn gave him a smile, but he knew that she wasn’t completely convinced. As for himself, he was nigh close to a fit of the vapours. What in God’s name was Winsford about? Had he taken Lyndon with him? Made him leave? If so, why had Lyndon written the note? Nothing made any sense at all.

  He left Jossy to her correspondence and headed for his room and did the only thing to do when a man couldn’t get answers—he asked the servants. He dispatched Foster with a mission to find where Lyndon lived. And waited, all the while trying to give the impression that he didn’t care. He was in the library reading, but even that wasn’t having the desired effect, when Coombes came to find him.

  “My apologies, my lord, but it has taken quite some time for me to discover the information you sought.”

  Hugo put the book down. “I didn’t mean to put everyone to an inconvenience. Merely to find his direction so I could pay a call.”

  Coombes looked faintly uncomfortable, and this from a man who was so completely and utterly inscrutable all the time, was worrying.

  “Well, it rather seems that he wasn’t actually invited to the party.”

  “What?” Hugo deemed it best to pretend at outrage. “What on earth was he doing here?”

  “A very pertinent question, my lord. One that I am not at this moment able to answer, but I did manage to find out where he resides when in London. Lord Lockford’s man, Mr. Fitch was happy to help on that front, confidentially, of course.”

  “That’s very good of him. Please pass on my thanks. When we return, I shall certainly visit Mr. Cross and find out what he thinks he is about.”

  Foster hesitated. “If I might be so bold as to offer a little advice, my lord?”

  Hugo waved a hand and nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Mr. Cross works for the government. The Foreign Office.” He nodded sagely.

  “I see.”

  “I am concerned that he might have been here on official business.”

  Hugo opened his mouth and shut it. “I’m not sure I’m following you. What exactly is it that Foreign Office officials do?”

  Coombes pursed his lips. “I’m not entirely certain, my lord, but I imagine much of their time is taken up with, ah, issues on the continent? Napoleon?”

  “I see.” Hugo’s mind was now spinning. “You think he was here, what? Pursuing someone?”

  “Who knows, my lord, who knows. I thought I should mention it if you intend to follow up on the acquaintance.” He handed Hugo a piece of folded paper, bowed, and left.

  Hugo turned the paper over and over before opening it. Coombes didn’t seem to have connected Lyndon’s departure with Winsford’s. Lyndon had been open about working for the Foreign Office, so he didn’t read too much into Foster’s suggestion.

  He bit out an epithet and opened the sheet.

  Albany. He had a set in Albany on Piccadilly. Hugo breathed out slowly. At least he knew where to find him, but Hugo couldn’t beat back the feeling that Lyndon had other reasons to be at the house, other reasons to renew their acquaintance, and it hit him with a sickening force. All this meant there was a strong possibility he was there pretending to want him. Pretending to forgive him.

  He swallowed at the thought, and sat back in the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Had it all been a lie? He didn’t think so. Lyndon’s arousal hadn’t been a lie, a man couldn’t lie about that. His passion had been genuine. He wished he could say the same about his feelings and his motives.

  He heaved himself out of the chair. He’d been full of ideas yesterday, ideas about how they might pursue a friendship, and more, but the reality of it was, there wasn’t a future for men like them. He needed to remember that and accept the night they’d had for what it was. A wonderful interlude. A beautiful moment in time. A dance in the snow. How had Lyndon phrased it? Dances long forgotten. One of those moments to hold and to treasure forever. It didn’t stop the crushing feeling that threatened to overwhelm him though. Or the feeling that he’d been unfathomably stupid. Again.

  He rubbed his chest. Whatever else was going on, he needed to be sure that he hadn’t done anything else to endanger his family or put Winsford in a more difficult position than he already was.

  He picked up his book and replaced it on the shelf. He stroked it a few times, then lay his head against the bindings of the books above it and allowed himself a moment of naked, burning grief.

  The journey back to London was abysmal. The roads were covered with even more snow, so much so he’d been worried he might not be able to leave. It was truly dismal. The horses moved slowly, with good reason. Hugo sat in the carriage, bundled in blankets, and wallowed in gloom for the hours it took to arrive at his rooms in London. Coombes, remarkable man that he was, had contrived to arrive before him and had begun warming the place, but he couldn’t bear the idea of sitting in alone. He had Coombes make him look halfway respectable and headed for Whites. He had no reason to suspect that Lyndon might appear, he’d never seen him there before, but it was entirely possible that Winsford might if he had indeed gone to London. If he didn’t, he’d pay a call to the family town house in Grosvenor Street on the morrow.

  He settled himself quietly in a corner with a newspaper and a brandy to warm himself through, and to think, although he had the feeling that if he did much more thinking, he may well explode. He couldn’t decide whether to call on Lyndon first, or to tackle Winsford. In the end, given it may have some bearing on any discussion with Lyndon if Winsford had somehow become aware of the nature of their friendship, Hugo decided it might behoove him to speak to Winsford first. However, the paper with Lyndon’s direction burned brightly in his pocket, and the temptation to go and see him, speak to him, beg him for an explanation was terrifyingly strong.

  The thought that Lyndon might not wish to see him prevented him from acting on his impulses. He also knew, in his heart, that the longer he put off that discussion, the longer he could pretend that Lyndon had at least some feelings for him beyond the physical. When he thought back to his emotional outbursts, and his words in bed, he felt a deep ache in his stomach, and felt queasy with embarrassment at the notion that Lyndon had simply been humouring him. It made him shudder.

  A shadow fell over him, and Hugo looked up. Well, that didn’t take long.

  “Winsford.” He put the paper down and stood up.

  His brother didn’t smile. He just nodded.

  “Will you join me?” Hugo gestured to the chair beside his.

  “I’d rather you came to the townhouse. Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Come. I’ll feed you, and we can talk.”

  “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

&nb
sp; Winsford licked his lips and rubbed his nose. “I’ll do my best.”

  Hugo nodded, and with considerable reluctance, followed.

  He followed his brother through the door of the family townhouse on Grosvenor Street as his carriage clattered its way to the stables. It was large without being ostentatious, and his brother had brought the place bang up to date with all the most fashionable styles. He surrendered his outer garments to the footmen, as did Winsford, and then followed him into his study. He expected Winsford to sit behind his desk and interrogate him. Instead, he headed for two comfortable armchairs by the roaring fire and gestured for him to take one.

  “How long have you known Lyndon Cross?”

  Hugo’s heart sank. He blinked and tried to find his voice. Unsure of what was to come, he kept his tone as neutral as he could.

  “We were at school together. He left when we were fifteen and I hadn’t seen him since until he turned up at the party yesterday.”

  “Bamford, Cripps, and Lockford?”

  “At the same school. I see them around London, we chat, talk, but I wouldn’t say they were of any real importance to me.”

  “You were pleased to see Cross?”

  Hugo answered as carefully as he could. “It was good to see him again.”

  Winsford looked even more tense that Hugo was. He was staring into the fire, one knee jiggling, and he kept biting at the side of his thumbnail, a highly unusual display of tension.

  “Is… Is there something amiss?”

  Winsford closed his eyes and swallowed. Hugo felt alarmed. More than alarmed. His elder brother was the picture of composure. Elegant, handsome, completely in control of himself and everything around him. But now, now he looked anything but.

  “I fear there is.”

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  Winsford looked at him. There was something in his eyes that made Hugo nervous.

  “Edgar Hessledon.”

  The words jolted him. It dawned on him that as soon as he’d mentioned Hessledon’s name, both Winsford and Lyndon had disappeared.