by Merry Farmer
“The man with the lion is one Montague Williamson, Earl of Castleford,” Logan said after allowing Everett a few seconds to stew.
Everett jerked to a stop and glared at Logan. “Who?”
Logan glanced to Lord Farnham, let out a sigh, then faced Everett with squared shoulders. “Lord Castleford owns an estate in Yorkshire, near where Lily and I grew up, close to Leeds. Along with being one of the most gothic and reprehensible men I’ve ever had the displeasure to know, he keeps a menagerie of exotic animals on his estate. Lily and I were particularly fascinated with the lion he kept prisoner in a pit.”
“The man with the lion is a gentleman with an actual lion?” Everett asked, incredulous.
“He is.” Logan nodded.
One quick glance around the room was enough to tell Patrick that everyone but him and Everett already knew the full story.
“I have no trouble whatsoever believing that Castleford would be the mastermind behind a child kidnapping ring,” Logan went on. “If you’d met him, you’d feel the same way.”
“The man is a macabre nightmare,” Lionel agreed, his jaw tight, his eyes shining with hate. Patrick could only imagine what kind of interaction the two must have had in the past.
“We go after Castleford, then,” Everett said, marching for the door.
“And just how do you expect to do that?” Lionel stopped him, sharp with animosity, the way he’d been at the club days before.
Everett whipped back to him, looking ready to pick up their fight where they’d left it. “Any action I take would be a damn sight better than whatever coy and cunning plan you think you might have.”
It was pure luck that Everett stood close enough for Patrick to place a hand warningly on his arm. “Don’t pick the wrong battle,” he cautioned in a low voice.
Lionel’s brow shot up as he studied the two of them. He huffed a curt laugh and shook his head, but didn’t comment further.
“If Castleford is the ringleader,” David said, meeting Lionel’s, then Everett’s, then Patrick’s eyes, “then we’ll need to find evidence to prove it.”
“What sort of evidence?” Patrick asked, speaking directly to David as though the rest of them weren’t in the room. David was the only one of them who could still address the kidnapping ring as a crime without drawing years of personal pain and humiliation into the mixture.
“We found papers, receipts, and correspondence, at Chisolm’s house,” David said. “None of it was specific enough to stand as iron-clad evidence against any of the men involved. Surely, Castleford would have similar papers, concrete evidence with names, dates, and other relevant information. Proof of financial interactions, if nothing else. His estate is remote, is it not?” He glanced to Logan, who nodded. “It is entirely likely that he thinks the barrenness of Yorkshire is an adequate hiding place for whatever damning evidence the ring may have.”
“Particularly if he is, in fact, the ringleader,” Lord Farnham added.
Patrick felt they were right. He also believed there was an even chance a man like Castleford would be clever enough not to leave any sort of evidence at all. But if there was even a slim possibility that the evidence they needed to bring down the kidnapping ring existed, it would be in Yorkshire.
“So what can we do?” Everett asked, still bristling with fire and energy. “Do you propose we journey to Yorkshire and simply invade Castleford’s estate, wrestle the lion, and demand that all evidence be handed over?”
“Of course not.” Lionel smirked, seeming to revel in the fact that Everett was agitated while he was calm. “You’ll simply pay a visit.”
Everyone, including David, looked askance at him. “We cannot just make a social call on Castleford without any sort of introduction or cause. He’d know in an instant something was wrong.”
“Not us.” Lionel shook his head. “That would be far too suspicious. No, they’ll have to be the ones to go.” His lip curled as he nodded to Everett.
“Why would Castleford throw open his doors and welcome Jewel and Officer Wrexham with open arms?” Lord Farnham asked.
“Not them precisely,” Lionel answered, his grin growing wider by the moment. He let the tension in the room reach towering heights before saying, “Niall Cristofori.”
They all stared at him. Patrick remembered the handsome playwright from The Chameleon Club, but beyond that, he was clueless.
“Niall Cristofori,” Lionel repeated, beginning to pace as though he were the one on stage, for a change, delivering the final monologue that would untangle the impossible plot. “Years ago, at university, Niall Cristofori had a, shall we say, tendre for one Blake Williamson, Duke of Selby.”
“Williamson?” Patrick said, catching the connection.
“Castleford’s eldest brother,” Lionel answered the suspicion. “His only brother, actually. As far as I know, the two are on reasonable terms, though Selby never much cared for Castleford, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Wait.” David held up a hand, as though trying to piece things together. “Selby isn’t a member of The Brotherhood.” He said it as though making a deeper statement about the man’s proclivities.
Lionel seemed to catch his meaning. “Trust me. It doesn’t make a lick of difference that Selby appears as pure as the driven snow, that he married a perfectly vile but well-connected dollar princess from New York, or that they have three lovely children. Niall is the one he dreams about at night.”
“So you’re privy to men’s dreams now?” Everett sneered, crossing his arms.
Lionel shifted to bore into him with a glance. “I know what you dream about, love.”
The color drained from Everett’s face and his eyes went hollow. Patrick’s pulse kicked up. He knew what Everett dreamed about too. Jealousy flared within him, like shards of glass cutting his soul.
“We need to speak to Niall, then.” David cut through the flaring tension in the room, and not a moment too soon. “If Niall still has a connection with Selby, and if Selby can assist us in securing an invitation to Castleford’s estate, then we might be able to destroy the ring once and for all.”
“We can corner Cristofori at The Chameleon Club,” Lord Farnham suggested. “He’s there most afternoons, working on some play he plans to produce next year.”
“A play I’m set to star in,” Everett added, sending Lionel a smug look.
“Agreed,” David said in a take-charge voice. He turned to the others. “It’s late. Go home for the night and rest. We’ll meet at the club tomorrow for luncheon. Then we’ll speak to Niall and enlist his help.”
Chapter 11
Everett felt like a powder keg ready to explode as he and Patrick left Pentonville. He’d rushed the two of them out ahead of the others, striding swiftly along the dark street in front of the menacing prison to put as much distance between him and the others, specifically Lionel, as possible. He didn’t ask for it, but Patrick kept up with him.
The fact that Patrick silently matched his pace, walking by his side instead of a step or two behind, wasn’t lost on Everett. He was certain that three days ago, Patrick wouldn’t have dared to fall into step with him. Three days ago, Everett wouldn’t have cared one way or another. Now, on the other hand, if Patrick had trailed behind him, like any other hanger-on who either wanted to bask in his perfection or suck his cock as a means of paying homage, it would have been a sacrilege.
“You don’t know anything about this Lord Castleford, do you?” he asked, knowing Patrick wouldn’t have the first clue. He needed something to distract him from the way his breath hitched in his chest at the sound of Patrick’s shoes against the pavement in unison with his, the acute awareness he had of Patrick’s body only inches from his, and the horrific certainty that Lionel wasn’t the only one who knew what he dreamed about every fitful night of his life.
Patrick shrugged, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets as they turned a corner and headed vaguely in the direction of Drury Lane. “I was hoping you knew something about
the man.”
He should have stopped at the next corner and attempted to hail a handsome cab. A gentleman wouldn’t make someone as glorious as Patrick walk halfway across London after midnight. But a cab would get them home faster, and Everett wanted to spend as much time as he could with Patrick.
“I could tell by the look on Mr. Logan’s face that, whoever the man is, he’s a nasty piece of work,” Everett said.
Patrick merely grunted in agreement.
“Unfortunately for him, I’ve a wealth of experience with nasty pieces of work. They don’t frighten me.” Everett stood straighter, squaring his shoulders as he walked.
One, doubting glance from Patrick and he felt himself wither from the inside.
“All right,” he admitted in a quiet voice, laced with tension. “Men like that terrify me.”
Patrick turned his head slightly toward Everett, his brow lifting.
“You’re surprised,” Everett said.
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I’m shocked to hear you say it is all.” He paused. “I knew you were afraid.”
A chill passed down Everett’s spine that started as petrifying shame that squeezed his throat closed, but ended as a warm, electric feeling that settled in his groin. He struggled against both sensations, trying to throw them off like a costume that didn’t fit. He’d never been afraid before—at least not in a way he was willing to admit to himself—and he’d never felt so much like handing that fear into another man’s hands for safekeeping. It unsettled him more than the shadowy alleys and hushed, menacing streets they passed.
“My entire life is a shock right now,” he muttered, turning up the collar of his coat against the damp chill that seemed to pervade the foul, London air. “It isn’t going to keep me from following through with whatever plan vile Lionel decides on for luring Castleford into a trap of his own making.”
He had a feeling that he sounded ridiculously overdramatic. Patrick merely walked on, though. Apparently, he knew where they were going. Everett didn’t actually care where they ended up, as long as he wouldn’t be alone once they got there.
Another, awkward silence fell between them. Everett peeked sideways at Patrick several times as they hurried along. It was as clear as day Patrick had something he wanted to say or something he needed to ask, but he kept his lips tightly shut. Everett could still remember the taste of those lips when he’d stolen a kiss the night before. Patrick’s mouth would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, whether he ever experienced it again or not. For a man wound as tightly as his dear Officer Wrexham was, he had a generous and sensual mouth. Everett longed to teach Patrick how to use it. The desire to learn was most certainly there. Drawing out Patrick’s natural talents would be the stuff of fantasy.
“How was your show tonight?” Patrick asked, almost half an hour later, as they crossed through a slightly more respectable part of London, not terribly far from Everett’s flat.
Everett blinked at the question. “I was disappointing at best,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if half the audience asked for their money back.”
“I doubt it.” The ghost of a smile touched Patrick’s lips.
Everett was seized by the need to perform for him, even if the performance was simply pretending to be in a light-hearted mood. “Oh, no, I was terrible. My thoughts were scattered in a thousand directions. I dropped my lines at least three times, possibly more. And I failed to indulge the audience with a song after taking my bow, as has become my custom. I’m surprised they didn’t throw rotten fruit at me.”
Patrick laughed softly. “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that. The audience probably thought you were ill, if they even noticed you were less than stellar.”
“Oh, they noticed,” Everett said with exaggerated gloom.
Patrick shrugged. “Your understudy went on last night. Theatergoers are aware of that sort of thing. They likely assumed you were in the throes of some malady, attempting to push through regardless.”
“You are too kind to me, Patrick,” Everett said, letting his hand brush against Patrick’s. “Far too kind.” His heart felt as though it were straining to leap free of his chest and curl against Patrick’s own heart. The sort of kindness Patrick showed him was unlike any of the praise or accolades that were tossed at him by adoring crowds, and as unlike the so-called kindness of the man who had dressed him in silks, fed him delicacies, and allowed him to pursue the theater, all while sharing him with his elite group of friends, as cheese was to mercury.
“If you’re planning to travel to Yorkshire with me, your understudy will have to go on again,” Patrick said.
Several parts of the statement hit Everett simultaneously. Patrick was right, of course. His understudy would have to take his place, likely for most of the coming week. That would set tongues wagging and rumors flying, but he didn’t care. The fact that he didn’t care, that he looked forward to a brief holiday from performing, was as much of a shock as lightning striking out of a blue sky. Performing was his life. He genuinely loved it. But the middle bit of Patrick’s statement was what wrapped around him, sparking the same sort of energy stepping out onto the boards in front of a sold-out house usually gave him. With Patrick. He would be traveling to Yorkshire with Patrick. They’d share a train compartment again, and if he had his way, they’d share a hotel room as well. And a bed. It didn’t matter how dastardly Castleford was, if he had a chance of sleeping in Patrick’s arms again, he would march into Hell itself.
He stopped short in the middle of the street.
“Something wrong?” Patrick asked.
Everett blinked. His first thought had been of sleeping with Patrick, not of the two of them fucking each other until they passed out from exhaustion.
He glanced around, searching for a way to shy away from the too-tender emotions closing in on his heart.
“Good Lord,” he said, a different sort of surprise hitting him. “This is my building.”
“You only just realized that?” Patrick stared at him with a teasing grin, the light of the streetlamps reflecting like stars in his eyes.
Everett’s mouth hung open for a moment before he found words to say. “Did you…did you just walk me home? Like a debutante out for her first stroll with a suitor?”
The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitched. “Are you calling yourself a debutante?”
Something treacly-sweet broke loose in Everett’s soul. “I certainly feel like one at the moment,” he said, breathlessly.
Patrick chuckled and walked on. They only had a few more yards, and then they reached the door to Everett’s building. “Well,” Patrick said. “Here you are.”
Everett advanced on him faster than Patrick could think to back away. He slipped one arm to the small of Patrick’s back and brought his mouth to within inches of his. “Come up with me,” he whispered. “Stay the night.”
“I—” Patrick glanced desperately around, as though a dozen torches would suddenly be uncovered, exposing them mid-sin.
“The street is empty,” Everett told him. “And even if it weren’t, they know me here.” He trusted Patrick would know the full implication of those words. “Come upstairs,” he whispered against Patrick’s ear, pausing to brush his lips against the throbbing pulse in Patrick’s neck.
Patrick let out a long, shaky breath. The energy that radiated from him had Everett’s heart racing. Need crashed through him so intensely that if Patrick rejected him, he might die on the spot.
Instead, Patrick nodded slowly.
Everett wanted to shout in victory. He grabbed Patrick’s hand, rushing up the steps and into his building. The doorman behind the desk who was paid to keep followers from rushing the place and disturbing the theatrical luminaries who owned flats in the building snored loudly, his head resting on his hands. Everett dragged Patrick past him, dashing to the stairwell and pulling Patrick up at a pace that left both of them practically wheezing for breath once they reached the top floor.
Everet
t wasn’t sure how he found his key and let himself and Patrick into his flat. He could hardly focus on anything as he shut the door and locked it, then slammed Patrick against it. The position they found themselves in was a fascinating mirror of how they had shared their first kiss the night before, but this time, Everett was determined to have the night play out differently.
“Before you say it,” he panted, fumbling with the buttons of Patrick’s coat. “You can and you will.”
Patrick let out a strangled groan, but Everett wouldn’t let it form into words. He brought his mouth crashing over Patrick’s, throwing every bit of pent-up passion and soul-deep longing for the man that he had into schooling him in the proper use of lips and teeth and tongues. Patrick’s head thumped against the door, but he didn’t seem to mind. He lifted his arms to Everett’s sides.
Everett’s first thought was that Patrick would tear his clothes off in order to have his way with him, like dozens of other men had before. When those strong, capable arms closed around him, fingertips digging into Everett’s back with an urgency that was both carnal and tender, it brought an unaccountable sting to Everett’s eyes. He made a sound against Patrick’s mouth that was half moan, half sob, and pressed his body against Patrick’s.
He took a breath, forcing himself to slow down, to savor the moment. It wasn’t about racing to an invisible finish-line, it was about kissing the man in his arms—a man he would have given his life for, if only to see him smile. He pulled back on the insistence of his kiss, caressing Patrick’s lips with his own instead of demanding pleasure, teasing instead of punishing. He had things to teach Patrick, after all, and, God help him, Patrick had things to teach him. He hadn’t realized there was anything left to learn about pleasure until he heard the restless, pleading sighs that whispered between them. Some of those sounds came from him.
