Just a Little Danger

by Merry Farmer

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Cristofori said through a clenched jaw.

  Neither Everett nor Lionel seemed to hear him. “Don’t you start on me, Everett,” Lionel snapped. “We both know that I’ve never been afraid of facing you. Why would I be when I best you at every turn?”

  Everett barked a laugh that sent a chill down Patrick’s spine. Minutes ago, Patrick had felt like the center of Everett’s world, but the moment Lionel Mercer was in the room, he was back to being an invisible speck on the wall. It stung like a thousand wasps.

  “The only way you have ever bested me is when I let you.” Everett strode to stand toe-to-toe with Lionel.

  “A likely story,” Lionel snorted.

  “Please,” David said in a long-suffering voice, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For Christ’s sake, could we please not turn this into yet another cock-measuring contest between the two of you?” Patrick edged his way around the table to stand beside David. “Every fucking time,” David murmured to him. “It’s like a disease with these two.”

  There was more than just irritation in David’s eyes. Patrick could see the same sort of hurt in their brown depths that he felt within himself.

  “I’m not the one who exhumes the horse to beat every time this jackanapes is in the same room as me,” Lionel said, pulling himself to his full height and picking an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of his expertly-tailored, dove-grey suit.

  “Please,” Everett sneered. “You’re the one who can’t stop gagging for me years after we parted ways.”

  “I do not,” Lionel sniffed.

  He was lying. Patrick winced as soon as he saw it. A sick knot formed in his stomach. He peeked sideways at David. David knew Lionel was lying too. Though Patrick wouldn’t have come close to calling it love, Everett held Lionel captive in some way. And how was he possibly supposed to compete with a man of education, finesse, and power like Lionel Mercer?

  “Could we please stick to the matter at hand,” David said, rubbing a hand over his face. He turned to Cristofori. “Niall, please reconsider. We need your connection to Selby in order to gain access to his brother. You yourself said that Castleford fancies himself a patron of the arts. If you could only ask Selby to provide you and Everett with an introduction so that you can appeal to Castleford to finance your play next year, it would give us exactly the foot in the door that we need.”

  Patrick’s brow lifted slightly. They’d arrived late, but the plan that David and Lionel had evidently come up with in their absence to infiltrate Castleford’s estate was a good one.

  “I will use whatever other contacts I have to get you into Castleford’s good graces,” Cristofori said, “but I cannot contact Blake personally.” His face flushed a deeper shade of red at his statement and he avoided everyone’s eyes. “That door is closed. I can’t open it again.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Everett muttered, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Lionel.

  “You were the one who was finished with me,” Lionel shouted, startling everyone within a twenty-foot radius of the conversation.

  “My, my. A bit touchy about the past, are we?” Everett’s eyes went wide, as if he were ready for a fight. “And for your information, that’s not the way I remember things. You were through with me.”

  “Not true,” Lionel snapped. “I needed you.” He jabbed a slender finger into Everett’s chest, leaning toward him, pain in his eyes. “I needed you and you waltzed off with some toff from Scotland.”

  Everett’s cocky smirk dropped into an ashen look. “It wasn’t like that. And you never needed me. You never needed anyone but yourself.”

  There was far too much uncertainty in Everett’s eyes for Patrick’s comfort. He swallowed, battling hard against the feeling that Everett was sand in his hourglass, and it was about to run out.

  “I needed you,” Lionel repeated, hoarse and barely audible. “You left.”

  Everett shifted uncomfortably. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?” he asked, warm tones seeping into his voice. “Something you didn’t tell me then?”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me now?” David echoed, but with a deeper level of intensity.

  Patrick held his breath, glancing between the three men, feeling as out of place in their tangle as a lark at sea.

  Lionel held Everett’s stare for so long that Patrick felt he should look away, but he couldn’t. When Lionel shifted to look desolately at David, a dark pit formed in Patrick’s gut.

  “I can’t stay here,” Lionel croaked at last. He glanced to Cristofori. “Be a man and get over your disappointments. Children’s lives are at stake.”

  Without another word, he marched off, picking up speed as he crossed the dining room until he was nearly running. He raised a hand to his mouth as he turned the corner into the hall, and Patrick could have sworn that his face was pinched with tears. The great and mighty Lionel Mercer, usually the epitome of commanding serenity, had been reduced to tears by the past. By a former lover, to be exact. By Patrick’s current lover.

  The ground he thought he stood on shifted beneath him like quicksand. If Everett truly had thrown Lionel Mercer off in his hour of need because another man came along, what would he do when he realized how pedestrian Patrick was?

  “Whatever’s got his goat—” Everett started.

  David cut him off with a sharply-raised hand. “Don’t,” he warned. “I’m through with your arrogance and your selfishness. If you ruin all of the work Lionel and I have done over the past few months because you cannot pull your head out of your arse long enough to put others before yourself, so help me God, I will obliterate you.”

  Patrick knew the look of a man suffering under the lash of love when he saw it. He wasn’t sure if he should pity David Wirth for being so hopelessly in love with Lionel as it was clear he was, or if he should curse himself for getting so deeply involved with a man like Everett—a man who basked in applause and adoration and stomped on the hearts that were thrown at his feet.

  “I wasn’t—” Everett began, his expression genuinely baffled, and also pained. He didn’t go on, even though no one cut him off.

  David bored into him with a look. Everyone held their breath, even men at the tables around them who had no part in the argument. Finally, David pushed forward without a word, walking past Everett and bumping his shoulder hard with his own as he passed.

  Patrick watched David leave, feeling like he’d been left with a mess to clean up but no mop and bucket. Everett watched David go, clearly at a loss, then turned to Patrick with an appeal in his eyes.

  Patrick turned away from him, facing Cristofori. “Mr. Cristofori, may I have a word with you in private?”

  Cristofori had been silent since the argument had shifted away from him and onto Everett and Lionel’s tumultuous past. He met Patrick’s eyes now with deep wariness. “Of course.”

  Patrick drew in a breath and forced himself to look at Everett. He’d never seen Everett look so at a loss for words. “This isn’t my fault,” Everett said, his voice unusually thin. “Patrick, you have to believe me.” He took a step forward.

  Patrick held up a hand to ward him off, stepping back. “Let me speak to Mr. Cristofori alone.” He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back. “Perhaps you should go to the theater.”

  “I don’t have to be there until this evening,” Everett said.

  “Then perhaps you should go home.” Patrick’s eyes bored into his, turning his suggestion into an order. “I’ll send word about our next step as soon as things are sorted.”

  Everett’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. Patrick knew full well what it meant to him to be dismissed. He knew that Everett truly didn’t understand what had just happened, or where the two of them stood. Patrick wasn’t sure where they stood either, only that he couldn’t feel safe and secure with a man who had a string of broken hearts trailing behind him. Even though he understood that not
everything in Everett’s past was his fault.

  At last, Everett’s shoulders dropped as he let out a breath. “All right,” he said, as close to a cowed schoolboy as Patrick had ever seen him. “I’ll go. You know where to find me.” He turned and took a few steps before pivoting to say, “Please find me,” in a whisper.

  Patrick’s throat closed up. Dangerous though Everett was to his heart, he had a feeling it was already too late to save himself. He nodded, his mouth twitching into the closest thing to a smile that he could manage. Everett hovered where he was for a moment before nodding in return and marching on.

  “You’ll have your hands full with that one if you keep at it,” Cristofori said. The comment wasn’t unkind, but it stung all the same.

  Patrick shifted to face him. “What is there between you and Lord Selby that would prevent you from stopping innocent children from being kidnapped and sold into slavery—both for manual labor and as sexual toys for evil men?”

  The question was blunt enough that Cristofori stumbled back, hitting his thigh against the edge of the table. He lowered his head for a moment before drawing in a long breath and standing straight.

  “I loved him,” Cristofori admitted. He glanced up to meet Patrick’s eyes. “Blake. I loved him as I have never loved anyone. And I believe he loved me.” He swallowed, the depth of his pain on display as if it were a monologue in one of his plays. “He not only left me, he denied everything we had, everything he is. He married for money and to please his family, slamming the door in not only my face, but in his own as well. I cannot forgive him for that.” His voice grew hoarse. “He turned his back on everything.”

  “Like you are turning your back on children who need you?” The question bubbled up from the wounded part of Patrick that had watched adult after adult turn their back on him and the rest of his peers at the orphanage, refusing even to give them scraps from their table when they went begging. It came out with so much raw emotion that Cristofori flinched.

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Cristofori said, barely audible.

  “Then think of it,” Patrick said. “Children are helpless, especially against men like Castleford and his friends. What would you have given for a savior to sweep in and rescue you from the pain you experienced?” The image of himself as he was now, marching into that blasted orphanage and raising hell until every child in the place had enough to eat and love to envelope them, had Patrick’s eyes stinging with unshed tears. “You could be that savior,” he managed before words failed him entirely.

  Cristofori lowered his head, raising a hand to shield his eyes as his face pinched. “All right,” he whispered. He stayed frozen in that position for a moment before sucking in a breath, raising his head, and squaring his shoulders. “All right,” he repeated, looking miserable. “I’ll do it. I will unravel my sanity by ripping my heart open to all that again if it means those children might be saved.”

  Patrick managed a sympathetic, though grim, smile, clamping a hand on Cristofori’s shoulder. “You won’t regret it,” he said. Though he was beginning to regret everything that had trapped him on his current path as he did.

  Chapter 13

  It took everything Everett had not to fall into his old habit of biting his nails as the train he’d been riding for hours approached the central station in Leeds. He’d slept terribly, yet again, without Patrick beside him the night before. Three times in the night, he’d been awakened by violent nightmares. Only, instead of the usual horrors of his past that played themselves out like macabre stage shows with a leering audience, he dreamed that the men of his past were chasing him as he frantically searched for Patrick, but couldn’t find him.

  “I apologize in advance for how awkward this meeting is about to be,” Niall said from the seat across from Everett. He glanced to Everett, then to Patrick, who sat beside him. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Blake in nearly ten years, aside from the telegram I sent yesterday explaining the bare minimum of our plan.”

  “You say he plans to meet us at the train station?” Patrick asked, stoic and unreadable.

  Niall nodded and signed, rubbing the back of his neck. “And again, I apologize. It’s going to be extraordinarily uncomfortable.”

  Everett gave up trying to resist his impulse and raised a hand to chew at the corner of a fingernail. Extraordinarily uncomfortable was exactly how he’d felt since the bizarre confrontation at The Chameleon Club the day before. Everything had happened so fast. He had given it so little thought as it was unfolding. Lionel was simply being Lionel—though Everett was willing to admit that he’d been Lionel on a level that he hadn’t seen in years. The bastard couldn’t actually still hold a candle for him, could he? The idea was preposterous. They’d gotten what they needed from each other for as long as they’d needed it, then moved on.

  Hadn’t they?

  He forced himself to drop his hands, studying Patrick across from him instead. In retrospect, it wasn’t particularly wise to have a tiff with a past lover while his current lover was standing right next to him. There was nothing for Patrick to be jealous of, as far as he was concerned. But Patrick was upset. Deeply. He radiated disapproval, even now, as the train whistle sounded and they began to slow. But what had Everett done to earn such disapproval?

  Guilt roiled in his gut, even though a specific answer to the question failed to materialize in his mind. His past was not his fault. Making light of horror was how he had survived. Loathing to sleep alone didn’t mean he was willfully immoral. But for every excuse he came up with, guilt wrapped itself tighter around his heart. Patrick deserved better than a used piece of costume finery like him.

  “Annamarie Cannon brought a small fortune with her as dowry from her father’s plate glass business.”

  Niall had gone on speaking while Everett was lost in his thoughts. Everett had resumed chewing his nails as well without being aware of it. He folded his hands stiffly in his lap and forced himself to pay attention to whatever story Niall was telling.

  “The marriage was brokered without Blake ever having met her,” Niall went on, dark circles under his eyes and a hard set to his jaw. “Still, he could have refused the alliance. I fully expected him to, after the things the two of us said to each other.”

  “So you were lovers?” Patrick asked.

  Niall let out a sad breath. “I thought we were more than that. We took to each other from the moment we met at Oxford. I’d written and was staging a musical play. Blake auditioned for the lead. He was perfect for the part—handsome, talented, and charismatic. We had so many similar likes and interests that it was as if I’d finally found my other half.

  “Of course, he didn’t know that he had an inclination to love men,” Niall went on with a shrug. “It had never dawned on him. But we became fast friends, and then….” His sentence trailed off, and he glanced out the window as the city of Leeds slid past at a slower and slower pace. “Everyone knew there was something between us,” he continued in a far-away voice. “I played opposite him in the musical, and the connection was obvious for all the world to see, fellow players and audience alike. For a short and glorious time, we were lovers, though never publicly, never openly. When asked about it, we’d laugh it off, pretend it was ridiculous, mock people for even suggesting it.” Again, he paused, lowering his head. “I cannot tell you how much pain that caused me.”

  “Selby was unwilling to own up to your relationship.” Patrick made the statement with a frown.

  Niall winced. “Part of me thinks that he would have had to come to terms with it eventually. But his father came to Oxford to attend the final performance of the musical. He informed Blake of his impending nuptials and his duty as a future duke. And blast him, Blake didn’t fight it. Not one bit. We argued. I pleaded with him, cursing him for turning his back on love. He insisted there was no such thing between us, only youthful folly, but his eyes told a far different tale than his lips. It didn’t matter, in the end. He graduated and retreated to Yorkshire to m
arry his dollar princess, and I moved to London to begin my career as a playwright.”

  “And you haven’t spoken since,” Patrick finished the story for him.

  Niall shook his head. “Not a single word. Not in ten years.” He shrugged, the weight of his broken heart clear on his shoulders. “I’ve seen him in London several times—at the theater, in the street, at balls and such—but only from a distance.” The train whistle sounded again, as did the screech of brakes as the train pulled into the station. “We’re about to speak the first words we’ve said to each other in a decade.”

  “Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written a more poignant tragedy,” Everett said with a sympathetic smile.

  His gaze slipped sideways to Patrick, who was studying him with his own sort of wistfulness. Everett would have given his right eye to know what exactly he had said or done to put Patrick off of him so thoroughly. All of the hard-won openness between them had vanished. It was as though Everett was forced to peek at Patrick through a crack in the thick wall between them.

  “So, once more,” Niall said with a sigh, standing when the train came to a full stop, “I apologize for what is doomed to be a brittle and stilted reunion.”

  “As long as Lord Selby is willing to give us an introduction to his brother, it doesn’t matter how awkward things are for us,” Patrick said, standing as well.

  Everett rose last, turning to fetch his suitcase from the rack above his seat. As soon as he had it in hand, Patrick took it from him. Their hands brushed on the handle, and a jolt of longing shot through Everett.

  “I am perfectly capable of carrying my own bag,” Everett said.

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m here as your bodyguard and assistant. I should carry the bags.”

  Everett swayed closer to him. “You know you’re so much more than that, love.”

  The jumble of emotion that came to Patrick’s eyes was almost unbearable to look at, chiefly because doubt was among the most readable emotions there. Everett didn’t have time to comment on it, though. Niall opened the door and stepped down onto the platform. Everett followed, Patrick right behind him with their luggage, bracing himself for a confrontation between Niall and Lord Selby.