by Merry Farmer
“I’m not going anywhere.” Patrick took a step forward.
Goddammit, how he loved the man. But now was not the time for Patrick to put himself in danger. Not when the lives of so many children who were far more deserving than him were at stake.
“I can assure you, Wrexham, I’m in no danger here,” he lied, praying Patrick would catch on and just go. “This is all quite normal.”
“Like hell it is,” Patrick growled. “I won’t let you do this.”
“Be gone with you.” Everett did his best to sound bored. “The choice to engage in this interplay is all mine.”
Patrick hesitated.
Chisolm yanked Everett forward, forcing him to stumble to his knees. “Go away, boy,” he said. “Leave your betters to their entertainments.”
“For God’s sake, Wrexham, just go,” Everett snapped, his heart racing so fast the edges of his vision started to go dark. “I don’t want you here.”
Patrick took a step back, his expression unreadable. Everett could only see him out of the corner of his eyes as Chisolm shoved his back, forcing him to plant his hands on the grass in front of him. He could bear whatever humiliation Chisolm had in mind for him as long as Patrick got away and sought out the help they would all need.
“Whenever you’re ready, darling.” He winked up at Chisolm, hoping Patrick would see and take the hint.
Whether he did or not, Everett’s prayers were answered. Patrick turned on his heel and ran.
Chapter 18
It wasn’t right. It didn’t matter what sort of a ruse Everett was attempting or that Everett was clearly trying to keep Patrick from harm. Patrick’s head told him to act strategically, to play along, and to focus on the mission, but his heart couldn’t help but be hurt. He fled from the shooting range, feeling as though a boulder were lodged in his gut. He should stay by Everett’s side so that he could prevent Chisolm from hurting him. His duty to the mission was at war with his duty to the man he loved, but he couldn’t stop.
Patrick approached the great house, knowing every step he took left Everett more and more at Chisolm’s mercy, but that the fate of the investigation hung in the balance. Everett was a consummate actor and could keep Chisolm engaged long enough for Patrick, Cristofori, and Selby to neutralize Castleford and Eastleigh and send for the Leeds police to raid the estate, but at what cost? It simply wasn’t right.
Fighting to keep in motion, to stay focused on breaking the ring, Patrick dashed into the house, shooting through the conservatory and searching for Cristofori and Selby. He passed a footman in the hallway, but didn’t bother asking if the young man had seen them. For all he knew, Castleford’s staff was as rotten as he was and would turn on him if he so much as acknowledged them.
He thanked his lucky stars when he heard Selby’s voice from the entry hall.
“But I don’t understand.” Selby gaped at his brother, helpless and confused, as Patrick approached. “How can this be a game? From what Niall has told me, children truly are going missing, and the things you showed me look more like financial records than pieces in a game.”
“Come now, Blake,” Castleford laughed, though the sharpness in his eyes was as vicious as ever. “You never did understand these sorts of things. Go back to your pretty, American wife and your darling children and play your piano like a good boy. This is none of your concern. The game is over at any rate, just like that silly game of charades you had all of your summer guests play last year.”
Selby’s mouth snapped shut, and he recoiled in offense, but the conversation stopped there. All three men spotted Patrick marching down the hall toward them.
“We need to leave,” Patrick said, specifically to Cristofori, meeting the man’s eyes in an attempt to communicate how dire the situation had become.
Cristofori nodded once, then fell into step with Patrick as he passed, charging toward the door that led out to the terrace and the front drive.
“Hang on.” Selby jumped after them, though he glanced at his brother over his shoulder as he did. “We’re not through, Montague,” he said before jogging to catch up to Patrick and Cristofori.
Selby’s carriage and driver waited off to one end of the drive. The driver sat in the open carriage door, reading a book, but he leapt to attention at the sight of the three of them charging.
“Where is Jewel?” Selby asked as they reached the carriage. “Are we leaving without him?”
“Jewel is otherwise occupied,” Patrick grumbled. He felt sick saying it, but that slender thread of hope in his chest, the hope that they could call in help and return to the estate in time to spare Everett from the worst Chisolm could do, kept him just on the right side of sanity.
“It’s Chisolm, isn’t it,” Cristofori said with a frown. “Everett is with him.”
Patrick nodded, incapable of saying more. His throat squeezed with worry and anger that was spiraling quickly into deep fear.
“He wouldn’t abandon the mission.” Cristofori rested a hand on Patrick’s arm, steadying him with a glance. “He wouldn’t abandon you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Patrick said, voice hoarse, no time to explain Cristofori’s misunderstanding of the situation or Patrick’s theory of what Everett was up to.
Cristofori shook his head. “That’s not your true self talking. Don’t let other people’s voices in your head cause you to doubt what you know for certain.” He sent Selby a brief but powerful look of regret.
Patrick’s mouth dropped open. Cristofori wasn’t thinking about Everett at all, he was reliving his own regrets.
A flicker of movement from the corner of the house. Patrick turned and squinted in time to see a small carriage crossing from the carriage house to what must have been a kitchen courtyard. In a flash, his personal pain was forgotten.
“Eastleigh,” he said, remembering his earlier suspicions over how easily Lord Eastleigh had given up the argument over whether to kill him and Everett. “It has to be. He and Chisolm spoke as though they had plans in place in case they were caught. He’s going to try to flee the estate, flee Yorkshire, in all likelihood.”
“If he gets away, we’ll never catch him and bring him to justice,” Cristofori agreed.
“What do we do?” Selby asked in a weak voice, his expression showing that the last of his resistance to the idea that something sinister was going on fading.
Patrick tried to think fast, but his heart flew back to the shooting range, and his imagination ran wild with horrible possibilities. He could swallow his pride and his irrational hurt over the way Everett ordered him to go, fight the voices in his head—voices that stretched all the way back to his childhood and the innumerable bullies that told him he was worthless and unlovable—and rush to Everett’s rescue, or he could leave the estate to seek out help. Enough evidence existed in Castleford’s office that even local policemen who knew Castleford would be willing to take him and the other gentlemen into custody. But only if they acted fast.
“We need to get back to Leeds,” he said, grabbing Cristofori and Selby both by their sleeves and shoving them toward the open carriage door. “We need to enlist the help of the local police force to raid Castleford’s house, and we need to telegraph London to make David and Lionel aware of what’s going on.”
The others leapt into the carriage without protest. The driver was ready, and within seconds, before Patrick could shut the carriage door, they were barreling down the drive, heading for the city.
“Wait!” Selby barked all of a sudden as they passed through the estate’s gates on their way to the road. “Wait, we cannot leave the estate.” The man was mad enough to lower the window and stick his head out of the carriage to shout at the driver, “Stop!”
“Blake, what are you doing?” Cristofori shouted, grabbing Selby’s jacket to pull him back into the carriage. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
Selby’s eyes were wide when he settled in his seat as the carriage jerked to a stop. “All those things my brother showed us,
” he said. “Things he claimed were part of his game.” He waited, as though either Patrick or Cristofori would interrupt him, but neither did. “Like the game of charades at my house party last year.”
Patrick blinked at him, more convinced of the man’s madness than ever.
But Selby’s expression pinched with alarm as whatever thoughts he was half caught up in formed an answer to some sort of question in his mind. “He’s going to destroy it all,” he said, voice hoarse. “Just like he destroyed the costumes and sets for the game last summer.”
“Destroy them?” Cristofori’s alarm matched Selby’s.
“He thought it was unmanly for me to play the part of Cleopatra, even though the children and I had worked on the costume for—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head and lunging for the carriage door. “That part of the story is irrelevant. Montague doesn’t just like to keep animals in cages and watch when they’re fed. He likes to burn things as well.” He stumbled out of the carriage, Patrick behind him. “How could I have been such a blind fool?” Selby cursed himself.
“That doesn’t matter now.” Patrick took charge. “If you believe your brother will destroy the evidence we need immediately, then we need to get back to the house.” He twisted back to the carriage just as Cristofori was getting out. “Go to Leeds,” he ordered. “Alert the police and telegraph David and Lionel. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
Cristofori nodded and pulled back into the carriage. As soon as the door was shut, Selby nodded to the driver, and the carriage sped away. Patrick headed back to Castleford Estate, Selby catching up to his side. Sure enough, the smoke billowing out from the chimneys on one side of the house was thick and black enough that Patrick wondered whether more was on fire than fuel in the house’s fireplaces.
“If we manage to stop your brother from destroying his records, you will have saved hundreds of innocent lives,” Patrick told Selby as they ran through the estate’s gate and up the drive.
“If Niall is right—and if we make it back in time—you might just be able to save the man you love,” Selby said in return.
Patrick’s face heated, and he avoided the look Selby was sending his way.
“I have eyes, man,” Selby said. “You’re far more than simply Jewel’s bodyguard. And Niall is right. You cannot let someone else’s voice in your head turn you away from the truth your heart already knows.”
Patrick risked a sideways glance at the man. He was surprised to find Selby’s expression so serious and pinched with regret, as if the mask of amiability that he usually wore had completely cracked.
“I let those voices get the better of me,” Selby went on. “I let duty and family and society come between me and love, and I’ve regretted every moment of my idiotic, hollow life since then.” He turned his head to stare hard at Patrick as they continued to run. “Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”
“Believe me, I won’t,” he hissed, picking up his pace and sprinting toward the house. His life wouldn’t just be hollow without Everett, it wouldn’t be worth living.
The moment Patrick disappeared from sight, the trembling started. Everett’s emotions scattered like flotsam on the sea during a storm once his anchor was gone. He was already on his hands and knees at Chisolm’s feet—a position he was all too familiar with—so he lowered his head and forced himself to think of nothing but drawing breath until the trembling subsided.
If it subsided.
“If that wasn’t a performance worthy of a standing ovation, I don’t know what was,” Chisolm said, crossing his arms and chuckling.
That chuckling made Everett’s skin crawl. It was just another memory, another tool of intimidation Chisolm had used when he was a defenseless boy. It was another sound from his nightmares. Everett straightened, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, battling with the fear that had never truly left his soul to stare up into Chisolm’s gloating face.
“I cannot possibly imagine what you mean,” he said, cursing how thin his voice sounded.
Chisolm snorted. “Look at you,” he said with a disgusted sneer. “You, who claim to be a shining luminary of the London stage, adored by thousands, in command of crowds. All it took was one half-hearted threat against the life of that handsome bodyguard of yours, and once again, you’re on your knees before me, where you belong.”
Everett’s heart pounded against his ribs. He couldn’t tell if Chisolm had guessed the nature of his feelings for Patrick or if he merely thought Patrick was another audience member to please and deceive. It would be safer for Patrick if Chisolm believed the latter.
“I hate to disappoint my adoring public,” he said with false bravado. “The man will consider me a hero for sacrificing myself to save him. Imagine the stories The Times will print about me now.”
Chisolm’s lip curled brutishly, but Everett still couldn’t tell what he truly thought. “You think you’re so very clever,” he said in a menacing voice. “You think just because you slipped out of my grasp all those years ago that I no longer have power over you.”
“You don’t,” Everett said with a shrug. The truth of the fear and ancient hurt turning his insides to jelly was far different than the casual appearance of his gesture.
“Don’t I?”
Chisolm moved so fast Everett barely had time to react. Chisolm grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of Everett’s head, forcing him to look up and expose the long line of his neck.
“I haunt your dreams, don’t I?” Chisolm growled. “Whenever you feel a whisper of joy, the memory of me swoops in and destroys it, doesn’t it? Whenever you experience pleasure, you remember the pain I caused. I am in your blood, in your breath, in everything about you.”
Everett couldn’t stop himself from shaking so hard he feared he might come apart. “Yes,” he admitted freely. Not even he was a skilled enough actor to deny the scars he would always bear. “But yours is not the only face that haunts me now.”
He clung to that, clung to the memory of Patrick nestled in bed beside him, snoring like a man without a care in the world. His heart conjured the image of Patrick bursting into tears just that morning when he served him breakfast in bed, the way they’d devoured the feast, knowing that it meant more than nourishment for the body. He threw everything he had into imagining the future he and Patrick might share together—Patrick watching him from the wings as he performed, the two of them taking holidays by the sea, all the lessons of pleasure he had yet to teach Patrick, and all the ways of love that Patrick had still to teach him.
He jerked his head out of Chisolm’s grip and pushed himself to his feet, even though his legs felt as though they might give out under him.
“Only a pitiful man with a small cock thinks he can ruin a child’s life and call himself all-powerful,” Everett hissed, leaning in so that his face was inches from Chisolm’s. “Evil preys on weakness and considers itself a god. But I’d like to see you try to wield your so-called power over a grown man who is more than your equal.” His insides quaked and the echo of his younger self’s screams came dangerously close to bringing him to tears, but he held his ground. He would face Chisolm in a way that would make Patrick proud, in spite of the fact that the man was likely furious at him for sending him away.
Chisolm chuckled, but the sound was hollow. He took a step back, attempting to seem as though he still held all the power, in spite of the doubt that had seeped into his expression. “I’m not fooled,” he growled. “The second I snap my fingers, you’ll be back on your knees with my cock so far down your throat that your eyes will roll back in your head, like they always did.”
Instead of cowing him, Chisolm’s words infuriated Everett. “It was never about pleasure for you.” He stepped back into Chisolm’s space, grinning as though he’d deciphered the key to the universe. “It was never about sex. You don’t have any special interest in boys or men. You just like to hurt people.”
“And you like to be hurt,” Chisolm countered. “Admit it. You liked being use
d. Your own body betrayed you. It’s why you’ve continued to be such a slut, even after slipping away from me.” He took another step back.
“Is that what you believe?” Everett stayed with him, feeling the shift in power between them with each second that ticked by.
“It’s what I know,” Chisolm said, though his certainty was fading. The lines on his face stood out, diminishing somehow, and his complexion turned splotchy. He suddenly appeared old and impotent.
“Go ahead, then.” Everett held his hands out to his sides. “Order me to my knees. See what happens.”
Chisolm pursed his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching. He held Everett’s gaze, but seemed to be having trouble breathing. A shining flash of victory pulsed through Everett’s heart. He could hardly believe it. His entire life, he’d lived in the shadows, lived in fear, terrified of truly being himself, but now—
“I hate to interrupt this tête-a-tête,” Castleford called out, racing across the lawn toward them, “but our guests have caught on to the game.”
“I’m not finished here,” Chisolm hissed at Castleford, stepping away from Everett. “What nonsense are you spouting now in any case?”
Castleford looked less than pleased by Chisolm’s reaction. There was clearly no love lost between the two men. “You’re welcome to idle away the last few hours of your freedom enjoying what is left of my property in any way you see fit—” His glance slipped sideways to Everett with a disgusted sneer before he focused on Chisolm again. “But we’re about an hour away from having the Leeds police, Scotland Yard, the army, and who knows who else descending on this estate. Either help me destroy the evidence you had the audacity to bring into my house or stay here and explain the whole thing on your own.”
“Where’s that bastard, Eastleigh?” Chisolm strode toward Castleford, as if the whole thing were Castleford’s fault and he would ring the man’s neck.
