The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts)

by Annabelle Greene

  His eyes would be the same, too, if only they would open. Those frosty, far-seeing eyes, the sparkling blue-white of a frozen lake.

  Gabriel slowly approached, trying to be silent, taking in the man he’d imagined for so many years.

  Why was Edward suddenly sleeping here, in this room? Why had he decided to tend to Gabriel, when a nurse could have done more than an adequate job?

  Edward was dressed for the country, breeches and linen shirt giving him a louche, carefree elegance in sleep that made Gabriel feel uniquely large and clumsy. His skin was as pale as ever, with only a light flush at the top of his cheekbones showing what looked like deep-rooted exhaustion.

  Perhaps he’d been sick, raving, for longer than he’d thought. It had been evening when he’d fallen into the flowerbed.

  Had Edward really spent an entire night bringing him through the fever?

  No. He shouldn’t think about Edward doing anything like that. He was already far too aware of the man’s body, and an odd, nagging sense of guilt that meant he’d done something forbidden.

  Another wave of weakness flooded through him. He briefly closed his eyes, fighting the urge to fall back on the chaise longue and sleep the day away.

  Food. Food involving lots of grease, before anything else. He was normally an indifferent eater, subsisting on hunks of bread and cheese, but the fever had left him with a stomach that demanded satisfaction.

  There had to be a servant around, didn’t there? Williams, from what he remembered in the fever dream—or was it Bryce?

  He took a last, confused look at Edward before heading for the door. He couldn’t be here, mere feet away. Could he? He could spend hours just looking at the man’s sleeping body, working out the why of it. Letting his eyes linger on the man’s face.

  But he couldn’t. Couldn’t, and wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t stay. Not with Edward here, reminding him of all that he was—and all that could never be.

  Chapter Seven

  For a brief, shining moment as he opened his eyes, Edward believed he was in London. He rolled over, wincing as sun streamed on to his face, sleepily wondering where Bryce was.

  When the truth finally hit him, he threw the blankets over his head with an agonised moan. No opulent Mayfair bedroom, no elegant frittering away of the day at the Society of Beasts. Just Hardcote House, hiding, and waiting for the Duke of Sussex to come and drag him off to a London courtroom.

  And Sir Gabriel Winters.

  The Reverend Sir Gabriel Winters, who he’d kissed like some kind of desperate Covent Garden molly. Gabriel, who he’d nursed with painstaking, sleep-deprived attention for an entire night, interrupted only by Bryce bearing cups of coffee and more tincture of willow bark.

  Gabriel, who had finally relaxed into something approaching normal sleep after seven pain-ridden hours, leaving Edward to fall into blessed unconsciousness. Still, he’d dreamed of dark-eyed Caravaggio paintings full of men who looked remarkably like his patient.

  Why the hell did he have to be so impulsive? Edward buried his face in the sofa, groaning. What perverse imp lay inside him, waiting to make his life more complex and dangerous at every turn?

  He should have let Bryce take care of Gabriel, despite the risk to the man’s health. He should have walked away from Gabriel as he lay in the flowerbed, no matter how tempting.

  Perhaps he could lie in bed forever, elegantly wasting away. The idea had a certain appeal. But his stomach was already wide awake, making very specific demands. This was the countryside, wasn’t it? Fresh bread, then, with butter and eggs. And coffee. And a selection of jams and marmalades, and sausages, and some more eggs when the plate was thoroughly clean...

  With a weary sigh, Edward sat up. Of all the flaws he saw in himself—and there were many—the fact that he felt hungry when nervous was the most unacceptable. Here, in this impossible situation, he was absolutely starving.

  Ready to spoon more tincture into Gabriel’s mouth, he rose to his feet. Cupping his hands around the man’s face last night, the intimacy of the movement required, had been oddly comforting. A link to a purer time.

  He looked over to the chaise longue, then hurriedly reached for his clean clothes.

  The chaise longue lay empty. Gabriel was gone.

  * * *

  Edward raced down the stairs, panicking. Dressing normally took hours—the better part of a day, if there was a ball to attend—but as he strode through the richly decorated rooms of his childhood, ears straining for sounds, Edward realised that his cravat was tied incorrectly.

  Damn the cravat. Where the hell was Gabriel? And, come to that, where was his manservant?

  Bryce’s absence was normally no cause for concern. Edward rarely let the man dress him, preferring his own expert eye. But as Edward practically ran past the morning room, the library, the gallery, he found himself worrying more than he had over the past decade.

  What if Gabriel had taken a turn for the worse, and Bryce had decided to take him off Edward’s hands? What if Edward had fallen asleep at a crucial moment, and Gabriel had—had—

  No. He couldn’t even think it. Bryce had merely moved Gabriel to a bedroom, a more comfortable place to languish and had decided to let his master sleep.

  A clatter came from what Edward remembered as the kitchen. He threw open the door to a cloud of steam. When his nose filled with the smell of coffee, he couldn’t help breaking into a relieved smile.

  Coffee. If Bryce was making coffee, nothing could be terribly wrong.

  “Bryce?” He marched into the kitchen, noting the colossal iron range was fired and burning. “Are these the famous country manners I’ve tried so hard to forget? A gentleman has to dress and feed himself?”

  “It’s nearly twelve o’clock.” Bryce’s irritated voice came floating out of the pantry. “I was going to wake you at lunch and have done with it. You cause fewer problems that way.”

  Edward almost laughed. “Well I’m here, and I’m hungry. Stop hiding in the cobwebs and tell me where the hell you put the patient, damn you. I almost took a turn.”

  “Where he put me? What am I? A cat?” Sir Gabriel Winters walked out of the pantry. As if on cue, the kitten followed him on fat, fluffy legs.

  Bugger.

  Edward sat, attempting to look unruffled. He’d often wondered if telepathy could develop between two minds, give enough close association—and he and Bryce had been in a working relationship for quite some time, now. If his idle imaginings had any basis in truth, he sincerely hoped his manservant could hear him screaming inside his head.

  What in bloody hell’s name is going on?

  Gabriel looked healthy. Ridiculously so. Dressed in the same, almost offensively simple clothes he’d been wearing in the flowerbed, hair slightly damp, he radiated a rough, workmanlike aura that was equal parts irritating and—and fascinating.

  Not just fascinating. Erotic. Edward’s tired, overextended nerves demanded complete honesty.

  “Caddonfell.” Gabriel bowed. Edward stood, bowing back, wondering what on earth he could say.

  In the end, only one thing came to mind. “It...it has been a long time.”

  Gabriel nodded, his face grave, watchful. Angry, almost. “Yes.”

  They stared at one another. The air filled with unspoken words—questions, recriminations. Edward felt the past biting at his heels, relentless, terrifying.

  Eventually Gabriel brought a hand to his chin, shrugging at his stubble. “Forgive the state of me. But, given the state of your shirt, it seems today won’t be formal.”

  Edward looked down, feeling a fresh wave of shame at his badly tied cravat. Gabriel was right; neither of them looked particularly noble after a night of fever. With a day’s worth of stubble and dirt-streaked workman’s clothes, his childhood friend looked like a particularly disreputable pirate. Or a bandit, down on hi
s luck.

  He cast his mind back to his most memorable conquests. Tall? Yes. Dark? Yes. Built like sailors? Oh, goodness yes.

  With a day’s worth of beard and musk clinging to his clothes, Sir Gabriel Winters had become the culmination of Edward’s most sinful fantasies. Even after untold hours of sleeping in snatches, spooning willow bark tincture down the man’s throat, and trying to forget their kiss.

  Why the hell wasn’t the man lying down? Why wasn’t he sick?

  “Sir Gabriel.” The name felt strange on his tongue. “Glad...glad you’re up.”

  “Just Gabriel Winters. Reverend, if you must.” Gabriel paused. “But I would prefer it if you did not.”

  Edward looked down, trying to avoid Gabriel’s eye and failing. It was humiliating how awkward he felt, compared to the other man’s easy gait. Was the innocent country vicar really taking the previous night in his stride, kiss and all, while the notorious rake sat overcome with shyness?

  It had to be a lack of coffee. Perhaps Bryce could simply give him the beans to chew, instead of boiling the powder.

  Bryce came out of the pantry, holding a jar of jam. Edward had never seen him look more quietly murderous.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? It appears the doctor was incorrect about the gravity of our guest’s condition.” Every syllable dripped with acid annoyance. “Apart from a little residual weakness, he’s positively beaming with good health.” He jerked his head over to Gabriel, who raised one dark, expressive eyebrow. “He woke up some hours before you.”

  “There’s been an outbreak of rheumatic fever in Hardcote.” Gabriel stood almost to attention, as if to conceal any of the residual weakness. “The doctor was right to be cautious. We can all be thankful my fever was a more pedestrian one.”

  “Oh, yes.” Bryce walked back into the pantry, his tone akin to a funeral. “How rich in gifts this day is.”

  Edward slowly looked up, staring into Gabriel’s warm brown eyes. Tired, weak, in desperate need of coffee—no, he couldn’t even pretend to be his usual eloquent self. “You’re up. You’re—you’re walking around. Healthy.”

  “Still a little tired. Pained, in some places.” Gabriel pulled a chair out from under the long wooden table, sitting down with an awkward glance in Edward’s direction. “But healthy. Leaving as soon as possible, actually. Your...manservant insisted I stay to wish you goodbye.” His look to Edward was almost a challenge. “I do not see the necessity.”

  “But you shouldn’t be standing. You should barely be awake. You’ve been insensible for almost an entire night. The doctor—the doctor couldn’t even diagnose an influenza? You’re not even dying?” Edward realised how accusatory his tone was becoming. “It’s just...you’d still be raving, if it was the rheumatic kind.”

  “Yes.” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s not rheumatic. Merely a bad fever. So... I can be both awake, and standing. And leaving, as soon as possible.”

  “Yes.” Edward’s eyes darted rapidly to the pantry. God, Bryce was going to be cutting. “Well, then. Good.”

  “Really?” Gabriel leaned towards him, his eyes full of barely concealed anger. “That’s it? Good? Well forgive me for interrupting your...romantic jaunt. I will leave you and your ludicrously overfamiliar friend to your idle pleasures as soon as humanly possible. Some of us have work to do.”

  Edward blinked, trying to marshal the mental powers necessary to explain, defend himself—anything.

  No. It was if his thoughts were swimming in treacle.

  A dull rage began rising in him. Did Gabriel really think so little of him? He’d clearly been reading the gossip rags, believing every scrap of scurrilous information. Would he not even try to look beneath the surface?

  A movement behind Gabriel caught his attention. Bryce was standing at the door of the pantry, furiously mouthing something. Get him out. Somewhere. Anything.

  This was too much intrigue before breakfast. Too much everything. Edward leaned forward, trying to summon up a particle of the louche rake he’d left behind in London.

  “Then I left your jacket upstairs. It’s waiting for you.” An ugly stab of glee at Gabriel’s surprised face rippled through him. “Go.”

  He waited, half hoping that Gabriel would refuse. But Gabriel shot to his feet, dark eyes burning, and left the room without a word.

  When the kitchen door finally swung shut, Edward let his forehead rest against the table. “Oh, damn.”

  “Damn is right.” Bryce emerged from the pantry, startling Edward. “Damn, and worse. That’s the last time I trust any medical man outside of Mayfair. Why the hell didn’t you just let me throw him over the gate?”

  “Because he’s a gentleman, despite appearances. A baronet, if you can believe it. And an old friend—at least, I thought he was. And we don’t throw sick people over walls no matter what our circumstances.” Edward looked haughtily at Bryce—and crumpled, sighing, as the servant raised an eyebrow. “Christ, I don’t know. Instinct.” The way he looked stretched out in the flowerbed, like a god fallen to earth. “Excuse my lack of foresight.”

  “Lack of foresight on your part is the reason we’re here in the first place.” Bryce began rummaging through his waistcoat pockets. “It’s a good job your brother thinks ten paces ahead of everyone else.”

  Edward restrained a scowl. Everyone gave thanks for Maurice, loudly, enthusiastically and very often in his presence—although, given how much incriminating information Maurice had on two-thirds of the ton, it was a wonder they didn’t just press envelopes full of bribes directly into his hands. Perhaps the effusive compliments were the more genteel version, one the nobility could accept.

  “Letters.” Bryce thrust two sealed envelopes into Edward’s hands. “One from your brother. The other addressed to our guest, from a sister if all of these flowery loops are anything to go by. The doctor must have informed her as soon as he left the house. Would you happen to remember her? If she’s a gossip, there could be some excitement. Maurice may have to pay her a visit.”

  “Lady Ploverdale. Of course.” Gabriel’s dark-haired, bright-eyed sister’s introduction to society had barely lasted a year. The wedding rice had barely had time to drop before Lord Ploverdale, the woman’s new husband—a man so bland that Edward had always considered him marrying anyone a miracle—had stood up from a whist game, turned purple, and promptly keeled over. “She’s currently in mourning. Haven’t seen her in a drawing room for months.”

  “Good. Inclined to a quiet, country existence, then. Just like her brother. No wagging tongues.”

  Edward tried to cast his mind back to Lady Ploverdale, formerly Caroline Winters. She’d never seemed much of a gossip. In fact she’d always been singularly independent, content to be on her own even in a large crowd, although that might have had to do with the weak lungs she’d sustained during a bout of illness in childhood. He remembered nasty comments about her voice floating around the odd ballroom. “I bow to your superior judgement, Bryce. If she decides to visit, will you be building me a bed in the wardrobe? Given that I’m meant to be in France?”

  “She won’t stay.” Bryce smiled mirthlessly. “Half an hour in a room with Maurice, and she’ll find a dozen reasons to flee. Open the letter and see if she’s planning on visiting.”

  “I’m not opening another man’s letters.” Edward looked pointedly at the coffeepot, inwardly rejoicing as Bryce grudgingly poured out a steaming cup. “I’m astonished you didn’t open the damn things yourself. You take every other liberty.”

  “Let’s not begin a discussion about the taking of liberties, shall we?” Bryce watched Edward gulp down his coffee. “Or we’ll be here all day. Now open the letter from your brother, at least. No doubt he’s busy convincing all of London that you’ve scuttled off to France with your tail between your legs. And I doubt he’s using the word tail.”

  Edward ripped open the letter from Mau
rice, reading the slanted scrawl with narrowed eyes.

  Coming tonight. Be ready.

  Chapter Eight

  Edward sighed, letting the letter drop to the table.

  Oh, good. Another problem. Maurice arriving sooner than expected meant he’d either solved the problem, or was finding it impossible. Strategic retreat was only one of the tricks in his brother’s arsenal—but it was one he rarely used.

  Given the shortness of the letter, it didn’t feel like good news.

  “Bollocks.” He held out his cup, suddenly needing more coffee.

  “That’s a departure from your normal dulcet tones.” Bryce raised an eyebrow as he poured. “Was a whole night of selfless care for another human soul too much for you? It’s a constant delight for me.”

  “Your care is hardly selfless. I pay you twice what any other valet gets.” Edward shoved the letter into his pocket, turning his attention to the other envelope. “My brother is arriving tonight. What am I supposed to do with the other letter?”

  “Give it to our guest, seeing as you’ve suddenly developed such unimpeachable morals.” Bryce poured another cup of coffee, sipping it with a scowl and a wince. “It’ll be a way of occupying him, seeing as he can’t leave until Lord Maurice arrives.”

  “What? He’s leaving now, Bryce. I told him to get his coat.”

  “Oh, for goodness’—do you really think you can have him merrily wandering around Hardcote, telling all and sundry you’re home to visitors?” Bryce sighed, rubbing his eyes. “What on earth possessed you?”

  “He’s desperate to be gone.” Edward sniffed dismissively, trying to control the intense annoyance that Gabriel had aroused in him. “He...seems angry with me.”

  Bryce’s tone suddenly hardened. “He wouldn’t be angry with you for any particular reason, would he? Some youthful experimentation?”