The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts)

by Annabelle Greene

  Of course, here in the fire-lit kitchen on a frosty spring evening, with Edward sitting beside him and Bryce—or Williams, whichever—pouring coffee, it was difficult to see Maurice as anything other than what he was. Tired, morose, and completely bloody furious.

  “Oh Lord, it’s true. You are here,” Maurice snapped sharply as he saw Gabriel, his voice ringing with the exhaustion of a man on his last nerve. “I was half hoping my brother had simply taken leave of his senses. It happens often enough.”

  Gabriel, astonished at such a reception, neglected to bow. He turned to Edward, mutely pleading for comprehension, and was met with a look of embarrassment mingled with something close to fear.

  “Your idiocy leaves me, as ever, lost for words.” Maurice turned to Edward, folding his arms. “How on earth do you expect me to guarantee his safety, as well as yours?”

  Safety? How had his safety been called into question? What had happened during his ablutions? Gabriel tried to shake away his sense of curiosity but failed.

  “Good evening, Lord Maurice.” Gabriel watched Maurice turn to him, the man’s expression dripping with scorn, and felt a surge of utter annoyance. “Given that it’s been a decade since we last exchanged a single word, oblige me by speaking to me directly.”

  “I do not wish to speak to you directly. I wish for you to leave.” Maurice spoke rapidly, as if Gabriel was barely worth wasting breath on. “More specifically, I wish the fever had finished you off. Then I could stow your corpse behind the preserves in the pantry, and return to the hellish knot this situation is becoming.”

  “Enough. Don’t speak to him like that.”

  Gabriel had never heard Edward speak so sharply. A tiny note of confused happiness flared in him—then died when he saw Maurice’s eyes flare with sudden, infuriating curiosity.

  “Oh, really? And why should I speak to your half-forgotten childhood friend with...deference?”

  Gabriel knew he shouldn’t look at Edward. Shouldn’t even think about looking at him. Maurice, looking between the two of them, had the expression of a cat with a paw on a mouse’s tail.

  What had happened, really? Something half remembered in the midst of a fever? A brief moment of contact that could be explained away by weakness, imbalance...

  “No explanation?” Maurice leaned forward. “Nothing at all to say?”

  Silence reigned. In the end, Maurice slumped back into his chair. Running a hand through his dark hair, he observed Edward and Gabriel with a look that was half weary, half shrewd.

  When he next spoke, his voice was glacial. Pure cold.

  “Is he aware of why you’re here, Edward?” He turned to Gabriel. “Forgive me. You are, as you said, present. Are you aware of why my brother is suddenly here at Hardcote, with no one but a single servant, with all the appearance of a fugitive from justice? No doubt you’ve wondered.”

  “Maurice.” Edward’s face was full of quiet, pleading panic. “Please.”

  Gabriel fixed his eyes on the floor, steeling himself.

  “I remember you as a good man, Sir Gabriel. A moral one, at least.” Maurice stared at Gabriel, his unsettling eyes unblinking. “So you will no doubt be shocked—nay, appalled—to learn that my brother, during one of the busiest nights of the Season and at the most glamorous of the balls, was found in a compromising position with the Duke of Sussex’s eldest son. In a stable.”

  Gabriel couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He counted every flaw in the kitchen flagstones, his fingers slowly clenching into fists.

  Ludicrous, really. Ludicrous, such jealousy, for a man he had no claim to.

  Maurice’s voice went on, hypnotic, icy. “Not in a molly-house. Not in a quiet corner of Covent Garden, or even a private room in his own club—a club of men who share his predilection. My brother decided to commit a hangable offence, with the son of someone capable of successfully prosecuting him, in one of the most well-trafficked areas of a house filled to the brim with London’s finest.” Maurice’s eyes flicked to Edward, then back, as quickly as a snake. “He may as well have done it in the ballroom.”

  There was a small flaw in the flagstones, a burn mark or something similar. Gabriel focused on it, its colour, its placement. Anything, rather than hearing more.

  “This, of course, was problematic enough.” Maurice gave a short, sharp sigh. “But my brother’s carelessness worsened it. He let half the guests see him favouring the man. Flirting, even. And so, when they mysteriously disappeared from view, it was all too easy for the man’s enraged father to follow them. Flanked, no less, by two earls.”

  Oh, Lord. Just when it seemed like it wouldn’t get worse, there was more.

  “I can make earls go away.” Maurice snapped his fingers. “Like this. Both of them neatly folded away, now, silent as dolls. But Sussex, for all my efforts, refuses to be silenced. Probably because he saw his only son and heir pressed up against a—”

  “Damn you.” The chair scraped as Edward rose. The bitterness in his old friend’s voice was frightening. “Damn you to hell.”

  His rapid footsteps crossed the floor. With a sudden, icy draught, the door slammed shut.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gabriel slowly lifted his head. He looked straight into Maurice’s eyes, trying to control the swift, terrifying rage that was knotting his stomach.

  “Need I continue?” There was no more smugness, no superiority remaining in Maurice’s voice. Only utter weariness. “Or have I nipped this distressing little partnership in the bud? Edward doesn’t need another intrigue. He especially doesn’t need to be involved in a way that can’t possibly end—Ow!”

  With a satisfying thud of flesh on stone, he lay sprawling on the flagstones. Gabriel stood over him, massaging feeling back into his fist, pressing his boot down onto Maurice’s outstretched hand.

  “Be grateful it was just one punch.” The man tried to rise, and Gabriel stamped down harder on his hand. “You clearly forgot my right hook. By rights, I should call you out. You know damn well you went too far.”

  “No, my brother went too far.” Maurice hissed with pain as Gabriel pressed his boot down. “He did something sordid, and dangerous, and pointless. If I am going to save his life, there need to be no distractions whatsoever. You, apparently, are already a distraction.” He stared up balefully. “God knows how. Clearly my brother needs only a little time to get up to his neck in trouble.”

  Gabriel sat heavily in his chair, letting Maurice scramble to his feet.

  Save Edward’s life? Surely they’d never hang a duke. Not with a brother like Maurice, with Maurice’s connections, friends, secrets.

  He tried not to sound anxious. “You mean they’re going to take it to trial? Sussex thinks he has a case?”

  “Oh, please.” Maurice tentatively rubbed his bruised fingers, his jaw already swelling. “A trial? None of this is going to be tried. That’s what frightens me.”

  “But...you said his life.” Gabriel rubbed his forehead, wondering what he was missing. “If he doesn’t get tried, he won’t hang.”

  “Oh, Hardcote really is for babes in the wood, isn’t it? Everyone lending a helping hand, singing around a maypole.” Maurice placed a hand to his jaw and winced. “It’s almost a pity to spell this all out to you, but I’ll do it. God knows I’m used to unpleasant jobs.”

  “Unless you want to end up on the rug again, just tell me.” A sick, unsteady feeling filled Gabriel’s lungs. “Now.”

  “I’ve spent yesterday and today laying every false trail I can think of.” Maurice’s voice grew quieter. “Carriages with doubles, false ticket purchases. Even a damned actor on a boat to France. I’ve pulled in more favours than I can count. I’ve...pleaded with people.” His eyes clouded over. “And I do not plead. I have studied anything, anything at all that could lead to some past indiscretion on the Sussex’s part. And there’s nothing. Nothing at al
l.” He shook his head. “He’s untouchable. He has no desire to see his son exposed for what he is in court, but he is not, under any circumstances, going to let my brother escape scot-free. To France, or anywhere else.”

  “So what is he going to do?” Gabriel leaned forward, suddenly cold. “What? Tell me.”

  “He’s going to kill him.” Maurice’s voice was perfectly calm. Only his eyes betrayed the exhaustion, the fear that lay behind his words. “The ruffians the man hired are in the French port towns, but they’ll think of Hardcote soon enough, despite all my deceptions. They won’t worry about a trial. Or a duel.”

  “Kill him.” Gabriel said the words numbly.

  “Yes. I’ve never seen a man so dead set on it. So...immune to reason.” Maurice shivered. “He is ruthless. Even beyond what is practical.”

  “So what do we do?” Gabriel stared at Maurice, quite forgetting to be furious with him. “What on earth can we do?”

  There was no question of leaving now. None at all.

  Maurice’s stare was level. “You tell me, Sir Gabriel. You tell me.”

  * * *

  Edward walked blindly down the corridor. Morning room, bathroom, billiard room...no place to hide, to burrow inside and stay forever.

  The stupidity of his transgression had never truly struck him. Not before that precise moment, trapped in the house he’d always hated, listening to his insufferable brother give every shameful detail of that night to—to—

  To Gabriel. No need to analyse it further, or classify it. Gabriel knew now, knew the whole sordid mess of it, and that meant the end of everything. Every look, every smile, every secret exchange of words, breath, pleasure...all gone. Burned away by shame, and no doubt righteous anger on Gabriel’s part.

  London was suddenly preferable. A trial seemed preferable, frankly.

  Perhaps Maurice was merely exaggerating. Yes, that had to be it; the situation couldn’t be as utterly, irredeemably lost as his brother had made it out to be.

  He could go to London. He could solve it himself. All he had to do was walk through the hall like this, and open the front door—

  “Oh!” A woman almost tumbled off the doorstep, bonnet ribbons flying; Edward instinctively threw out a hand to catch her. Her grip was surprisingly strong, despite her small hand. “Excuse me. I’m looking for—Oh.”

  Edward narrowed his eyes, trying to work out where he’d seen the woman before. Those warm brown eyes were recognisable, absolutely, and there was something about the firm set of the jaw...

  The woman gave a brisk, practical curtsey. “Your Grace.”

  Her voice was low, and husky. The memory hit Edward like a thunderclap. “You’re—”

  “Gabriel’s sister. Lady Ploverdale.” The woman smiled. “I am here to see my brother. I must say, your presence here is...unexpected.”

  No doubt she’d read a scandal sheet over the last couple of days. Or perhaps some Hardcote gossip had regaled everyone with the salacious details. As Edward stared into Caroline’s surprised but steady gaze, a wave of pure defeat crashed over him.

  “Believe me, madam.” He pulled her into the house with a bitter, half bowing flourish. “Unexpected isn’t the half of it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Well.” Caroline smiled bravely, the glow of the candlelight making her eyes gleam. “Isn’t this nice.”

  Edward almost snorted. It was hard to imagine anything less nice than a candlelit dinner with Maurice on one side, Gabriel’s sister on the other, and Gabriel himself opposite. The only way he’d feel worse was if the room were somehow on fire.

  Bryce, on the other hand, was enjoying himself immensely. The arrival of Maurice seemed to have lifted a burden from his shoulders, and Caroline’s unexpected entrance, even if it was technically a problem, appeared to have lowered the evening to the level of a French farce. Bryce moved smoothly around the dining room table, producing dish after dish of basic but edible fare with the grace of a born waiter, and Edward resented the small smile on his face that meant none of this nonsense is my problem anymore.

  In truth, the social management of the evening had fallen into Caroline’s hands, as was normally the case when men and women sat at table together. Given that Gabriel seemed to have become completely mute, and Edward felt incapable of anything more than asking for the salt, it was proving to be a somewhat difficult task.

  From the slightly strained set to Caroline’s jaw, it was no picnic for her either. In the absence of conversational aid, the woman appeared to be determined to produce a dinner party’s worth of talk entirely by herself.

  Good Lord, could she talk! Bandaged legs, poultices, children who needed new clothes, the sewing she was doing to make said clothes, Easter bonnets, the cleaning of the church, the various books and papers the old vicar had left behind...a constant stream of one-sided conversation, husky in tone and utterly, utterly dull in content. Fascinatingly dull. Astonishingly dull.

  Gabriel appeared to be listening to something else entirely, his own thoughts perhaps, or his own regrets. Every so often he tried to meet Edward’s eyes, but Edward turned away each time. He knew what he would see there: rage, pain. Pity, which had to be the worst thing of all.

  Maurice, on the other hand, seemed unable to tear himself away from Caroline. The mixture of shock, incomprehension and profound annoyance on his bruised face was almost funny.

  Funny, that is, until he opened his mouth.

  “Stop.” He threw his fork down; it clattered against the china. “Stop...prattling. I am already injured. I have no need of a headache.”

  Gabriel stood abruptly, throwing his napkin down. Edward wished his enraged expression could be a little less...well, erotic.

  He also hoped, just a little, that Maurice would keep provoking him. The state of his brother’s jaw—and hand, seeing him wince as his fingers curled around a fork—had him wondering exactly what had happened in the drawing room after he left.

  Had Gabriel defended his honour? The idea was too unlikely, too precious to contemplate at any great length. It also suggested, incorrectly, that Edward had any honour to defend.

  Against his better nature, he leaned forward. How would Caroline react to Maurice’s spectacular rudeness? Some women cried, others became hysterical. All of them, in the end, fled.

  Caroline, though, seemed different. She remained sitting, one restraining hand on Gabriel’s arm as she stared, unblinking, fork held delicately in her other hand.

  “I remember the last time you had a headache in my presence, Lord Maurice. You were fifteen and had your nose buried so deeply in one of your father’s salacious French novels that you walked into a closed door.” She sniffed dismissively. “No doubt your other injuries came about in similarly edifying ways. Only an underpaid courtesan could have hit your jaw that hard.”

  Maurice reeled back in his chair as if he had been struck. The silence held, brittle, frightening—until Bryce, standing unobtrusively in the corner of the room, suddenly dissolved into helpless, wheezing laughter.

  “I’m—I’m—” He collapsed into another gale of laughter, slapping his knee. “Oh, hell. I’m not even sorry.”

  The sight of Maurice’s face was too much. Edward, with a half gasp, half sigh of pure relief, bubbled over with the mirth that had been threatening to destroy his windpipe. He threw his head back, shoulders shaking as he let himself go, all ideas of self-mastery becoming more foolish by the second.

  Caroline’s giggles joined his, followed by Gabriel’s quiet chuckling. The room rattled with merriment, with unexpected glee, and for a brief, shining moment Edward felt surrounded by friends.

  Without meaning to, he looked straight into Gabriel’s eyes. They glittered with mirth as his whole face relaxed into a true, sunny smile. Edward felt a pull, a tremendous, wrenching tug, that made him want to push the table aside and—and—


  And apologise. Tell him that he, Edward Stanhope, the Duke of Caddonfell, was the most foolish man alive.

  He’d never felt so strongly about anything outside of a bedroom. It was overpowering, almost embarrassing. He turned away, hoping he wasn’t blushing, and caught sight of Maurice staring at a giggling Caroline.

  Had he ever seen his brother looking at anyone like that? Appraising, fascinated—and perhaps, just a little bit afraid?

  Edward couldn’t remember a time when Maurice had lost the upper hand in conversation. Apparently, neither could Maurice. He looked back at Gabriel, hoping that he had noticed too—but his former friend’s face was newly guarded, his gaze shuttered tight.

  He would never forgive him. Edward, swallowing, tried to recapture the merriment that had flooded through him but a moment before.

  “Excellent.” Caroline relaxed back into her chair, a real smile on her face. “Now that all of you have stopped behaving in a completely incomprehensible fashion, could someone please, for the love of sanity, explain to me what on earth is happening? I arrive here to find a house in disarray, three monosyllabic men who exchange nothing more than the most cursory information, and a servant of unspecified rank who appears to be all but guarding the door with an axe. Has there been some unpleasantness? Tell me now, or I’ll be forced to bore you all for another interminable number of hours.”

  Maurice leaned forward. He spoke very differently this time, the wary, almost vulnerable tone of someone speaking to an equal.

  “I hope you don’t suffer from delicate sensibilities.” He raised an eyebrow; Caroline’s mouth twitched. “Because I’m going to tell you everything.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Watching Caroline’s face as she listened to the explanation was something of an education. Edward noted every change of expression, nervous, expecting her at any moment to react with disgust. Maurice was less explicit than he had been with Gabriel, but the facts remained the same. Compromising position. Son and heir. Stable.