by KJ Charles
“That was an argument. This is a crisis. When we’ve dealt with the crisis, we’ll go back to the argument.” Hart felt fingers close on his. “Come on, up. I’ve had lots of unpleasant surprises, and the best way to feel better is to do something.”
“This unpleasant?” Hart demanded, and could have kicked himself as Robin said, simply, “Yes.”
“Sorry. That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Robin stood. “You know, it would help if you weren’t ashamed of yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong. Illegal, perhaps, and we need to avoid the consequences of that, but not wrong.”
“Yes, I have,” Hart said harshly. “I kept the truth about your sister from Giles—”
“Because you kept your word to me.”
“I doubt he’ll see it that way, considering I’ve lied to him about so much else.”
“You don’t have to endanger yourself for his benefit any more than Marianne does. Why do you think he deserves that? Come to that, why can’t you trust him, if he’s such a good friend?”
Hart couldn’t answer that easily. He’d grown up wanting to be like the Verneys, with their loving, stable family, their rectitude and respectability. Giles had never had an embarrassing affair, or had his name bruited around town, or been the object of anyone’s scorn. Hart had always felt as though he had something to live up to, by comparison. Something to hide.
“I haven’t done well by him,” he repeated, because that at least was clear. “And I have not treated you well at all.”
“Oh, you have,” Robin said. “Perhaps not exactly as I’d have liked, but that’s not the same, is it? And none of that is anyone’s business but ours. Frankly, Verney’s more in the wrong for eavesdropping. I thought gentlemen were above that sort of thing.”
“You’d have listened in his position.”
“I’m not a gentleman. Look, best case, he didn’t hear anything at all. Worst case, he tells the magistrates and we deny everything. We can say he was drunk, he’s malicious—”
“He’s my best friend!”
“In that case he won’t tell the magistrates, will he, so problem solved. Look, Marianne is the one at immediate risk. I don’t know if Verney has our direction, but I don’t want him turning up there angry if she decided to stay at home. You don’t have to come if you can’t manage it, but I have to check.”
Hart took a second to realise what he meant. The thought was grotesque, but he made himself stand anyway. “I’m coming, but I would swear on my life he wouldn’t hurt her. He isn’t that sort of man.”
“I don’t share your confidence in men, and there are many kinds of hurt.” Robin’s voice was flat, but then he glanced at Hart’s face and produced his ready smile. “And to be honest, I wouldn’t swear she won’t hurt him. However, the actual person who is going to get murdered here is me. Got your coat? Let’s go.”
They looked for a hackney for some minutes, but there was a drizzle starting and the evening was closing in. Eventually they gave up and walked. It was better than doing nothing.
Hart wished they could have ridden in private so he could hold Robin’s hand for strength or comfort. If he’d had to imagine a crisis where one of them collapsed and the other was a tower of strength, he wouldn’t have pictured it this way round.
“Have you been exposed before?” he asked, low-voiced, as they walked. “Caught?”
“Never arrested,” Robin said. “Shouted at a few times, got away by the skin of my teeth a couple more. And had plenty of people not care because it’s none of their business. Not everyone is an arsehole.”
“I hope that’s true.”
“So do I, and this might yet be bad. But it will be survivable.”
“Unless Marianne kills you?” Hart suggested, trying for humour because Robin deserved the effort.
“Always a possibility.”
They reached Robin’s unfashionable street eventually, and walked up the stairs together. Robin let them in, calling, “Marianne? Marnie!”
No reply. He went into what seemed to be the only bedroom. Hart stayed in the small sitting-room, noting its bareness of pictures or furniture. There were blackbeetles on the wall—not many, just enough to suggest a slovenly housekeeper and a lack of servants. The Loxleighs spent everything they had on clothes, it seemed. They were nothing but appearances.
Robin emerged a moment later. “Well, it looks like she went out. I think I need to stay and wait for her. Unless I should go to Vauxhall in case Verney went after her there? No, that’s stupid. Oh God.”
Hart came up, slowly enough that Robin could back away. He didn’t, so Hart wrapped him in his arms. Robin didn’t resist, just leaned against him. “What a day, Hart. What a bloody day.”
“I’m sorry for my part in it.”
“So am I. Drink?”
Hart wasn’t sure where to sit. The settle seemed rather presumptuous, as though he expected Robin to cuddle up to him. He took the sole armchair, which was not comfortable. Robin handed over a tumbler of oily, pungent gin, and perched on the settle.
“I want to apologise for earlier,” Hart said after a while. “Not to return to the argument while we still have the crisis, but simply to say I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this, to conduct an affair, and I raised the subject at entirely the wrong moment anyway. I’m sorry that I offended you.”
Robin sighed. “It isn’t the easiest situation. I shouldn’t have shouted.”
“You should.”
“No, I shouldn’t, because if I hadn’t, Verney wouldn’t have heard me.”
“Good point. You shouldn’t have shouted. But you were entitled to, all the same.”
He wanted to say Please tell me what I did wrong, but the fact was, he ought to know. He’d known Robin in the Biblical sense for a month, talked to him, listened to him. If he hadn’t understood, that was due to his own ineptitude, which it was his responsibility to amend.
“Could we talk later?” he asked. “When I have thought a little harder. Only if you want to give me a hearing, of course.”
Robin contemplated him. After a moment he stood, still holding his gin, walked over, sat down on the rug by Hart’s feet, and leaned against his legs. Hart reached down, feeling his heart thump, and ran two fingers through his honey-brown hair. Robin made a mildly pleased noise and shifted a little closer. Hart stroked his hair, slipping into the absent rhythm he might with a cat, and they sat in silence together.
He’d had various ideas over the weeks on how he’d spend their remaining nights together—acts, games, gifts. At first he’d assumed he’d spend them wringing every ounce of pleasure he could from the affair. More recently he’d thought of giving pleasure instead, had even dreamed he could be Robin’s fantasy in return, as if that might make him stay.
Four thousand two hundred and twenty pounds over thirty-one days was a hundred and thirty-six pounds a night. If the money mattered—if it had ever mattered—he was paying a hundred and thirty-six pounds for the privilege of sitting in an armchair that badly required reupholstering and stroking Robin’s hair, and it was worth every penny because he was here when he was needed.
Except that he hadn’t purchased the privilege of being Robin’s comfort in trouble, still less that of Robin’s instant, unquestioning support. Those things had grown out of knowing each other, and caring, and surely to God they showed that there was something between them that was real.
No: Robin’s anger was what showed that. Robin had been angry because he had expected Hart to know better.
And he should have done. He hadn’t thought. He’d had plenty of opinions on Marianne as a scheming fortune hunter and seductress, and it hadn’t crossed his mind that she was Robin’s little sister. She might be queenly, beautiful, poised enough for a marchioness, and seemingly older than her years, but she was his little sister and Robin had always, always spoken of ‘us’. And he’d talked so casually, so rudely of her as a fortune hunter and offered Robin money to fuck almost in th
e same breath and...
You can’t believe I’d want you just for yourself.
Robin had sounded so hurt then. And he was wrong. Hart knew Robin wanted him, he’d had proof, and been told, and he had come to believe it, incredible though it still seemed. Why would Robin doubt it? Hart had not accused him of wanting his money, or implied that would be his only reason to stay: he’d just tried to help. Was it really so wrong to offer help? He wanted to provide for Robin because that was a natural urge when one cared. He worked for Alice and Edwina because he loved them, not in order to buy their love, and they would never have thought otherwise.
But Robin thought otherwise. Because he didn’t take love as his due, and he was used to having a price put on him, or putting one on himself.
He’d worked so hard to make Hart believe he was lovable. He’d said, There is only one of us in this room who is worth a damn, and I bloody know who deserves to be loved. And Hart had lapped it up, basking in the words, and hadn’t even noticed that, when Robin praised him, it was at his own expense.
Robin didn’t need another protector. He very specifically needed not to have a price on his head, reasonable or otherwise. He wanted to be valued, but not like that.
And what had Hart offered him?
“Hell’s teeth,” he said aloud.
“Are you all right?”
“Just thinking.”
He’d failed, catastrophically. That much was clear. But he had the tools to improve, if he picked them up and used them. What he needed now was time and peace to work out how, and he had those, sitting here stroking Robin’s hair by the dying fire, both hurt, both afraid, still together.
He’d touched Robin in so many ways in the past month. He’d never felt as intimate as this.
“I SUPPOSE THERE’S A reason you’re in my chair.”
Hart jerked into wakefulness. His neck hurt, he had the nauseated feeling of bad, broken sleep and he was trapped by some constricting—no, it was a blanket. He was sitting in a chair with a blanket over him.
He blinked, looking around the room, where the light suggested it was early morning. There was no sign of Robin. There was, however, Marianne Loxleigh, standing watching him.
“Good morning, Sir John,” she added. “Where is Robin?”
Hart just blinked. Marianne swept past him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Muffled voices rose.
He should probably make himself scarce. It seemed the most tactful thing, but he didn’t want to look as though he was running away. He hovered awkwardly, folding the blanket for something to do, and was relieved when Robin at last stuck his head out of the door.
“She’s back,” he said unnecessarily. “Thank you for staying with me. Uh, would you mind—”
“I’ll go.”
“Probably best. There’s quite a lot of shouting to be done.”
Will you come around later? Hart didn’t want to ask. And had no right to, because though the month of their agreement had a few days left to run, he knew it was over. They could no longer hide behind that paper wall; whatever was between them needed to be established anew, and properly, if it was to exist at all. Assuming that nobody needed to flee the country, of course.
“She’s safe with you,” he said. “Everything else can be dealt with. I’ll go and see Giles now, and tell you what he says at once.”
“Thank you,” Robin said, and Hart took some pleasure from his smile.
He went home first, to wash and change because there was nothing like sleeping in an armchair to make a man feel filthy. He put on new clothes, shaved clean, adjusted his cravat with a care he never normally took, told the man in the looking-glass that he was a coward, and went to see Giles Verney in his rooms.
He was admitted by Giles’s man, Stanford, and sat to wait in the drawing-room for an uncomfortably long time before Giles came in. He wore a banyan and looked as grey as Hart felt. It seemed nobody had had a good night’s sleep.
“Good morning,” Giles said. “Have you been offered coffee?”
“Stanford is bringing a pot, I think. I came to return your hat and gloves. You left them at my rooms.”
“So I did. Thanks.” Giles looked painfully awkward. He started to say something but at that point Stanford came in bearing a coffee-pot and the next moments were taken up with thanks and pouring. Hart had wanted to stay on his feet—to be ready to leave without ceremony, frankly—but he couldn’t refuse the cup that was handed to him, in part because his head hurt from the lack of sleep, and he found himself sitting down to sip the dark, bitter brew.
“I need this,” he muttered.
“Don’t we all.” Giles was staring into his own cup. “Look, Hart, I’m glad you came, or I should have sought you out. I wanted to say—”
“Yes?” He braced himself.
“Well, first, thank you for listening to me yesterday. I was rather distressed. I was desperately in need of a friend, and you were there, as you always are. I hope you know how much your friendship matters to me.” His eyes met Hart’s, though it seemed to require an effort. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I hope that won’t change due to any act of mine.”
Hart swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “I feel very much the same.”
“Good. Because I have to admit that I overheard things I was not meant to. It was not intentional, I assure you, but I came back for my hat and your voices were raised. And I listened for too long, rather than walking away at once. I’m sorry. I have no excuse.”
“I must ask what, exactly, you heard.”
“What you said of Mar—Miss Loxleigh. That her birth, her past, are unworthy of a decent family. That she has lied and deceived me, Tachbrook, all of society.”
“Is—is that all you heard?”
“Is it not enough? Or is there something else? I heard that much and then made myself go downstairs, where I sat to recover my composure. Is there something more, some excuse—was it not true?”
His expression was one of desperate hope. It hurt to look at. It hurt doubly because Hart had thought, just for a minute, that his friend had seen his truth and accepted it.
Clearly not. Giles didn’t know, and had other things on his mind, and it was absurd to feel such crashing disappointment. He ought to be relieved that the matter didn’t arise after all. He told himself that as firmly as he could.
“There is nothing else,” he said. “And it is true as far as I know, though in fairness I don’t think she ever claimed to be well-born. Only to be beautiful, and that is surely indisputable.”
Giles sagged. “But she did claim it, at least by implication and omission. They lied to establish themselves in society, both of them. I don’t know why you’ve taken up with the brother, knowing this, and with all you’ve said of him in the past.”
“He is my friend, and I don’t give a damn for his birth.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. His character is better than I realised. Considerably better than he initially showed, because—you’re quite right that one cannot excuse their behaviour entirely—”
“Entirely?!”
“—but Miss Loxleigh’s beauty, wit, intelligence, and steadfastness are real.”
“Her honesty is not,” Giles said. “And I do give a damn for birth, and so should you. I have a responsibility to my family, to society as a whole. Honestly, Hart, I am appalled you should have kept this secret.”
“I gave my word.”
“All the same— No, I hear you.” Giles rubbed his face. “I cannot speak of this easily. My feelings are somewhat overwhelmed.”
“She feels for you too, I’m told.”
“If I had known that two days ago, I should have been in seventh heaven. Now... I suppose I will count it a lucky escape soon. At this moment, it seems like the end of the world.”
“You’re a fool,” Hart said. “What the devil does it matter if she has no parents to speak of? They’re dead anyway. Haven’t you enough ancestry for two? Don’t
we all spring from Adam and Eve?”
“Tripe. Would you marry her, knowing all this?”
“I have no fancy to play the misshapen Vulcan to an acknowledged Venus. But someone like her who I loved, and who loved me? Yes. I would beg their hand and think myself lucky if it was granted, and be damned to what society thinks. Society is a consequential fool, and I am tired of rules and strictures that do no good and bring nobody happiness.”
“There is more to life than the pursuit of happiness!”
“Tell that to the United States.”
Giles snorted. “Yes, and I doubt that will work out well. Happiness pursued for its own sake is nothing more than pleasure-seeking and selfish impulse. You know that as well as any man. You find your fulfilment in hard work and service, not worldly indulgence, and I have always admired that.”
“I have been lonely all my life,” Hart said through his teeth. “It is not self-indulgence to seek a companion. And I cannot see the virtue in an existence trammelled by meaningless laws and shibboleths. It is exhausting. I am exhausted. And you are throwing away this great love you claimed to feel—for God’s sake, Giles, do you truly believe that to be born into misfortune is a permanent stain on the soul? That a sinner can never be forgiven? I’m sure your father would have opinions on that.”
“Perhaps, but I doubt he would want me to marry a lowly sinner, all the same. And I don’t believe that you, a Hartlebury, would marry a woman of whom such things could be said.”
“My father, a Hartlebury, married a woman of impeccable pedigree and unquestioned virtue. I’d rather have had Marianne Loxleigh any day.”
Giles looked shocked. “You can’t say that!”
“I damned well can. You do remember my mother?”
“Yes, but— Curse it, Hart, why are you arguing this? What good is it? She has chosen Tachbrook, which, as you said yourself, tells us her character and ambition. I should have known, and I wish her well of him.”
“If you feel that way, there is no more to be said. But I must require you to keep this secret, Giles. You had no right to know it.”
