His Lordship's Secret

by Samantha SoRelle

  “For looking like that while I’m still in these scratchy things.”

  Dominick chuckled, and leaned in to deepen the kiss. An acceptable distraction.

  Alfie shivered as Dominick ran his tongue against his in a long, sinful slide. Whether it was mere moments or hours later when they finally broke apart, he couldn’t say. The room was spinning around him. He arched into Dominick and felt his hard cock rub against Alfie's own.

  “You’re amazing, Alfie.” Dominick murmured. He put his hands on Alfie’s waist and skated up, his fingers tickling against Alfie’s sides as he slowly pulled the shirt, his shirt off him. He threw it into some forgotten corner and wrapped his arms around Alfie's back, drawing them together. Alfie sighed and draped his arms over Dominick's shoulders, trying to get as much of their bodies into contact as possible. The room spun around him and he was finally warm for the first time in years.

  Warm. Too warm. The room began to spin even faster. And faster. Alfie gasped as his stomach lurched. Something wasn’t right.

  A sharp tingling began to climb up his arms and legs, like stinging nettles slowly being drawn toward the center of his body. He clutched at Dominick, his lips numb, unable to speak. Dominick said something but Alfie couldn’t hear him, the blood rushing in his ears as darkness closed around the edges of his vision.

  The last thing he saw before everything went black was the look of terror on Dominick's face.

  Chapter 20

  “Alfie? Alfie!” Dominick shook the motionless body in his arms, his heart galloping.

  Alfie’s head lolled bonelessly with the motion before coming to rest against Dominick's neck. Dominick froze, body rigid with terror, until he felt the faintest puff of breath against his skin.

  He let out a sigh of relief. Reaching up, he cradled Alfie’s head as he carefully lowered them both to the floor. His fingers shook as he brushed an errant lock of hair from Alfie’s face.

  Alfie didn’t stir even when his arm flopped off Dominick’s shoulder and hit the rug with a resounding thud. With a whispered apology, Dominick tried desperately not to think of the phrase “dead weight”. He laid Alfie down gently, grabbing a pillow from the settee and placing it under his head.

  A soft moan escaped Alfie at the movement. Dominick let out a breath that caught in his throat with a rattle.

  “Shh, I’m here,” he said, taking Alfie’s hand. “Lie still, love, I need to get help.”

  He ducked down and placed a quick kiss on Alfie’s forehead, then forced himself to let go. He didn’t look back, he couldn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to leave Alfie’s side.

  Get help, get help, get help.

  Sprinting from the room, his knees almost buckled underneath him as he took the stairs as fast as he could. He grabbed onto the banister and forced himself to breathe. Every second he wasted was a second his Alfie was on the floor alone, but if Dominick tumbled down the stairs and broke his neck, there would be no one to summon help at all. Mrs. Hirkins would find his body crumpled at the foot of the stairs in the morning, and who knew what would have happened to Alfie by then.

  He tried to focus. Alfie needed him, he could not give in to panic.

  Think of it as a fight. Your man in the ring is down and not getting back up. What do you do?

  When he’d been down, Alfie had bought his salvation. But what good would money be against this strange sickness that had so suddenly come over the man he loved?

  Stop thinking like a gutter rat. If a rich man is down, he doesn’t bind his wounds with rags, he uses his money to—

  “Summon the doctor.”

  The echo of his words in the silent house gave Dominick the focus he needed to continue. He descended the last few steps with greater caution, but as soon as his feet hit the polished marble of the ground floor he was off like a shot, pausing only long enough to rifle through the small desk by the front door for the bag of coin he’d seen Alfie use to tip the odd delivery boy. He only prayed it held enough. He didn’t know what a proper physician like Doctor Barlowe charged, but damned if he would trust Alfie’s health to any of the leeches Dominick knew.

  Out on the front steps, he peered into the darkness and swore. At this late hour, the square was quiet in a way that the streets of Spitalfields never were. There was not a single soul about, even the link boys having gone home to their beds. He hesitated a moment before turning south and taking off in the direction of Great Russell Street.

  If I can’t find a cab there, I’ll head west. By God, I’ll run all the way to Harley Street and carry that doctor back if I have to! Dominick panted as the echo of his boots hitting the cobblestones bounced off the rows of darkened houses.

  As he rounded the corner of Russell Street, he glimpsed a hack making an unhurried turn onto Tottenham Court. He called out and with a burst of speed caught up to it before it disappeared around the corner, startling the horses and driver both.

  “Oy! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” swore the driver as one of the horses reared up in its traces and the other threw its head back in alarm.

  “Harley Street…” Dominick panted, lungs burning. “Fetch Doctor Barlowe of Harley Street... It’s an emergency.”

  The driver sneered. “And why should I be doing any such thing for the likes of you?”

  It was only then that Dominick felt the bite of the night air across his bare chest. He shivered as the damp breeze raised gooseflesh on his skin. What a sight he must look, a half naked man running out of the darkness, draped in silk. Little wonder the driver had made assumptions. Assumptions that were not entirely false, either. He tried to pull the banyan tighter around himself, but the belt was missing, lost somewhere in his flight.

  The driver sneered again, and snapped the reins, urging the horses onward. Dominick lunged forward, grabbing the harness of the nearest horse.

  “Now listen ‘ere!” The driver rose in his seat, brandishing his whip.

  “Silence!” Dominick shouted, pulling himself up to his full height. This man might not listen to a destitute boxer and whore like Nick Tripner, but Mr. Dominick Trent would be heard—and obeyed.

  “There’s an emergency at Lord Crawford’s house on Bedford Square. You will fetch Doctor Barlowe of Harley Street immediately and bring him there. Am I understood?”

  The driver nodded reluctantly. Dominick threw the money purse to him without bothering to check the contents.

  “There’s twice that again when you return, now go!” He slapped the horse on the flank for good measure and it started forward, the other quickly matching its gait. Dominick heard the driver swear as he nearly toppled, then shout at the horses for even greater speed. He watched the hack disappear into the darkness.

  His shoulders slumped and he allowed himself the luxury of one long exhale. Then he turned on his heel and took off again, back to Alfie.

  Chapter 21

  Alfie was still lying on the floor where he had left him, but he groaned feebly when Dominick collapsed to his knees by his side.

  “Hush, Alfie. You’re safe.”

  “Nick?”

  “I’m here, and the doctor’s on his way.” Dominick placed a comforting hand on Alfie’s shoulder, frowning when the skin that had been so warm under his touch only minutes before was now worryingly cool and clammy. His heart clenched as Alfie shivered under his touch. “We should get you in bed. Can you stand? I don’t know if I can get you up those stairs on my own. Nearly took a header down them once tonight, and there’s some things even your Doctor Barlowe can’t fix.”

  “I think so.”

  Dominick arraigned himself behind Alfie and wrapped his arms carefully but firmly around him. In any other circumstances, the position would thrill him, but his fear overrode any such thoughts.

  “On three. One… two…”

  As they lifted him into a sitting position, Alfie groaned and doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Dominick held him and rubbed soothing circles on his back. He glance
d desperately at the clock on the mantle. How long had it been since Alfie had collapsed? More importantly, how much longer until that blasted doctor arrived?

  “I think… standing may be beyond... my capabilities at present,” Alfie hissed between gritted teeth. “The settee?”

  It took them nearly five minutes to move Alfie the few feet to the settee and another ten to get him up on it. By the end, he was panting, eyes screwed tight with pain as he clutched his stomach, crying out as spasm after spasm wracked his body. Dominick found himself on the verge of tears, ready to tear apart whoever or whatever was responsible for Alfie’s sudden illness.

  In between kneeling by Alfie’s side during the attacks, he busied himself around the room, if for no other reason than to keep himself from darting back and forth between the window, the clock, and trying to wrap Alfie up and spirit him away to some magical place where nothing could ever hurt him like this again. He removed Alfie’s boots and draped a blanket he had found stashed away over him, tucking the edges in tight.

  “Like a… broody hen,” Alfie mumbled. Dominick tucked the blanket even tighter in response and had to stop himself from checking the temperature of Alfie’s brow for the fifth time in as many minutes. Instead he forced himself to step back and give Alfie room to breathe. He looked for something else—anything else—to do with his hands to keep them occupied. He spotted the glasses Alfie had poured sitting on the sideboard, one empty, one full.

  A wash of cold fear ran down his spine.

  He slowly approached the glasses, bending down to eye them carefully. There seemed to be nothing wrong with the glasses themselves, no strange films or residues he could see. He lifted the full glass and sniffed it.

  The glass clicked against the wood as he set it back down roughly in irritation. It wasn’t like he knew what untainted expensive port smelt like, never mind one that had been laced with poison. Besides, hadn’t he seen Alfie open the bottle himself? How could poison have gotten into a clean glass from a sealed bottle when they were the only two in the room?

  But that was what this had to be, poison. He clenched his fists. As soon as the doctor arrived and Alfie was safely under his care, Dominick was going to go back to that townhouse and beat St. John to death with his bare hands. That cold reptile had given Alfie a bottle of poison and waited, all the while taunting him with nasty letters. Maybe he had hoped the stress would drive Alfie to drink, or perhaps he got a thrill from knowing that death was there, waiting for Alfie, and it was only a matter of time.

  A rough sob escaped him, and he slammed his hands down on the sideboard, rattling its contents. If Alfie died, Dominick would do more than beat St. John to death. He would find a way to make it slow, agonizing. There were plenty of places in the city where a person could be taken and the neighbours would ignore the sound of screams, others where screams wouldn’t be heard at all. And Dominick knew where to find each and every one of them.

  He slammed his hands again, images of vengeance filling his eyes, and barely noticed when something light tapped against his knuckles. The cork had rolled from beside the bottle and come to rest against his hand. He picked it up and brought it closer to the light. There, impossible to see from the top but clearly visible on the bottom of the cork, was a tiny pinprick.

  Dominick’s white hot anger settled into a cold fury. That was how. That was how St. John had tampered with the bottle, he’d injected something terrible into it and left it for Alfie. He clutched the cork tightly in his fist. This was all the proof he needed. He was going to find that bloated, thrice-damned, pox-ridden—

  “Lord Crawford?” A voice called from down below. “The door was open. Is anyone home? I was told there was an emergency.”

  “Doctor Barlowe!” Dominick called out in relief, slipping the cork into the pocket of his banyan. Revenge could wait, Alfie needed him now. “Upstairs! Quickly! It’s Al-Lord Crawford!”

  He rushed to Alfie, running a hand through his sweat dampened hair as the doctor’s footfalls pounded up the stairs. “Hear that, Alfie? The doctor’s here now. He’ll get you all fixed up in no time.”

  “What’s happened here then?”

  Dominick turned, the story of St. John’s treachery already on his lips, when he took in the queer look on the doctor’s face. He realised abruptly how it must look, him in just the banyan with hands all over Alfie, who was shirtless under the blanket. For the second time that night, he drew upon his new self, the self Alfie had made for him, had given him along with all his laughter and warmth and kisses. The devil take what Doctor Barlowe thought of Dominick, it was only Alfie that mattered.

  “Lord Crawford came down ill very suddenly. I have reason to believe he may have been poisoned.”

  “Poison!” The doctor exclaimed. “Bah! I’ll be the judge of that. I’m sure it’s just a case of too much rich food on an empty stomach.”

  Dominick stepped back and let Doctor Barlowe take his place by Alfie’s side. He tried not to hover as the doctor examined Alfie’s eyes and took his pulse, but couldn’t help the instinctive step forward when the doctor’s prodding of Alfie’s stomach caused him to cry out in pain.

  The cry cut off abruptly however, as Alfie promptly rolled over and violently cast up his accounts over the side of the settee. Dominick was far enough away to avoid being hit by the mess, but Doctor Barlowe’s shoes and trouser cuffs were not nearly as fortunate.

  “For Christ’s sake!” swore the doctor as Alfie groaned and retched again. This time the rug took the brunt of it as Doctor Barlowe retreated to a safe distance, cursing and muttering in a manner hardly befitting a man of his training. Dominick picked up one of their discarded shirts and went over to Alfie, wiping gently at his face as Alfie spasmed and vomited again.

  “There now, get it all out. You’ll feel better after.”

  When the worst of it seemed to be over—Alfie having eventually exhausted the contents of his stomach and spitting the last traces of bile onto the carpet with a grimace—Dominick handed the shirt over for him to wipe his mouth again and rose to face the doctor.

  Fat lot of good he was.

  Doctor Barlowe was seated as far from his patient as he could be in the room, one handkerchief pressed over his face while he used another to wipe vomit from his shoes with obvious disgust. Dominick was distinctly unimpressed. The man acted all high and mighty while taking out a few stitches, but Dominick had seen worse than this in any pub in Spitalfields on any given night. Even the most gin soaked East End surgeon wouldn’t blink to be covered up to his elbows in shit and blood, yet this fancy Harley Street man quailed at a bit of sick?

  “It would appear my services are no longer required,” said Doctor Barlowe.

  “Apologies, Doctor,” Alfie mumbled, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. “Please send a bill for the cleaning of your garments.”

  Dominick stared in disbelief as Doctor Barlowe merely nodded and went to collect his bag.

  “That’s it then? He could have been murdered and you’re just worried about your shoes?”

  Doctor Barlowe raised an eyebrow. “Murdered? Come now, Mister... Trent, was it? We met before? Leave the hysterics to the fishwives and leave the medical assessments to me. Lord Crawford simply had a disagreement with his supper and lost. Nothing a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

  Dominick opened his mouth to tell the good doctor exactly where his assessments could go.

  “Nick,” Alfie shook his head, then made a face as if the movement triggered another wave of nausea. “There’s no need to involve-”

  “Are you mad? He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake. If he testifies in court that your cousin tried to poison you, then we don’t need to worry about… the other thing.”

  Dominick winced. He’d let his fool mouth run and nearly said something he shouldn’t in front of the doctor. He was making a right bollocks of this whole mess. How could he protect Alfie when he couldn’t even think straight for fear of something happening to him?

&nbs
p; “Other thing?” Doctor Barlowe asked.

  Dominick clicked his teeth shut.

  “I assure you gentlemen, anything said in my presence is held in the strictest of confidence.”

  Dominick glanced at Alfie. It was his decision to make, but even though they now had proof that St. John had been blackmailing him, Dominick knew they still couldn’t take him to trial for it. Never mind the fact they had gotten their proof by breaking into St. John’s house and stealing it, a jury would still want to know what Alfie was being blackmailed for, and that being made public would ruin him.

  But if they could convince the doctor to testify it was poison, they could go after the bastard for murder instead. No jury would have any questions about why the next in line for a title would attempt murder, and any allegations St. John made from the stand would be considered nothing more than a desperate attempt to save his own skin.

  But none of that would happen if the doctor didn’t believe Alfie had been poisoned.

  Alfie said nothing, but looked torn. An understanding air came over Doctor Barlowe, and he spoke with incredible sympathy.

  “Lord Crawford, I have known your family for many years. It burdens my heart that I was not able to extend your parents’ lives further when their times came, but I hope I was at least able to ease their suffering. Your mother, I know, was particularly distraught at leaving you alone in this world. Althea feared that you might develop the same morose temperament as your father. If there is anything I can do that would lessen her son’s strain or suffering, you need only ask.”

  At the mention of his mother, Alfie let out a deep sigh. “I’m being blackmailed.”

  The kindly expression on Doctor Barlowe’s face froze as the warmth in his voice changed to shock.

  “Blackmail!”

  “It’s true,” said Dominick, when it was clear Alfie was too weak to continue. He chose his words carefully. “Mr. St. John has obtained information about Lord Crawford that, if brought to light, would badly damage his reputation and has been attempting to blackmail him with it. We have proof, but bringing it to trial might do more harm than good.”