Bound by Deception (Bound Series Book 1)

by Ava March

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he yanked out a fold of pound notes and threw it at Cameron.

  The next moment, he was descending the brothel’s front stone steps. His footman opened the carriage door. Vincent’s first impulse was to direct his driver to the East End, to search the narrow alleyways and rundown boarding houses for Jake.

  “Lady Collarton’s. And be quick about it,” Vincent said curtly as he settled on the black leather bench.

  The footman closed the door with a smart snap. A whip cracked and the carriage lurched forward.

  Images collided in his head. Jake vulnerable and alone. Jake destitute and huddled in a dark alley. Jake being forcibly taken by a drunk brute. Jake—

  “Stop,” he commanded himself. Through sheer force of will, he blocked out those god-awful images. There was no use assuming the worst, at least not yet.

  As soon as his aunt’s ball was over, he’d scour the streets of London until he found Jake. But he didn’t know where to start looking nor did he know the man’s actual name. In fact, he knew next to nothing about him. Where did the man live? How did he spend his days? Did he prefer whiskey or gin? All Vincent had was the image of a sleek, yet strong young man with dark wavy hair that fell down to a scruffy jaw and framed full, kissable lips. It had been so dark in the room he hadn’t even gotten a good look at Jake’s face. Where his eyes blue or brown? Or perhaps green? They definitely hadn’t been gray, of that he was certain.

  Resting his head against the back wall of the carriage, he took deep even breaths, trying to settle himself. Jake didn’t belong to him. There was no cause to feel this possessive need to keep the man close by his side, yet try as he might, he could not make it go away. He needed to see Jake. But did he truly believe one short meeting would be enough?

  No. It wouldn’t be.

  Oh fuck.

  Wincing harshly, Vincent groaned, deep and low, the sound filled with gut-wrenching agony. No! The part of him that strived to be a respectable, upstanding gentleman, the type of man a father would be proud to call a son, rebelled against the realization. Yet…he wanted Jake.

  Vincent let out a string of foul curses under his breath, ending with a beyond frustrated grunt. What was he to do now?

  He scrubbed his bare hands over his face then scowled. Damn. He’d left his hat and gloves in that garish bedchamber. The brothel’s servants already had his cravat pin, so they might as well have something else of his. He pulled out his pocket watch and held it up to the window to catch the light from the streetlamps. Ten minutes until he had to be at his aunt’s. There wasn’t enough time to stop at his townhouse. The hat he could do without but he would need to borrow a pair of gloves from his uncle.

  Marsden better appreciate what his invitation had cost Vincent. One black top hat, one pair of white gloves, one dance with an unpleasant cousin, and a delay in his search for one irresistible man.

  Chapter Five

  Oliver yanked off the cravat and grabbed yet another. Lifting his freshly shaven chin, he placed the cravat on the back of his neck, positioning the linen so it lay flat against his shirt collar. Mouth pursed and brows lowered in concentration, he stared into the mirror above the washstand and willed his shaking fingers to cooperate.

  The sun had set hours ago. Candles in pewter holders lit the bedchamber. The clean scent of shaving soap lingered in the air. And he had lingered in this room long enough. If he didn’t arrive at the ball soon, he would be sure to incur Vincent’s ire before the man even laid eyes on him.

  After one last tug to center the knot, he studied his reflection. Not perfect, nothing close to what Vincent, or rather the man’s valet, would have accomplished, but at least it somewhat resembled a Gordian knot.

  He picked up the black evening coat folded over the back of a nearby chair and slipped his arms into the sleeves. After buttoning it, he ran his hands over the wool, trying to flatten the creases. Should have had it pressed properly, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

  Stepping over the ruined lengths of white linen on the floor, he crossed to the bedside table. He paused, his fingertips hovering a hair’s breadth above the jade stone.

  He had grown quite fond of the pin. It was rarely not with him, even tucked securely in his waistcoat pocket whenever he left his apartments. Not that he’d left much this past week for fear of coming across Vincent; his only outings had been to visit his grandmother. He would miss the pin, this bit of Vincent, but he wasn’t a thief. He hadn’t given any thought to the ramifications when he snatched it from the brothel floor, but he couldn’t keep the pin forever. Its value to Vincent went far above monetary. Oliver clearly recalled the first time he had seen Vincent wear it, and the pride in his friend’s adolescent voice as he’d informed Oliver that his grandfather had chosen to leave the jade pin to him, and not his older brother.

  There were other ways to return it to Vincent, but sending it anonymously via the post was a coward’s way out.

  And he needed Vincent to know it had been him. That Vincent had gifted that slow, languid kiss to Oliver. It went beyond his own selfish desire to be with the man he loved. Oliver could deceive his friend no longer. Even if Vincent turned his back on him, refused to acknowledge him again, Oliver had to tell him the truth.

  Well, he didn’t plan to actually tell him. Oliver was certainly no coward, but he couldn’t fathom looking into Vincent’s gorgeous, sky blue eyes and telling him, “By the way, Prescot, you buggered me last week.”

  Wincing, he sucked in a breath. No, no. That he could not do. But there was another way to reveal himself to Vincent. A way that did not require words.

  His hand closed over the pin. A tremor shook his body. His pulse pounded in his veins with a mixture of stomach-turning nervousness and sweet resilient hope. There was no reason to be hopeful. None at all. Yet he couldn’t stifle the hope; his poor heart clung to the possibility, needing it desperately.

  Perhaps, just maybe, that kiss had meant something. Perhaps Vincent would allow their friendship to turn into so much more.

  * * *

  The statuesque brunette batted her eyelashes, moving a half step closer, deliberately positioning her bosom under Vincent’s nose. “The weather has been quite mild of late, don’t you agree, Lord Vincent?”

  “Yes, of course.” Smoothly backing up half a step to maintain the proper distance with an unmarried lady, Vincent kept the bland smile on his lips and resisted the impulse to roll his eyes in irritation. He had been at the ball for what seemed like an eternity, the impatience building with each passing minute. Forced to politely endure one dull conversation after another. And now this silly chit wanted to discuss the weather when Jake could be out on the cold, unforgiving streets alone with no one to protect him.

  Gripping his champagne glass tightly, he brought it up to his lips and downed the remaining contents. He dropped the glass on a passing footman’s silver tray, snatched another, and took a long swallow. The sweetly bitter, effervescent spirits did little to take the edge off the worry occupying his mind.

  Apparently the young lady—he couldn’t recall her name—didn’t mind in the slightest if a gentleman drank to excess, for she launched into a detailed accounting of the “quite mild” weather. Nodding absently, his gaze strayed over her shoulder. Something akin to relief washed over him.

  Chin tipped down and shoulders hunched, Lord Oliver Marsden lingered by himself near one of the marble columns at the foot of the grand staircase, fiddling with the buttons on his black evening coat.

  “…and it’s April, and it hasn’t rained for—”

  “Pardon, miss,” Vincent said, interrupting the silly chit in midsentence. “I beg your forgiveness, but please excuse me.”

  The distinct look of feminine affront flashed across her face.

  Not bothering to offer an excuse for his ungentlemanly behavior, he sketched a short bow and headed toward Marsden.

  It certainly took him damn long enough to arrive. Vincent planned to rib M
arsden for his tardiness, but not too much to annoy the man. After the evening Vincent had, Marsden’s company was exactly what he needed about now.

  With a determined stride, he wove around the clusters of guests, deftly avoiding any who might try to pull him into another inane conversation. Taller than most every other man in the room, Vincent had no trouble keeping his sights pinned on Marsden, lest he try to duck out the door after making a very brief appearance. He was well aware of Marsden’s reluctance to attend society functions, a reluctance not purely due to having been frequently omitted from the ton’s invitation lists. Vincent wasn’t all that fond of them either, especially when his father was in attendance. But it wouldn’t do Marsden permanent harm to humor him, and endure his aunt’s birthday ball for an hour or so.

  A genuine smile curved Vincent’s mouth, the tension in his gut easing for the first time in days. Yes indeed, dancing with his unpleasant cousin had been worth the price of Marsden’s invitation.

  And apparently the man’s tailor wasn’t a complete hack. The strict black evening coat actually fit him, and highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and the sleek lines of his hard waist. He was turned out quite smartly. The state of his bank account notwithstanding, Marsden would be a good catch for a nice young lady. Perhaps tonight Vincent could introduce him to a girl with a decent dowry.

  Hmm. Why was that thought so unpleasant?

  Vincent put the smile back on his lips. “Marsden,” he said as neared him. “How good of you to grace us with your presence.”

  Marsden’s head snapped up. “Evening, Prescot.”

  “Ah, I see you didn’t need my valet after all. You were able to manage it, though it took you two attempts,” Vincent said, referring to the dark waves that fell in somewhat neat layers about Marsden’s unusually pale face.

  A strained smile pulled Marsden’s mouth. He shifted, rolling one shoulder, the gesture distinctly uncomfortable. “Y-yes. Didn’t take much to fix it properly.”

  “Marsden, my dear fellow” —Vincent clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder—“no reason to look as though you’re facing the hangman’s noose. Lady Collarton’s on the far side of the room. You don’t have to face the old dragon if you don’t want to. I can relay your heartfelt good wishes on the event of her seventy-fifth birthday for you.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not a coward. I can manage it myself,” Marsden said, lifting his chin, steel underscoring the tension in his voice.

  Vincent tipped his head and took a sip of his champagne. The stress of attending a society function had unsettled Marsden, turning him into a pale, prickly version of his usual easy self. The poor man was in need of a stiff drink. “I wasn’t implying you couldn’t. Merely offering to lend a hand. Very nice Gordian, by the way. Shall we go to the card room? I’ve had enough of this,” he said, lifting his glass. “Should be able to find some whisk—”

  His gaze snapped back to Marsden’s cravat. Directly below the knot, affixed to the white linen of Marsden’s shirt, was a green jade cravat pin. It looked just like the one he’d lost at the brothel. Brow furrowed, he studied the distinctive oval stone. “That pin. Where did you get it?”

  “Off the floor, milord.”

  That voice. Low, rough, and with a hint of an East End accent.

  Jake’s voice.

  The confusion vanished, replaced by mind-numbing shock. He speared Marsden with a hard stare.

  There it was—that need, that longing, reflected in Jake’s eyes.

  Swift and ruthless, desire gripped hold of him. Startled, Vincent took a quick step back, putting distance between himself and Jake, no, Marsden.

  Christ! They were the same goddamn man.

  Why hadn’t he noticed before? Same height, same build, same dark wavy hair. Except Jake’s had been longer, long enough to hide behind, until Marsden cut it. And Jake’s scruffy beard—Marsden had shaved it clean the following day when he had seen him at White’s. The darkened room, the absence of his usual spectacles—Marsden had deliberately set out to deceive him.

  He felt the flush rise up his neck, burning his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he tried to tamp down the overwhelming fury, keep it hidden from view. You are in your aunt’s ballroom. Breathing hard, his nostrils flaring, he repeated the words in his head.

  You are in your aunt’s ballroom.

  You buggered your friend, Marsden.

  Glass shattered. Cool liquid seeped through his borrowed white gloves, wetting his skin.

  “Prescot?” came Marsden’s worried voice, as if from a great distance. “I—”

  “Don’t speak,” he said, grinding his teeth together, eyes still closed, unable to look at Marsden.

  Oh God. Marsden knew. He knew what Vincent did at that brothel.

  Panic wrapped around his chest, tightening ever tighter, threatening to suffocate him.

  “Have you told anyone?” Vincent asked in a low voice, fearing Marsden’s answer, afraid he was merely the brunt of a joke, the Season’s latest object of ridicule. But what sort of man played such a cruel joke on a friend?

  “No, Prescot. No one else knows. Well, the madam’s aware, and—and the whore, Holly, but…no one else”

  Vincent could barely hear Marsden’s voice through the furious rushing in his ears. No wonder that whore had laughed at him tonight. She’d known about Marsden’s trick. Why had he done it? How had he known to take Cameron’s place? Vincent wasn’t even aware Marsden had an interest in men!

  The hairs on his nape pricked. It felt as though every eye in the ballroom was fixed on him. As if they could see right through him and had already passed judgment.

  His father was at his aunt’s ball tonight.

  Somehow he managed to keep the agonized, soul-wrenching groan inside.

  Why the hell had Marsden done this to him? What had Vincent ever done to him to deserve this?

  “We need to talk. But not here.” But where? He had servants. Servants who knew more about what went on in his own home than he did. Any discussion with Marsden could be overheard. Then the gossip would spread to every house in Mayfair.

  A ragged shudder skipped down his spine. Definitely not his townhouse.

  “Your apartments. One hour.” Perhaps by then Vincent could look at Marsden without wanting to pummel the very life out of him. It would be a sure way to ensure his silence on the whole affair, but he’d rather not resort to violence.

  He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling out his mouth. Forcing his fists to unclench, he opened his eyes.

  Biting his bottom lip, the same full lip Vincent had nipped one week ago, Marsden nodded. If he had looked pale before, it was nothing compared to now.

  Good, Vincent thought with perverse satisfaction. He should be scared.

  “You know the address?” Marsden asked.

  Vincent turned on his heel, dismissing the man he once called friend.

  Chapter Six

  The end of the key skipped across the brass lock leaving a deep gouge in the wooden door. Cursing his shaking hand, Oliver shoved the key back at the lock. This time, the key slid home.

  A smarter man would have taken a much longer route from Lady Collarton’s. A route that wouldn’t have put him at his front door until well after the appointed time. But what had Oliver done? He’d walked straight home.

  Glutton for punishment, aren’t I? And in more ways than one.

  Shaking his head at himself, he crossed the dark front parlor of his bachelor apartment and lit a candle. The golden light illuminated the untidy room in all its glory: the brown leather couch with newspapers strewn across its lumpy but comfortable cushions, the mahogany end table with a volume of Shakespeare under one leg to keep it from wobbling, the scratched bowfront cabinet next to the old upholstered armchair, and the floorboards that hadn’t been polished in ages since he couldn’t afford a maid. The faded wallpaper was marred by two large rectangles where gilt-framed landscapes had once hung.

  He cringed. Christ, he liv
ed in hovel.

  Well, it wasn’t quite a hovel, but it was damn close especially when compared to Vincent’s stately white stucco townhouse.

  Oliver hastily gathered the newspapers he had used in an effort to fill the last week when he rarely left his apartments and tucked them under his arm, grabbed the two empty glasses on the end table, picked up the brown coat and the dusty boots from the floor, and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet, dumping everything inside. The drawer wouldn’t shut, so he took out the boots, kicked the drawer closed and tossed them into his bedchamber, not caring where they landed.

  He simply shut the bedchamber door, closing off the view to the mess he had created getting prepared for the ball. There was no reason to attempt to tidy that room, for Vincent wouldn’t want to go in there tonight or any night.

  Groaning, he sat in the armchair, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his tired eyes. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands. His right leg shook uncontrollably. The rapid, unsteady tap of his heel against the floorboards echoed in the quiet room. A clammy sweat pricked his scalp. His gut clenched against the vile dread churning in his stomach.

  He swallowed hard and focused on taking short, even breaths, willing his stomach to settle. He would not get sick. Could not embarrass himself like that. Not when Vincent would arrive at any moment.

  The urge to drop to his knees and beg Vincent’s forgiveness had been so great Oliver had not trusted himself to remain at the ball even an instant after Vincent turned his back on him. It had taken all of his courage to summon the fake accent and inform Vincent where he had found the man’s cravat pin. But the hardest part of all had been standing there and watching the pain and fury distort Vincent’s ruggedly handsome features. The strong jaw clenched tight. The firm lips compressed in a straight line. The gorgeous eyes clamped shut.

  Oliver had not seen or heard the worst of it. Even taking the direct route home, the walk from Lady Collarton’s took close to an hour. Vincent had a town carriage. Sleek, shiny, and black, pulled by four matching bays. Equipage which matched his position as second son to the obscenely wealthy Marquess of Saye and Sele. He would arrive momentarily and unleash the anger on Oliver he had contained while at his aunt’s ball.