Kit must have seen the shock on Henry's face, because his eyes gleamed, hard like polished stone in the darkness. “In the world I grew up in, women like my mother had to make all sorts of decisions you would disapprove of, Henry, just to survive.”
Kit’s anger surprised Henry a little—Kit might as easily have been the babe that was got rid of, after all—but what did Henry know of the life Kit had been born into, or the choices his mother had made?
“Tell me,” he said gently. “What was she like?”
Kit’s anger faded and his lips stretched upwards in a smile that was sweet and a little sad. “She was very beautiful. I suppose everyone thinks that about their mother, but mine really was breathtaking.”
Henry reached a hand out to touch Kit’s face, brushing his thumb over the fine line of Kit’s cheekbone. He was filled with a soft, familiar affection, and it struck him that he had missed feeling like this. It was a different sort of feeling than the one he felt for his children, but with the same sort of tender ache to it.
“I’m not surprised to hear it,” Henry murmured. “If she was anything like you.”
Kit’s eyes flickered to Henry’s. After a few moments, he said, “Beauty is a strange thing. It can be a gift, and it can be a curse. If you’re lucky, it can be the means of lifting you out of the gutter, but it attracts people, ruthless people, who only want to exploit that beauty for their own gain. Who don’t care where you end up.”
“Is that what happened to your mother?” Henry asked gently.
Kit nodded. “Her father sold her to a brothel when she was twelve years old.” He swallowed, hard. “Can you imagine?”
Henry shook his head, his heart aching. Helplessly, the picture of Marianne at twelve came to mind, followed a surge of anger so intense, it took his breath away.
“She was lucky,” Kit said, the bitter edge in his voice giving lie to the words. “One of the patrons was so taken with her, he wanted her all for himself. She was with him for a few years, before she was moved on. She was mistress to a number of men after that until she fell pregnant with me.” He sighed. “I don’t know why she kept me—it wasn’t a very sensible decision.”
“Why not?”
“She could not keep me with her and live as a man’s mistress, at his beck and call. But she didn’t want to live apart from me, so she went back to brothel work—that was when she started at the Golden Lily. It was a fancy place but still, she was servicing multiple men every day, exposing herself to all sort of risks.”
“And you grew up there? In the brothel?”
Kit nodded. “I think I told you before—my mother left me in Mabel’s care when she died. Mabel wasn’t what you’d call sentimental, but for some reason, she loved my mother, so she agreed to look after me.”
“Until you were sixteen,” Henry pointed out.
Kit looked faintly amused. “I had to earn my keep at some point. Even then, she treated me differently from the other whores. I was not made generally available to patrons of the house. She only offered my services to certain clients.”
Henry winced. He remembered his own discussion with the madam after he first saw Kit. “Christopher is a rare beauty. I am only offering his next contract to a very few select patrons.” She'd had several wealthy men vying to become his protector. When Henry’s bid had been accepted, he’d been triumphant.
Was that Kit’s idea of being looked after—being put to work in a brothel at sixteen? Repeatedly sold to the highest bidder?
Even as he had the thought, Henry was filled with self-loathing. Who was he to judge? He’d never questioned how Kit had become a prostitute, or doubted Kit’s eagerness to serve him. At the time, he had been only too happy to take him at face value—a beautiful, pliable young man with a seemingly endless appetite for pleasure. A man who was always available to Henry, never complaining.
A man who’d seemed to be free of any desires or thoughts of his own, and conveniently devoted to fulfilling Henry’s every whim.
How Henry now regretted not looking beyond Kit’s endlessly accommodating nature. Never questioning whether Kit really was as agreeable and obliging as he had seemed. He was so lost in these thoughts that Kit’s next words near passed him by.
“I like your boy, Freddy,” Kit said. “He seems to be a very decent young man.”
Henry blinked, startled by the sudden change of subject, then he smiled, his heart swelling with affection and pride. “He’s always been like that. Even as a very small boy, Freddy would always speak out when he thought something was wrong.”
“You raised him well,” Kit said. “When he came here, the day he rescued Clara, I was so absorbed with looking after her, that I didn’t even think to ask his name. I feel rather foolish that it didn’t occur to me how similar he looks to you when I first knew you. Tall and handsome and—”
Henry placed his fingertips on Kit’s lips, silencing him. “Please,” he said. “Do not say any more admiring things about Freddy.”
Kit’s laughter was muffled under his fingers, the vibrations ticklish. When Henry moved his hand away, Kit said, “I’ll restrict my admiration to his actions, then. He seems to be a man of action.”
“He is rather,” Henry admitted. “Growing up, he cared for nothing but horses and joining the cavalry.”
“Ah. Is that what he wishes to do?” Kit asked.
Henry sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. I’ve tried to persuade him to consider another path—hell, any other path, but it’s all he wants and every time we discuss the matter, we fight.”
“Why do you want him to consider another path?” Kit asked curiously.
“You may not have noticed,” Henry said shortly, “but life in the military is not exactly safe.”
“Is anything?” Kit asked carefully. “Life is… very unpredictable.”
Henry was quiet a moment, then he said, “My younger brother died in Portugal. My mother never got over his death.”
Kit stared at him a moment, then he reached his hand out and stroked a lock of hair back from Henry's face, his touch unbearably gentle. Henry wanted to press into his hand, like a cat, but somehow managed to hold himself back. They stared at one another.
At last, gently, Kit whispered, “You realise—I know you do—that it’s Freddy’s life. And that means, as difficult as it is for you to accept, it’s his decision to make.”
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out.
He thought of Freddy in Sharp’s tonight, bruised and dishevelled and absolutely calm. His boy—his energetic, happy, sometimes angry boy—who seemed to find the best part of himself whenever he was tested.
Kit was right. Henry knew he was right—and it made his heart feel like a lead weight.
He closed his eyes.
“Oh, Henry,” Kit said, his voice brimming with sympathy. He inched closer and his fingers stroked through Henry’s hair again. The tenderness of it was almost unbearable. Over the years, Henry had grown so used to being alone—in this way at least—that he had begun to think himself immune to isolation. It was galling to learn that all it took was a few brief gestures of affection to have him so undone.
“I just want to protect him,” he said hoarsely. “For him to be safe.”
“I know,” Kit said. “You’re a good father, Henry. But your boy is a man now, and he seems to me to be an independent one. I wager he’ll go his own way in the end, with or without your consent. Wouldn’t it be better to at least be able to help him, so far as you can?”
Henry shook his head mutely, but when he spoke, it was to agree. “I know you’re right,” he said. “But Kit—I’m afraid. I have lost a child before and it’s a terrible, terrible grief. I don’t think I can—” He broke off, unable to go on, unspeakably grateful when Kit put his arms around his shoulders and pulled him close.
Resting his forehead against Kit’s shoulder, he said in a muffled tone, “I’m supposed to be looking after you, not the other way around.”
“W
e can look after each other,” Kit said gently.
Henry pulled back a little, enough so he could meet Kit’s eyes again. He whispered, “I would like that more than anything, and not just for tonight, Kit.”
Kit just stared at him, wide-eyed.
Henry had balked at this fence earlier today, but now he gathered all his courage and made himself leap.
“The truth is,” he said shakily, “I still love you, Kit. Despite all the years that have passed.”
“Henry—” Kit shook his head mutely, as though denying Henry’s words.
“I know this is hasty and that it probably feels too soon to you," Henry added urgently, cupping Kit's cheek. “But I also know my own heart, Kit. And I want… I want something with you. A life, Kit. Together.”
Kit’s eyes welled with sudden tears, and he dashed them away with the back of his hand impatiently.
“We’re too old, and too much time has passed,” he muttered. “Our lives are different now. I’m different.”
“If you don’t love me, just—”
“It's not that!” Kit flashed back angrily, and despite his fury, Henry’s heart filled with elation.
“Do you then?” he pressed. “Do you love me, Kit?”
Kit groaned. “Yes, God help me, I do, but I’m”—he broke off and shook his head, frustrated—“I’m not the carefree boy you once knew. I have responsibilities, obligations. And so do you—you have children, Henry.”
“Grown children,” Henry replied. “Grown children who are living their own lives now.”
“But you are still their father. And I have a business—a scandalous business that you cannot afford to be associated with. I have Clara and Peter, and others who rely on me for their livelihoods.”
“You don’t need to worry about any of that,” Henry said gently. “I’m a very wealthy man, Kit. You don’t need—”
“No,” Kit interrupted. “One thing I am very sure of is that I am never going back to that.”
“To what?”
“To being kept.”
“It wouldn’t be like that,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t be keeping you. I would be providing for you. I provided for Caroline. It would be the same thing.”
“So I would be your wife?” Kit said flatly.
“No—yes.” Henry made an impatient sound. “Oh, I don’t know! I only know that I want you with me—the real you, I mean. Not a pleasure servant. I don’t want to be your master ever again, Kit. Hell, that’s the last thing I want!”
“If you keep me, or provide for me, or whatever you want to call it, I’ll be beholden to you. That’s what money does, Henry. I don’t want that. Never again.”
“But money shouldn’t matter between us,” Henry said. “We don’t even need to think about it.”
“You only say that because you have it,” Kit retorted. “But it does matter. Maybe not to everyone—maybe not to you, Henry. But it matters to me. I had too many years of being kept. I won’t live like that again. When I gave up the game, I promised myself I would never be financially dependent on another man again. I make my own way now.”
“God, Kit—” Henry said, but he didn’t finish the sentence. The fact was, he understood why Kit felt that way, given their history. And in truth, he too would prefer it if money never came between them again. He liked the proud, independent Kit who said whatever he wanted; who was brutally honest with Henry; who demanded things of him—hell, who could make Henry his slave if he wanted to.
Henry didn’t want dominion over Kit. He just wanted to be part of his life.
After a few moments, he said quietly, “It comes to this: I love you. I think I’ve always loved you. When I left you, my heart”—he paused—“I was going to say it broke, but it was more like it shrivelled. It closed in on itself, around the emptiness where you were meant to be. I don’t want to go back to living like that again, Kit. I want another chance with you. Just—tell me you’ll consider it.”
Kit went very still, his gaze tangling with Henry’s. “This is absurd,” he muttered. “To still feel like this—giddy as a boy, after all these years.”
Henry’s laugh was shaky. At least Kit admitted he felt giddy. That was something.
“Love’s not absurd,” he murmured, smiling.
Kit just sighed. “I’m old enough to know better. We both are.” He rubbed at his ear. “And my head aches like the devil.”
A pang of guilt speared Henry. “Hell, I’m sorry,” he said. “I said I’d look after you tonight, and here I am forcing you into a discussion you’re not fit to have. Why don’t you try to sleep now? I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
“I don’t think I can,” Kit admitted wearily.
“You can,” Henry encouraged. “Just close your eyes.” He stilled his own body and began breathing deeply, concentrating on being a calm, steady presence.
At length, Kit relaxed. His breathing slowed and became more regular until finally, he drifted into sleep.
Henry lay and watched him for a long time before he too closed his eyes.
21
Kit
When Kit awoke the next morning, it was to find Henry almost dressed.
“Are you leaving?” he croaked as he sat up, and Henry turned, seeming surprised to find him awake.
“I need to speak to Freddy,” he said. “He’ll probably have questions about last night.”
Kit nodded. The young man undoubtedly would have questions, and they would not be easy ones for Henry to answer—though he did not seem too worried.
As Kit watched Henry tie his cravat, he wondered if Henry remembered his foolish words of the night before. His sweeping declarations of love.
He was probably regretting them now, Kit thought bleakly.
Satisfied with his cravat, Henry adjusted his cuffs then crossed to the bed, perching beside Kit on the mattress. He leaned forward and smoothed Kit’s messy hair back from his brow. “I have not changed my mind about what I want,” he said, smiling gently. “Last night you told me you still love me, and I intend to find a way for us to be together. One we can both be happy with. It may take me a little while to persuade you, but I warn you, I plan to do it.”
Kit just stared at him, astonished.
Henry leaned forward and kissed Kit gently on the mouth, then rose from the bed.
“May I come back later?” he asked. “For supper, perhaps?”
Kit frowned. “Here?”
Henry chuckled. “If you don’t mind. I can come to the club, if you prefer.”
Kit bit his lip. He should not encourage this foolishness.
He opened his mouth to say something of that nature but somehow found himself instead saying, “All right. Seven o’clock?”
Henry’s smile was sweet. “I shall look forward to it all day.”
Kit would too, he realised, as he watched Henry depart. He would look forward to it far too much. It was terrifying how much he already wanted to see Henry again. Loving Henry had nearly destroyed him once—why was he even considering repeating that disaster?
Determinedly thrusting his unproductive thoughts aside, Kit got out of bed, wincing at the aches and pains that assailed him as he did so. Skelton had landed a good few punches and between those blows and falling to the floor, every bone felt bruised and aching.
For now, though, there were things to do, and the first of them was to speak to Clara. He needed to tell her about last night, and set her straight on a few things.
He washed up, gingerly tended his bruises with ointment, then dressed and went looking for Clara. He found her in the parlour downstairs with Peter, playing dominoes.
“I’m winning, Uncle Kit!” Peter announced excitedly when he entered. “Two games to one. But it’s best of five. Mama could still beat me!”
“Can I watch?” Kit asked, pulling up a chair.
“Yes, but you must be quiet,” Peter said, very seriously. He bent to study his tiles, and Kit met Clara’s gaze over his head.
She eyed his
bruises, frowning, but said nothing. She proceeded to lose the game quickly though, then sent Peter to the kitchens, saying he might have a biscuit, if cook let him. He trotted off happily, and Clara closed the door behind him.
“What happened to you?”
He told her all of it, holding nothing back.
“Oh, Kit,” she muttered when he was finished. “You shouldn’t have put yourself in that position… but I’m very grateful, I hope you know that.”
“I know,” he said, patting her hand. “You and Peter should be safe now.”
“Your plan worked then.”
Kit’s mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “Well, I believe my bringing Bartlett’s behaviour to public attention was certainly of some use, as was Lord Frederick Avesbury’s intervention, but in all likelihood, it’s Jake Sharp’s participation that will prove to be the most persuasive. I suspect he practically owns Bartlett's soul now.”
Clara bit her lip. “I don’t deserve you, Kit. I was so stupid to approach him.”
“Not stupid,” Kit said firmly. “I understand why you did it, my dear.”
Clara dashed away her tears with the heel of her hand.
“You need not worry about Peter,” Kit continued gently. “You know I regard the two of you as family, my dear. And since I have no other, and find myself a rather well-to-do fellow, you may take it from me that I will provide for Peter.” He smiled. "But since I know you do worry, I have decided to put a sum of money aside for Peter now. That way, you have the certainty of knowing that it’s there and it cannot be lost in future. I will put it into trust for him, to be held safe until he is old enough to take care of it.”
Tears brimmed in Clara’s eyes. “Kit, you are too kind. We cannot—”
“Yes, you can,” Kit said, patting her hand. “I want to do this, my dear.”
She squeezed his hand back, swallowing back her tears with effort. “Th-thank you,” she managed at last in a tight, emotion-filled voice.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 22
