“Oh yes?” Balfour said. “What is it?”
“It’s a rather...interesting post. In India. Madras.” He paused, then added, “I’ll be there for quite a few years. It’s the sort of role that demands a degree of commitment.”
Balfour frowned, seeming puzzled. “Are you joining the East India Company?”
Iain considered that. “It’s more of a government position, although not an official one. I’ll be using an assumed name...” He trailed off.
Balfour’s gaze flickered, and Iain saw that he understood. “An agent?” he said. “A dangerous business, that, Sinclair. Do you even know what would be expected of you?”
Iain shrugged. “Does it matter?”
On the other side of the table, Lauriston made a noise of mingled disbelief and irritation. “Of course it matters,” he snapped. “What if you’re asked to do something morally repugnant?”
“I would be there on a mission,” Iain replied evenly, as though the idea didn’t bother him at all, though in truth it was something that he’d lain awake thinking about. “Sometimes, completing a mission requires one to follow orders one doesn’t like.”
Lauriston opened his mouth to reply, but Balfour spoke first. “You’re going to take this post, then?”
“Yes. I plan to. I’ve booked my passage.”
“You plan to? You don’t sound entirely sure.”
“No, I am sure. I’m going. Only—”
“Only?”
How to put into words what he’d determined in his own mind this very day? That somehow he couldn’t go until he and James had looked one another in the eye and James had forgiven him, and wished him well, and they were friends once more.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that I’m off to Hampshire next week.” He smiled. “I don’t think it’ll feel real until I return.”
Balfour considered that. He had a sceptical look about him that made Iain feel nervous.
“What takes you to Hampshire?” Balfour asked at last.
“A house party. The hosts are family friends—Sir Edward and Lady Porter.”
“I’m acquainted with Sir Edward,” Balfour said. “A very good sort. How do you know him?”
“It’s Lady Porter I know, actually—Kate’s mother and mine were born in the same village. They were friends when they were girls. Then Kate and my sister Isabel became particular friends at the ladies’ seminary they attended, and our families got into the habit of visiting each other every summer.” He found himself adding, almost helplessly, “I became quite friendly with Kate’s brother, James Hart.”
It was a strange relief to say his name aloud, to recognise James’s existence in words, but when Balfour’s gaze narrowed, he knew he’d been unwise.
“James Hart?” Balfour echoed, frowning. “Wasn’t that the name of the fellow who accosted you in Redford’s that time?”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Balfour remembered. Iain had realised how very badly he’d betrayed himself that night, and Balfour was not a man to forget something like that.
For an instant, Iain toyed with the idea of lying—claiming that Balfour was thinking of someone else. It would be an easy thing to do. James was a common enough name. But he didn’t. He—couldn’t. Couldn’t deny James’s existence. Instead, he found himself nodding and saying, “Yes, that was him.”
“You were quite exercised that evening,” Balfour said. “I recall you were not happy about him turning up at Redford’s.”
“No,” Iain admitted, rubbing uncomfortably at the back of his neck. “I wasn’t happy to see him.” He paused, then added defensively, “Should I have been? He was little more than a boy then, and Redford’s is a den of iniquity.”
“A den of iniquity?” Balfour sounded amused.
“It is!” Iain protested. “Have you forgotten what goes on in that back room?”
“No, but I’m surprised to hear you speak of it in those terms—you always headed straight for the back room when I saw you there. Besides he didn’t look that young.”
“He was but three-and-twenty!”
“Three-and-twenty?” Balfour repeated. “Hardly a boy. A man’s full-grown at three-and-twenty. Hell, I was three years younger when I first visited Redford’s.”
“Yes, well, James was probably greener at three-and-twenty than you were at sixteen,” Iain grumbled, “so it’s hardly the same thing.”
Balfour chuckled. “You were certainly perturbed to see him,” he said. “You dragged him out so quickly, I doubt his feet touched the ground.”
Iain felt his cheeks warm. “Of course I was perturbed,” he said. “I went out looking for a man to warm my bed and instead—” He broke off, unsure how to finish that sentence while Balfour canted his head to the side and watched him, curious as a cat. After a long pause, Balfour’s puzzled expression cleared with understanding.
“I recall you were arguing that night,” Balfour murmured. When Iain didn’t contradict him, he added, “Have you spoken to him since?”
God damn the man’s perception.
Iain studied the wine in his glass. “No. But I’ll see him in Hampshire next week.” He paused, then glanced up. “I’m hopeful we can repair our friendship before I leave England.”
Balfour’s silent gaze was far too knowing.
At length, he said, “I remember that night at Redford’s well. It was the same night I decided to return to Edinburgh, to seek David out again. The same night I realised I couldn’t stay away from him another moment.” He glanced at Lauriston then, and Iain did too. David Lauriston wore a curious look. Perhaps this was a story he hadn’t heard before.
“I thank God for that night,” Balfour said softly, his gaze locked with Lauriston’s, and Lauriston smiled.
Iain looked away from them, swallowing. He felt nothing like Balfour did about that night. In fact, he felt sick whenever he remembered what he’d said to James. How James had looked as Iain’s hateful words had tumbled out of his mouth.
Why do you have to ruin everything with this—this ridiculous, childish devotion! Don’t you see that it’s absurd?
Iain wished he could look back on that night as Balfour did, with gratitude, but he could not.
Only with the coldest and most bitter regret.
Chapter Five
Then: 1815
24th March, 1815
Wylde Manor, Derbyshire
James was not looking forward to his sister Marianne’s engagement party. His parents had decided to invite numerous friends and family to Wylde Manor for a weeklong house party with a formal ball for Marianne and Thomas on the Friday evening. The Sinclairs were invited, of course. They were invited to Wylde Manor at some point every year, and this time it looked as though Iain, whom James hadn’t seen since he’d joined the army two years before, was going to be able to come. Until bloody Napoleon had to go and escape from Elba, and Britain declared war again, and it looked as though Iain wouldn’t make it after all.
There were worse things than Iain missing the party, of course, such as the fact that it looked as though Iain would be going into battle, and soon. Even though James suspected Iain relished the thought of seeing such action firsthand, the thought made James’s stomach twist up. Far preferable to resent the army for not allowing Iain to come to Wylde Manor than to imagine him being bayoneted, or shot from his horse.
The guests arrived in dribs and drabs over the course of the week. Mrs. Sinclair and her two unmarried daughters arrived on the Monday. Mr. Sinclair was not with them. “Indisposed,” his wife remarked briefly, seeming not much bothered—James knew that was a reference to the man’s drinking, which he’d heard his parents whispering about from time to time. What did bother Mrs. Sinclair was the absence of her younger son, whom she’d desperately hoped to see. But it seemed that the generals hadn’t yet decided what to do with his regiment, and so he had to stay where he was for now.
And then, on the night of Marianne’s engagement ball, as James was slouching at the edge o
f the dance floor, a familiar voice murmured behind him, “You look bored out of your mind, Jamie. Why aren’t you dancing?”
James whirled round, his grin splitting his face before he’d even seen the owner of that voice.
“Iain!” he cried happily. “I didn’t expect to see you!” He clapped his friend on the shoulder, and his smile grew even larger, helplessly stretching so that his face ached with it. “God, it’s good to see you!”
Iain grinned back. He was much bigger than he had been last time James had seen him. He was nineteen now, to James’s sixteen, and his rangy build had filled out. In his scarlet uniform, he looked impossibly handsome. James found himself drinking in the sight of his friend, his gaze moving restlessly up and down.
“You look—”
Iain appeared amused at whatever it was he saw on James’s face. “What? Exhausted? I must admit, I’ve barely slept these last two days getting here.”
“Not at all! You look ready for anything.”
Iain smiled, but there was a shadow in his eyes. “I’m afraid I won’t be here long—two days at most. I’ve got to be back in London by Tuesday next. My regiment leaves for the Continent the following day.”
James tried to smile against the crush of disappointment. “So soon?”
“I’m afraid so. We’re at war.”
James swallowed against the lump that rose in his throat. “Well, at least you’re here now,” he said faintly.
“Yes.”
They gazed at each other, till James’s mother floated over, distracting Iain by exclaiming over his uniform. She was swiftly followed by all of James’s sisters and their friends. After all, they had a dashing cavalry officer in their midst now, and James was quickly sidelined.
Iain’s next few hours were taken up with gushing females batting their eyelashes at him, hanging on his every word and shamelessly angling to be danced with. Every now and again, Iain sent James an apologetic look, but James didn’t mind, not really. It was good just to know he was here. And that tomorrow, James could spend the whole day with him. They could take one of the boats out on the lake and fish, or go for a ride, or maybe a long walk over the hills. It didn’t matter what they did, so long as Iain was with him.
Instead of vying for Iain’s attention, James set about doing his duty by the young ladies, and pleasing his mother, with renewed vigour. He signed dance card after dance card, committing himself to nearly every set. He was a surprisingly good dancer given how little he enjoyed it, and a popular partner among the younger ladies.
It was only after he was coming off the dance floor, following a particularly vigorous Scotch Reel, that he realised he hadn’t seen Iain in a while. He glanced round the ballroom, but there was no sign of him at all.
“Have you seen Iain?” he asked Isabel, Iain’s older sister.
“Not for ages,” she replied. “He might’ve gone for a nap—apparently he only had a few hours’ sleep last night. He looked pretty well exhausted.”
That was true. James moved away, gaze searching the room, but no, there was no Iain to be seen. As it happened, he had a couple of sets free now, and he wondered if he dared escape, just for half an hour or so.
It was easy enough to slip out of the ballroom and sneak into the drawing room that led out onto the veranda and the garden beyond. It was as he was trying to escape through the veranda that he came unstuck.
A body emerged from the shadows, surprising a gasp out of him.
It was Kate. “Where do you think you’re going, James Hart?” she demanded. Back in the ballroom, the six-man “orchestra” began to wheeze out another tune.
He didn’t bother trying to manufacture an excuse. Kate wouldn’t wear it. “I can’t bear another minute,” he said honestly. “I just need to get out for a breath of air. I’ll be back soon.”
“For goodness’ sake, all you need to do is dance a few steps and bow occasionally! The last thing we need is you vanishing—there aren’t enough men as it is, now that Iain’s already disappeared.”
“Yes, well, he probably needs to sleep after nearly killing himself getting here,” James said loyally. “As for me—oh, Kate, I just need to escape for a tiny bit. I promise I’ll be back in half an hour at the most.”
“Mother will be looking for you,” Kate pointed out.
James considered that, eyes narrowing. “Hmm. Well, I’m probably not the only one. What are you doing out here anyway?” He looked around, suspicious now. Had someone else been out here with her?
Kate flushed betrayingly, then threw her hands up in the air. “Fine,” she declared. “Go and get some air, but don’t be long.” Then she stalked off, leaving him alone on the veranda.
He watched her go, stifling a laugh, knowing his sister had been up to something. For a moment he was tempted to go after her and tease it out of her, but ultimately, the pull of the outdoors was more alluring, and he set off, running all the way to the bottom of the main garden, just because he could, and because it felt good.
When he got to the end of the garden, his dancing slippers were soaked from the wet grass, but he didn’t care, just leaned on the fence and looked out over the little manmade lake his grandfather had created fifty years before, James’s favourite place on the whole estate.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just looking out over the water, or when he became aware of the presence of others nearby. At first all he heard was a low chuckle of laughter, then the murmur of voices—two at least, or were there three? However many there were, the voices were male, the husky laughter they shared, low and intimate—and growing nearer. James didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. He stepped back into the shadow of one of the willows that ringed the lake, hiding himself, and waited for the owners of those voices to materialise, searching his shadowy surroundings with his keen scientist’s gaze.
They emerged at last from a clump of trees twenty yards away, two figures, walking side by side. Their shirts blazed white in the darkness making James frown with puzzlement till they drew nearer and he realised they’d been swimming. The wet linen clung to their torsos, and both of them carried some bundled-up clothing under their arms.
It was Iain. Iain and, of all people, Mellick, one of the grooms. Laughing together—like equals.
James realised they were going to pass the willow he stood under. He stepped back, even further into the shadows, moving slowly and carefully so as to make no noise, obscuring himself behind the solid arching trunk of the old tree.
They didn’t notice him, just walked on, still murmuring to each other, chuckling softly now and then.
After a little while, James realised where they were going—they were making for the boathouse, growing more careful as they drew closer to the ramshackle building, both of them looking around several times before, one after the other, they entered, and the door closed behind them.
From his place in the shadows, James felt as though his breath had got stuck in his throat. Only when the two men were out of sight behind that closed door did he manage to gasp a breath. He knew what this was, or he thought he did, and now he was feeling too many things all at once. Curiosity and excitement, and anger too, that Iain had wanted this more than he wanted to be with James tonight.
But of course, this was different.
He’d suspected as soon as he’d caught that first glimpse of them emerging from the trees, heard the soft, intimate music of their voices. James might have no experience himself, but he’d heard about men who indulged in...unnatural desires. Men who did the very things that he spent hours in his bed at night trying to imagine while he stroked his aching prick.
He would never have thought that Iain would want this, though. Iain, who was so manly and vigorous. Iain, who was the most bruising horseman James knew, who could bowl anyone out at cricket. Iain, who could run faster, climb higher, swim more strongly than anyone.
Without consciously deciding to do it, James found himself walking slowly towards the boathouse, his steps
carefully silent. He knew these paths like the back of his hand, had been walking them since he was a tiny boy collecting tadpoles in spring, and he made no sound as he approached the wooden structure that housed the rowing boats for the lake.
Silently, he drew closer to the single, small window. A faint glow from within told him they’d lit a candle, a reckless decision since, even standing a couple of paces back from the glass, James could make out the two men inside as they came together.
They put their arms around each other so that they stood chest to chest, and then their lips were meeting—
They were kissing each other.
James’s chest ached. He couldn’t even put a name to the feelings that rushed through him at the sight of Iain Sinclair in Mellick’s arms, kissing him with the same heated passion that James had seen between the upstairs maid and the second footman when he’d walked in on them in the stables last summer.
On the one hand, the realisation that Iain did this—this thing that James wanted to do so very badly—was like some great door of possibility opening wide.
On the other...he felt almost sick with the pain of witnessing Iain doing this with someone else.
And alongside those mingled feelings of excitement and pain, there was something else, something infinitely more physical. The crawling, insistent rise of his own arousal.
James watched, dry-mouthed, as Iain stepped back from Mellick and whipped his shirt over his head in a flash of white, revealing the broad line of his shoulders and the perfect planes of his smooth, pale back. When he stepped forwards again, he took Mellick’s face into his hands and drew him into another passionate kiss.
Oh, Jesus in heaven.
James pressed the heel of his hand over his stiffening cock, the satin of his evening breeches smooth against his skin. He shuddered and bit his lip. He was going to lose himself right here, watching this.
After another minute or so of kissing, Mellick drew his head back, flashed Iain a grin, and dropped fluidly to his knees, busying himself with unfastening Iain’s breeches while Iain rested one hand on Mellick’s shoulder in a gesture that struck James as unexpectedly tender. He’d heard men talk about sodomites, and they always made the act sound appalling. Violent and brutal. Someone being made to bend and take it. Pain and shame. Who could ever want that?
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