by Ava March
“Does he know I called? Did anyone give him my card?”
“I told him yesterday morning when I delivered breakfast that you had called and left your card. He did not respond, though he actually ate that breakfast. All of it. Perhaps he was simply unwell and felt better after he ate, but he always takes me when he travels. He did not even ring for me to pack his bag for him. He simply left. I thought he had gone to see you, but clearly that is not the case.”
Arthur could not ignore the sinking feeling his call had somehow prompted Thorn to leave. But why? “Could he have gone to Yorkshire?”
“Perhaps, but the distance and this time of year on horseback?” Jones shook his head. “I don’t believe so. He has always taken his traveling carriage. And I saw one of Lord Granville’s maids yesterday and managed to discover, without explicitly asking, that Mr. Thornton has not been by his father’s town house in over a week. It is possible he went to the family seat in Somerset, but still, quite the distance to travel on horseback.”
At a complete loss for what to do, Arthur stared out the bowfront window. He had never felt so powerless in all his life. God only knew where Thorn had gone and why. But Arthur knew one thing with absolute certainty—he had been the cause. His actions, and lack thereof, had driven Thorn to his bed for days, and for a reason known only to Thorn, his call had prompted his hasty departure.
Why in the name of all that was holy had he allowed Thorn to leave his apartments? Why ever had he thought it wise to wait two nights before calling on him? He was well aware Thorn did not deal with rejection well. Hell, he had been the one to pry that bottle of gin from Thorn’s shaking hand, his pale cheeks wet from more than the rain.
“I do not mean to cause you undue worry, Mr. Barrington, but I thought that since you are Mr. Thornton’s friend, you would want to be apprised of the situation.” The man spoke the word friend without a telling pause. Amazing, considering Arthur was now convinced Jones more than suspected the true nature of their relationship. Even more amazing, he had the impression it did not matter one whit to Jones.
“Thank you,” Arthur said with a nod. “Please inform me the moment he returns home or if you receive word from him.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Barrington.”
Chapter Eight
The woman took a step closer, her violet silk skirts brushing his legs, and slid her small hand up Arthur’s chest. “So strong.” She practically purred, the sound soft and slow as honey and designed to curl a man’s toes.
“Thank you,” Arthur said, carefully removing her hand from his chest. He looked over her blonde head and scanned the receiving room of Madame Delacroix’s for a third time. Damnation. No sign of Thorn. He had not wanted to spot the man on one of the velvet settees with a tart sprawled on his lap, but he damn well needed to find him.
“You needn’t look for another. I will gladly do anything you desire. And I cannot wait to wrap my lips around this.”
A hand palmed his prick through the placket of his trousers. Arthur could not stop the instinctive flinch. Must they always touch? He cleared his throat and removed her hand from his person yet again. “Thank you for the offer, but I am looking for an acquaintance. A Mr. Leopold Thornton. Do you know him?”
A smile curved her rouged lips. He did not care at all for the spark that lit her light blue eyes. “Yes, I have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
“Would you happen to know if he is here tonight or if he has been by of late?” Breath held, he waited for her response.
“I have not seen him for months. Pity that.” She gave a little shrug of a slim shoulder. “But I would like to see more of you.” Tracing one of the fabric-covered buttons on his waistcoat, she leaned closer and gazed up at him from under the fan of her lashes. “Come upstairs,” she implored, toying with that button as though impatient to tug it free. “Let me give you a night of pleasure you will never forget.”
Stepping back, he reached into his coat pocket. “I regret I must decline.” He caught her hand before she could reach for him again and pressed his last couple of pound notes into her palm. A tip of his head and he turned on his heel.
A burly footman shut the front door of Delacroix’s behind him. Arthur took a deep breath of cool night air, trying to rid the combined scents of arousal, sweat and sticky sweet perfume from his nose. After not getting a wink of sleep last night, he had decided to go search for Thorn himself. If he had to drag the man’s foxed arse from a whore’s bed, then so be it. But three brothels and two gambling hells later and his pocket fifteen pounds lighter, no one had seen Thorn for months.
He looked up the street and heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the worry and exhaustion that had been his constant companions of late. No way could he make it back to his apartments on foot. He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around the few remaining coins. Should be enough for a hackney to see him home.
As he hung his greatcoat on the rack in the corner of his parlor, Arthur took solace in the knowledge that he had not found proof Thorn had slipped back into his old habits. That, at least, was something. But the city held countless hells and houses of ill repute. For all he knew, Thorn could have gone to some molly house in the stews. He cringed at the thought of walking into one of those places.
“Can’t possibly check them all,” he mumbled to himself as he trudged across his parlor and into his bedchamber, the feeble moonlight seeping through the windows providing just enough light to keep the rooms from pitch darkness. He knew of the existence of such houses but did not know where to find them all. Just as he did not know where to find Thorn.
Desperate for some warmth to chase away the chill of the lonely room, he lit the fire in the hearth and poked at the flames until they roared to full life. Thorn had taken a saddlebag when he’d left the house. Perhaps he had left London altogether in his effort to avoid Arthur. The man could truly be anywhere. Arthur could search the countryside for days, weeks, even months in vain. Not that he had the luxury of leaving his office unattended for weeks or months. The afternoon appointment with His Grace had solidified that. But the news that he had indeed succeeded and could now include the Duke of Menteith in the ranks of his clients had not brought a bit of happiness to disturb the ever-mounting worry that clung to his every thought.
After resting the iron poker against the brick surround, he pushed to his feet and began to unbutton his coat. Perhaps it was best to remain in Town and wait for Thorn to return of his own volition. Even if Thorn did not intend to present himself at Arthur’s door again, Arthur felt confident Jones would send word the moment his master arrived home. Thorn had family and a town house in London. He could not be gone indefinitely.
Yes, he should remain in London and wait. It was the most prudent course of action. He draped his coat and waistcoat over the back of the wooden chair at his writing desk, then tugged on the knot of his cravat. And searching thus far had yielded no results. He needed to use what hours were left before dawn to get some rest, not spend them plaguing himself with questions only Thorn held the answers to.
But logic and reason could not wipe that image from his head of Thorn, soaking wet and on his knees before the liquor cabinet at Ramsey House. Bottles strewn about him, shoulders hunched and head bowed in utter misery.
A lance of searing pain sank into his chest, twisting deep, then flaring to encompass his entire being.
Knees threatening to buckle, he sat on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, the long length of his cravat hanging loose and forgotten about his neck. The thought that Thorn could be out there somewhere alone, his heart beyond broken and convinced Arthur did not want him…
Pain sliced into his chest again. What he would not give to go back to that night. To grab Thorn before he could reach the door and tell him he more than wanted him. That he needed him. Loved him.
Arthur let out
a groan, low and hoarse and filled with wretched despair.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed, eyes closed tightly against the hot sting of tears as the realization smacked into him. “You’re a goddamn fucking bastard.”
All Thorn had wanted was to be with him. What had been so wrong in that?
Nothing at all.
But Arthur had pushed him away. Had pushed away a man who would have loved him until the end of his days. He had been so afraid of repeating the mistakes he had made with Randolph. So scared of being left alone with a broken heart. Yet here he sat, alone, his heart howling in misery, and it was all his own doing.
He hadn’t loved Thorn as he deserved. Hadn’t treasured him or cherished him. He had been too busy looking for faults, bracing for Thorn to fail.
But in the end, he had failed Thorn. Absolutely and completely and in every way that counted.
Stilling his hand, Arthur lifted his head and looked to the closed door of his office. His heart lurched against his ribs. Had that been—
No. Merely wishful thinking and a too-tired mind playing tricks on him. A damn cruel trick, though.
With a shake of the head, he turned his attention back to the list on his desk. He added Dennett’s to the column of names. As that particular hell was located but a few blocks from his apartments, he had checked there on his walk into the office. Tapping the end of his pen against his desk, he racked his brain for any other hells or brothels he could add to the list to check this evening after his stop at No. 4 Bow Street. Runners were known to take on private assignments, and while there was no outstanding warrant for Thorn’s arrest, hopefully a thick enough fold of pound notes would entice one to search the stews. And if that search turned up empty, well, he would simply hire someone to search beyond London.
The door clicked open.
Frustration surged within. He looked up, intent on sending Fenton back to the man’s desk, but the words stopped in his throat.
“Afternoon, Barrington,” Thorn said, striding into the room, the length of his long dark greatcoat flapping about his calves. “If you would put the pen down, I need you to come with me.”
Arthur’s jaw dropped. He blinked. Thorn was here, in his office? Had he conjured the man by will alone?
“Where have you been?” The question that had filled his head for the past two days popped out as he greedily soaked up the sight of Thorn. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, a chunk of his black forelock grazed his lashes, and his gray eyes were pinned on Arthur. A sight Arthur had truly feared he might never see again.
Thorn stopped before his desk. “The pen, please. Put it down.”
“But—”
“I’ve already informed your secretaries that you are needed out of town and will return on Monday. Whatever you are working on can wait. Come with me.” Thorn turned on his heel with a curt, “Now.”
Unwilling to let Thorn out of his sight, Arthur scrambled to push from his chair. He made to round the desk, then reached back to grab the list and shove it into his pocket. Without a backward glance, Thorn strode through the anteroom of the office and out the door. After grabbing his greatcoat from the rack in the corner, Arthur hurried after him.
Thorn’s team of four stood waiting along Clifford Street, mere steps from the building that held Arthur’s office. Jones opened the door of the traveling carriage as Thorn approached. Arthur shoved his arms through the sleeves of his coat before following Thorn inside and taking up a place opposite him on the black leather bench.
The door snapped shut, then the carriage lurched forward.
For a long moment, he could do nothing but stare at Thorn. The man’s attention was fixed out the window in the narrow door, jaw set and arms crossed over his chest.
Arthur cast a quick glance about the carriage, noting the two valises on the floorboards. He did not recognize the black leather one with the polished silver buckles. Must belong to Thorn. The other one with the scuffs marring the brown leather he recognized as his own.
Thorn had stopped at his apartments and packed his bag while Arthur had been sitting at his desk, worried nearly out of his mind?
His gaze snapped back to Thorn, who continued to stare out the window as though he were the only occupant in the carriage. The man had not once glanced to him since they had left his office, let alone spoken another word. Nothing. No offer of an explanation for his abrupt appearance. No answer to Arthur’s question about where he had been or a hint as to where he was taking him.
His breaths quickened, hitching in his chest. The last week, with all its worry and fear and indecision and heartache. The calls to Thorn’s home, the visits to the brothels and the hells, and the sleepless nights. The ever-growing stacks of papers on his desk that he had barely made a dent in of late and the devastating realization that he had failed Thorn. It all blended together, forming a noxious riot that built stronger and stronger with each passing second. With each rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves against the street. Until his muscles fairly vibrated under the force of it. Until he could not contain it another instant.
“Where have you been?” The question cracked across the distance separating them.
Without a change in his expression, Thorn turned his head to finally look at him.
“Do you have any notion how worried I’ve been about you?”
For that, he received a roll of Thorn’s eyes. “Don’t exaggerate, Arthur. It’s wholly unnecessary.”
“Don’t exaggerate?” A part of his brain was aware he shouted, yet he didn’t give a damn if all of London heard him. “I have been worried sick about you.”
“I would have thought you would have been thankful for my absence. It left you undisturbed to see to your office.”
Arthur flinched. “Is that what you truly believe? That I would be thankful you disappeared for days without a word to anyone?” Yet why wouldn’t Thorn? Arthur had certainly not given him any cause to believe otherwise. But having another shining example of how he had failed the man he loved shoved in his face did nothing to calm the pulse hammering through his veins. “Do you have any idea of the lengths I have gone to try to locate you? On your next visit to Ramsey House, you’ll find the note I sent via express post this morning pleading with you to contact me. I spent last night traipsing about the city in search of you. Would you care to know where I went?” Yanking the list from his pocket, he tossed it at Thorn. “Hell, I even planned to hire a Runner this evening to track you down. How dare you sit there so unaffected when I was worrying your body would turn up in some gutter in St. Giles.”
Thorn picked up the rumpled list from where it had landed on the bench beside him. “You were worried?” Cynicism drenched the question.
Arthur threw up his hands. “For Christ’s sake, yes. I love you. How could I not worry?”
Thorn went utterly still. He did not lift his gaze from the partially unfolded note. “You love me?”
“Yes.” Hadn’t he just said that?
Brow furrowed, Thorn pursed his lips and went back to looking out the window. The sound of paper crinkling filled the interior of the carriage as he closed his fist around the note. “When did you decide that?”
He deserved Thorn’s doubt. Still, it hurt. “When I couldn’t find you. It’s just… I was…” The tension broke from his spine, his entire body slumping as the anger drained out of him. Letting out a sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck. The time had come to try to explain, to apologize, to lay himself at Thorn’s feet. He had lain awake last night praying for this very opportunity, and now that it was before him, he refused to allow the distinct possibility of receiving another bugger off from Thorn to stop him. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I wanted us to work. I wanted us to last, yet a small part of me was afraid. I knew if you broke my heart, it would… Well, hurt would not even begin to cover it. It had been hard enough getting over Randolph. But you?” He s
hook his head. “I severely doubted my ability to recover. So I held back. I waited. I guess you could say I was waiting for you to tire of me, to take up with someone else, to fall back into your old habits. And when you began to get…restless, I took it as proof my worries were not unfounded. I should have known, though, but I’m a blind fool. I caused that restlessness, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know what you are referring to,” Thorn replied, all indignant condescension, but he couldn’t hide the defensive note lurking in his voice.
“Yes you do,” he said gently. It had been no coincidence that as the hours behind his desk had grown longer, Thorn had grown more aggressive. Something he could see quite clearly now and something he should have recognized weeks ago, but he had allowed work to consume him and in the process almost lost Thorn. Well, he hoped almost. Thorn had come back for him. Surely that meant the man had not given up on him completely. “I want more than your mouth on my prick, Thorn. I want to be with you because I enjoy being with you.” Hell, now he sounded like a simpleton. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he tried again to explain why Thorn meant so much to him. “I love coming home and finding you waiting for me. I love knowing that you think of me when we’re apart. I love just being with you. The way you listen without passing judgment, the way you put up with my boring self, the way you make me look forward to tomorrow because I want to spend another day with you. I love you, Thorn. Please believe me. I know I have given you every cause to doubt me. I have acted the arse more times than I care to admit. But you have my word I will not act the arse again.”
“Your word? You’ve already broken it twice, Barrington.” Not Arthur, but Barrington. “Why should I trust you now?”
“Because I love you.” It was the only answer he could think to give. The only proof he had to offer. He’d already shown himself to be a liar and a self-absorbed fool who had refused to cherish Thorn when he’d had him. He could only hold on to the hope that Thorn could find it within his heart to trust him again.
