by Ava March
At the concern in her voice, he said in a low tone that matched hers, “Yes. And not to worry, if anyone asks, I discovered this space all on my own.”
He had to flatten himself against the wall to allow her to pass. And then he was alone in the corridor.
Curling his fingers around the small knob, he slowly slid open the panel. A narrow band of light shined from the opening.
“Yes, sir.”
The words floated to his ears. Tristan’s voice.
Max’s stomach knotted into a tight fist. Yet still, he stepped forward and looked through the thin slot in the wall.
Chapter Five
Max’s gaze fell immediately onto Tristan who stood a couple of paces inside a bedchamber similar to the others Max had been in at the house. Given Max’s position in the corridor and his vantage point of the room, the slot in the wall must be near the corner. He could make out a portion of Tristan’s profile, just enough to know a placid smile curved his lips. Whereas he had almost a full-frontal view of the large man standing before Tristan and the erection tenting the placket of his trousers. The man’s arms were crossed over his broad chest, his attention pinned on Tristan.
A sour sensation invaded the tight knot of Max’s stomach. His fingers curled around the small knob as he resisted the urge to slide the panel closed, to block out the view before him.
A shrug of Tristan’s shoulders, and his dark brown coat slid to the floor. He reached up to unravel the knot of his cravat. He pulled the length of fabric from his neck then set to work on the buttons of his turquoise silk waistcoat.
Was it simply a by-product of the unsavory situation of watching another, or was it truly taking Tristan an unusually long amount of time to slip those buttons free? Or perhaps it was merely Max’s wishful thinking, hoping to see something, anything, to mark his time with Tristan as different from Tristan’s time with that other man. Some sort of proof Tristan had honestly wanted to be with Max.
The smile on Tristan’s lips did not waver, though. And finally, the waistcoat joined the coat and cravat at Tristan’s feet.
Tristan tugged his white shirt from the waistband of his trousers, pulled it over his head. Passed a hand over his hair, smoothing the ginger-blond length. Toed off his shoes. He made to unbutton the placket of his trousers. Before his fingertips could touch the fabric, the man reached out, jerked on the waistband. Buttons skidded across the floorboards. The trousers fell down Tristan’s legs.
“Stop dawdling. All of it. Off.” The man’s voice cut through the room.
Max swore he detected the barest of flinches grip Tristan’s bare shoulders.
Max’s jaw tightened, his throat tightened. Every muscle in his body went taut.
A pause, and Tristan lifted one foot then the other, stepping free of the ruined garment.
Gaze tracing Tristan’s bare body, the man walked around him, inspecting him like a horse at Tattersalls. Stopping behind Tristan, he leaned close to Tristan’s ear. Max couldn’t make out his words, just the indistinct sound of a deep voice.
Tristan looked over his shoulder, a familiar sinful smile curving his lips, eyes full of blatant invitation. “Are you certain you don’t want me to suck your cock? I’m quite good at it.”
That moment from their first evening together replayed in Max’s head. The smile, the half-lidded gaze, those words—I’m quite good at it.
Straightening, the man tugged at his own trousers. Erection jutting from the open placket, he moved to stand before Tristan. With a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, he pushed him to his knees. “Then do it.”
Those full lips, the ones that had kissed Max senseless, opened wide as Tristan leaned forward.
A wince squeezed Max’s eyes shut. He did not want to watch Tristan doing to another what Tristan had done with him. He had seen enough, heard enough, goddamn it. He did not need to watch another moment.
Opening his eyes, he made to take a step back but froze.
Hands plated on the man’s thighs, Tristan jerked back, trying to break free of the man’s hold on his hair and the cock in his mouth.
On a nasty growl, he released Tristan’s hair. Tristan coughed, gasped for breath. Fist clenched, the man raised his arm.
An unholy riot of rage roiled up from Max’s gut.
He turned from the wall. As he reached for the narrow door’s knob in the darkness, he heard the unmistakable sound of a fist impacting with flesh followed by a faint whimper of pain.
The next thing he knew, he was turning the knob of the bedchamber door. Clenching his hand in a mirror image of the goddamn bastard’s, Max raised his arm and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw.
“Keep your bloody hands off him,” Max growled.
Head snapping to the side, the man staggered back. “What the bleedin’ hell?”
“Max? No!”
A hand latched on to his right arm just as he raised it to slam into the man’s jaw again, to give him another lesson in what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a closed fist.
“Let go, Tristan,” Max got out through clenched teeth. “And stay back.”
In the moment it took Max to pry Tristan off of him, the man recovered his bearings. His eyes narrowed, his stance shifting, his weight rocking forward. “He’s a damn whore. I’ll do with him as I please.” The man lunged at Max.
They were of similar heights, though his opponent had more bulk on his frame. But Max had rage, fury, unadulterated anger coursing through him, noxious and vicious, adding power behind each punch and making him completely oblivious to the man’s blows.
Bastard. Bastard. The words repeated in Max’s head as he let loose with his fists. As he directed all the furious rage onto a single target. He was vaguely aware of Tristan shouting at him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop. That bastard had goddamn raised a fist to Tristan.
Strong, large hands grabbed at Max’s upper arms, jerked him back, breaking Max’s hold on the man as he was about to slam him into a wall.
“Stop this nonsense.” A woman’s voice. Firm and strong.
Max’s muscles vibrated with the need to spring back into action. With a harsh tug, he tried to break the hold of the man behind him, but those strong hands held tight, fingers digging into his biceps.
“You will stop. Now.” This time there was command, authority, in that firm voice.
Max gave his head a shake, tried to pull together the pieces of his self-control. Lungs laboring for air, he glanced about the room. Eyes wide with shock and chest working under the force of his short, panting breaths, Tristan stood a few paces away, near a chair that must have been overturned during the fight. Max kept his feet rooted to the floor, stopped himself from going over to check on him—Tristan was standing, after all, and didn’t appear to be bleeding—and instead he assessed the situation.
Including the one holding him, there were three burly guards, each well over Max’s own height, and one of which he recognized as the doorman who had admitted him to the house not a half hour ago. He could only surmise the woman in the scarlet silk gown, her blonde hair artfully arranged in a knot on her head, her necked draped with jewels, was Madame Rubicon. She appeared to be somewhere between forty and fifty years of age, and the irate glint in her kohl-rimmed eyes said she did not look kindly on gentlemen engaging in fisticuffs in her establishment.
“That man,” Max declared, pointing a finger at the bastard who was sporting a satisfyingly bloody nose, “hit Tristan. With a closed fist.”
“And how would you know that?” she asked.
“It is none of your concern. What is of concern is that one of your clients mistreated Tristan.”
“I did no such thing.” The man finished doing up the buttons on his trousers. A drop of blood fell from his chin, dropped to the floor. “That boy needs to learn some manners. He’s
not worth the money I paid for him.”
A growl filled Max’s chest, scraped his throat.
She passed a dismissive eye over Tristan. “He appears unharmed.” Then she leveled Max with a hard stare. “I will be the judge of what falls under my concern in my house.” Her gaze darted to the corner of the bedchamber, the very corner Max had stood behind.
He couldn’t recall if he had slid the panel shut. Even if he hadn’t, it mattered not to him.
But she did not question him further on that particular subject. “Tristan is an employee of this house. He was merely doing his job. A job he agreed to do, and clearly was not doing to the best of his abilities. I do not know what you believe you saw—” she emphasized the word, “—but it is not well done of you to interfere.”
“That man hit—”
“If Tristan believed himself in danger, he would have summoned a guard. Which he did not.” She flicked a glance to one of the guards. “Smith, please see the gentleman to my office and have a maid tend to his nose. I will be down shortly. My deepest apologies, sir,” she said, her expression softening as she directed her goddamned apologies to the last man in the room who deserved one. “Please be assured such an incident is not tolerated at this establishment, nor will it be repeated.”
That unholy riot of fury threatened to rise anew, and with it a heavy measure of frustration. Rubicon’s callous disregard for Tristan’s well-being was beyond appalling. Absolutely unconscionable. Max took a long breath, determined to remain in control of himself. Ranting like a fool fit for Bedlam would not rectify the situation. Only one thing would rectify the situation, ensure it was never repeated again.
As soon as the man left the room, a guard following on his heels, Max gave his shoulders another hard shrug. “Release me.”
A nod from Rubicon, and the guard behind him did as told.
Tristan might appear unharmed but that did not mean he was not hurt. Max had seen that man draw back his fist, heard the impact, felt the strength of those blows himself. Hell, he would not be surprised if he woke up tomorrow to find his ribs marked by a few ugly bruises.
He gave his waistcoat a tug to straighten it, centered the knot of his cravat and then crossed to where Tristan still stood by the overturned chair, arms crossed defensively over his chest and naked as the day he was born. Tristan’s attention was fixed on the floor, on a spot a few paces away. The faintest of trembles had seized his muscles, his skin far paler than usual.
Max unbuttoned his coat and took it off. “Here. Put this on,” he said, soft and low, like one would use to quiet a frightened horse.
A shake of Tristan’s head. “Just leave.” He had spoken quietly, for Max’s ears only, yet there was no mistake about it. That wasn’t fear in his voice, but humiliation, and the sound tore at Max’s chest.
“Sir—”
Max shot Rubicon a glance over his shoulder, one that had quelled many a man in the Lords. Then he turned the full force of his attention back to Tristan. “Put it on. Please.”
A frown tightened Tristan’s mouth. “I have my own clothes,” he mumbled under his breath. He snatched the coat from Max’s hand and did as asked.
“Did he hurt you?”
Chin tipping down, Tristan wrapped his arms back around himself. “No.”
A lie if ever Max heard one.
His coat looked huge on Tristan, dwarfing his lean frame, the sleeves a good few inches too long and covering his hands. Yet the sight of it on him eased the knot in Max’s gut just enough so it did not take all of his self-control to keep from wringing Rubicon’s neck with his bare hands.
Max dropped his head, putting him on eye level with Tristan, and lowered his voice even further. “Do you want to stay here?”
Tristan went still—even his breaths went still—except for those awful trembles. His gaze remained pinned to the floor. Just when Max began to fear Tristan wouldn’t respond, the man shook his head. Once. A single shake.
That was all Max needed.
He turned back to Rubicon. “Tristan does not wish to work for you anymore. He is coming with me.”
Her spine went ramrod-straight. If he had thought her eyes hard before, it was nothing compared to now. “You cannot simply take one of my employees.”
“You said he’d agreed to work for you. He no longer agrees. I will not allow you to hold him here against his will.” Burly guards be damned. If the madam attempted to force Tristan to continuing working at the house...
“I do not need to hold him against his will. Mr. Walsh and I have an agreement.” Max hadn’t a clue as to Tristan’s family name, but since they were discussing Tristan, Max could only assume she was referring to him. “He asked if I would be so kind as to settle his gambling debts, and I agreed on the condition he would remain an employee of this house. He still owes me a great deal of money, and therefore he will not be leaving with you tonight.”
Max did not bother to inquire after the sum before he made the decision. The amount mattered not. What mattered was getting Tristan the hell out of this house. “I will settle his debt to you. How much does he owe?”
Rubicon’s eyes briefly narrowed with a distinct note of greed. She lifted her chin, her demeanor changing from indignant resistance to that of a shrewd businessman. “If you take him tonight you will leave me with only one man who will accept gentlemen clients until a replacement can be found. Mr. Walsh is an exceptional individual, as I am sure you are well aware. It will be a difficult endeavor to find someone who can stand in his place. He has also already cost me one client tonight. A client who will likely never return. And you, sir, have threatened the good reputation of my establishment. It will cost me a great deal to placate the gentleman currently waiting in my office, ensure word does not get out about tonight’s incident.”
Max understood at once. “Tristan is leaving tonight. He will not return to this establishment. I will have a bank draft to the sum of twenty-five hundred pounds sent to you by tomorrow morning. I trust it will compensate you for the inconvenience and repay his debt. You will understand that I do not have the sum with me at the moment.”
He removed his gold pocket watch and diamond cravat pin, pulled out the remaining pound notes from his pocket, and held out every valuable on his person to Rubicon as proof of his ability to make good on his word.
“I will have your full name, sir.”
The veil of anonymity would be lost by the morning, as soon as she received the bank draft. If giving her his name now would help serve as collateral and save him the effort of trying to pummel past two burly guards with Tristan in tow, then so be it.
“Max Arrington.”
The edges of her lips tipped up the tiniest bit. She recognized his family name, knew exactly who he was. He could only trust she was a shrewd enough businesswoman to know abusing such knowledge would not be in her best interest.
A moment’s consideration, and Rubicon nodded.
Max did not give her the courtesy of a tip of the head. After dropping the valuables onto a side table, he grabbed Tristan’s clothes from the floor. With a protective hand on Tristan’s lower back, Max ushered him past the two remaining guards.
Once they were a few paces from the bedchamber, he asked Tristan, “What is the quickest way out of this house, preferably not through the front door?”
“Servants’ stairs to the back door. That way.” Tristan jerked his head toward a plain door marked with a steel knob versus the highly polished brass ones decorating the others in the corridor.
Neither Tristan nor Max said a word as they made their way down the stairs. As they neared the last step, Tristan stopped, his head turning toward an open door to the right, toward the sounds of a busy kitchen. The clank of a pot, the chatter of female voices, the rhythmic tap of a knife against wood.
“Here. Put these on.” Max he
ld out Tristan’s clothes.
As Tristan stood on the last step and tugged on his trousers, Max glanced about. The stairs ended in a small space lit by a serviceable lantern hanging from the ceiling, a closed door directly before them, the open one to the kitchen off to the right. The closed door likely led to an alley behind the house.
He much preferred to have his carriage brought round for Tristan. His driver would be up a few buildings beyond Rubicon’s, exactly where he had waited the last two instances when Max had visited the house. It wouldn’t take but a handful of minutes for Max to walk around to Curzon Street, but he was reluctant to leave Tristan alone for even a moment. He’d struck his bargain with the madam. She had let him leave the bedchamber with Tristan. Still, he couldn’t ignore the fear Tristan would be snatched away the instant Max turned his back on him.
“Your coat,” Tristan murmured.
Max took the proffered garment. In the time it took him to slip it on and do up the buttons, Tristan had his own shirt, waistcoat and coat on, displaying an efficiency he completely lacked back in that bedchamber. Then the man turned, as if to go back up the stairs.
“No.” Max’s arm shot out, blocking Tristan’s progress as he made to slip past him.
“My shoes, cravat. You left them in the room.”
“You can make do without them for the night.” The bare feet peeking from the hems of Tristan’s trousers and the shirt collar laying open, exposing his pale throat—not to mention the hand at Tristan’s waist, holding the placket of his button-free trousers in place—were the least of Max’s concerns.
“But—”
“You are not going back to that room. My carriage isn’t far. If the lack of shoes is a concern, I can carry you.”
An indignant scowl marred Tristan’s beautiful features. “I can manage on my own.”
“Good.” Max indicated the closed door. “Shall we?”
As they walked out of the house, Max’s senses went on full alert. The moon’s faint light, peeking from behind the night clouds, was enough to see by, but heavy darkness shrouded the backs of the buildings lining the alleyway. Mayfair wasn’t known for an overabundance of pickpockets and thieves. Still, Max placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, kept him close, his gaze sweeping their surroundings, guiding Tristan around shallow puddles and on the lookout for any sign of others in the alley.
