A Soul's Worth

by T. S. Barnett

  “I have business to discuss with him, but I don’t think he’d accept an invitation to my home nor admit me to his. Consider it a favor?”

  “Very well. But only if you promise to bring along those Irishmen of yours. I caught that lout with the scarred eye trying to peek down Lady Turnbull’s neckline at the masque. I’d like to get to know him better.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of leaving them behind,” Warren assured him, and they bid each other good day before he hung up the line.

  “What’s your business with someone who won’t let you in his ‘ome?” Ben asked, causing Warren to turn with a bit of a start. The taller man was drying his hair with a soft towel hung over his bare shoulders, twisting his head to shake a bit of water from his ear.

  “I think he might be the one who had that man break in.”

  Ben paused. “So...what kind of business are you going to discuss with him? If you’ve any proof, I could go and give him what for, you know. In a legitimate constabulatory sort of way.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out. He’s just a businessman. The last thing we need is getting the authorities involved in our personal business. Any more than a certain constable is already fairly involved in my personal life,” Warren teased, earning himself a small smile. He moved to stand in front of Ben, trailing a finger down the other man’s damp chest and hooking it into the top of his trousers. “Are you ready for this afternoon?”

  Ben shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be ready to sit down to tea with the woman you’re going to marry? It sounds like a grand time.”

  Warren only smiled up at him, tugging him gently by his waistband. “Shall I prove to you how little she’s on my mind?”

  “You gave me your word,” Ben reminded him. “What other proof could I possibly need?”

  “What a shame you’ve just had a shower,” Warren said with a thoughtful hum and he slipped his finger free from Ben’s trousers, walking casually toward the master bedroom. “I was just considering it myself.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Ben said, but he smiled as he followed his lover back through the bedroom and into the still-steamy bathroom.

  Warren turned on the water and kept his back to the other man as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, glancing over his shoulder as he let it slip to the floor. He couldn’t help his smirk as Ben’s lips touched his bare shoulder, his hand brushing past the smaller man’s waist to trail idly over his stomach, but he flinched slightly when Ben’s fingertips found the scratches in his chest.

  “What’s this?” Ben asked, turning the redhead around to face him. “What’s happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing serious,” Warren assured him. “I woke up like this. I must have had some sort of nightmare, but I don’t remember.” He was so accustomed to lying to Ben by now that it was second nature. A lie like this was easy.

  “You did this to yourself? Christ, Warren.”

  “It doesn’t hurt. Don’t bother about it.”

  Ben frowned at him, gingerly touching the skin just below the tender marks. “How am I supposed to protect you if the one hurting you is you?” he asked softly, bending to touch a kiss to Warren’s lips.

  Warren chuckled against Ben’s lips. “You’re protecting me, are you? And here I was thinking I was the one keeping us safe.”

  “Well, I keep the streets safe,” Ben defended himself with a smile. “And I must admit it’s a bit easier to keep things going smoothly on the Heolstran road now that the Travers have found more legitimate employment. Not that I like them being here either,” he added. “One of them can’t open his mouth without saying something crude and sleeps on the chaise with his hand down his trousers in the middle of the day; the other stares at you like a snake and burns holes in the dining room table. And they’re both drunks.”

  “Was he doing that again? I’ve asked him not to,” Warren sighed.

  “Which one?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “You still trust them to keep you safe? More than you would me? Why didn’t it ever occur to you to hire me on as a bodyguard? Isn’t that a better cover than a family friend?”

  Warren shook his head. “It did occur to me. But I won’t have you pretending to be my servant, Ben. Besides, I need someone I can count on to keep a cool head. If something happened to me in the city, could I trust you to react like my employee and not my love? You know how you are; you’d be weeping by the time the doctors arrived.”

  “I do not weep,” Ben insisted, thumping the smaller man with a sharp flick to his bicep.

  Warren smiled up at him. “Am I going to have to put you in the shower myself?”

  Both men were clean and pressed and presentable by the time the front bell rang, despite their extended lingering under the hot water. Cam led Elizabeth into the parlor, where Warren and Ben waited, and they both stood as she entered.

  “You must be the secret I’m to keep,” she said with a cool smile as she offered Ben her hand. If she was put out by the brevity of his bow, she didn’t show it.

  “Ben Cartwright,” he said.

  “I’m Elizabeth Trentham. A pleasure, Mr. Cartwright,” she said as she took her seat across from them. “Good to see you again, Warren. Everything seems to be going well on my end. I sent a telegraph to my father; he seems very pleased. He wants to meet you, of course, but he’s hardly well enough to come, and I wouldn’t make you take a trip all the way to America for the sake of this venture.”

  “I appreciate that, as I would be very unlikely to go,” Warren chuckled. “Wakefield’s invited us for dinner on Saturday. Will you come?”

  “I suppose I must,” she sighed, leaning out of the way as Cam set down a tea tray. “Just tell him to keep his distance, will you? I find his company very wearying.”

  “Perhaps we’ll develop you some chronic illness or other so that you can stay at home as often as you please.”

  Elizabeth smirked faintly. “Shall we discuss a date? Fall weddings are fashionable and would give us enough time to dispel any rumors of you having gotten me into trouble, but would delay our overall plan. As it is now June, I suggest mid-August, so that we might have time to organize an event without needless postponement.”

  “That’s fine,” Warren said, leaning back on the chaise and waving his hand dismissively. “I leave it up to your best judgment.”

  “That’s probably best,” she said blithely. “How many people shall you want to invite? We should limit the numbers; I won’t waste money on feeding and entertaining half of London.”

  “Why don’t you decide how many people you’re inviting, and I promise to invite fewer than that?”

  “Excellent. My father will—unfortunately—be unable to attend, and I know very few people in London so far. What about your family? Have you told them about your happy news? Perhaps they even know the truth?”

  Warren hesitated. He used to write to his mother periodically, telling her all of the drudgery Sir Bennett was putting him through. Sir Bennett hadn’t wanted to give him money to send telegraphs and had rarely allowed him free use of the telephone, but he could sneak the postage for himself. Now her last three letters sat unopened on his desk. He wrote to her once to tell her of Sir Bennett’s passing, and to assure her that he wouldn’t need to return home, but that was some time ago. He would never have considered telling either of his parents about Ben, but his mother at least deserved to know that he was alive and well—and soon to be married. She would cry, surely, and his father would shake his hand precisely once and ask him for some money.

  “I’ll tell them when it’s done with,” he decided, avoiding Ben’s gaze.

  “As you like,” she said. “Do you have any preference at all concerning decorations? I don’t imagine you do, and truthfully neither do I, but the decisions must be made regardless of interest.”

  “I’m quite certain you have better taste than I do, since I wasn’t even aware there was an unfashionable side of Belgrave Square,” Warren chuckled.

>   “I’ll consult you if need be,” Elizabeth promised. “As far as announcements—”

  “You two are quite chatty about all this,” Ben cut in, drawing both pairs of eyes to himself. “You are aware that you’re getting married, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a business agreement, Ben,” Warren said, reaching over to touch his hand.

  Ben pulled his fingers away from Warren’s grip with a frown. “That’s the taste I can’t get out me mouth. Marriage isn’t an arrangement, is it? Is that what it’s come to?”

  “You’d prefer I actually fell in love and married someone else? This is what I promised you. It’s just for show. Be reasonable, please. These are things that have to be decided. We’re lucky to have found someone like Elizabeth; she’ll move in as agreed, and then we’ll each mind our own business unless we have to make an appearance together for this or that.”

  “I understand your feelings, Mr. Cartwright,” Elizabeth said, “but please understand mine in return. I have no intention of disrupting whatever marital bliss already exists between you two; I am firmly of the opinion that any husband I had should have no place in my business, so I may as well have one who has one of his own. If he has a husband of his own, in turn, then all the better for me to be left in peace when it comes to wifely duties real or perceived.”

  “So I’m just to sit at home all secret-like, actin’ a friend, while the two of you go to parties?”

  “Honestly, Ben,” Warren sighed. “What is the alternative?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Not my decision in any case,” he added with a touch of bitterness. “Do what you like. Just keep your promise,” he said grimly, and he ignored Warren calling his name as he stood and left the room.

  “He’ll come around,” Elizabeth said, and Warren shook his head.

  “He wants me to say that I won’t do it if it bothers him so much. But I can’t do that.” He gave her a small, weary smile. “I’ll at least try to make sure you don’t have to overhear the inevitable rows that will come once you move in. Hopefully they’ll be brief. I think you could actually get on if he wasn’t so stubborn.”

  “I’m not very sentimental, Warren,” she said, and she shushed him when he put a hand to his heart in mock surprise, “but it’s obvious that he’s only afraid. Once he understands that I’m really not a threat, he’ll be fine. Perhaps we should get something in writing? Would that make him more comfortable?”

  “God, no,” Warren laughed. “The last thing I need is written proof that I’ve entered into a sham of a marriage. He’ll come around, I suppose. Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Warren glanced over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door before he leaned forward on the chaise to pour them each a cup of tea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The autocar was a bit cramped on the way to Wakefield’s dinner, with Elizabeth squeezed in beside Warren and the twins across from them taking up most of the leg space. Owen sat across from Elizabeth, and he smirked and winked suggestively at her while they bumped along the road, but she only sighed through her nose and watched the street go by out the window.

  The twins got out of the autocar first, and Warren stepped out to offer Elizabeth his hand. She smiled politely at him in thanks as she stepped down onto the pavement, and they walked together to Wakefield’s door. Warren greeted Wakefield’s butler by name as they entered, and their host sniffed them out within moments, approaching Warren with open arms and lifting him off his feet in a hug.

  “So glad you could make it,” he said brightly, and he gave Elizabeth a deep bow and lightly kissed her knuckles once she allowed him access to her hand. “Miss Trentham, you are positively aglow. So excited to hear about your upcoming nuptials.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wakefield.”

  “Come along. We must show you off.” Wakefield urged Warren forward by his shoulder, only pausing long enough to allow Elizabeth to take her fiancé’s arm.

  Wakefield walked them around the room and called out to anyone who would listen that the happy couple had arrived, clapping along with his guests when someone called out, “Come on, give us a kiss!” This was precisely the sort of thing that would only be acceptable at a party thrown by a man like Wakefield, and not in more conservative circles. Warren wondered briefly if he shouldn’t make an effort to be more accepted in situations that wouldn’t lead to him kissing women in front of strangers.

  Warren held up a hand, feigning shyness or propriety, but Wakefield elbowed him with a nod, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully. With a short sigh that he hoped went unnoticed, Warren turned to Elizabeth and inched toward her. She only tilted her head slightly in anticipation, restrained amusement on her lips, and he narrowed his eyes at her. He gave her a brief kiss, lightly brushing her cheek with his fingertips in a mimicry of affection, and he nodded and laughed as he should in response to the joking cheers that followed.

  He spent most of the evening being congratulated, but as soon as he spotted Callaway across the room engaged in conversation with a small circle, his eyes barely left him. He had spent every spare evening since that first with Simon down in the cellar with his guard, practicing his blood magic on any unfortunate stray animals that had happened to make their way into the garden. They all died eventually, but Warren had slowly learned to control the intensity of his command, so that he no longer killed them by accident. It was harder to tell how strongly he was affecting the mind of a cat or a dog, but he could feel the connection to them as Simon said he would, so he could at least judge when he was pushing them past the breaking point. Simon had even let him practice on him, once or twice, and Warren had managed not to kill him. He felt ready to put his skills to the test, especially since it wasn’t of particular importance to him whether Callaway lived or died.

  He danced with Elizabeth twice, which reminded him quite how much taller than him she was, but he was satisfied by the fact that she was about as graceful as he was—which was to say not very.

  “Your man has been leering at me all night,” she told him in the middle of the waltz, nodding over his shoulder at where the twins stood at the edge of the dance floor.

  Warren almost asked which one, but he knew better. “Just ignore him,” he said. “I’m not sure he’s very particular beyond requiring a pulse and a willing participant. He’ll get discouraged soon enough.”

  “It’s true, I am little more than a pulse,” she said dryly, and she moved her hand from his shoulder to lightly slap his cheek. “So rude. Do you treat all your wives this way?”

  “Only the ones I don’t like,” Warren said, shrugging his shoulder, and she gave him a small smile in return.

  He ate dinner with Elizabeth sitting next to him and the twins lurking at the back of the room, and when the crowd split into groups for drinks, he made his way immediately for Callaway. He inserted himself into the conversation easily and turned to his target with mock surprise.

  “I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” he said as he offered his hand. “Warren Hayward.”

  “Peter Callaway,” the man said tersely, giving Warren a brief, tight handshake. Wakefield was right; he was a rat-faced sort of a man, with too much oil in his hair and teeth slightly too large for his mouth. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Hayward. I hear you’re responsible for the rash of automatons finding their way into every worthy home in London.”

  “And the Americas, fortune willing,” Warren said brightly with a quick glance to Elizabeth.

  “Fortune and connections,” she corrected him, but she didn’t argue.

  “I believe you’re also in automation, aren’t you, Callaway?” Warren asked pleasantly, feigning and interested smile.

  “I am,” he answered brusquely.

  “Well, a bit of friendly rivalry never hurt anyone, did it? I hope I haven’t infringed too much on your business.”

  “Hardly at all,” Callaway said with a haughty scoff, but Warren could see the disdain in his eyes.

  “Good, good,
” he said anyway, and he allowed someone else to take up the conversation while he merely listened. He hoped it would be as simple as he imagined. He spotted Simon near the wall where Wakefield was engaging Owen in what was apparently riotous conversation, and the twin gave him a small nod as though reading his mind.

  Warren focused his attention on the champagne flute in Callaway’s hand, and he softly hummed in the back of his throat, slightly altering the pitch in an on—the-spot tune until he felt the air trembling around him. None of the mundanes would be able to feel it, but a single breathed word from Warren caused the glass in Callaways’ hand to shatter.

  The man cried out in alarm and hissed as a bit of broken glass lodged itself in his palm. Blood dripped on the floor from the wound, and Warren was quick to offer his handkerchief, wrapping it tightly around Callaway’s hand in an affectation of concern.

  Someone called for Wakefield, and Callaway was led away quickly to be cleaned up and tended to, but Warren kept the stained handkerchief balled tightly in his fist. He passed it off discreetly to Simon as he passed the small group, and the Irishman disappeared into a back room.

  Warren watched Elizabeth carefully, but if she noticed the clandestine operation, she said nothing.

  The rest of the evening passed with the usual amount of mirth and alcohol, for which Elizabeth seemed to have little patience They excused themselves rather early, which subjected them to Wakefield’s objections and loud declarations that clearly Warren’s love for his lady was greater than his desire for fun, which marked the beginning of his transformation into the lowly creature known as the married man. Warren swore at him with a smile on his face, and Wakefield gave him a surreptitious wink as he and Elizabeth bid their host goodnight.

  “A successful evening, Mr. Hayward,” Elizabeth commented as Warren stepped down from the autocar to let her onto the street outside her hotel.

  “I believe so.”