by J. A. Rock
He finished his pudding, declaring that he couldn’t recall when he’d had so enjoyable an evening.
“You flatter us,” Lady Gale said with a tight smile.
“Not at all. I should return the favour of a dinner invitation if I had room enough at my table for all of you.”
Once he’d made his goodbyes and assured Elise once more that even the dogs who were not Flum would be treated as guests of honour in his home tomorrow, Gale volunteered to walk him out. They lingered outside the Gale home, Chant quite suddenly wishing he did not have to leave.
“They are appalling,” Gale said tersely. “As am I, I know, but it is perhaps worse to be set upon by all of them at once.”
“I was not set upon. They were merely curious.”
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“I cannot believe I’m saying this, as I normally think of sentiments as disgusting things, rather like garden slugs that I should like to pour salt on and watch burn away. But…” Here he glanced at Chant in the darkness. “You don’t need to pretend the world is some unending, amusing diversion, and every hurt in it is to be regarded with a bit of wry head shaking. It is all right to be angry—with my sisters, with me, with Mr. Reid. I have seen you angry. I have seen you angry with me. You are a man who feels what he feels with good reason. I shall not think less of you for any expression of those feelings.”
Chant stood very still. A memory of his fist making contact with the wall of his bedroom. Of pressing abraded knuckles to his lips and sucking at the bleeding spots, hoping that this time his father would rise from his chair, would thunder his name and ask him what the hell he was doing. No sound but the pulse of blood in his head.
He shook it off, and let Gale’s words sink into him. Yes, Gale had said that sentiments were like slugs that should be burned to nothing. But the part after that had really been quite kind for Lord Christmas Gale.
“I also think,” Gale hurried on, “if you’ll permit one more reference to a subject that I promise shall be forever more off-limits, that Reid was a fool to leave you. He may have had good qualities—in fact, I’m sure he did, for you are too intelligent to have fallen in love with somebody who had nothing to recommend him—but in this particular regard, he sounds an absolute cod’s head.”
Chant did not know what to say. Gale shifted his weight beside him.
“I have spoken out of turn again,” Gale said at last.
“No. No, I appreciate all you’ve said. Just…” He sighed. “I do wish to know how he is. Reid. I know he is living the life he longed for, and that life does not include me. I must learn to let him go.”
“Ah.” Gale said nothing more.
“And I shall,” Chant assured him quickly—though he was not certain Gale sought such an assurance. “I already have. Mostly.”
“I am sorry my family and I have made it more difficult for you to move forward.”
“You have not.” They were standing so close that Chant might have moved his arm under some innocent pretence and brushed his hand against Gale’s. The mere thought of it produced a shiver. “I suppose I must return to Mayfair and make my home ready to host a pack of dogs.”
“I imagine dogs are not picky houseguests.”
“No, but I promised a butcher’s bone for each, didn’t I?”
“You did.” There was amusement in Gale’s tone. “Or rather, I did. On your behalf.”
Chant gazed at him with a fondness that was in danger of turning into something wickeder if he looked into those dark eyes much longer. “Thank you for having me tonight. Despite what you may think, I did sincerely enjoy myself.”
“It was good of you to come.” Without much light to see Gale’s face by, the man’s voice took on a rather pleasing array of notes all at once—it was soft and deep with just the slightest rasp, and the formality that Gale had perhaps intended was undercut by an undeniable sincerity.
Chant could imagine that voice saying other, filthier things. Could imagine Gale’s tone losing any trace of formality as Chant slid his hand down the front of the man’s breeches. Oh, Gale’s voice would become ragged then, capable of nothing but pleas and encouragements as Chant tumbled him into bed…
He ought to have taken Gale up on the offer when he’d had the chance. What if Gale did not offer again?
“Chant?” Gale inquired. “Dogs? Butcher’s bones?”
“Right,” Chant said, still hesitating. May I kiss you was on his tongue. But how ludicrous a notion. Dark as it was, they were still on a public street, and perhaps Gale had changed his mind about wanting anything of a physical nature from Chant, and perhaps…
Good Lord, Chant realised suddenly. If anything were to happen to this man, he would not be able to bear it. If Gale disappeared without a word. If he were harmed or killed in the pursuit of a murderer. If he let his disgust for humanity drive him to the bottle and slowly drank himself to death over many years… It didn’t matter what sort of harm was done, or how far in the future it happened, Chant simply couldn’t bear the idea of it. He had a sudden sensation of dread deep in his gut, a fear that if he left now, the world might wield one of its many terrible weapons against Gale in the night, and Chant would never see him again.
A childish fear, and yet he could not seem to break its grip.
He had no right to feel this strongly about a man he’d only just met, especially when he could not be certain of Gale’s feelings toward him.
He reached to put a hand on the man’s shoulder, for that seemed a familiar enough gesture now to both of them. Gale jerked back as though Chant’s palm were a red-hot poker.
“I’m sorry,” Chant said, startled by the intensity of Gale’s reaction.
Gale cleared his throat. “I am tired. I think I shall retire early. Goodnight, Chant.” He turned to go back into the house, leaving Chant feeling as though the whole golden flame of the evening had been blown out like a candle.
Chapter 10
When had Gale’s life become such an absurdity? He shook his head as he stared at Chant’s sitting room, which was currently occupied by himself, Mr. Benjamin Chant, two grubby, spindly boys, young Elise in another oversized dress, and six panting dogs.
To be fair, Chant was perhaps the one who should consider his life an absurdity just now, and yet the man looked positively delighted.
Elise was kneeling on the floor, attempting to pat all the dogs at once. None of them were Flummery, but one of the boys had promised that a third boy was on his way with yet another dog captured early this morning, and so Elise had not yet lost her optimism. Gale tugged his coat straight. He’d woken later than he’d intended, after a troubled night spent dreaming in fragments about murderers, dogs, and hands grabbing at him. He’d been unable to stand the thought of even his valet’s impersonal touch, and so he’d dressed himself, which he’d realised as he’d strode toward Mayfair—Elise in tow—had meant he’d pulled on the same coat from yesterday afternoon. On the way, he’d stopped at a stationer’s to scrawl off a note for one of the dog wranglers to give to Soulden. This had prompted a series of questions from Elise, most of which he’d successfully ignored.
Between one thing and another, he and Elise had arrived at Chant’s home to find it already full of dogs and urchins. He cleared his throat. “I said hairy, boys—and large. This one looks like a squirrel who’s been pecked half to death by rooks.” He nodded at a small, crooked-lipped dog who might have been hairy at some point in his miserable life, but now had hideous bald patches covering most of his body. This deterred Elise not the slightest from kissing his pathetic head and assuring him he was the finest dog in the world, excepting Flum.
“Sorry,” the boys said in unison. One continued, “We was just bein’ thorough.”
“That’s right,” said the second. “Maybe he were hairy before but lost all his hair yesterday.”
Gale was glad that Chant and Elise both seemed magnets for these beasts, for their re
ady affection kept the animals away from Gale. He looked for an opportunity to slip his note to one of the boys. He didn’t want to do it while Chant was watching, in case Chant had as many questions about the intended recipient as Elise. The request he was making of Soulden might not yield any results, but Gale had decided it was worth a try.
A tall dog with some of the Afghan variety in it—long silky hair and a curling, whip-like tail—ambled over to Chant and put its head in his lap, gazing up at him with soulful eyes. Chant murmured to it in a way that made Gale’s stomach tighten with an unexpected bolt of… envy? Surely not. He was not jealous of a dog.
Chant had been a bit frosty upon Gale’s arrival, which Gale supposed he deserved after his terse parting from Chant last night. But were his actions not justified? Chant had stood on the Gale doorstep for rather a long time, looking like a baffled spectre, and then his hand had come out of nowhere in the dark, and Gale had neither the inclination nor obligation to explain to Chant that a grown man of five-and-twenty, who uncovered dastardly crimes as a hobby, was at times inexplicably terrified by the sensation of physical contact with another human being. That this terror could come on suddenly and without warning, even mere hours after he’d lain his head in Chant’s lap and fantasised about them swiving.
The crow-pecked dog slunk over to Gale, who sat as far back in his chair as possible, hoping the creature would go away. He heard Chant’s soft, amused snort from the sofa. “You might rub behind his ears, Lord Christmas. He’s quite sweet.”
“I would rather not,” Gale said brusquely. Chant gave him a small smile, more in the eyes than about the mouth. It seemed to hold secret knowledge of Gale, and that realisation made Gale’s stomach all the tighter. So Chant was not angry with him, then? Gale supposed that was good. Not that he cared either way what went on in Chant’s head. Or rather, he did, just not to any notable extent.
Well, no, he’d cared last night that Chant might have been hurt by the conversation about Reid. But that was…
And he’d cared enough to pen his message to Soulden this morning, which, while Chant was busy gazing into the Afghan’s eyes as though the creature were a treasured lover, Gale handed to the nearest boy with a whispered instruction. The boy nodded in response.
As Gale slipped his hand back into the pocket from which he’d withdrawn the note, he came upon another square of paper. Great Scott, yes, the letter his mother had given him last evening. He’d forgotten he’d put it in his coat before changing for dinner. He was irrationally angry with himself and now irrationally angry with Chant, for it had been Chant who’d distracted him from reading the note yesterday. First his mother’s talk of Chant, then Chant’s presence…
It really did not suit him to have a partner in this investigation. Truly, Chant’s involvement dulled his mind and made him sloppy. He tore the seal from the note and unfolded it.
Damnation!
It could not be. But it was, and if Gale had seen this news last night, he would fucking well have done something about it.
Instead he’d spent the evening with his cursed family, gazing moonily at Chant from across the table like a young boy dangling after a schoolyard playmate.
A thousand curses. He stumbled around the tangle of dogs to the door.
“Where are you going?” Chant asked. “Gale?”
“I must go,” Gale said tightly. “Stay here with Elise and see if the last dog is Flum.”
“But where—”
Gale had his greatcoat and was out the door before Chant could finish the question.
He reached Rotherhithe in what had to be record time, and was out of the hack before the vehicle had fully stopped. The smell of the dockyard assaulted him, but he ignored it and made his way to Fernside’s townhouse. He knocked rather harder than was necessary.
Fernside answered at once, stepped back to let him in, and then closed the door quickly behind him. “I know you’ll be wanting my hide for this, but truly, I had my assistant watching over him day and night. Here’s the fellow now if you wish to speak to him. Fitzgibbon, this is Lord Christmas Gale. You’ll have heard of him. Gale, this is Fitz, my assistant.”
Fitzgibbon—Fitz—was a short, thin fellow with very short dark hair, whose body seemed to possess the same boneless, drape-able quality as a cat’s. He rubbed Gale the wrong way at once, though Gale could not say why. “Neither one of us heard Mr. Visser leave the house. It seems almost impossible that he could have done so without our hearing. It happened in broad daylight.”
Gale turned to the assistant. “So what is it? You fell asleep at your post? No, not asleep. There’s a stain on your shirt cuff—gravy, by the look of it. You got up to get something to eat. And in your absence, your patient managed to slip away.”
Fitz glanced at his cuff, frowning. “No, sir. This stain is blood from helping Mr. Fernside with the patient. And anyway, it happened yesterday afternoon—the disappearance, I mean. I’ve changed my shirt since then.”
Gale could have struck himself upside the head. What a fool he was making of himself. Damn Chant! The man had addled Gale’s brain to such an extent that he could not even tell blood from gravy, nor could he keep track of a simple sequence of events. It was a good thing Gale intended to cut Chant out of this investigation just as soon as he was done here. “Yes, of course,” he said as smoothly as he could manage. “I regret that there was a delay in my receiving your news. I only got the note this morning and arrived as soon as I could. I’m afraid I’m a bit… disoriented.”
Fitz went on. “I must have fallen asleep, Lord Christmas. Though I do not recall feeling tired. As far as I can recall, I blinked, and the fellow was gone.”
“Well, you must have done more than blink,” Gale said shortly. “What time did you wake?”
“It was half five. Mr. Fernside had been working in the cellar, and I figured he must have taken the patient downstairs with him for some reason. But I found him down there alone. I’m a light sleeper. I cannot fathom how the patient could have got out of bed without waking me. With his injury, he would not have been graceful in his movements, and it would have been difficult to keep quiet about the pain.”
“Please do not insult my intelligence by making out that the real mystery here is how he could have slipped past you. You fell asleep on the job, plain and simple, and in doing so you have lost me my best chance of catching a murderer.”
Fernside stepped closer to his assistant, looking a bit protective. “There is little to be done now except to figure out where the fellow has gone. Or been taken.”
Gale pressed the tip of his tongue to the point of one tooth. “You think he may have been kidnapped?”
“It seems possible from what you have told me of the situation.”
“So your light sleeper here”— Gale gestured to Fitz—“would have had to sleep through an unfashionably tall captain breaking into your house in daylight, stealing your injured patient who struggles to walk on his own, and exiting the house?”
Fernside’s jaw grew tight. “I told you, Gale, I do not know how it happened. I should have heard footsteps above me while I was working. But I myself fell into a trance for part of the afternoon, and recall little of how I passed the hours.”
Gale forced himself to look about the room. Once again, he could not think! He closed his eyes, and he saw a flash of gold hair. The pale skin of Chant’s cheek with its natural flush. He opened his eyes, half expecting to find himself in Chant’s humble home, not in Fernside’s practise.
There were blood stains on the sheets of Visser’s cot. Or were they gravy stains he thought sarcastically. The covers were thrown back, but not twisted so violently as to make Gale suspect a struggle. No blood on the floor that he could see. Nothing knocked over. He went to examine the front door. Neither door nor lock appeared damaged.
He wondered briefly about the surgeon and his assistant. He knew Fernside from a few odd nights spent looking at corpses together and from gossip. Hardly well enough to know wh
at lay in the man’s heart. Perhaps the fellow had sold Visser out to de Cock. Though Fitzgibbon seemed the more likely culprit for that sort of betrayal. Looking at the fellow, Gale should have liked to draw from him an admission that it was his own folly that had lost them Visser. None of this but it couldn’t have happened that way when it clearly had happened that way. Or perhaps Fernside had seen in Visser an opportunity—had slipped him something to ease his passing and taken him to his cellar for study.
Fitz suddenly turned quite pale under Gale’s gaze. His body trembled slightly, his throat worked, and he whirled, swinging his head desperately back and forth for a couple of seconds, and then vomited into the basin where Fernside cleaned his tools.
Fernside and Gale both stared. Fitz turned back to them, shame-faced, the back of his wrist pressed to his lips. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t know what has come over me.”
“A guilty conscience, perhaps,” Gale said with icy pleasantness. He caught a strange smell in the air, something mixed with the acrid stench of bodily expulsion. Gale walked over to the basin and studied Fitz’s vomit dispassionately. He sniffed.
“Opium,” he said, almost to himself.
“Opium,” the surgeon repeated.
“Did you give Visser laudanum?” Gale asked.
