by J. A. Rock
He trailed off, for she was already shaking out the woven blanket, and she draped it efficiently around his shoulders, smoothing it over him.
Such a strange feeling came over Chant then. His throat grew tight, and he hoped he would not be required to speak until he had got hold of himself.
Lady Gale sat there in comfortable silence. “He is sleeping,” she said at last. “He’s fine, Mr. Chant. He was his usual prickly self to the doctor. Just tired and a bit shaken, that is all.”
Chant nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She glanced at him shrewdly, then faced forward again. “I owe you an incalculable debt. He told me the story, or most of it. You saved his life.” There was the slightest waver in her voice, and Chant realised that for all her cool exterior, the certainty of her reassurances, she was shaken as well.
“It was I who got him into trouble in the first place.”
“Nonsense. Christmas follows trouble like a hound trailing rabbits.”
He tried to laugh. “All the same, it was he who saved me. Not the other way around.”
“I have seen him try to swim, Mr. Chant. Only once, but the memory lingers with me. He needed you, and you were there.” She drew in a breath, then seemed to stop herself before speaking. The hesitation lasted only a few seconds. “I am so very, very glad he came to your aid. I would not have been able to bear losing you.”
Losing him?
His brow furrowed, and he turned to her. “My lady, that is kind, but I am as good as a stranger to you.”
“Now that really is nonsense. The moment I met you, I could see what a kind soul you were. How lucky my son was to have found you.”
Now Chant’s chest seized as tightly as his throat. “There are things you do not know about me.”
“Well, of course. I suppose that is true of all the people in all the world.”
He swallowed with some effort. “Perhaps you have heard the rumours about my family?”
“I have heard enough to gather that you were put in a very difficult situation at a very young age. And I know enough of the world to realise people are often cruel and judgmental when their kindness is most needed.”
That was giving Chant far too much credit, and he almost said so. But he had a sudden memory of Gale holding him, telling him that the whole mess of the past was not his fault. That he was a good man. In that moment, Chant had been able to believe it.
“You must have felt so very alone,” Lady Gale said quietly.
“I sometimes think that I deserved to be. Still do. Deserve to be.”
“Well, I know you cannot help thinking that, wrong as you are. Your thoughts are your thoughts. But you are not alone. And you are not a stranger to this family. My son loves you very much. He may do a terrible job of showing it at times, but it is as plain to me as the rather sharp nose on his face.”
Chant stared at the rug, which clashed quite garishly with the sofa. Lady Gale was an unconventional woman, and there was something reassuring in that. The same characteristic was oddly reassuring in her son as well. They seemed better than most people at seeing the world in shades of grey.
“He would not settle down up there.” Her gaze flicked to the ceiling. “You were all he talked of. He demanded that you be given anything you wished.” She smiled. “I told him I would come see to you myself if only he would stop snarling and go to sleep.”
Chant sank his teeth into his lip.
“Whatever the two of you choose to be to each other in the future, know that you have my love as well as his. And, from what I have gathered from my daughters, you have their enthusiastic affection too.” She rested one hand on the arm of the sofa. “I cannot—nor would I ever intend to—replace the parents you have been separated from by circumstance. You may tell me if I am overstepping. But whether you wed Christmas or not, you do have a mother who is here for you whenever you might need one.”
Chant could not breathe for a moment. His heart beat faster than it had when he’d been sure de Cock was about to kill him.
“But I should also warn you, as a mother, of the scolding you will get should you so much as think you are not deserving of such love. I can very nearly read minds, Mr. Chant. I will be able to tell.”
He snorted, then swallowed hard on a great choking tangle of emotion. “Ben,” he said hoarsely—though nobody had called him that since Reid, not even Gale. “If you… if you don’t mind.”
“Ben,” she repeated with a nod.
When he could speak again, he said, “Thank you. I know this is an inadequate response and encompasses almost none of what I am feeling, but I don’t know how to say it all right now.”
“That’s quite all right.”
They sat a moment longer, and then Lady Gale said, “I have taken the liberty of having a chaise moved into Christmas’s room should you wish to rest there.”
He could not be in the same room as Gale and not climb into the man’s bed with him to reassure himself Gale was still in one piece. And he was fairly certain Lady Gale knew that. Still, he appreciated the illusion of propriety.
“I should like that.”
Before he could rise to be shown upstairs, the door burst open again, and this time Gale stood there, managing to look rather imperious for a fellow wearing a ridiculous red and black striped dressing gown with a gold medallion pattern overlaid on it. His hair was still damp and disarrayed, and he scowled as only Gale could.
“Mother, what are you doing? Do not harass Mr. Chant.”
“He has asked me to call him Ben,” she said primly.
“How ridiculous. His name is Chant. It’s a fine, steady name.”
“Well, maybe one day, if you behave yourself, he will invite you to call him by his given name as well.”
Gale strode toward them.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” his mother asked.
“I did not wish to sleep.”
“Your physician did not ask what you wished. He told you to remain in bed.”
“He is a quack. Do fire him at once. I needed to come down here to protect Mr. Chant from you.”
Chant had not spoken yet, needing a moment to take Gale in, to remind himself yet again that the man was well. That perhaps—hopefully—he did not blame Chant for their ordeal. “Your mother has been incredibly kind to me.”
“Really?” Gale said sceptically, not looking away from his mother. “The fire has nearly died. How do you expect him to stay warm? Where are the servants? I see no plates about nor tea cups. Has Mr. Chant not even been given any cakes? Or hot tea?”
“He was fed and given tea,” Lady Gale retorted. “I will have Jones build the fire back up should Ben want it.”
“Truly, I require nothing further—” Chant was swiftly interrupted.
“He has not even received medical treatment,” Gale groused. “Look at his head wound! It is not bandaged.”
“It is a scratch, nothing more,” Lady Gale said dryly.
“Scratch. Scratch! Let me hear you say scratch when he dies of fever and infection.”
“Goodness, that took a turn,” Chant remarked.
“Get a physician,” Gale said to his mother. “Not the quack. Somebody who knows what he’s about. I wish to speak to Chant alone.”
Lady Gale rose, flicking her hand dismissively at her son. “If I’d known you had such a penchant for drama, I’d have told your sisters to cast you in their play.”
She squeezed Chant’s shoulder through the blanket. “I’ll see you at dinner, Ben,” she said kindly.
“Lock the door,” Gale told her as she exited.
Lady Gale turned, her lips parted. “Really, Christmas, whatever you are planning, it is most certainly not what your physician ordered.”
“We have business to discuss, Mother,” Gale snapped, exasperated. Chant bit back a grin.
“If it is anything like the ‘business’ your father and I discussed when I recovered from my fever in ’91 after he had thought me lost, then
I must remind you there are children in this house. And servants.”
“Mother!” Gale was as red as Chant had ever seen him.
She gazed steadily at him. Then she rolled her eyes heavenward. “May God forgive me for aiding and abetting.”
Gale sighed. “Please will you lock the door?
She continued to stare at him, her look of icy imperiousness putting Gale’s to shame.
Gale softened and looked, Chant thought, genuinely contrite. “Please, Mother?” he wheedled.
She shook her head and looked at Chant. “You see? A good thrashing years ago would have done wonders for him.”
“Go!”
“Anon, my darlings.”
She turned and walked out, and Chant heard the click of the lock once she shut the door.
Gale shrugged out of his dressing gown. Beneath it, he wore dry breeches and a loose shirt that hung open. His feet were bare like Chant’s. He dropped the gown on the floor and took a seat beside Chant.
“It is strange to see you in my brother’s clothes,” he remarked.
Chant nodded. “I’m sure it is.”
A moment passed in silence.
Finally, Gale said, “I feel more than entitled to chide you, but you look so forlorn.”
“You, chide me? It is I who ought to chide you. You were the one who rushed headlong into mortal danger to save a poor sod you ought to have let drown.”
“Do not say such things.” Gale sounded at once completely serious.
Chant glanced sideways at him. “You told me I should save my recriminations regarding your unwillingness to go to Darling, and Gale, I have saved them. I am prepared to offer them to you now.”
“I did get Soulden, though. And the navy. They did far more than Darling would have done.”
“I don’t think I like this Darling very well,” Chant grumbled.
“I thought you liked everybody.”
“Everybody except Darling. And Teddy. And de Cock. And Visser.”
“You’ve made so many enemies of late, Benjamin Chant. You are practically a misanthrope. I’m very proud.”
Chant looked down at the floor. “All joking aside, I am sorry. I was foolish. I was not paying attention in Mayfair. I could have got you killed—”
“Do not apologise. And you’re right. I rushed in headlong. There wasn’t time to do anything else.” He added softly, “There never could have been time with your life at stake.”
The weight of that hit Chant hard. “The jewels…”
“Are, I suppose, either still tied to that damned dog, or—”
“Or what?”
“Or lost on the street somewhere. Who cares about the jewels, Chant?”
“De Cock said—”
“De Cock said a lot of things.”
“I wanted you to solve your case.”
“Do not call it a case. And anyway, it is our case.”
A pause.
“Investigation. Endeavour.”
Chant laughed. “You investigated a murder, Gale. You endeavoured to hunt a killer. Sorry, we endeavoured. I feel that qualifies it as a case.”
“I do not wish to feel like a fellow out of some cheap novel.”
“You are far from that.” Chant’s voice was faint, even to his own ears.
Gale put an arm around his shoulders. “Come here, my friend. You do not seem yourself at all.”
Chant exhaled, relaxing against Gale. “I was so afraid to lose you. If he had killed you, I would have begged him to kill me too.”
“Oh, he would have. But he probably would have done it slowly, and you would have lost a great many body parts before it was over. Better that he did not kill either of us.”
“Well, yes, obviously. I just mean…”
Gale tugged him close. “Hush now. I am not the centre of the universe. Much as I might like to believe I am. I do care for you, sir. More than I can properly express. You will not lose me if I can help it. But I am not all there is. Do you understand? You are a wonderful man in your own right. You have much love to give. I hope that I may prove myself loyal so you may let go of some of your fear that I will vanish.” He jostled Chant lightly.
“You worry that I will smother you if I do not let go of some of this fear?” It was an honest question.
Gale’s lips twitched ruefully. “No, I do not think that. I simply do not want to see you tie your worth to how well you love someone else.”
“But Gale, what if that is what I am made for in the way you are made for solving cases? Sorry, investigating crimes. Surely it cannot be an unheard of thing for someone to want to devote their life to loving. I know, based on my history, it may not seem as though such devotion is my calling, but—”
“Stop right there,” Gale said firmly. “Do not speak ill of yourself. I will let it go this once and assume it is related to your untreated head wound, but in the future…”
“Are you chiding me?”
“Most certainly.”
Chant exhaled, studying what he could see of Gale’s bare chest through the open shirt. He should have liked to trace every line of muscle, every bone that shifted beneath the skin. But it seemed an effort to lift his arm. “I just want to be by someone’s side.”
Gale’s fingers dug lightly into his shoulder. “You are. You have someone by your side as well. Don’t forget it.”
Warmth settled in Chant at that quiet order. Gale kissed the top of his head, and Chant closed his eyes. “You are very good at loving, my friend,” Gale whispered. “You might consider saving a bit of that love for yourself.”
“Such sweet words from a fellow who hates all of humanity.” Chant attempted the joke, but it came out flat, and he turned his head and breathed Gale in. As he exhaled, he felt Gale pull him closer still as though even the slightest gap between them wouldn’t do.
Then a whisper-soft, warm breath at his ear. “Well, I suppose you have proved me a liar on that front, Benjamin Chant. For I certainly do love you.”
Perhaps—though Gale never would have admitted it aloud—he should have taken his physician’s advice to rest. For while he had no wish to leave Chant’s side for the foreseeable future, he was extremely tired. And with exhaustion came a restlessness that made him short-tempered.
He squirmed for perhaps the hundredth time in five minutes.
“Gale?” Chant asked. “Are you not comfortable?”
Chant had seemed to come back to himself gradually over the half an hour they had been sitting together. His eyes sparkled again with good humour, and he spoke with the easy confidence that Gale was accustomed to.
“I do not know how to be comfortable on this hideous sofa. I wish my mother would burn it.”
Chant sat up so his weight was no longer on Gale. That made Gale even more churlish, for he had rather liked the feel of Chant in his arms.
“Are you hungry?” Chant asked.
“No,” Gale muttered. His stomach took that opportunity to growl. Chant laughed, and Gale rolled his eyes. “You are not always right, you know.”
“No. That is an honour reserved for you.”
Gale dug him in the ribs, and Chant snickered and pulled away.
“I wish you would do that thing with my hair,” Gale said, trying to keep the peevishness from his tone.
“What thing?’
“You know very well! The thing. With my hair.” He drew his long legs up onto the sofa, bending them awkwardly, and placed his head in Chant’s lap. If Chant was too fool to understand what Gale wanted, well, there was nothing to be done for it.
He glanced up, seeking Chant’s eyes. Chant smiled faintly down at him and placed his hand on Gale’s head. “You are hungry,” Chant whispered. “And it is making you disagreeable.”
He began to stroke Gale’s hair, very gently at first, and then with light tugs that made Gale’s entire body prickle with pleasure. He let out his breath slowly and turned his head a bit to try to place a kiss on Chant’s knee where he estimated it was under the
borrowed dressing gown. Chant rubbed small circles at Gale’s temple.
“You are good to me,” Gale said softly. “Little as I deserve it.”
“Now wait.” Chant tugged a lock of hair, harder than Gale thought necessary. “If I am not permitted to speak ill of myself, then you are not either.”
“But it is a lie when you do it.”
“And when you do it as well.”
“You may not forbid my speaking the truth. I shall say what I like, when I like—”
“Perhaps your mother is right,” Chant interrupted with a laugh.
“That seems unlikely. About what?”
“That a sound thrashing would have done you good in your youth.” Chant ran his fingers through Gale's hair, arranging a few still-damp strands into some semblance of order. “Might still.”
There was nothing but warmth and amusement in Chant’s eyes, but Gale’s heart beat wildly. His prick was stiffening, and he licked his suddenly dry lips. “I should like to see you try it.”
“Mmm.” Chant sounded thoughtful. Then, with no apparent effort, he rolled Gale onto his front and tugged him so he was over Chant’s knees. Gale gave a strangled yelp of surprise. Chant ran his hand down Gale’s back.
“Unhand me at once, sir!” Gale ordered, throwing an arm back to swipe at Chant while making no actual effort to get away. He had rarely played games like this before. He prided himself on being at least moderately adventurous at molly houses, but it was strange to do this with somebody he knew intimately without being entirely sure to what extent they were playing.
Chant ran his hand over the seat of Gale’s breeches, and Gale’s breathing grew shallow. “I cannot unhand you just yet. We are teaching you some manners. Don’t you remember?” He landed a light swat to Gale’s backside. Gale muffled a yelp in the crook of his elbow, though the swat did not hurt in the slightest.
Chant rubbed again, and Gale spread his legs as wide as he could without sliding off the sofa. Then Chant lifted his hand and delivered another swat. “What do you think? Are you learning anything?”
“Your efforts are tepid at best,” Gale replied, his tone bored.
The next slap was just hard enough to sting a little bit. Gale moaned, shifting his hips, a fierce pleasure mixing with a sense of awkwardness and embarrassment. He felt overwhelmed, but he did not know why.
