by KJ Charles
“Of course. That is, I haven’t gone into too much detail. He thinks Tom was a scoundrel just for eloping with me, so I certainly wouldn’t tell him about his business dealings.”
“And what does he think about Ahl?”
“I haven’t told him.”
Crane digested that for a moment. “You haven’t told your fiancé about your second husband.”
“No.”
“You have told him you had a second husband?”
“No.”
“Because…”
“Because I slept with Ahl before we married, and I married him while I was drunk, and when he hit me, I had him beaten half to death and thrown on a ship to nowhere, and then I divorced him in his absence. And every single part of that would revolt Eadweard, and even if I didn’t tell him any of it…” She took a deep breath. “He doesn’t approve of divorce. Not for the best reasons, conducted in the best way.”
Crane wasn’t entirely convinced that Leonora’s divorce was legal at all, done as it had been by a few words from a friendly and inebriated magistrate. “Leo, are you sure this engagement is a good idea?”
“Yes. He doesn’t have to know. It was a mistake, it’s done with.”
“Alright. So why are you worried about the announcement in the papers? Either Ahl is out of your life or he’s not. You haven’t heard from him, have you?”
“No, no.” Leo sounded dismissive, but there was a thin line of worry between her brows. “No. He’s not the trouble.”
“So what is?”
Leonora looked away, and the truth dawned on Crane like the morning of an execution.
“Leo, have you by any chance had a visit from Theodore Rackham recently?”
She spun back to face him. “How did you— Oh God, not you too?”
“He came to see me yesterday.”
“Oh, damn him. The little shit.” Leonora bit her lip, worry in her eyes. “You have to be careful, Lucien, this ridiculous country will put you in prison without a thought. What are you going to do? Have you paid him?”
“Have I hell. I told him to fuck off. I always said I’d leave this damned island in a heartbeat rather than submit to blackmail. And I would…”
Leo looked narrowly at him. “But?”
Crane sighed. “But someone else is involved.”
“Your righteous man?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, please, Lucien, I do listen to you.” She shook her head, mercurial mood changing, and the conspiratorial grin he knew so well lit up her face. “Go on, tell me. Who is he? Can I meet him? Is he handsome? How long has this been going on? He’s not married, is he? Are you in love?”
“Calm down, woman,” said Crane, laughing. “Er…that’s hard to explain, no, not precisely handsome but very appealing, about four months, not married, and…I enjoy his company. I’d call him a just man, rather than a righteous one, incidentally.”
“Interesting distinction. Does Merrick like him?”
“Very much. Likes him, respects him, and is just a little bit scared of him.”
“Really.” Leonora sat up straight. “What kind of man scares Merrick?”
“A just one, of course. You’d like him, Leo. Rackham, however, doesn’t, and has threatened to destroy him unless I pay up.”
That quenched the brief spurt of laughter in Leonora’s eyes. “Can he?”
“Possibly. I need to talk to him. My lover, not Rackham. So what’s he threatening you with?”
“He said he’d tell Eadweard everything. About Ahl and that week before I married him. He said he’ll tell Eadweard I’m not divorced, and you know, it will be dreadfully hard to prove I am, and even if I do… Eadweard doesn’t believe in it, he thinks that what God has joined, men should not put asunder. I know he loves me, but I think he’ll leave me if he finds out all this.”
“You could just deny it all.”
“I could try, but…well, if he started looking… It would destroy everything. He wouldn’t trust me again.” Her eyes were wide with hurt at the thought.
“No, probably not.” Crane felt a momentary sympathy for the absent Blaydon. “You know, Leo, the proper course at this point would be to confess everything. Either Blaydon will forgive it all and you’re happy forever, or he won’t but you’ll both know where you stand.”
“No.” Her voice was flat. “I shan’t. I don’t see that I deserve to have my chance at a new life spoiled by something that, honestly, thousands of other people do every day. Why should I live as a nun because I made a mistake seven years ago? How often did you get drunk and wake up in someone’s bed? What about that warlord?”
“Don’t remind me. I’m not arguing, but I’m not Blaydon either. And it won’t be any better if he finds out after you’re married.”
“That’s why I wanted to wait,” Leo said. “But Eadweard doesn’t want to. He wants children. I’ve told him I never could with Tom but he’s willing to take the chance.”
“Good for him. What exactly were you hoping this wait would achieve? How is this going to go away?”
She gave a little helpless shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
“How much have you paid Rackham?”
“Three hundred pounds, last week. He wants more. He sent a note this morning saying he’d call tomorrow. He must have seen that damned notice.”
“Hmm.” Crane frowned. “He asked me for five thousand.”
“How much?”
“And…Merton’s dead, did you hear? Last week.”
“Good.”
“Yes, Leo, but he killed himself. And if anyone was susceptible to blackmail it would be him.”
“Oh,” Leonora said slowly. “So…Rackham killed the goose that laid the golden egg, and now he’s looking for more geese?”
“Or, he needs a lot of money fast. He’s given me till Friday to come up with the five thousand.”
“Someone’s on his back. Gambling debts? Opium debts?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Leo’s dark eyes met his. “Can you find out who he owes?”
“I’m getting Merrick onto it this afternoon.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Offering him passage on a boat and a fat purse. If he’s under the cosh, he might jump at a chance to get away.”
Leonora looked dubious. “What if it’s the kind of people you can’t escape?”
“We’ll find out. Don’t worry, Leo. Stall him if you can, pay him if you can’t. I’ll have him dealt with one way or the other in the next two days.”
“And…what about the other way?” asked Leonora.
There was a short silence. Crane said, “I don’t know.”
“I know what Tom would have done.”
“So do I. And I’ve considered it. I even told him I’d send Merrick after him. But I don’t think I could explain to—my just man—that I’d set up a murder, Leo. I don’t think I’d want to try.”
“Is it murder to kill a blackmailer?”
“Maybe not,” Crane said. “Not if you’re desperate. I’m not desperate yet.”
Chapter Four
The rest of the day was intensely tiresome. Crane put Merrick abreast of the situation and sent him off to snout out Rackham’s woes among his many Chinese drinking and gambling friends. He contacted his bankers to make sure he had enough cash in hand to bail himself, Stephen and Merrick out of whatever the law might throw at them and get them all urgently out of the country, then he thought about it again and increased the sum so that he could get Leonora out too if need be. It probably wouldn’t be necessary, but you never knew with Leo.
He looked over his affairs to ensure that he had covered the most immediate issues if he had to cut and run. He responded curtly to various letters from a cousin several times removed, making demand
s on him in his unacknowledged and unwanted capacity as head of the house. He had an irritatingly frank discussion with his lawyer as to what to do in the case of arrest on charges of unnatural acts. Mostly, he resisted, with increasing difficulty, the urge to go round to Stephen’s rooms, or to send more and more messages. Stephen would reappear when it suited him.
He ate alone at a chop house since Merrick was still out, and he was stretched out on the couch reading the latest number of All the Year Round with limited interest when he heard the door open.
“About bloody time,” he called, without looking up, as soft feet approached. “Well?”
There was no reply. But Crane felt a pressure on his waist, and glanced down to see his top button silently undoing itself, slipping through the buttonhole apparently of its own accord.
“Hello, Stephen,” he said, without looking round.
“Hello,” said Stephen, and dropped to his knees by the couch as the remaining buttons flicked open one by one.
Blood, bone and birdspit, Stephen called it: a deep-rooted, old and strange type of magic that could tap the massive power inherent to Crane’s bloodline. The affair in spring had been an attempt by a group of warlocks to claim the Magpie Lord’s magic using the abused corpses of the Vaudrey family. Stephen had wrested the power back when he had shared Crane’s blood. The third item on the list, birdspit, was a country euphemism, and a much less effective route to the power, but then, power wasn’t the point of the exercise.
Stephen’s mouth was hot and eager on Crane’s cock now, sliding up and down the shaft, tongue flickering round the smooth head. His hands, those magical hands that prickled with power, were on Crane’s thighs and hips, stroking the magpie tattoos that adorned him, the tingling of his fingers getting stronger as Stephen’s own arousal built, feeding off Crane’s unconcealed pleasure. He was apparently intent on bringing Crane off with mouth alone, tongue playing up and down the long vein, lips tightening with wicked force, teeth nipping just to the right side of painful, then pulling his mouth off and down to lavish attention on his balls again. Crane gave a groan of agony at the withdrawal and glanced at Stephen’s russet head, catching him shooting a mischievous look up.
Well, that could not stand. Crane took a handful of curly hair and pulled, not gently. “You. Get your mouth back on my cock. Now.”
Stephen’s hands gave a flare of arousal that stabbed into Crane’s hipbones like needles of light as he obediently took Crane back into his mouth and sucked hard, mouth working with a tight clutch.
“Good boy,” Crane said. “Now get hold of yourself. I want you coming with my prick down your throat. And don’t you dare take your mouth off me.”
Stephen whimpered through his mouthful as he slipped a hand to his own groin and began to work himself frantically as he sucked. His other hand gripped Crane’s thigh, the power surging through them starting to take on the staccato pulsing beat that Crane knew well.
“Christ, you love that, don’t you?” he said roughly. “On your knees with a prick in your mouth and another in your hand. Frig yourself harder. Harder.”
Stephen’s rhythm stumbled. He pulled slightly back and said indistinctly around Crane’s erection, “I’ll fuck my hand if you fuck my mouth.”
Crane’s balls tightened almost painfully at that: dirty talk for Stephen was a matter of desperation, of the best possible kind.
“Witch.” He gripped the little man’s hair more tightly and pulled him forward. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
He took charge then, rocking his hips, thrusting as deep as he dared. Stephen’s hand on his leg was pulsing violently with pleasure at the rough usage as he attempted to keep control of his lips and tongue; then he made an agonised, urgent noise in his throat, his body jerking, the orgasm spangling through his fingers like shards of glass that shot through to Crane’s groin; and Crane let go all restraint and thrust without mercy, feeling Stephen’s strangled cries vibrating over his cock, and came hard, spilling into the back of his lover’s mouth.
Stephen choked for a second, gagged slightly, then swallowed, as Crane flopped bonelessly back on the couch, letting the aftershocks of pleasure ebb away before propping himself up on his elbows to take a look at his lover.
The smaller man was sitting on his heels, licking his lips. He had lines of tiredness round his eyes, and there were a couple of nasty scratches on his face. He was scruffier than usual, in that he looked like he’d slept in his cheap suit, or more accurately, like he had failed to sleep in it. But his tawny eyes had the golden glow that fucking and sucking always gave him, the combination of pleasure and borrowed power, and that foxy smile was twitching at the edge of his agile mouth.
Crane reached out and pulled him over for a kiss.
“Apart from that,” he said, “have you eaten?”
They sat in the kitchen, at the plain wooden table, while Stephen worked his way through a slab of cold chicken pie and Crane kept him company with a glass of wine and a story he didn’t want to tell.
Stephen listened in silence to Rackham’s threats. They didn’t spoil his appetite, but the sparkle went from his eyes, and Crane looked at the lines of exhaustion on his face and felt loathing of Rackham harden in his gut.
“Interesting,” Stephen said at last. “He came to you, not me.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“No, true, but… He’s made himself noticed by the justiciary recently. I’d have thought he might have asked me for an easier ride.”
“And what would you have done if he attempted to blackmail you into dereliction of duty? He’s not a complete idiot, he must know how well you’d take that.”
“Whereas you just gave him five thousand pounds?” enquired Stephen.
“No, but I’m ready to give him something. Money and passage home.”
“Really?” Stephen put his fork down. “Lucien—”
“We’re not alone in this,” Crane said. “He’s also threatening a friend of mine. And a third man killed himself just last week. He might well have been another victim.”
“Was he a friend too?” asked Stephen with quick concern.
“No, a loathsome piece of work, he was no loss. I’m guessing about him, of course, but it seems too much coincidence that another Shanghai man should have chosen this week to kill himself. I was of the opinion that Rackham needed cash urgently to pay someone off—that’s where Merrick is, trying to find out who—but if he’s on the wrong side of your lot, perhaps he’s just gathering funds to make a run for it. Either way, I’m prepared to pay him to leave the country.”
Stephen chewed his last mouthful of pie, frowning a little. “He’s not in that much trouble with us. So perhaps he’s up to something I don’t know about yet.”
“Talking of trouble,” Crane said. “How bad is this for you? Honestly, please.”
Stephen propped his elbows on the table and ran the tines of the fork over his thumb. “Well. The justiciary have no obligation to investigate normal, unskilled crimes, as such.” He tapped the points of the fork thoughtfully. The metal tines peeled apart, like flower petals. “If Rackham reports me to the Council or the justiciary for vice, it would be quite awful and humiliating, but no more than that. There aren’t enough justiciars for them to discard any lightly.” He ran a finger along one of the tines and watched it spiral. “But abusing one’s powers to cover up one’s crimes of any kind is a different matter. If I came to the attention of the police for, you know, what we do—well, I’ve always intended to deal with that situation by, er…” He waved the fork vaguely.
“Abusing your powers?”
“In a controlled way.”
“Naturally,” said Crane dryly. “But is there any reason you couldn’t do that now? Would Rackham be able to tell, or prove, you’d done that?”
Stephen didn’t answer immediately. His attention was apparen
tly fixed on the other three tines of the fork, which were weaving themselves into a plait.
Crane, who hadn’t got rich by jumping in to fill silences, waited.
“If I was on a watch list, it would be difficult,” Stephen said finally. “That is, if one is suspected of warlockry, or abusing one’s powers, one’s partner and colleagues can be tasked to keep an eye out, and to come down hard at any sign of impropriety. When you’re on a watch list, you’re a marked man, and there is no benefit of the doubt. If I was on a watch list, and I had a run-in with the police, I could be in a lot of trouble if I used my powers. And if I didn’t use them, I’d be in a lot of trouble too, because I’d be arrested. So, yes, that would be bad.”
“And Rackham could get you put on a watch list?”
Stephen wrapped the thin metal handle slowly round his finger, as if it were paper. “No. No, he couldn’t do that. Not at all. I’ve spoiled your fork.”
“I have more.”
“Rich in forks.” Stephen dropped the coiled metal onto the table. “Let’s talk about this later, Lucien. I want to go to bed.”
It should have been a loving night, especially with the frustration of separation burned off. Crane felt a vulnerability in Stephen that filled his own body with a strange pain, and he made love accordingly, carefully and cherishingly. Stephen burrowed into him and he stroked the nape of the smaller man’s neck as he kissed his ear, lavishing attention on the sensitive lobe till Stephen’s breath was ragged. He kissed and stroked and licked his way along Stephen’s body, holding him tight, then moved down to gently take his balls into his mouth, rolling them lightly with his tongue till his lover moaned, sliding an oiled finger into Stephen’s arse and pressing with care, to arouse and not to tantalise. Stephen was warm and yielding and pliant tonight, and Crane felt a rush of tenderness as he watched the other man’s face, eyes shut, head tilted back.
“It’s all right, sweet boy, sweetheart,” murmured Crane, moving to kneel between his legs. “I’ll take care of you.”
Stephen’s eyes opened, and he met Crane’s look with a wide amber gaze for a second. His expression was unreadable; it looked almost bleak. Then he shook his head, drew up his legs and rolled over to a kneeling position, facing away.
