by Rhys Ford
Strange how, even as a grown man, crossing the threshold to the blue library transported him to a time when he snuck cakes off the tea tray while Micah or Brent droned on about learning Greek.
He’d half expected the older woman to move to the Dowager House once Brent married, but his wife, Hikari, appeared to be pleased to have their grandmother living with her, insisting the library and the east wing remain as the older woman’s domain. Despite the women’s very different cultural backgrounds, they got along famously.
Especially after the dowager stopped calling her Carrie and learned to correctly pronounce the Japanese woman’s name.
Now it was a giggle fest over breakfast and gardening parties. The dowager’s acceptance of Brent’s foreign bride went a long way toward gaining Hikari traction as the new Duchess of Harding. Marcus hoped that having Robin at the table—with the dowager’s blessing—would achieve the same results for Robin.
Unfortunately, bringing one’s father’s murderer to the dinner table without forewarning the family apparently wasn’t something easily forgiven, if his relatives’ shocked looks and low mutters were anything to go by.
“You’d have thought I’d brought Napoleon to dinner.”
“Please, do not mention that horrid man in my presence. Thank God, Jacquard’s son, Henri, invented that seeing-eye thing, or that bloody Corsican would have fled Elba. Then where would have we been?” She thumped her dainty fist onto a side table, jarring the dragon lily blooms in their vase.
“Exactly! See? That is the type of work Robin has developed, only… better. On a more human scale.” Unmindful of wrinkling his fine clothes, Marcus pulled up an ottoman to sit down in front of his grandmother, much like he had when he was a child. “He’s brilliant, Grandmother. You should see the things he’s invented. The good he’s done. He’s successfully worked out how to blend minor arcane with science. One of his devices helps a woman walk. Imagine what he could do for the world.”
“I’m sure there were people who said that about Babbage and his ideas,” the dowager murmured, patting her grandson’s hand. “But look where that led him. Look at what he did. He built the Heretic Society and nearly pulled the world down with him—all because of his ego. That is what people will say about your Robin—and don’t think I haven’t noticed you calling him by his Christian name. He was a part of the Society before, albeit not an active part.”
“No, they perverted his designs. Babbage and the others envied a boy’s successes and used them to destroy… to kill.” Marcus shook his head. “The mingling of the two philosophies can be achieved. We do it every day in small things. What Babbage and his cronies did was abominable. That was not Robin. That is not who he was. That is not who he is now.”
“Then that is going to be your struggle, Marcus. To show the ton… to show Britain… the man you believe your friend to be.” She patted his cheek, and he inhaled sharply, taking in her familiar violet powder scent. “That is if you think of him as your friend.”
“He’s more than… a friend, Grandmother.” He couldn’t look up. It was a now-or-never moment, and he’d never felt such a dread, not even when he’d heard of his father’s death. Standing on a precipice, Marcus knew he had to commit—had to step into the nothingness of truth—and have faith he wouldn’t be dashed to the rocks below. “I… have an unnatural fondness for him, Duchess. One might even say that I love him. As a man should love a woman, really.”
“Well, I would imagine the mechanics of that would be different.” The woman cocked her head, the sparkling gems dotting her silvery hair bobbing as she moved. She sniffed at Marcus when he lifted his head, shock dropping his jaw nearly to his chest. “I have been married, my dear boy. Quite happily, to your grandfather. I’ve had children. How they came to be isn’t a surprise to me, you know.”
“That’s… it?” Marcus found himself mimicking his grandmother’s head tilt. He shook it off, still numb from the lingering fear in his belly. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes, that you’re in love with Robin. He’s a lovely boy. A bit eccentric, but that’s to be expected—”
“This is serious, Grandmother. He’s a man!”
“What were you hoping I’d do? Throw myself into a pique of anger? Very well.” She looked around, and her gaze fell on a porcelain shepherdess sitting on the table next to her chair. Picking up the tchotchke, she flung it, unerringly smashing it into the room’s fireplace. Clasping her hand to her powdered cheek, the duchess rolled her eyes dramatically and intoned flatly, drawing out each word, “Oh. Dear. My life is over. My grandson loves a man. Whatever shall I do? The. Horror. The. Shame.”
“Grandmother—”
“That wasn’t dramatic enough? My dear boy, if you want a scene, you’ll have to go find one of your brother’s little actresses. Not Brent. He’s faithful. Micah. He’s a rogue of the first order. Much like your grandfather was.” Sighing heavily, she cast a look about the room, then pointed to a ceramic dog on a nearby bookshelf. “Hand me that one. Might as well rid myself of all the ugly things people have given me over the years.”
“Duchess, this is… serious. My loving Robin is a criminal offense. He’s already been framed once. They branded him.”
“Are you afraid that the ton will do the same to you, then?”
“No, I could give a damn about what the ton thinks of me. I’m a viscount, and the family has a lot of influence. No one will move against me. It’s Robin I’m concerned about.”
“Then you will have to use that considerable influence to prevent that from happening.” She sniffed imperiously. “Once you tell your brother, Brent. Break it to him gently. He’s very old-fashioned. A dear, but sometimes he needs a few days to settle his mind on something new.”
“Am I crazy?” Marcus placed his hands on his grandmother’s, rustling her skirts as he scooted forward a few inches. “Am I insane to fall for this man?”
“Does he make you happy?” She leaned forward to kiss his temple.
“Yes. Infuriatingly so, and sometimes I want to shake some sense into him. He does stupid things, like run out into the rain or spend hours sketching how birds fly, forgetting to eat. I’m as much his caretaker as his friend,” Marcus admitted. “And there is—well, I think of Father and how he’d… what he’d think of me.”
At the core of his fears was the betrayal of his father’s love. The man stood firm in Marcus’s heart. Even dead, the old Duke’s words guided him, especially during times when he sought some direction. He’d never told the man of his perversions, fearing rejection even as he’d secretly hoped his father would have reacted as his grandmother just had—shrugging it off and wishing his son the best.
But doubts wormed through the solid foundation of his father’s love, and Marcus wondered if he’d have found himself in New Bedlam right alongside of Robin and other unfortunates.
“Your father knew about—this, Marcus. About your preferences.” His grandmother’s voice broke through his thoughts. “He didn’t care. Not one bit. He was more interested in raising the man he’d leave behind after his passing than anything else. I’d hope he would welcome your Robin with open arms. Well, maybe not. He was never a demonstrative man, but he’d harrumph his approval soundly. I’d hope for that.”
“He told you? About me?” The air left his lungs in a rush. “How did he… what tipped him off? Do others… know?”
“Probably not.” She shrugged, the tulle of her sleeves crinkling with a soft whisper. “He was your father. And a devoted one. He knew you—all of you—very well. Harding knew you preferred men to women, and it mattered to him about as much as his knowing of Brent’s obsessive need to have spotless silverware. We talked more about Micah’s inability to focus on one subject during university more than anything else. If anyone caused your father despair, it was that one. But Micah settled down—well, as much as he is going to. There was some worry there.”
“And he didn’t care?” Marcus struggled to embrace
the knowledge his grandmother so casually dropped in his lap.
“Not so much, no. He only wanted his sons to be happy. And, well, for you all to do your duty to Britain. Lead well, and others will follow with their heart.” The dowager echoed one of her son’s favorite sayings. Sighing forlornly, she poked Marcus’s shoulder, then jerked her head at the ceramic dog. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to fetch that for me? If I’d known you’d only allow me one tantrum, I’d have chosen that over the ugly sheep woman. I’ve hated that thing for much longer.”
Five
ROBIN COULDN’T avoid the whispers or even the murderous looks cast his way. Everywhere he turned there was a forbidding frown, and once as he rounded a palm set in the corner of the ballroom, he found himself face to face with a man he’d only seen once and in the company of other men who’d come to witness Robin’s humiliation.
A court-ordered humiliation performed on the day when he’d been stripped of his clothes and bound to a table with thick ropes as a hot iron was pressed into his hip.
The round-bellied older man dressed in formal wear had been one of the men who’d paid to watch him seared. He’d been holding a glass of champagne and laughing, chatting with another man in the small group of revelers gathered at New Bedlam Island. From what Robin could gather, they’d supper with the warden once the branding was done and then make their way back to St. Francisco on a late ferry.
He’d not heard much after that. It was hard to hear anything over the crackle of his skin roasting beneath the iron, and the smell of his own flesh cooking made him sick. He’d passed out after a few seconds and woke up a few days later, his body weak from fighting off a ravaging infection.
The man walked past Robin, his thick fingers studded with rings, their gems flashing under the lights as he gesticulated, making a point to his companion.
It was as if the man had never set eyes on Robin before. That he’d never seen Robin’s naked and sweaty body or heard his cries for mercy when the pain grew too much for Robin to take.
Then again, perhaps he hadn’t really been looking at Robin’s face when they’d come into the asylum’s punishment room.
The last time he’d seen Robin, it was dark, and the man’s focus probably hadn’t been on Robin’s face. It wasn’t until nearly six months after the branding when a guard he’d formed a friendship with finally told him the men gathered in the room weren’t witnesses for the court. They’d paid a hefty amount of money to the warden for the privilege of seeing Robin’s humiliation. It hadn’t mattered who the man on the wooden table was, so long as he was nude, reasonably attractive, and being branded.
Apparently there were greater perverts than Robin. And their money and rank kept them safe from ever being bound to a table for others’ sexual pleasure.
Then the older man caught Robin looking at him and smiled, a clear pour of sexual interest in the curve of his puffy lips.
Robin fled to the gardens, only making it as far as the balcony before losing the duck comfit he’d choked down at the Duke of Harding’s table.
He couldn’t remember what the duck tasted like when he’d first eaten it. Everything he’d put in his mouth seemed flavored with sawdust and grit, but he’d chewed away, mechanically nodding at the stories someone’s boisterous uncle told their corner of the room. It wasn’t until he’d stood up did he realize he’d probably also drank too much, because he couldn’t recall his wineglass ever being fully empty due to the seemingly continuous presence of a bottle-bearing footman at his elbow throughout the entire meal.
There was a handkerchief somewhere in his evening jacket, and Robin fumbled through his pockets to find it. Wiping his mouth, he opened the large snuffbox his father’d given him at his graduation and shook out one of the mints he kept in it. The lozenge was compact and strongly flavored, nearly burning his sinuses, but Robin sucked on it anyway, washing away the bitterness on his tongue.
He’d nearly gotten the taste of bile out of his mouth when Robin felt a pair of hands sliding up his thighs. The cloying scent of a pungent cologne blocked out the sweetness of the garden’s cabbage roses, and the press of a man’s body pushed him into the balcony’s stone railing, a thickening erection jutting into the curve of his ass.
“I knew you’d recognize me, Harris.”
Robin stilled, frozen in the memory of where he’d first heard the man’s voice. He’d just seen one witness to his shame. Now another had come up on him, and his stomach creased and churned with the unexpected shock.
If he’d had anything more to lose in his belly, he’d gladly have coated the man’s encroaching arms with his sick, but he had nothing inside of him, not even the fortitude to move when the man’s hand caressed the burn hidden beneath layers of Robin’s clothes.
He struggled to break free of the man’s weight, but the aristocrat, benefiting from years of overindulgence, had too much heft for Robin to dislodge. Instead, the man leaned over Robin’s shoulder, bringing his jowly cheek to rest against Robin’s.
“Let go of me, sir.” Robin pushed back, using the railing for leverage, but it was like trying to move a boulder.
The world continued to spin merrily along, uncaring of Robin’s panic or the slavering man now clasping at his hips. Below them, the gardens were softly lit with strings of lights, faint blue dots giving off barely enough glow to chase off the deepest of shadows but still allowing some privacy for lovers to escape from the glaring brightness inside.
The same brightness illuminating Robin and his tormentor.
“Admit it, sodomite, you want this.” The man’s breath stank of fetid cheese and cheap rum. Robin turned his head to avoid the stench, but it was too late. The curdled air was already upon him, burying the minty flavor in his mouth. “I’m surprised you aren’t moaning and rubbing up against me like the whore you are. You must have more self-control than most perverts. Is that because someone might see us? I can have my carriage brought around, or better yet, we can find someplace near the stables. All we need is something for you to bend over. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“And I’m sure it will be over very quickly, but sadly, I’d like to have a conversation with Dr. Harris.” Another voice—unfamiliar and droll—cut through the evening, and the scent of lightning filled the air.
A crackling blue light arched up behind them, and then something hot lit Robin’s skin, a sharp spark coursing from the man behind him. The man’s hands fell from Robin’s body, but the places he’d been holding tingled and ached. His attacker fell forward, slamming Robin into the hard stone rail. Then he jerked to the side, his body rocked with spasms.
Spasms obviously induced by the pair of wires leading from the back of his fat neck to the strange gun-looking device held by an elderly gentleman standing a few feet away.
Wires that carried an obvious current of arcane energy from the device to the man’s flopping body, a modulating flow seemingly driven in intensity by the press of the cherubic-featured man’s finger on the trigger.
He was short for a hero, but Robin wasn’t going to decry the man’s heroic stature. Despite his years, the man’s face was plump, his round cheeks bright red with excitement, and a broad smile curved up above his double chin, ruffling back a pair of impressive snow-white muttonchops.
The wires stopped their crackling, and the older man waddled over to the still-twitching aristocrat, stepping over his flailing legs to grab at the connectors sticking out of his neck folds. Once loose, the wires curled into bouncy waves, then began to slowly recoil back into the handheld device when the gentleman depressed a button on the back of his contraption.
“Isn’t this lovely?” The gentleman held up the odd gun, showing Robin its gleaming sides and its dual muzzle set with the pair of pronged barbs he’d just pulled out of the man frothing at their feet. “Really, a marvel of what good can come of arcanists and industrialists working together.”
“Um, that’s… a weapon,” Robin mumbled past his shock. “Those are… that’s
what got me in trouble… the Society in trouble—”
“Bah, you had nothing to do with the Heretic Society’s purpose. Your devices were for the greater good. Only a sick man would hammer a plow into a sword.” The elderly man tucked the shock gun under his arm, then held his hand out to Robin to shake. “Pardon me. Let me introduce myself. I’m Briarsham, Duke, and all that follows. My intimates call me Ducky. I hope to one day count you among them, Doctor Harris.”
“Oxford stripped me of my honors after….” Robin trailed off, remembering the shock he’d gotten when he’d opened that letter in New Bedlam.
“Idiots. All of them. Cambridge man myself. We should talk about them establishing your letters. Closed-minded bastards over there at that other school.” Delivering one final kick to Robin’s tormentor, the gentleman tilted back, slipping on the slick marble tile. Robin caught at his elbow before he fell, grunting when the man’s weight nearly dragged them both down. Smiling even broader, the duke chuckled. “Nearly went ass over tea kettle there. Thank you, son.”
“Um, I should say thank you for… that.” Robin gestured at the man coughing frantically at their feet. From the looks of his steady breathing and flushed face, he’d survived the encounter with Briarsham’s gun but didn’t seem able to do much more than flop over and lean against a planter sporting a large asparagus fern.
“Nonsense. I was glad for the opportunity to try this delight out. There’s talk of giving these over to the bobbies for patrols, but we had concerns it would cook a man’s brain. We’ll have to see if Hankshaw here recovers his senses. If not, then the world has lost a reprobate and gained a village idiot.” The duke waved his contraption under Robin’s nose.
