He blinked.
The enormity of it settled around him.
None of this was for Brown. Frederick’s showmanship, his terrorizing and threats, his games… They weren’t for Brown. Frederick could have reached this stage without any of that. He could have made Brown turn himself in without uttering a single word, let alone pulling them to imaginary Paris.
But he’d done it all for Mikey. And he’d allowed the decision on Brown’s final punishment be Mikey’s too.
Frederick was in his head. He’d let Mikey see what lashing out and causing pain would really be like without him ever having to carry the guilt around. He wouldn’t wake in a cold sweat with the knowledge that he’d exacted bloody revenge on a guy who was just an asshole who should get justice.
Frederick stepped back and slid his arm around Mikey’s waist.
Brown turned on his heel and walked out the door without even seeing them.
Mikey looked up at Frederick. He didn’t need to ask. But Frederick sometimes liked to hear words.
“You knew,” he said.
Frederick’s lips quirked. “Of course.”
Mikey nodded and leaned against him. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome. Shall we go?”
Mikey sighed his relief and let Frederick lead him back out toward the car.
The guy really was fucking perfect.
47
FREDERICK
It was best, Frederick felt, for he and Michael to behave as though they were not at all connected to one another once they landed at Heathrow. Father had eyes and ears just about everywhere, and one couldn’t be too careful. He had even chosen to fly business class rather than first to minimize the risk that he would be spotted, though they still behaved as strangers during boarding. The priority queue was too short to risk anything else.
Besides, business class allowed them to sit together, rather than endure a long-haul flight in the individual first-class cocoons.
He gave Michael his London address mid-flight, when everyone around them was asleep. He shared his memories of the terminal so that Michael knew how to find his way to the taxi rank without looking lost.
“I must disappear off on a couple of errands when we land,” he murmured. “It will take a few hours. If I will be late home I’ll let you know.”
“All right.” Michael smiled and adjusted his footrest, then pressed the button to recline his seat. He wriggled his blanket up over his shoulder, then crooked his finger for Frederick to come closer.
Frederick chuckled and made his own seat sink down until they lay as side-by-side as was possible. “Yes?”
Michael leaned closer. “I love you,” he whispered.
Frederick grinned fondly at him. “I know.”
“Asshole.”
FOR ALL THAT Laurence had done in tying Icky down, it didn’t go nearly far enough for Frederick’s liking. Dogs were a good start. Making Icky fall in love with him was a better one. But putting a roof over Icky’s head and a slew of children to care for was a gift which Frederick did not dare pass up on. He had even arranged for the moving company to take that bloody piano to the house to make absolutely certain.
From here on out, every step would have to be a delicate one. Even more delicate than handling that fool Wilson.
Frederick glowered out of the tinted windows at the familiar rolling green countryside. The ignominy he had been forced to endure while feigning obedience to Wilson’s gift chafed against his nerves. He was glad Laurence had the balls to kill the bastard.
There was a cunning intellect to the American. He was not to be underestimated. Where Wilson’s words had power over him, he had thought to strike in the water, where they would be nullified. Incredibly smart.
And Icky.
Whatever was to be done with Icky?
The man wasn’t even prepared to defend himself against his enemies, let alone kill them, and if Icky wasn’t about to save himself then he wasn’t anywhere near ready for Frederick’s needs.
Of course, if Icky weren’t as immune to Frederick’s powers as Father and Nicholas were, this would be considerably easier. But then perhaps that was a blessing in disguise, for if Laurence’s deductions were correct, those were not minds Frederick wished to see into.
Well, Frederick had done as much as he could without showing his hand. He had made suggestions and fed ideas as subtly as he could. If Laurence did as Frederick believed that he would, that should have the desired effect on Icky’s willingness to do harm.
He smoothed his composure as the car passed the gates. It would be another five minutes before it reached the house itself, but every second of calm counted now.
Frederick watched as the vast house came into view. Trees gave way to sculpted landscape and centuries-old lakes, and in the center of it all sprawled Castle Cavendish, named for the ancient fortification which had once sat upon the site. All gone now, of course. Long fallen to dirt before the land was given to the newly-created Duke of Oxford in the 17th century.
The walls were cream, made from stone mined in Yorkshire and brought all the way down to Oxfordshire by canal boat over the course of a century. The undertaking took four dukes to oversee before the house was finally completed.
This was how things were done. Not for immediate gain, but for the lineage. For the future generations of the d’Arcy family who were yet to be conceived. Centuries of sacrifice and endeavor in exchange for status and power. Marriages of strategic importance, not of love. Select breeding, not idle dalliances.
Father would be livid.
But Frederick had performed his task, distasteful and confusing though it may be. And once he reported back, he would be free to head off to London and forget all about this nonsense for a while.
The car arrived before the ostentatious stone steps of the north entrance, and Frederick pushed the door open before the chauffeur could even stop the engine.
The sooner this was done with, the better.
HE TOOK the ziplocked bag from his suitcase and examined it. There was no sign that the TSA had interfered with his luggage, but he still preferred to be sure before he presented it to Father.
The crumpled shirt within looked intact. Well, as intact as one might expect after all that it had been through. The bloodstains on it were brown and dull and it was riddled with holes. God alone knew what Father wanted it for, but after today he would have to show his hand sooner or later.
He rolled the bag so that the brown stains were hidden from the eyes of any staff he might pass by, and then headed swiftly for Father’s office.
THE DUKE HADN’T DIED in Frederick’s summer long absence, more was the pity. Indeed, the old buzzard seemed fit as a fiddle.
“You failed to bring him home,” was his only greeting.
Frederick placed the bag on his father’s desk. It unfurled the moment he released it. “He was resistant,” he agreed.
“Mm.” The duke reached for the bag and drew it across his blotter pad.
Frederick watched as those gray eyes creased in satisfaction. Whatever thoughts fed that expression were beyond Frederick’s reach.
“This will do,” his father murmured. “Are you off to London now?”
“This afternoon, yes.” Frederick stifled a small yawn which wasn’t entirely feigned. “The jet lag is abominable.”
“Very good.” The duke nodded.
That was it. No praise for success, no well-wishes for Frederick’s career.
Just dismissal.
Frederick inclined his head and turned toward the door.
“One thing,” his father said.
“Yes?” Frederick turned back to face him, but didn’t approach the desk.
“Were you witness to anything… unusual?”
Frederick raised an eyebrow with measured care. Too high and it would come off as comical. Too low and it would seem as though he had understood his father’s meaning. “How so?”
The duke shrugged his broad shoulde
rs. “Peculiar weather conditions? Unusual shifts in temperature? You recall Elizabeth’s funeral, surely?”
“Oh.” Frederick made a show of mulling the question over. He had been gone the better part of three months, after all. He had to look like he was parsing each week in the light of that question. “Perhaps once or twice?” he finally offered. “I cannot say that it occurred to me at the time, but now that you mention it…” He nodded slowly. “It did get rather blowy a couple of times, yes.”
The duke gave a curt nod. “You may leave.”
Frederick turned on his heel and strode from the office, and he didn’t so much as begin to relax until he got home.
It was all down to Icky now.
“IT WENT OKAY?”
Frederick puffed his cheeks out and idled his fingers across Mikey’s shoulder while he gazed at the ceiling. It was too dark to see, but he didn’t feel like closing his eyes just yet. “As well as might be anticipated,” he mused. “And I stopped by the office to catch up on a few things. We’ll look around tomorrow for a good counselor, and I’ll enroll you in etiquette classes.”
Mikey wriggled closer and draped an arm across Frederick’s chest. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“I’m sure it will be. But anything worth having is worth working for.”
“I guess.” Michael chuckled. “It’s gonna be good, though.”
Frederick draped his fingers over Mikey’s skin and they came to rest around his bicep. He wasn’t a cuddler, by and large, but this was comfortable. Mikey made no demands on him, and appreciated everything he got. What they had was special, he had absolutely no doubt. There was no need to waste time wining and dining, to visit the theatre together as though that would somehow make their love stronger. No. He already knew, and so did Michael.
This was better than mere romance. It was a true partnership. A match of minds and desires which suited them both perfectly. Michael would keep him entertained, and in return he would keep Michael safe.
There was nothing more a man could ask for.
EPILOGUE
FREDERICK
It didn’t take long for Father to show at least some of his hand. He still wanted Icky home, that much was certain, and after a few months of peace and quiet he began pestering Frederick to call his brother and convince him to come home.
That was about as effective as it had ever been, naturally. But then Icky called him in the wee small hours and chewed his ear off. Laurence had finally looked through time and watched Frederick steal the bloodied shirt. He’d watched Frederick hand it to Father. There was nothing Frederick could do about that.
But then Icky dropped the bombshell.
Father used magic.
He’d given the shirt to some sort of creature who had used it to hunt Icky down like a fox and begin stealing the children from out under his nose. All to coerce Icky into coming home.
Magic.
It raised more questions than it answered. If Father were able to cast spells or however it worked, how did he not simply force Icky to return home, or teleport him, or…
No. Clearly those things were off the table, otherwise Father would have done it already.
Still, even after Icky solved that particular problem, even after the children were rescued and things had begun to settle, there was a step back in the friendship he had worked hard to create. It was understandable. Frederick knew when he made his choice that there would be repercussions, and it would take Icky some time to trust him fully again.
“Stay away from him, Fred. Keep yourself safe.”
Those were Icky’s words. And Frederick intended to adhere to them for as long as he could.
He almost thought he could get away with it, too.
Until Father called.
“WHAT DOES HE WANT? Do you know?”
Michael’s speech was vastly improved. He’d worked his arse off these past few months, and while the American accent remained, he did his best not to resort to slang or idle swearing.
“I don’t,” Frederick sighed as he pulled a coat on. “But refusing to go is like baiting a shark. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.”
Michael nodded as he ran his fingers down the front of Frederick’s shirt, neatening it, straightening the collar after the weight of the wool coat had pulled it about. Clear braces were visible as he spoke, although the orthodontist said it shouldn’t take too much longer to straighten up his teeth. “There’s nothing I can do, I suppose?”
“Just sit tight.” Frederick leaned in to kiss him briefly. “I’ll be back.”
Michael nodded and escorted him to the door, and Frederick stepped out into the pissing wet Saturday morning.
Alone.
THE FURTHER THE car took him from London, the more the rain let up, but it was replaced by thin wisps of fog which made the Oxfordshire countryside look stark and forlorn. It was too late for autumn leaves, too soon for frost and snow, so the gently rolling hills were dull and lifeless, like an abandoned war zone.
Things did not improve on the approach to Castle Cavendish. The strands of fog were like spiderwebs, and they clutched at the grounds waiting for anything unwary to stray into their grasp.
Frederick crinkled his nose. Now was not the time to wax poetic. So far as Father was aware, Frederick knew absolutely nothing, and he would continue to play the fool for as long as he could.
The car halted at the vast stone steps, and once the driver opened his door Frederick smoothed his damp hair back and stepped forth to do battle.
Higson opened the door for him with a bow. “Master Frederick. The duke awaits you in his office.”
Frederick nodded. What would be the point in a sarcastic reply? Of course Father was in his office. He wouldn’t dream of meeting any of his children over lunch. How could he intimidate anyone with a tray of canapés between them?
“May I take your coat, my lord?”
“No need. I shan’t be long.” Frederick took a left down the corridor toward Father’s office, and checked that he was as well presented as he could be.
When he reached the towering, dark wooden doors, he let himself into the personal library which served as the waiting area to the office proper. The hexagonal walls bore nothing but shelves, most of which were stuffed to the gills with books. Some held a few trinkets. There was nothing here that he hadn’t seen a thousand times before, but after he knocked on the inner doors, he looked them over with renewed interest.
Why didn’t Father keep these books in the main library? It could hardly be for lack of space.
He stepped closer and tugged one at random from the shelves, then flipped it open and skimmed through a few pages. It looked to be some form of Greek, and alas that was not one of Frederick’s favored languages. He’d have to pick the brain of a native speaker to translate any of it.
“Come in,” Father finally bellowed.
This tactic of Father’s, to make any and all visitors wait several minutes before he allowed them in, was trite and predictable. Presumably the idea was to defuse anger, increase nervousness, or have some other deleterious effect on his opponents, but Frederick simply used the time to compose himself.
He eased the book back into the exact spot he had lifted it from, and entered the office.
“Father. You called for me?”
The duke still wasn’t dead, alas. Irritating old buzzard. Just what would it take?
“Sit.” Father nodded him to the Georgian chair which faced his desk.
Frederick sauntered over to it and sank, then leaned back and crossed his legs. “How may I be of service?”
“Quite an interesting creature you have imported.” Father turned just a little to open a drawer in his desk, then he tossed a folder to Frederick’s side of the expanse of wood. It landed with a smack.
Frederick didn’t need to open it to know who Father meant, but he did so anyway. Hiring investigators appeared to be a family pastime if the sheer volume of photographs within were anything to go by
.
Michael. Of course. Michael at etiquette school, at the orthodontist, at his counsellor. Michael popping to the shops or to a mailbox. All things considered, Frederick was reasonably sure that Father had seen almost as much of Michael as Frederick himself had.
“What of it?” he drawled as he let the folder fall closed.
“A drug dealer?” Father creased his nose in disgust. “Where do you find these playthings of yours? No,” he added, “I don’t care. It so happens that, for once, you have done something worthwhile with your time.”
Frederick forced everything to remain neutral. He didn’t allow a single twitch, not an iota of anger to show on his face. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”
Father gave a faint little snort. “I tire of playing games with the pair of you, Frederick. This situation has gone on long enough. I want you to bring Quentin home.”
“Really?” Frederick squinted. “This old chestnut? Father, it isn’t as though I haven’t tried. Several times! Do you ever think that he just doesn’t bloody want to come home?”
“What he wants is hardly relevant.” The duke pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He wandered toward the windows which overlooked the grounds, and clasped his hands together behind his back. “Perhaps I should make a few things clear for you.”
Frederick’s snarky response was cut off before it could begin. Weight pushed him into the chair, almost crushing him against the solid wood. Invisible, yet utterly irrefutable, it pressed on his chest so hard that he couldn’t draw breath.
Father glanced over at him. “I married Elizabeth for her telepathy. If you think that I don’t know you inherited it, think again, boy. You have had more than enough time to apply yourself to the problem, but you have chosen not to. You lack motivation.”
Frederick forced himself to remain calm. All he could do was use his diaphragm to breathe, but if he allowed himself to panic then he wouldn’t get enough air from that alone. He certainly didn’t have enough to speak with.
“But your new toy has ties to Quentin’s bit of fluff, doesn’t he?” Father looked to the window again. “You are both staggeringly naive to think that I wouldn’t find him. I hate to resort to threats, but you leave me no choice.”
Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4) Page 30
