by Lee Rowan
“I had gathered that already,” Carlisle admitted, “from his behavior toward you. If you wish, of course you may ask him for the information we need. But I shall have to meet him at some point, I think.”
“Yes, I suppose you will. Still… I am reluctant to introduce him to you before the last possible moment. I know, from my own experience, that he has no compunction about drawing others into his problems. To reveal your identity to him...” How could he explain the profound uneasiness he felt at the notion? “Sir, I realize this may seem foolish, but for all I know he might show up here on your doorstep the next time he gets himself into trouble. I was wondering whether you might perhaps instruct me in a course of action, and let me deal with the matter myself? That was all I’d ever meant to ask for, after all—your advice.”
Was that a look of approval in the Major’s eyes? Brendan hoped so. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Townsend, and indeed, it might be well if he does not meet me until the very last moment. I confess I would prefer that; it will save me ringing a peal over that young nincompoop. But the plan I have in mind requires that you go into the club with Hillyard and lull Dobson into a false sense of security—let him think that you have agreed to his demands and mean to sign his infernal book, while I wait in reserve. Oh, one moment—” He made a brief note on a list at his elbow. “That is another thing I need to know: will Hillyard be permitted to bring two guests with him into the club?”
“I don’t know, sir. He told me that the rule allows him to bring any guest in three times, after which the guest must buy his own membership if he wishes to continue.”
“Find out, if you can. This might be accomplished if I were to go with him in your place, but if this villain is expecting you, a stranger would put him on his guard. Did he actually see you, on your visit there?”
“I cannot be certain. Very likely not; I was not introduced, at any rate. Tony says Dobson does not share the habits of his clientele, so it seems unlikely he would mingle with them.”
“Preferring instead to simply profit from their need for secrecy,” he said with asperity. “The more I learn of this specimen, the less I like him. To err is human. To cynically profit from others’ errors…” He shook his head. “I think that is even worse. Very well. You must also ask whether Hillyard can contact Dobson in advance of your visit, to let him know that you have agreed to his disgusting proposal and make an appointment for him to meet you.”
“What?”
“Only a ruse,” Carlisle assured him, “to put the villain off guard.”
Still shaken, Brendan asked, “But, sir—put him off guard to what purpose?”
“So that he will be in a suitable frame of mind to respond favorably to my suggestion that he abandon his plan for either you or Mr. Hillyard disgracing yourselves in his establishment.” Carlisle smiled, and it was not a cheerful smile. For the first time Brendan had a notion of what it might have meant to face the Major in battle.
Tony Hillyard was in his room when Brendan stopped by the hotel. Brendan’s discomfort at the thought of this encounter was eased by his relief that Carlisle had been willing to stay in the background until his participation was absolutely necessary. Brendan might have had no confidence at all in Tony’s discretion, but he had every confidence in Tony’s ability to see what was perfectly plain. If Tony caught even a glimpse of how Brendan felt about Carlisle, even though the feelings were not reciprocated, he might throw a jealous tantrum, which would do none of them any good.
Tony attempted to embrace Brendan as he walked through the door, but Brendan pushed him away—not harshly, but with finality.
“That’s a fine way to greet a friend!” Tony protested. Left at loose ends for several days, he seemed to be feeling anxious and quarrelsome.
“This isn’t a friendly visit, it’s strictly business—the business of saving your reputation. Or are you no longer concerned with that?”
“I suppose I must be, mustn’t I?” Tony asked waspishly. “My dear Papa is beginning to turn the screws—says if I don’t propose to Lady Constance soon, I must move back home.”
“Well, I can hardly help you with that,” Brendan said, nettled at Tony heaping yet another grievance on his shoulders. “Come, let us sit and discuss this in a reasonable way. There’s some information that I believe only you can provide.”
Tony sat, looked at the floor plan of The Arbor, and added some necessary details. He listened, frowning, to Brendan’s explanation of Major Carlisle’s plan of attack. “That sounds very fine—if it works! But what is it he means to say to convince Dobson? What if this scheme fails? A fine spot to leave me in!”
Brendan found himself observing his one-time lover the way he might watch a dog worrying a bone. He felt peculiarly detached, no longer personally involved in Tony’s plight. “You must admit it’s a better notion than anything you’ve been able to suggest,” he said, letting the annoyance he felt creep into his voice. “A man would think you wanted to be coerced into performing for those voyeurs!”
“You don’t care about me at all anymore,” Tony accused.
He was fishing for a declaration of devotion, and Brendan had none to offer. “That’s neither here nor there, is it? You asked me for help, I found help—and you are doing your best to act as though I’ve made the situation worse! Honestly, Tony, if I hadn’t given my word to help you—” He didn’t even bother to finish the sentence. He had given his word, and there was nothing to be done for it at this point. He went to the window, looking down to the street below, wishing he were down in the street below, out in the country—anywhere but here.
Tony insinuated himself closer, trying the coaxing tone that had used to work so well to overcome Brendan’s scruples. “Bren, why bother with this hugger-mugger business? All you have to do is spend a few minutes with me onstage—”
Brendan spun, shoving him away, and Tony sprawled across the bed. Fighting down his anger, Brendan said, “Mr. Hillyard, you must disabuse yourself of that delusion. You were fool enough to do it once—”
“Twice,” Tony muttered.
“Dear God!” Brendan yanked the chair from the table, and sat straddling it, the high wooden back a literal barrier between them. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“What was I supposed to do? You’d vanished, and I couldn’t put him off forever.”
“And what did you accomplish? Did he give you back your paper?”
“Of course not. He said the patron who’d requested a repeat performance was not there that evening.”
Brendan rubbed his forehead. “Well, there’s no undoing it. I suppose that may serve. It will certainly make Dobson less suspicious when you return with me and an anonymous gentleman. Are you allowed to bring two guests at once?”
“Yes. Up to three. Anything more than that and one must reserve a private room and pay a fee for the privilege.”
“That will not be necessary,” Brendan said.
“Oh, why bother?” Tony sat up on the bed, his shoes leaving dirt on the coverlet. “Perhaps I should simply continue my career there until someone blows the gaff. I don’t suppose they really hang anyone for sodomy these days.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” Brendan warned. “It does not happen often, but when it does…You do know that one of my brothers is in the Navy?”
Tony nodded. “Yes, and I hear they all have a jolly time together.”
“I doubt you heard that from a sailor. Well, the Navy does not hang men often, either. But when a man is caught disgracing himself, an example is made to discourage others, and so it is on land. When you are caught—and if you persist with this mad behavior, you will certainly be caught—would you prefer being exposed in the stocks, or sentenced to prison? Never mind your father’s feelings—I expect you think he deserves it, and perhaps he does. But what of your mother, Tony?” He knew it was a maudlin appeal, but if Tony cared about anyone, it would be her. “Her health is not strong. Such disgrace would kill her.”
&
nbsp; Tony waved his hand dismissively. “It would never come to that. Your uncle…”
Brendan simply stared, and at last Tony flushed. “You said your uncle is rich and powerful—”
“Tony. You didn’t approach him—?”
With a scowl somewhere between guilt and defiance, Tony said, “No, I haven’t—not yet. But what if I did? If you mean to abandon me, I shall need a friend.”
“If you think him your friend or believe that he would protect you, you are a fool. He would denounce you, Tony. He would claim you had approached him, and his testimony would put the nail in your coffin.”
Brendan could not sit still; he rose to pace around the room. “You threw my rank in my face the last time we spoke, and I’ll throw it back at you now. Your being a merchant’s son has never made the slightest difference to me—but it would weigh heavily against you in court.”
“I’m sure my father—”
“Oh, really? From what I’ve seen of him, from what you’ve told me, your father would disown you. And even if he did not, all the ill-will felt against men such as your father, those who’ve made their fortune in trade and are trying to move into Society, would be unleashed upon you. You’d be the perfect sort to punish as an example—outside the ton, the son of an encroaching mushroom. Even if you were not condemned to hang—and make no mistake, that possibility is very real—you would spend time in prison, certain sure. And there is no way you could keep the matter secret from your father.”
Tony pouted—an expression Brendan had once found charming. It held no appeal now. “What makes you so certain your uncle would denounce me?”
It occurred to Brendan that what was perfectly obvious to him might well not be so to Tony. “He would do it because he would have no choice—no, not even if he regretted it bitterly. He has a wife, Tony. A wife, a family, even grandchildren. He has a title, a position of respect and consequence in Society—everything to lose, and nothing to gain. Even if he loved you, which is most unlikely, he would not stand up in court and claim you as his lover. He could not. It would mean his death as well as yours.”
Tony’s face fell as he realized that Brendan spoke the truth. “And what of you, Bren?”
Brendan had to tell the truth, no matter how painful. “I have a family, too.”
He went back the window, watching the street below with all its players moving in their neatly ordered circles. “And my duty to them …”
“Comes before me.”
Well, what the devil do you expect? He made himself stay calm and simply said, “Yes, Tony, it does. I would not hurt them for the world.”
“Oh, of course not. I quite understand. You don’t love me, either, do you?”
Brendan ignored the sneering tone and kept to the truth. “I thought I did, once.” He laughed. “But at the time, I thought that you loved me. And now I know better.”
“That’s a hard thing to say.”
“Yes, is it not? But a hard truth is better than a pretty lie. Tony, if you had truly cared for me, if I’d been anything more to you than a plaything—or perhaps a playmate—you’d never have taken me to The Arbor. You’d not be pressing me, even now, to do something utterly repugnant to me.”
He sighed, weary beyond words of this stupid game. “I promised I would help you, and I will, but you cannot sit by like a whining child and wait to be rescued. We have a plan. I think it stands a good chance of success, but you must play your part—and you must decide whether you will take this help or throw the chance away. I need to know that right now. If you don’t give me a straight answer I’ll be out that door in an instant and give you the cut direct if ever I see you again. Yes or no, Tony—which will it be?”
CHAPTER 11
Brendan left his former lover enjoying a fit of the sullens. He was pleased to be able to think of Tony as a former lover, and had reached a point where he wondered what on earth he had ever seen in him. He returned to Major Carlisle’s house with all the information he’d set out to obtain, and a determination to reward himself afterward by spending some time in Hyde Park with Galahad. The fashionable hour of the Promenade had already passed, so he would have less chance of being hailed into conversation with his contemporaries. At this moment, polite social discourse was not one of those things Brendan would wish for.
But he did not disdain all company. As he had hoped, the Major decided to join him with the horse he kept stabled in town, a neat bay hack named Carmen that had neither Nightshade’s flash nor Queenie’s charm, but was calm and steady even when a cart full of caged, squawking chickens went past them in the opposite direction.
For all the conversation that had passed between them out at Twin Oaks, he and Carlisle were both oddly quiet as they rode through town. Once they had determined that they had nothing to do but wait until Tony Hillyard notified them of the date of his appointment with Dicky Dee, they ambled along together in agreeable silence. It was as though having made and confirmed their plan, there was nothing left but the waiting. There was much that Brendan wanted to say, but propriety forbade it.
Brendan should have felt elated, but for reasons he did not fully understand, his spirits were as low as they had been at any point in this predicament. The plan as it now stood did not require Tony to see Carlisle until the very night of their venture. Even then, they would pick him up after dark, in Carlisle’s carriage. Once inside the club they would all be masked, so it was extremely unlikely that Tony could ever identify him.
The Major would be “Mr. Jones” to Tony; Brendan had suggested this subterfuge when Carlisle said he should be introduced at The Arbor as “Mr. Smith.” Carlisle had accepted the idea without demur, and Brendan was much relieved. He had entered into this effort without really considering the consequences should something go wrong, but realized now that he should never have accepted Carlisle’s help. What meant most to him now, besides keeping his own family out of it, was protecting this man who was becoming so important to him. He had no wish to be considered a mere boy being looked after by an older, more capable man, but a man himself, capable of considering the welfare of another. Still, it was good that an experienced strategist was planning this campaign.
Brendan considered that he was doing pretty well, for a man of no experience. He had accomplished everything that Philip had asked—
No, he admonished himself. Everything that Major Carlisle had asked him to do—and a little more, besides. And while he was still uneasy, even frightened, at the idea of going back into The Arbor, he felt fairly confident that they would succeed, and that he would then be free of Tony Hillyard once and for all.
He would be free…
Free to do what?
He could take classes in art, in painting. That would be interesting, he knew. He was beginning to imagine traveling to Italy, to get a glimpse of that most extraordinary place of worship, the Sistine Chapel. He might be able to discover whether he had any real ability or was only the merest dilettante. He might spend time in the halcyon meadows at Twin Oaks, hiding from the world among Carlisle’s beautiful horses, recording their images on canvas so that their beauty might live for centuries.
The thought of all this was opening up doors in his mind, as though he had been living in a grand home with all but a small suite of rooms locked and barred to his entry. With nothing more than a few words, Carlisle had thrown open the doors and shown him a glimpse of wonder. Philip Carlisle had seen a part of him whose existence no one else had ever guessed.
And yet… and yet, Philip Carlisle, whose opinion had become so vitally important, imagined him to be a poor unfortunate boy, deceived and misled by a sodomite libertine, a lad of good address who had to be rescued from his own excessive friendliness. Here they were, entering the gates of Hyde Park, playground of the ton, and the man beside him had no idea who Brendan Townsend really was.
It was insupportable. Brendan could give himself credit for good intentions. He could, he knew, have simply told Tony to go hang. There was no proof t
hat their friendship had ever been anything but platonic, and he could always say that he had no idea of Tony’s immoral inclinations until his eyes were opened by that visit to The Arbor. He could lie himself sick and walk away scot-free of blame.
But he would have to live with himself if he did. And he did not know if he could manage that.
He stole a glance at Carlisle, and found himself meeting the other man’s eyes. He was transfixed; the words simply spilled out. “I lied to you,” he heard himself say.
Carlisle merely glanced about, as though checking to see if anyone was in earshot. “I doubt it,” he said.
Brendan tore his eyes away. He felt stupid, gauche. His pulse was loud in his ears, and his face was burning. “By omission.”
“Most people do lie that way,” Carlisle said mildly. “Sometimes it is easier to let others think what they will than to cause turmoil and unhappiness by saying what one knows they would rather not hear.”
Brendan glanced at him, sharply. “What do you mean?”
“There was a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to put paid to my existence. If I had done it—if I had even said I wanted to do it—my action would have caused pain to many people. So I did not speak—a lie of omission—and eventually the desire passed, and no one ever knew.”
Somehow, his words seemed to have two layers of meaning, and Brendan had never been good at that sort of conversation. But he did remember James had said Carlisle was a widower, so perhaps that was what he meant. “Was it when you lost your wife?”
“Yes. And another time. Another loss. It is interesting, don’t you think, that with all the trivialities of our lives, men speak most seldom of the things that touch us most deeply?”
