by Lee Rowan
“Perhaps he had no time to do anything but follow orders. When you explained what you wanted us to do, I did not understand why you meant to send him away so quickly, but now I understand. If he had stayed, he could never have resisted the impulse to open his mouth.”
Carlisle nodded, glad for the distraction. “That was my expectation, from your description of him. What a spoiled brat! I can hardly wait to get home, send Edward and Goodbody off to their well-earned rest, and burn that damned book.”
“Here, sir—please take it.” Brendan said. He pulled the register out from beneath his coat and handed it to Carlisle. “I hope there is a roaring fire in the grate!”
“If not, there soon will be.” Carlisle examined the heavy leather-bound cover and gave a short laugh. “I am afraid I misled Mr. Hillyard in one small respect.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I do not intend to read this roster of infamy, but I will need to open it for the sake of efficiency. I indulged in a bit of exaggeration to impress Mr. Hillyard with my sense of purpose. This damned thing won’t ever burn unless we tear off the covers.”
Brendan’s shout of laughter was enough to dispel the last of Carlisle’s inappropriate desires. He would, however, have to be cautious around the boy, keep his own guard up. The one saving grace in the situation was that even though he knew of Brendan’s proclivities, Brendan was not aware that Carlisle had that same potential, and the element of adulation could serve to keep him at arm’s length.
“I must thank you again, sir,” Brendan said. “I truly do not know what I’d have done without you.”
“I suspect you would have come up with something similar. Your idea of making me the Man of Mystery was a capital notion. That added to my authority; you were the familiar old school companion. That handicap of not having Mr. Hillyard’s respect meant you could not command his obedience. But command is also something one learns, and you have not had the opportunity.”
“It’s easy enough with horses.” Brendan sighed. “It seems I have a great deal more to learn when it comes to human beings.”
“If your father did not keep a stallion,” Carlisle said, steering the subject carefully into safer waters, “you may have been spared certain lessons in horses being as stubborn and reckless as any human. Of course, when one encounters both a problem horse and a problem man, the difficulty is exponential.”
“Every problem horse I’ve met did have a problem man somewhere in the picture,” Brendan said. “Have you not found that to be true? And somehow, the horse ceases to be a problem when the man is elsewhere.”
“I have noticed that myself. When I was a captain, one of my commanding officers was a man of more bluster than real ability, and he bolstered his uncertain authority by insisting on riding a stallion.”
Brendan smiled. “I think James may have told me about that gentleman. Not by name, of course.”
“That does not surprise me. Your brother had a very nice little mare who was spared from battle and sent home in disgrace when she was found to be increasing after an assignation with ‘Britain Victorious’.”
“So that’s why James named that colt ‘Rendezvous’!’” Brendan snickered, then lost his composure altogether.
Carlisle did not attempt to discourage his mirth. If sex was one way to dissipate post-battle tension, laughter was surely another.
It was not much farther to his house; Edward let them out at the door and took the carriage off to the mews, to be returned the next day. Hiring a vehicle might have been an excess of caution, but Carlisle knew that there were few varieties of scandal that would make a fouler stink that what they’d been meddling in, and he’d meant to confuse the trail as much as possible. Edward had arranged the loan through a friend, with the hint that his master meant to pay a visit to a lady whose excessively observant neighbours would have recognized the Carlisle carriage.
Covering one sort of misbehavior with another was perhaps not the most original strategy, but it should prove effective to even the most thorough investigator. To Edward himself, and to his butler Goodbody, Carlisle had given the half-truth that he was helping one of young Mr. Townsend’s friends retrieve an indiscreet letter from a blackmailer.
Goodbody had stayed up to open the door, even though he’d had orders to take himself to bed. As he and Brendan were relieved of their outer garments Carlisle repeated the order, and requested that brandy and two glasses be brought to his study. “Oh, and I meant to mention this earlier; is there a fire in the grate?
“Indeed there is, sir. And the refreshments are there as well.” To Carlisle’s raised eyebrow, he said, “I had anticipated your success, sir.”
“You are an optimist, Goodbody.”
“Not at all, sir. A realist.”
“Well, we have one last task to perform, which we have given our word will be done in strictest privacy. And I will not have a fatigued major-domo running my establishment, so off to bed with you!”
“Very good, sir.” He bowed slightly and headed off to the back stairs, while Carlisle led Brendan through the parlor toward his study.
Goodbody had done his job with his usual quiet efficiency. Decanters of brandy and port sat on the serving tray, with appropriate glasses. Flame flickered in the coals, adding that light to a lamp on the desk and a branch of candles on the table beside the tray.
He poured brandy into two glasses and offered one to Brendan. “To our success!”
“Hear, hear.” They sat, Carlisle behind his desk. A timid move, he chided himself, but where else was he to sit? Brendan took the same chair he’d occupied on his first visit. He looked about him, and noticed the painting above the fireplace. “Is that the picture you mentioned—the horse that does not look like himself?”
Carlisle glanced up. “No. This is Speedwell, a hunter I had for years. That other painting I mentioned hangs in my library in Kent. Speedwell went to war with me. I lost him eight years ago, in Portugal.”
“I’m sorry.”
Carlisle shrugged. “That is war. I stayed on until Bonaparte was finished, then sold out. I remind myself that even if he had lived, he would most likely have died by now. He would have been over twenty.”
“They’re contradictions, are they not?” Brendan said pensively. “So very strong, but so vulnerable.”
“Yes. Still, though their lives are short, they live every moment to the full. There’s an honesty to horses—and dogs, too.”
“They have what we have lost.”
Carlisle turned to look at him; Brendan smiled. “I’ve not gone maudlin drunk, sir, only reflecting on this evening. So much deceit, so much distress, and all of it caused not by the thing itself, but by the law’s condemnation.”
Carlisle took a sip of brandy, let it warm him through. He felt as though he should argue the point, but he was forced to agree, in principle. “Such behavior does break the marriage vow,” he offered.
“If the man is married to begin with, it does,” Brendan agreed. “But the wedding vows don’t seem to count for much if a gentleman chooses to keep a mistress.” He glanced at Carlisle and said quickly, “I apologize, sir; I did not mean to imply you would do such a thing.”
“No offense taken. I was never so much as tempted to stray. But I do agree, the law is unreasonably selective, and some theologians hold differing views. I once heard a parson preach a sermon that claimed the sin of Sodom and Gomorrah was inhospitality and greed, rather than the more usual fault.”
“And how did the congregation take it? Tar and feathers, I should think.”
“No, he prefaced it with the justification that it was for children’s ears, to give them an explanation until they were old enough to understand the whole story. Still, what he said made sense, and since my mother sent me off to war with a Bible and there were times it was the only thing I had to read, I did.”
“All of it?” Brendan asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes.” He did not think it necessary to explain that he had be
en searching for a loophole, hoping that his own soul was not damned forever by his warm regard for Captain Lockwood. “And of all the abominations in Leviticus, it does seem peculiar that one act should be so reviled in this modern day. Men shave every morning; we cut our hair, we eat pork and lobster… every bit as bad as sodomy, according to the Bible. And as you say, Leviticus prescribes that a man who commits adultery should be put to death, along with his mistress. We’d see a great many empty seats in Parliament if that part of the law were to be interpreted as literally.”
His glass was empty, but it had not been a very large drink. He thought another would not hurt. “What you must consider, though, is not what the Bible says, but how Society interprets what it says. When the great majority eat pork and consort with mistresses, those transgressions will not be punished. When you consort with someone like Mr. Hillyard—”
“Never again!”
“Or anyone not a woman,” Carlisle said. “You risk not only reputation, but your very life. If you were my son—”
“I am not,” Brendan met his eyes, and Carlisle looked away from the intensity of feeling he saw there. “Please, sir—I admire you more than I can say, but I cannot see you as my father.”
“Just as well, since your own should be with you for some time yet,” Carlisle said wryly. “Still—I admire you as well, and even if I did not find your companionship agreeable, I should fear for your safety if you continue to seek … affection … in such hazardous company.”
Brendan emptied his own glass, and nodded when Carlisle proffered the decanter. He gazed down at the amber liquid, as though seeking an answer in its depths. “You say that as though I have a choice, sir. I do love my sister—she was a jolly playmate in my childhood, and I still enjoy her company. But apart from dancing and conversation, women hold no attraction for me. They are pretty to look upon, as horses are—and in matrimonial terms, they have as much appeal. I wish it were otherwise.”
He took a deep drink, and smiled sadly. “I have had enough brandy to say this, and I beg your pardon in advance. If I could find a woman half as beautiful as—as yourself, sir, I would marry her. But that will never happen.”
Carlisle cursed himself for bringing up the subject, and tried not to think about how lovely the boy’s speaking eyes were, under those jet-black brows. He felt he should say something, but what words were there to close the door he’d opened by bringing up this subject?
“I do not think I shall ever marry,” Brendan said without waiting for an answer. “Thank God I’m not my father’s heir. As for seeking affection…I believe the military term is ‘forlorn hope.’”
He shook his head, as though the subject was more than he could stand, and glanced around. “This is a pleasant room. It suits you. And there’s a symmetry to ending our business in the room where it began, don’t you think?” He set his glass down carefully, and Carlisle judged his condition as slightly in his altitudes but well in control. “Shall we burn this dangerous book, sir, and call our business done?”
Philip nodded, and put his own glass aside. It was a pleasant room, but he’d not thought of that in choosing it for this task. Why had he done so? It was a little more private, but there’d be as little danger of interruption in the front parlor, and that room had a better fireplace for this sort of thing.
Of course, that room also had Lillian’s portrait hanging above the hearth, and for some reason he shied away from involving her in this, even so obliquely. What would she have thought of this night’s adventure—theft and destruction of evidence that would have allowed the authorities to root out a nest of sodomites?
He had to believe that she would approve. Of all the women he had ever met, Lillian had had no trace of the peevish meanness that so many ladies of her class were pleased to call virtue. She had always received the news of scandals with sorrow at the pain it caused the innocents, not the gossips’ thinly veiled satisfaction at someone being caught out, the chance to feel superior to their fellow mortals.
If Lillian were alive, he would burn this book, bid Brendan goodnight, and go to his bed in the expectation that she would be waiting there to learn whether he had saved someone from disaster. He knew that. And he knew, too, that if she were alive he would not be feeling so uneasy.
But she was not. As he knelt to move aside the firescreen and stir up the coals, Philip Carlisle knew that he had reached the moment of accepting that Lillian was gone, and would never be returning.
“May I?” Brendan said behind him. “It occurs to me that if I were to tear the covers off, you might keep to the letter of your promise.”
Carlisle laughed. “By all means.” He took the bellows and puffed air into the newly-agitated coals, hearing the sound of tearing paper behind him.
Brendan knelt beside him with the pages in one hand, torn through across their width. “I thought they would burn better this way,” he said.
“So they will.” Carlisle took one of the sections and fanned out the pages, placing them face-down in the fire. The outer leaves flared immediately, curling into ash; the inner pages took a little longer. When that was down to a thin strip of scorched paper at the spine, he repeated the process with the second half.
“There must have been at least a dozen men there that first night,” Brendan said. “Perhaps twice as many. And all of them much like my uncle … respectable, upstanding gentlemen who would roundly condemn sodomy if anyone asked their opinion. How many men are leading that double life, do you think?”
“I would not venture a guess. I wonder if I should place an advertisement in the Times, anonymously, of course, assuring the members of the club that Mr. Dee’s register had been burned.”
“That would set many minds at ease. But how?”
“I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult—phrase the notice in a way that suggests the fire was accidental, and if they wished to renew their membership they should apply to him. The poor devils who heard my tirade must be wondering who will be the next to feel the pinch.” Carlisle picked up the poker, lifting the partly-burned pages to be sure the fire reached every one. “I suppose most men have secrets of one sort or another. How many gentlemen are so virtuous that they have no sins they might wish to hide?”
He could almost feel Brendan’s eyes upon him, even as he felt the heat of the fire upon his face. “And please, my dear sir, do not cite me as a pattern-card of virtue. I’ve made my bargains with the devil. Think of those pack mules I loan to the free-traders.”
“I can only think of the night Queenie gave birth,” Brendan said warmly. “She’d have died if you hadn’t set aside your dignity and helped Matthews. She—or Princess.”
Carlisle blinked, genuinely puzzled. “What else could I have done?”
“My father—most gentlemen, I think—would have cursed their ill luck, told Matthews to try to save the mare, and walked away. Some damned fools would have cursed Matthews. But you helped him.” Brendan sat back on his heels. “You could have done nothing else. I think that is when I realized that I love you.”
And to Carlisle’s horror and secret delight, Brendan leaned over and pulled him into an embrace, their lips meeting in a moment of intimacy that sent a flare of desire through Carlisle, jolting him to his core.
The kiss was too brief, then Brendan broke it off, leaning back. “I—I’m sorry. No, I’m not sorry. It was wonderful, but I was wrong, please forgive me.”
Carlisle shook his head. “No. You needn’t apologize.” He had no idea what he was going to do next, but the thought flitted through his mind that from the time his old desires resurfaced in that fateful dream, this moment had been inevitable. But he had no idea what to do next, nor indeed what Brendan wanted him to do. The passive state was alien to him, but so was the notion of acting without a clear goal in mind.
“I thought…” Brendan rocked back on his heels, a bewildered look in his dark eyes. “I thought you would—would be angry, call me out.”
“No fear of that. I de
spise dueling, and I seldom indulge in melodrama.”
Brendan sat there for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet and dropped back into his chair. “No,” he said, as if answering some inner debate. “I cannot. I must not.”
Carlisle did not try to convince him, one way or the other. He merely picked up the poker again and did what he had said he’d do, making sure the incriminating membership register was nothing more than a pile of crumbled ash.
When he rose, he saw that Brendan was finishing off what appeared to be a little more brandy than he ought to be drinking. Carlisle pulled a second chair close, retrieved his own glass, and took possession of the decanter as subtly as he could. “Young man, that was a remarkably foolish thing to do.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sir. You are kind to call it merely foolish.”
Yes, Carlisle thought, a little drunk, but only to the point of in vino veritas. “Why?”
“Because I am a—a lover of men, and I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” Brendan bit his lip. “I might plead that I did it because I had had too much to drink…” he shrugged, recognizing the weakness of his own argument. “But I drank deliberately, to get my courage up. And as my mother would say, a second mistake does not repair the first.”
Carlisle took that as an opportunity to stopper the bottle and set it aside. He thought he might regain control of the situation with a fatherly lecture, but he could feel the ground slipping away beneath his feet. “Some things can only be learned as the result of making mistakes. And very few of us are disciplined enough to avoid succumbing from time to time. What matters most is the company one keeps when drinking.”
“Yes, I know that now.” Brendan looked down at Carlisle’s hand where it lay in his lap. “I feel quite safe now, in your hands.”
“As well you may,” the older man said, “because if you begin to look too fuddled, as you do now, I would lock up the bottle and send you off to bed.”
