by Lee Rowan
Brendan nodded, feeling foolish. “I must seem a timid creature. Perhaps it is just the memory of the Arbor affair.”
“Not at all. Caution is necessary. We shall have to be extremely circumspect. Still, if worse comes to worst, we might move to the Continent.”
“And leave this land, and your horses? You would do that for me?”
“Yes… and for myself.” Philip smiled. “Horses can travel, you know. Don’t look so worried. We are both cautious by nature, I think, and we both realize what is at risk.”
“Yes, but—it seems you are giving me everything, and all I can do is say ‘thank you.’ I wish I were able to give you something in return.”
Philip looked at him as though not understanding what he’d said. “Mr. Townsend, if you count youth, beauty and joy as nothing, I can only say I strongly disagree.”
Brendan looked away. “That’s not the same.”
“True enough. One is material security, the other is much rarer, and of immeasurable worth.” His thumb stroked the side of Brendan’s wrist, a curiously sensual touch. “My father and grandfather gave me the means to enjoy a comfortable life. But it has been a very long time since I was able to share anything more than friendship with another human being. I only hope that when you become famous and spread your wings, I will have the grace to let you go.”
Brendan’s fingers closed on Philip’s without thought. “Never. No, don’t shake your head; I’ve seen what the world holds for men like me—fear, and risk, and stolen moments with strangers. Do you think me fool enough to go back into that world, when I am honored with the regard of such a splendid man?” He could hardly bear to continue, but forced the words out. “It seems far more likely that you will one day tire of my foolish prattle and ask me to leave.”
“If you speak that way, I might. My dear boy, you must remember that I am nearly twenty years older than yourself. When you are a man in your full powers, I will be growing old.”
“Do you think I care? That I am so shallow?”
“No. The loyalty you showed to that reckless young hound tells me you are not.” Philip seemed to sense that he was near tears, and changed the subject.
“I think there is one thing you must do when you are established as an artist—develop a reputation for eccentricity. When you are working, you will tolerate no interruption! You will lock your door even to the servants.”
“I could do that,” Brendan said, slowly seeing the usefulness of such an affectation. “And I might get a small dog, as well—a terrier, perhaps, that would bark if anyone came near, to sound the alarm.”
“Or a large dog, to prevent unwelcome intruders.”
“Or a bullmastiff, to knock intruders down and sit on them!” Brendan felt almost giddy with relief and happiness. “Or perhaps—”
“Stop!”
The warning was unnecessary; Reverie had shied violently as a figure stepped out from behind the last beech in the avenue, a pistol in his hand. Brendan had both hands full keeping the horse from bolting.
The shadow of his hat hid the man’s face. “Who are you?” Philip demanded. “What do you want?”
“You know who I am. And I know who you’re not—you’re no relation of young Hillyard’s. Not his father, I’m sure, unless his mother was as big a slut as her son. And what I want is what you stole from me, you silk-lined weasel.”
Brendan’s blood froze. Dobson, of all people. How did he ever— And then he realized how. That letter from Tony. Of course. Dobson had gone after Tony, who ran off to hide behind marriage and respectability, after throwing his rescuers to the dogs. He could not even find it in him to be surprised.
“The book was burned,” Philip said, his voice perfectly even. “Mr. Hillyard must have told you that.”
“He told me that’s what you told him,” Dobson said. “That’s not the same thing, is it?” He sounded drunk, and that worried Brendan more than the pistol. He didn’t know the man well enough to anticipate what he might do.
“Perhaps it is not, among your friends. I do what I say I will do. We burned it that same night.”
“You bastard!” Dobson brought the pistol up, waving it toward Philip, and Brendan wondered for one wild second if he should just urge Reverie to run. But that would do no good; the man was beside the gig now, and at this range he could hardly miss.
“Do you know what you’ve done? That club was my livelihood!”
“Yes, of course I know. I let your customers see that the trust they placed in you was false, that you might sell them out for a whim. Wasn’t it enough that you were well-paid to provide a safe meeting place for men who needed one?”
“A gang of damned sodomites,” Dobson spat. “What difference does that make?”
Brendan felt the shred of pity he’d had for the man dissolve to nothingness, and anger let him find his voice. “So your word is good to some men, but not others? I would say that means it’s no good at all.”
“And what would you know? Not that I meant to blackmail anyone, if Hillyard had only been more sociable about—Never mind that! I demand satisfaction!”
“You—” Philip gave a short laugh. “Then ask it of yourself, sir, because you’ve no one else to blame! Were you not doing well enough without trying to coerce that young fool into risking his reputation and life?”
“Reputation? He has none. He’s a merchant’s son, same as I am—and it was one of you swells was pushing me—a man who wouldn’t take no. But he’s above my reach, Mr. Carlisle—you are not!”
He aimed the gun, his intention obvious, and Brendan realized the man was paying no attention to him at all. He flicked the carriage whip sideways, sending the weighted tip around Dobson’s gun-hand. He heard the man cry out and launched himself out of the carriage and onto the blackmailer. They collided with a surprisingly painful thud and fell to the ground together.
Brendan had never been much of a fighter, but he didn’t care. That didn’t matter. Philip was hurt; he could not defend himself. The only thing Brendan knew to do was get hold of the gun, or at least Dobson’s gun hand, and the only advantage he had was surprise. He got both hands around Dobson’s wrist, trying to shake it hard enough to make the pistol fly clear.
No good. He wasn’t weak and he wasn’t stupid, but his boxing teacher had never taught him gutter-fighting. A head-butt slammed him into brief oblivion; the next thing he knew, steely thumbs were pressing into his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe, he could hear the blood throbbing in his head—and then a tremendous sound, a weight fell upon his body—but the pressure on his throat went away. He dropped back, gratefully filling his lungs with huge breaths of air.
“Brendan!”
Philip sounded worried. He tried to answer, made a strange croaking noise, and swallowed painfully. On the second try, he managed, “Yes... one moment…”
He shoved Dobson’s lax weight away, rolled to hands and knees and sat back on his heels just in time to see Philip haul himself awkwardly out of the cart. Philip fell to his knees beside him, wrapping his good arm around Brendan’s shoulders. “Oh, my boy. Are you all right?”
His throat ached and his head was pounding, but Brendan said, “Yes. Nearly. And you?”
“Well enough. What ever possessed you to take such a chance?”
“He was going to shoot, and you—”
“Had my hand on my pistol.” Philip held him close, then released him. “But I’d never have had it out in time. Thank you.”
“Is he dead?”
Philip reached over, checking Dobson’s throat. “It seems so. And just as well, I think.”
“I’m certainly not going to miss him.” Brendan heard hoofbeats, approaching fast. “Are you expecting company?”
“They must have heard the shots.” Philip darted a look down the drive and spoke quickly. “Listen: neither of us has ever seen this man before. Until someone tells me otherwise, I shall assume that he is another smuggler intending revenge for tonight’s arrest.”
“I understand
.”
Philip’s smile was bright even in the shadows. “We’re even now, you know. I may give you a place to paint, but you’ve given me my life—if you can endure the company of such a feeble, decrepit old man.”
Brendan ran a fleeting hand along the back of the hard thigh conveniently within his reach. “I hope this is an example of your feebleness, sir. I hope to test your stamina… and soon.”
They had no time for further speech; Lieutenant Berry and two of his men arrived at a gallop, sorely disappointed to have missed the excitement.
CHAPTER 19
The next few days were full of official goings-on, and no time to be alone. Their testimony at the inquest, perfectly truthful in that the dead man had indeed accused Major Carlisle of ruining his business, convinced the coroner’s jury that the stranger must have had something to do with the smuggling incident. His London clothes gave rise to speculation that he had been in the area to receive the goods, a notion that the witnesses could neither confirm nor deny.
The smugglers arrested that same night denied any knowledge of him, but, as one of the villagers remarked, what sort of fool would make the case blacker for himself by claiming acquaintance with a would-be murderer? The bruises on Brendan’s throat were evidence enough that Carlisle, wounded himself and in no condition for a fistfight, had good and sufficient cause to fire at their attacker. The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of self-defense on the night’s second shooting.
In Bowker’s case, the man’s own confession was enough to have him bound over to the Assizes on a charge of murder, above and beyond the charges of being caught with illicit goods and assault on a gentleman temporarily in His Majesty’s service.
When the inquest concluded, Carlisle accepted thanks and a mug of ale from Ezra Jenkins, who had thrown open the Owl’s bar after the inquest to celebrate the bittersweet victory. Carlisle got away as quickly as he was able, pleading his obligation as a host; Mr. Townsend had to be sent safely back to London as soon as possible.
Brendan drove the gig out of earshot of the village before asking, “Do you really mean to send me back this afternoon, or did you just wish to get out of the crowd? Is the arm troubling you?”
“It could be better,” Philip admitted. “But I do think you should give some thought to going back, at least for a little while. You will need to begin inquiries, find a teacher… obtain books and art supplies, if nothing else.”
“You’re right, of course.” He cast a sidelong glance at his lover. They’d had nothing but a few stolen kisses these past three days, and he was at the point of wondering whether unrequited love had not been better than this ache of longing. “How long would I need to stay away?
Philip met his look. “Until you are ready to come back, of course.” His expression softened, and he put his hand on Brendan’s thigh. “I know, this is difficult.”
“Unbearable,” Brendan said. “And you needn’t tell me—it is necessary.”
“You know it is. I shall follow you to London as soon as I may. It will be easier for us to be private there, with only two servants in residence.”
“Their rooms are at some distance from the main bedrooms, then?” Brendan asked. “Though I should have asked that the last time I was there!”
“Oh, they’re some distance away.” Philip smiled ruefully. “And yes, I do want to be with you there—if for no other reason than to make up for my infamous behavior the last time.”
“I apologize for such a clumsy seduction,” Brendan said. “I wonder, now, that you did not call me out.”
“I wonder that you did not ride out here and shoot me where I stood, after what I did.”
“If I could have been so stupid, I’d have needed a second pistol for myself. I would not want to live without you.”
“Don’t say such things. It makes me want to kiss you here and now, and we dare not.”
Brendan thought he could fall into those mutable eyes and never come out. “Could you not come back to London with me? That long journey, in a closed carriage…”
Philip frowned for a moment, thinking, then nodded. “I believe that might be managed. Now that the inquest is over, I think our official obligations have been met. When we get home I shall send a note to Sir Thomas, just to be certain.”
The note explained that Mr. Townsend suggested Major Carlisle return with him to London so that a proper doctor could examine the Major’s arm; Major Carlisle omitted mention of the two stitches Matthews had already put in it, as well as the fact that it was healing cleanly.
Sir Thomas Livingstone sent a note back with the stableboy. He confirmed that their presence in Kent was no longer required, and begged the favor of a ride to London so that he might to confer with the court in the matter of the smuggling and murder investigation.
Mr. Townsend exercised true gentlemanly restraint by uttering no more than a single “Damn him!” when privately informed of the change in plans.
Major Carlisle sent a reply that he would be more than happy to offer Sir Thomas a seat in his carriage. The three of them enjoyed an uneventful trip to London, although one of the party was unaware that his presence was regretted by his host and sorely resented by the youngest of the group.
“I have arranged to stay at my club,” Sir Thomas said as they began to approach the heart of London. “Would you do me the honor of being my guests at dinner?”
Brendan would have preferred to decline, but knew it was not his decision. “Of course,” Philip said. “And I thank you. My cook will have gone home for the day.”
“Home?” Livingstone asked.
“Yes.” He shrugged deprecatingly. “The arrangements in my town home are slightly unusual. I spend so little time there that I have only my butler and a footman in residence. The cook comes in and prepares meals, then goes back to her own home.”
Sir Thomas smiled. “I’ll wager the cook is another of your charity projects,” he said. “Let me guess—woman of good family in reduced circumstances?”
Philip looked away as if embarrassed at being caught out. “I had an excellent bootmaker,” he said. “When he died, yes, his widow was left with several children, including a son who is not yet a master of his trade. They live above the shop, there is no need for me to house them—so you see, the arrangement is not so much charity as it is good value. Mrs. Massie cooks well enough for ordinary purposes, and her two daughters handle the housework under Goodbody’s iron rule. If I were to entertain here in town—which I have not done in years—I would try to persuade Mr. Townsend’s mother to let me hire her French chef for the occasion. And so, rather than hope for a little cold meat in my own home, I hasten to accept your hospitable offer.”
“And you, Mr. Townsend?”
“Certainly, sir, thank you. My family does not expect me at any particular time.” Brendan was intrigued at the further glimpse into Philip’s character and wondered how his own measured in comparison. He knew that his mother occasionally made arrangements to have the doctor in when a servant was ill, but beyond that he knew little about them—only as much as was useful to himself. That was all that was required, but he thought Philip’s active humanity was more admirable.
He wondered if, as an indigent artist, he would be considered one of Philip’s charity projects. Not a bad notion, actually, and far better than the truth.
Although Sir Thomas was an agreeable host and the meal far better than a plate of cold meat, Brendan had never found it more difficult to give the appearance of carefree enthusiasm. All he wanted was to be alone with his lover. Such a simple wish—and so apparently impossible to achieve.
Night had fallen by the time they left the club. They were scarcely in the carriage, and the shades drawn, before Brendan was in Philip’s arms. “How long must we wait, do you think?” he asked between kisses.
“It is nearly ten now.” He slapped Brendan’s exploring hand away from his trouser buttons. “No, you may not—not here in London! If we ask for hot water for bathing—and y
ou may not need to bathe, but I certainly do—we should be finished by midnight. One in the morning, or perhaps half-past, should be safe enough.”
Brendan sighed happily, and let his head rest against Philip’s shoulder—the one attached to the uninjured arm. “I do want to bathe. I mean to give you everything tonight, and I should hate to be dirty.”
Philip was suddenly still in the darkness. “Everything?” he asked. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’ll see.” Brendan slipped his hand behind his lover’s head, and pulled him down for another kiss.
After their baths, after a final glass of sherry, Carlisle went to his bedroom and lay on the covers, still wrapped in his dressing gown. Too keyed up to sleep, he watched the moonlight shadows move along the wall until he heard the faint boom of the eight-day clock that stood at the foot of the stair. One a.m. He waited for the quarter-chime, then rose silently, and on cold bare feet left his own room and traversed the silent hall to Brendan’s bedroom. He opened the door carefully, soundlessly, and passed into the chamber, closing and bolting the door behind him. The room was dark and silent, and for a moment he thought his lover had fallen asleep.
He turned to leave, and heard a movement from the bed. “Philip?”
“Of course.”
There was no answer, only a flurry of movement, and Brendan was in his arms, young and eager and enticingly naked. The touch of his warm skin through the silk sent a thrill through the older man, not all of it physical. To be desired again, so ardently… it was something he had never even hoped for.
But he had no time for reflection; Brendan captured his lips in a slow, teasing kiss that left him gasping. “I thought you’d decided not to come.”
“I told you I would,” he said, stroking Brendan’s slim, muscular back as he might soothe a nervous colt. That intention lasted only as long as it took to reach the smooth curve of his arse. With a gasp, Brendan thrust against him, already fully erect, and captured his mouth again. Ah, youth!
He pulled back long enough to catch a breath and say, “Did you think I was so old and feeble that I would fall asleep, with all this waiting for me?”
