by Megan Derr
"Yes," Bart said softly. "However, before I confirm that, I must have a word with our highwayman."
Weaver quirked a brow, but did not press. He smiled faintly. "A pity, I suspect, that I did not read the rest of that letter."
Bart grinned. "That's what you get for being honorable, my lord, and you've no one but yourself to blame for it."
"Quite so," Weaver said with a laugh as he stood. "I thank you for interfering, Lord Bartholomew; this matter will be tended to at once. Shall we arrange a dinner for tomorrow evening, so that the three of us, or possibly four of us, might discuss what to do about these smugglers?"
"That sounds ideal," Bart replied. "Thank you, my lord. I truly hope I have helped."
"You have," Weaver assured firmly. "I bid you good day."
Bart escorted him out and stood watching until the carriage had vanished from sight. Then he called for Rogers. "Have a horse readied, if you please—I am going to visit Father Thomas; I do not know when I will be back. If you happen to see Perry, let him know that I would like a word with him this evening. In fact, arrange for us to dine in the sunroom."
"As you wish, my lord."
Bart started to turn away to head for his bedroom, but paused at the foot of the stairs. Abandoning them, he returned to the study, pausing again at the door. "Rogers."
"My lord?" Rogers stopped just short of the door which led to the backrooms of the manner.
"If I do not return home by the twenty-first hour tonight, take the letter I will leave upon the desk to the constable. Spare no effort to ensure that he gets it. Understood?"
Rogers nodded. "Yes, my lord."
"Good. Notify me when my horse is ready."
"My lord," Rogers said, and swept a bow before vanishing.
Resuming his place at the desk, Bart swiftly penned a letter that would explain everything, should the smugglers attempt to ensure that he told no one. Tucking the letter away until it came time to leave it out, he went to get dressed for his visit to Father Thomas.
Forty-five minutes found him knocking upon Father Thomas' door, the letter from Rae all but burning a hole where it was tucked into his jacket. He hoped he was doing the right thing, that this would start to repair the rift between them. Otherwise, he feared very much that Perry would continue on his present course, one highwayman against a band of smugglers—and he wondered now if Perry had ever intended to survive his lonely battle.
"Bartholomew," Father Thomas greeted, surprised. "What brings you here?"
"My apologies, Father, for arriving uninvited."
"You are always welcome here, invitation or no," Father Thomas replied. "Come in."
"Thank you," Bart murmured. He let Father Thomas usher him into the parlor, handing his coat and hat to the housekeeper, and accepting a drink and giving Father Thomas time to settle comfortably. He kept the talk to weather and other trivialities for several minutes. "You have not asked about your son," he said finally.
Father Thomas stiffened. "I am certain that he is doing quite well for himself. It was gracious of you to invite him to stay with you."
"He would rather be here with you," Bart said quietly. "You are the most forgiving man I know, Father. If anyone could forgive a man no matter his transgression, I'd think it was you."
"Some things only the gods can forgive," Father Thomas said tersely. "This is none of your affair, my lord."
Bart snorted. "My entire life I have been yelled at for interfering, for putting my nose where it was not welcome, for barreling and crashing about and doing as I please rather than as I was told. Everyone complains, everyone yells, and everyone tells me not to do it—yet whenever the dust dies down, the people who did the yelling are much happier. Perhaps interfering in everyone's life makes my ego feel better, I do not know. What I do know is that you are both miserable. That says to me that you want things put right, even as you yammer about that being impossible."
"You know nothing about it," Father Thomas snapped, displaying his rarely seen temper. "Stay out of it."
"I know that your son led a secluded life here," Bart said. "I know that he was raised to abhor and revile violence, that you kept him sheltered."
Father Thomas said nothing, merely stared at him, face expressionless, but his eyes pained. Bart took it as an indication to continue. "Come now, Father Thomas, what happens to all boys when they are given their first true taste of freedom? I can tell you that it is a miracle that I did not drink myself to death, the first time I was let loose upon the world. I and several friends did our best over the course of a three day holiday to drink ourselves into an early grave. We nearly succeeded. It was not the last time we were that stupid, and we even managed to eclipse each bout of stupidity with every subsequent round. As we got older, however, we came to our senses and began to calm.
"However, I had a small taste of all of that, being my father's heir. I knew a sphere of the world that Perry had never seen. As sheltered as he was, growing up here, is it so hard to imagine that he got carried away and made mistakes, compounding them until it became too much for him to take?"
Father Thomas' blank expression became a furious glare. "Are you trying to say that I am responsible for my son's terrible crimes?"
"No," Bart said sharply. "I am trying to say that allowing a lamb to go play with wolves was only going to have so many outcomes—either the lamb found himself devoured or he learned to act like a wolf."
"I would rather he let himself be devoured," Father Thomas bellowed, slamming a fist down on the table beside his chair. "Do you know what he has done? The blood that stains his hand?"
Bart shook his head. "I have my ideas and I know more than you might think, but I do not know the full of it. I do know that he suffered from a terrible addiction and fell in with people who probably hurt him more than he will ever admit." He leveled a glare of his own at Father Thomas. "I also know that your rejection is slowly killing him, that it has set him upon an even more dangerous path—one that will likely end in his death. That he wants it to end in his death." He stood up before Father Thomas could speak, but never broke their locked gazes. "So, Father Thomas, it seems that you might get your wish. You say that you would rather your son had been devoured—wolves have moved into Greendale and your son is the only one fighting them, and before they are finished, they will likely kill him."
"What are you talking about?" Father Thomas demanded. "He killed a man, did you know that? Worse still, he let another man die for his crime. Did you know that? My son is no lamb, but has been a wolf all along."
"No!" Bart bellowed. "He most certainly is not." He broke off before he said something he knew he would come to regret. "So he did kill someone. Was he responsible for the death of the Grand Duke's cousin, then?"
Father Thomas grunted in surprise. "So you do know something of the matter."
"As I said, I know more than you might think," Bart said coolly. "So he killed Lord Aubin?"
"Yes," Father Thomas said quietly, idly tracing the rim of his glass before abruptly downing the contents. "He came home two years ago looking more dead than alive. He was sick from some strange illness that I could not name. It lasted weeks and even after that it was months before he seemed truly healthy again. Even now, I sometimes wonder…" He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Bit by bit he told me of all he had done—how he had fallen into a fondness for dragon blood, the friends he acquired and the terrible things they did…" He shuddered. "The man who became his lover and how everything just grew worse. He said that he could not seem to find a way out of it, but I have to wonder if he tried."
Bart said nothing, but was not surprised by what he was hearing. He'd seen it before. Young men, little more than boys, enchanted and seduced by wolves masquerading as gentlemen, trapped in a dream that quickly turned into a nightmare.
"They took up with the Grand Duke's cousin, Perry told me," Father Thomas continued. "The three of them and a fourth, another friend of that damnable Winsted. Some deal was struck; Perry said
that Winsted and Aubin attempted to cheat one another and the confrontation turned ugly. One thing led to another and he wound up killing Aubin. Somewhere in there, he claims, the fourth man was shot, although he was not certain who did it."
"He fled," Bart said quietly.
"Yes," Father Thomas said. "Not long after his return, we learned of Winsted's execution."
"I would say that it is not my place to judge," Bart said, "but seeing as you have no problems doing so, I will say I far prefer Winsted being dead to Perry. I have seen men like Winsted before, as well as men like Perry. If you ask me, Winsted deserved it and I am not ashamed to say so, whatever sort of monster that might make me." He turned away, sensing that a retreat would serve him better than another sally.
"He committed so many crimes and killed a man, let another die for it," Father Thomas said. "How am I to forgive that?"
"You're the priest, you tell me," Bart said. "However, Perry is paying for his crimes in his own way."
"You said something earlier…"
Bart shrugged. "What do you care? You said you preferred he had died—you may get your wish. Good day to you, Father." He departed, ignoring the cries for him to stop, mounting his horse and riding off back home.
His heart was beating faster than ever, both with the fear that perhaps he had not done the right thing by cornering Father Thomas and in anticipation of speaking to his highwayman.
Twelve
Bart could not reconcile the two, that his Perry was also his highwayman. Perhaps that better explained the kisses…and suddenly recalling the highwayman's stolen kisses made him hot, his clothes too tight—he really did not want to be riding a horse at the moment.
Thankfully, Bart soon arrived at the manor, dismounting before the horse had completely stopped and tossing the reigns to a footman who came rushing from the stables. Climbing the steps, he stripped off his gloves as he called for Rogers.
"Dinner is arranged?" he asked.
Rogers nodded. "Of course, my lord."
"Good. Thank you. Where is Perry?"
"He left, my lord, to go and have a word with the chemist." Rogers frowned. "I apologize profusely, my lord. I had no idea that tonic contained an illegal substance—"
"Nonsense," Bart said. "How could you have? It is illegal, so you would not be familiar with it. I certainly had no idea it was in the tonic. So where did Perry go? When will he return?"
"I purchase it from the next village over, my lord. I have never cared for Mr. Cotton." He sniffed in disapproval and Bart vaguely recalled that Rogers' family had long been on the outs with the Cottons, in typical small village fashion. "I volunteered to go speak with Mr. Andrews myself, but Master Thomas insisted upon tending to the matter personally."
Bart just bet he did. Damn and blast. "Very well, I shall be in the study. Inform me at once when he returns. Have a tea tray sent, would you?"
"Of course, my lord," Rogers said.
Murmuring his thanks, Bart vanished into his study—well, his father's study, and he would do well to remember that, since his father was even now probably intending to administer some harsh punishment for Bart's continued defiance. At the rate he was going, Lane would wind up heir and Bart sent somewhere out of the way.
Bart sighed. Did he even really care? Well, yes. But his priority had ceased to be 'impress father' awhile ago. All he wanted now was Perry—his happiness, but mostly just for him to live. Even if when this was all over, living didn't include him.
Though he was rather hoping all those kisses the highwayman had been stealing meant that maybe Perry did want him. But that could be settled after Perry was safe and no longer set on his suicide crusade.
Hopefully this mess would be concluded before one of his brother's came after him. Or worse, the whole family showed up. Gods forbid. Bart did not want to think about the shrieking that would ensue should his family learn he had been clipped by a pistol ball. It would likely render him deaf.
Perhaps he should pen a letter home, after all. If the worst were to happen, and under the circumstances it was not wholly unreasonable to assume it might …
Sighing softly, Bart sat down and pulled out the necessary writing implements, composing his letter in his mind. He discarded half a dozen attempts before at last deciding on something simple and straightforward, nothing that would seem amiss should he survive the smugglers, but would say what he needed should the worst befall him. He set the letter aside, both to let it dry and to think upon it before he decided it was, in fact, precisely what he wanted to say.
Next he recorded a more thorough accounting of everything he had seen, heard, or otherwise learned since his arrival. The only thing he neglected to relate to paper was the identity of the highwayman. That knowledge would be confined to as few persons as possible.
Perry needed to be home already; what was taking him so long? It was time to sit down, relate all he knew, and work out a definitive plan to stop the smugglers once and for all. Then Burr would no longer be tormented, he could convince Crane to let him ship William off somewhere, and Perry could live with him here forever.
Letters written, accounting of the smuggling activities made, Bart turned to the household books as the best way to pass the time, stubbornly ignoring the burning ache in his arm.
The bookkeeping was always a taxing chore and demanded his undivided attention. Bart did not break away from it until he pulled away to stretch, and finally noticed the hallway clock was tolling the twentieth hour.
What in the hells?
"Rogers!"
"My lord?"
Rogers appeared so quickly that Bart startled and half-wondered if Rogers had been lurking outside the door—then he saw the salver in Roger's hand.
"Has Perry not returned?" Bart asked.
"No, my lord," Rogers replied. "However, a letter just arrived for you." He presented the salver.
Bart frowned, disliking the poor quality of the tri-folded sheet of paper. It was sealed with unmarked black wax. "Thank you, Rogers."
"My lord." Rogers bowed out and vanished as silently as he had arrived.
Breaking the wax, Bart opened the letter and read. By the end of it he was all but shaking—with anger and fear. "Rogers!"
For once the usually calm, controlled expression slipped, as Rogers regarded Bart with obvious concern. "Is everything all right, my lord?"
Bart bit back an urge to laugh, afraid that it might sound a trifle hysterical. "Ready the carriage, Rogers. Then I need you to take a packet to Baron Weaver."
Rogers' brows went up. "Me, my lord?"
"Yes, you," Bart reiterated. "I do not trust anyone else right now."
"I'm happy to do it, my lord," Rogers said stiffly, drawing himself up.
Bart smiled. "I'm eternally grateful." He gathered up everything he had written, including the note he had just received. "Take these to Weaver; tuck them away so that no one with whom you might cross paths will know that you carry anything. Let none of the other staff see it. I would prefer that no one know your destination." He frowned, attempting to think of some excuse.
Rogers laughed softly. "I will simply let them believe that I am being sent home for a few days in reprimand for buying a tonic that possessed poppy seed, my lord. My family's home is in the same direction as Baron Weaver's lands."
"You are brilliant, Rogers. Thank you."
"Of course, my lord," Rogers replied, and tucked the bundle of papers away in his jacket, settling all until it was impossible to tell he carried anything on his person. "The carriage will be ready in a quarter hour my lord. Did you need me to leave before that?"
"No," Bart replied. "Ensure that the house is closed up for the night and tell the cooks not to bother with dinner. Send most of the staff home. Tell them that I have been called away by a friend on a matter of extreme urgency."
Rogers' brows went up again, but he did not voice the questions plain upon his face. "Yes, my lord."
"Good. I will be departing the moment the carriag
e is prepared—you will leave after I am gone. I am putting you at the Weaver's disposal."
"Yes, my lord."
"Thank you." Bart abandoned the chaos on his desk, consigning the bookkeeping to the very devil. He cared about nothing but Perry and ensuring Perry's safety, and if he had to put a pistol ball through every last smuggler himself, he would do it and gladly. His hands curled into fists as he took the main staircase two at a time, the note he had received seared into his mind.
My lord,
We require your assistance on a matter of some importance. You caused us a great deal of trouble last night. As a gentleman, it is your duty to compensate us for the inconvenience. To that end, we require the services of you and your carriage to help make an important delivery.
Sensing that you would not be inclined to offer your assistance freely, we have taken a small liberty to ensure your cooperation. If you ever hope to see your dear friend Perry alive again, bring your carriage to Shepherd Path at half past the twenty-second hour tonight.
Come alone.
Perhaps the worst of it was that the letter was not signed, a final insult to the whole infuriating, humiliating affair. He dare not run to the Constable, not if the bastards had kidnapped Perry—who had better be alive, or Bart would not stop until he had killed every last one of them. He had never favored throwing his weight around or taking advantage of his myriad friendships—but if they had hurt Perry, then the bastards would learn how stupid it was to anger a man who possessed Bart's connections.
Bart changed quickly, throwing on dark clothing much like those he had ruined the other night fleeing the smugglers. When he returned downstairs, the carriage was ready. Dismissing the driver, Bart climbed into the driver's seat himself, ignoring the protests of the servants as he flicked the reins. Hopefully Rogers would reach Weaver, who would in turn know what best to do—not that Bart particularly cared; he wanted only to retrieve Perry and get them both out alive. Trickier than it sounded, for he knew damn good and well that the smugglers would use him, then kill them both…and no doubt blame it all upon the highwayman they did not realize they'd captured. Well, hopefully they didn't realize. If they had somehow deduced Perry's role then he was very likely already dead.
