Flynn studied Charlie Beaumont out of the corner of his eye.
The boy had been as skittish as a feral cat since they had left the grounds of St. Michael’s and wound their way through the darkened streets, eventually slipping into the welcome warmth of the tavern. As they had walked, Beaumont had kept his head down and had kept a physical distance as though Flynn carried the plague.
Though Flynn couldn’t say that he’d been overly relaxed either. Everything that had been said in that studio had left him wildly out of sorts. Not to mention Beaumont’s casual gifting of a canvas so exquisite that it had stripped Flynn of words. He had known deep down that Beaumont was skilled—Lisbon had told him as much, even if he hadn’t wanted to hear it at the time. What Flynn hadn’t realized until he’d rolled out those paintings—paintings Beaumont had dismissed as mere copies—was that the boy was breathtakingly gifted.
And not only gifted but humble. And wise and generous. And kind.
Perhaps that kindness was why he had told Beaumont as much as he had about Cecelia. He’d tried to convince himself that it was because he didn’t want to have to defend himself when the boy inevitably heard the gossip. It was better to get ahead of such things. Competitive jealousy and ruthless guile were hallmarks of the art world that Flynn had constantly endured, and his naïveté about his affair with Cecelia and how he would be received in a society that was not his was as shameful as it was frustrating. He had learned his lesson about misplaced trust the hard way.
But the more he had confided to Beaumont, the less difficult the words had become to share. There was something about him that made Flynn want to bare everything. Because Beaumont had simply looked at him with those calm, caramel eyes and had…understood. In his soft-spoken manner, he had put into words what Flynn had been unable to. He had unwittingly forgiven Flynn for actions that Flynn hadn’t been able to forgive himself for. Laid out a truth and a reality that his own anger had prevented him from seeing. It had been unnerving, that revelation.
I am hopeful that we might complete this commission as friends.
It had been a long time since Flynn had had a friendship that wasn’t layered in hidden agendas or deceit. He had thought Cecelia Mountbatten, with all her professions of devotion and admiration, had been a friend. He knew better now. But had she possessed even a portion of Charlie Beaumont’s gentle grace and honor, or a fraction of his wisdom and kindness, Flynn would have been lost. He would have fallen in love so hard and so deep that he probably would never have found the surface again.
As it was, however, he realized he had found his way back. Righted his ship and recharted his course with the most unlikely of allies. Beaumont had drawn Flynn out of the cold shadows of bitterness and regret, and tonight, he had found himself unwilling to let the boy step out into the darkness alone, as if by leaving, he would take all of Flynn’s newfound peace with him. The young artist made him better in so many ways. Made him want to do better. Be better. And as he watched the boy across the tavern table, he thought to himself that it would be a lucky soul who would one day capture the incredible heart of Charlie Beaumont.
Their meal was eaten mostly in silence, Flynn lost in the turmoil of his thoughts and Beaumont seemingly content to keep to himself. Normally, the silence would have pleased Flynn to no end. Normally, he would have no interest in dissecting anything remotely personal with another individual. But with Beaumont, his normal seemed to have shifted. He just wasn’t sure what to do about it. They had finished their meal and were almost back to St. Michael’s before Flynn decided that silence was not at all what he wanted.
“Thank you,” he said into the darkness of the night, the air crisp with the promise of winter.
“For what?”
“The painting. I’m sorry if I came across as ungrateful.” The wind had died, and his breath rose in a foggy cloud.
Beaumont shrugged. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he mumbled.
“Do you have siblings?” Flynn suddenly needed to know more.
He saw Beaumont duck his head, and for a moment Flynn wasn’t sure if he was going to answer. “Two brothers,” he muttered after a pause.
“And are they artists as well?”
“No.”
“What do they do?”
There was another long pause. Somewhere in the distance, hooves clattered. “They work for my father,” Beaumont finally said.
“In Aysgarth?”
A hesitation and then a nod, followed by an empty silence.
Flynn frowned. “What does your father do?”
“He manages land.”
“A steward then?”
Beaumont shrugged. “Something like that.”
Flynn scowled at the ambiguity of his answer, and Beaumont caught his expression.
“I’ve never been close to my family,” the boy said, his eyes slipping away again. “They’ve never seen value in me or…approved of my…ah…ambitions. For as long as I can remember, I have only ever been a disappointment to them.” There was an edge of frustration and sadness that Flynn recognized well. Because Flynn had also had to fight legions of people who didn’t think that he would ever amount to anything. He still was fighting.
“I’m sorry.” Because as much as Flynn had fought, he’d been armed with the knowledge that his mother, the only family he’d ever had, had believed in him completely and passionately. “Was it difficult to leave?”
Beaumont made a small noise that was difficult to interpret. “There was no one and nothing to leave,” he mumbled. “My only regret was that I didn’t find the courage to leave sooner.”
Flynn stopped abruptly in the middle of the deserted lane, the handful of buildings on either side of them silent and dark. A broken fence listed drunkenly, creating strange shadows across the road. “You were meant to do this, you know,” he said to Beaumont’s back.
The boy stopped, and he slowly turned to face Flynn. In the dark, it was impossible to see his features clearly. “Do what?” he asked in a voice so soft Flynn almost missed the question.
Flynn waved a hand in the direction of the church, its spire just visible above the shadowed roofs in the moonlight. “You were meant to create, Mr. Beaumont. Inspire. You see beyond the surface.” He didn’t know what was making him say these things. Maybe it was guilt over his initial conduct. Maybe because he saw part of himself in Beaumont. Maybe it was because he understood that Charlie Beaumont was not an adversary but an ally. A true friend who listened without judgment and whose actions were driven only by kindness. He didn’t have pieces of the Sistine Chapel to gift this boy with, but perhaps he could offer words. “Regardless of what you might have overheard me say, you have a gift. You should be proud of what you’ve already accomplished.”
Beaumont had gone utterly silent and utterly still. As the seconds ticked by, Flynn shifted uncomfortably in the cold, feeling foolish. This is what he got for letting his guard down and spouting…feelings. No doubt Beaumont was—
“Thank you.” It was a strained whisper that hung in icy crystals before dissipating. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before.”
Flynn frowned. Beaumont sounded…off. Like he was going to weep. There was something not quite right about—
He froze, his skin prickling with an awareness that hadn’t ever failed him. An awareness that had allowed him to survive for those years when so many others hadn’t.
“Step towards me, Beaumont,” he commanded.
The boy obeyed either his tone or because he had sensed the same.
From out of the shadows, a figure emerged. Then another.
“Look what we have here.” The man who spoke first was barrel-chested, the buttons of his coat straining over the front of his torso. He had a hat pulled down over his ears so it was difficult to see his expression, but it was not difficult to interpret his intentions.
The second man stepped into the narrow lane. He wasn’t as big, but he had the build of a man who made his living with hard labor.
“An aris-to-crat,” he mocked, making it clear exactly what he thought of the upper classes.
Beside him, he saw Beaumont open his mouth.
“That’s right,” Flynn snapped before Beaumont could say anything. “And I’d trouble you to leave myself and my servant alone.” If these two blackguards believed the boy was a mere servant, they’d likely leave him be. His rumpled appearance helped, as did the pallor of Beaumont’s face above his scarf and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. A surge of protectiveness hit Flynn with the force of a runaway carriage.
“That’s a fine coat you’re wearing, mate,” the smaller of the two men said to Flynn. “And fine boots. Expensive.”
Flynn didn’t need to glance at the grey coat or the boots he wore to know exactly how expensive they looked or why he might have been mistaken for a rich toff. The coat was made of superfine, lined and tailored, the boots made of polished, supple leather with reinforced soles. He had bought them with the money from his first large commission because, for as long as he could remember, winter had meant bone-chilling misery, ragged garments, and broken shoes stuffed with paper no match for the incapacitating cold. The coat and the boots had cost him dearly, and they had been worth every penny.
“We’ll take yer boots and yer coat and whatever is in them pockets.” The bigger man lifted his hand, and Flynn could see that he held a knife.
“You don’t want to do this,” Flynn said.
The men were laughing at Flynn’s words. “I can assure ye, we do. Besides, a bloke like you can afford it.” They took a few steps closer. “Now give me yer coat. I don’t want to make you bleed all over it.”
“Get out of here, Beaumont,” Flynn ordered under his breath.
Beaumont’s head snapped around. “What?”
“Go. Run. They don’t want you. They want me. And I can handle myself.”
“I’m not running. I’m not leaving you alone.”
Flynn fought back a surge of frustration. “It wasn’t a request,” he snapped. “And you don’t want to see this. Go. Get help—”
The man with the knife sprang at him without warning, catching Flynn off guard, but Beaumont drove his shoulder into the man’s barrel chest, making the attacker stumble. Flynn thought he saw the knife flash in the dull light but he was already leaping forward, wrenching the man’s thick forearm back and to the side in practiced movements he had not had to use in a long time. He felt the man’s shoulder joint pop, heard him scream, and the knife dropped to the ground. Flynn delivered a punishing blow to the man’s kneecap with the heel of his boot, and he fell heavily, but not before Flynn had snatched up his knife.
The second man was much faster than his cohort. Flynn felt the air hiss as a blade narrowly missed the side of his face, and he danced back, adjusting his grip on his own weapon. It was clumsy, this knife, unbalanced and bulky, but it would do. Flynn had done more with less in the past. The smaller man shuffled around his writhing, groaning partner, looking for an advantage that Flynn wouldn’t give him. He couldn’t see Beaumont, and he hoped that the boy was long gone.
“You don’t want to do this,” Flynn said again.
The man only bared his teeth in response and lunged with his knife. Flynn sidestepped easily, his fingers once again flexing around the wooden handle of his own blade.
“Just leave,” Flynn tried. “Take your friend. He’s got a dislocated shoulder and a shattered kneecap, and both need attention if he’s going to be able to use his arm and leg again.”
His attacker ignored him and lunged again, and this time, Flynn spun and brought his blade down, leaving a deep gash across the man’s chest. “Stop, please,” he said, though he was beginning to lose patience, the old battle fever rising and starting to pound through his veins.
The man shouted in fury and rushed forward, swinging wildly. Flynn dodged, and his blade found purchase in his attacker’s upper arm. But the man didn’t even flinch, nor did he slow his attack. He just kept coming, his knife whistling back and forth.
Flynn crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and let him come, using his forearm to block his opponent and at the same time sinking his blade into the hard muscle of the man’s thigh, hoping to slow him down. But as Flynn twisted, the heel of his boot caught on an uneven ridge, and Flynn felt himself pitching backward. He hit the ground on his backside, and in an instant, his attacker launched himself on top of him.
He tried to roll away, but the man was like a wildcat, his movements erratic and frenzied as his knife flashed downward. Flynn waited for his opening as he blocked each thrust, knowing that his attacker could not maintain this for long—
A sharp crack resounded, and the man suddenly pitched forward with a stunned expression on his face, landing face-first on the ground. Beaumont stood over him, with what looked like a piece of broken fence board in his hand. Flynn scrambled to his feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” Flynn demanded, breathing hard, the blood still roaring in his ears. “I told you to go and get help.”
“I did.” Beaumont was blinking rapidly. “That board was very helpful.”
Flynn glanced down at the board in Beaumont’s hand and realized with horror that the jagged wood was slick with blood. As was the boy’s whole left hand and the entire outer edge of the sleeve of his coat, an ominous dark stain in the low light.
“You’re bleeding,” Flynn said, reaching for him.
Beaumont frowned and swayed slightly. “I do feel a little funny,” he said.
“Shit,” Flynn swore, catching the boy under his arm and noticing the gaping tear at the shoulder of his baggy coat. The edges had bloomed dark as more blood soaked into the fabric. The heavy man must have gotten him when he had charged at Flynn. When Beaumont had stepped into his path to stop him.
He switched sides, pulling Beaumont’s good arm over his shoulder, even as the boy tried to push his hands away. “I don’t need your help,” he mumbled, but his words were slurred. “I’m fine.” And then his eyes rolled up in his head, his lashes fluttered, and he went limp against Flynn.
“Shit,” Flynn swore again. “Shit, shit, shit.” How badly had Beaumont been cut? He couldn’t see how deep it went. Stitches might be enough to fix it. Provided it didn’t go putrid. Provided infection didn’t spread down his arm. Provided Beaumont didn’t subside into a fever and waste away. Flynn had seen that before. More times than he cared to remember and from wounds that had looked completely innocent at first.
Fear—real fear—coursed through him. He bent and scooped the boy up into his arms, thinking that he wasn’t as heavy as he expected. Flynn hurried toward the spire of St. Michael’s, trying not to jar the boy too much.
He reached the grounds and hesitated briefly, wondering if he should alert Lisbon. No, that could wait. And there was no guarantee that Lisbon wouldn’t insist on summoning a doctor. The sort that poked and prodded with their lancets, drained more blood, and generally made a bad situation worse. Flynn might not be a surgeon or a physician, but he had treated knife wounds more times than he cared to remember, and he trusted himself more than the quacks he had seen in action. After all these years, he still kept a kit in his belongings that contained everything he needed to treat such wounds.
That decided, he veered in the direction of their studio. He crashed through the door, kicking it shut against the cold with his foot, and hurried to Beaumont’s room, laying the boy on the bed with as much care as he could manage. He left Beaumont just long enough to fetch both the lanterns from the studio floor and set them on the tiny washstand, dragging it closer to the bed.
Beaumont was pale, a scrape on his temple Flynn hadn’t noticed before slowly leaking blood. But he wasn’t worried about that. He needed to see what sort of real damage had been done to the boy’s shoulder. Flynn’s fingers fumbled first with his scarf, pulling it away, before attacking the buttons of Beaumont’s baggy coat, and he shoved it open. As gently as he could, Flynn eased his good arm out of its sleeve, rolling him over s
lightly so he could pull the coat out from under him and away from his left.
The boy groaned slightly but didn’t open his eyes.
He tossed the coat to the floor, already reaching for the ties of his equally shapeless and bulky shirt. Against the pale linen, the blood looked more sinister, Beaumont’s entire left arm soaked and darkening. Flynn cursed and pulled at the stubborn laces of the ruined shirt, needing to see the extent of the injury. Beaumont groaned again, his head twisting to the side, one of his hands coming up to push at Flynn’s.
“Stop,” the boy whispered faintly before he went limp again.
“Shut up,” Flynn snapped, not certain Beaumont could even hear him. “Lie still.” The laces gave way, and Flynn grasped the worn linen in his hands and pulled, the fabric tearing easily. “I can’t see where the blood is—” He stopped.
Stopped speaking, stopped moving, stopped breathing.
Though he could see Charlie Beaumont’s chest moving up and down. No, he thought numbly, not Charlie. Or Charles, for that matter. He didn’t know who the hell was on the bed in front of him, but it wasn’t a he.
It seemed obvious now, in the way that hindsight makes complete fools out of otherwise intelligent men. But Flynn hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t been looking. Because he’d never had a reason to look. Because he’d been so inwardly focused and consumed by his own bitter struggles that he hadn’t bothered to look at hers.
The initial shock was starting to fade, and Flynn fought to put his thoughts in order and examine what lingered. The anger that had instantly welled with the unwelcome surprise had also diminished, and he recognized that response was more a product of his damaged pride than anything else. Because with it, there was admiration that she had been able to hide in plain sight so deftly. There was wonder at the measures that she had felt she had needed to take so that she could do what she was clearly born to do.
But most prominent was the peculiar protectiveness he had first felt in that narrow lane. A protectiveness that had suddenly taken on a whole different slant. It was probably better that Flynn had believed himself to be defending a boy named Charlie Beaumont because, had he been defending the nameless woman lying so still before him, he wasn’t sure he simply wouldn’t have slit the throats of both thieves. Which was a ridiculous sentiment, he knew, because in theory, nothing had truly changed.
Forever and a Duke Page 33
