The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree: Stoker & Bash, #2

by Selina Kray

  Callie avoided Shahida’s knowing stare, kicked her ankle to stop her snickering.

  Chapter 24

  One Month Later

  Tim turned his face to the sun as the carriage rounded Berkeley Square. So many people relaxed on the lawn on this rare sunny day it was difficult to tell the grass was green. Not so the trees, which shed their pink spring blossoms in spiral showers, dappling the dresses and hats of ladies en promenade. Han, at the reins beside him, waved to Angus and Jie, strolling with their new, renamed son Feng in the pram as Ting skipped ahead. Tim inhaled deep, relishing the stretch of his recovered lungs, if not the overripe London stench. Not everything, as they said, was sunshine and roses.

  Though on this day of all days, Tim could be forgiven some optimism. And trepidation.

  When the carriage came to a halt at the front steps of 23 Berkeley Square, Tim stared up at the grand old townhouse, still not quite able to reconcile that this was now his home. He remembered his first glimpse of the place only eight or nine months earlier, half-hidden behind one of the trees across the street, searching for clues as to the dastardly deeds of the notorious Hieronymus Bash. To say he had found something unexpected behind that silver knocker was no exaggeration. But the true marvel was the discovery of the bit of himself he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

  He hopped down from the front seat just as Angus jogged over to help them unload the boxes. Tim cringed when Han propped open the door, still embarrassed the entirety of his worldly possessions didn’t quite fill the carriage compartment, especially when compared to the five-story colossus behind him. But he reminded himself every one of the current inhabitants had come to Berkeley Square with less, even Lillian and Callie, born into nobility, and most, if they left, would bring no more with them. His ego appeased, he reached for one of the boxes...

  Only for Angus to shoo him away.

  “Dinnae fash, Mr. Stoker. We’ll see to it. You’re still mending.”

  “I’ll not have you wait on me, and I need the exercise.”

  Did two half truths make a lie? Tim couldn’t be bothered to do the mental math. He grabbed one of the—lighter, it must be said—boxes, ignoring the screech of his biceps and the groan of his back. Three weeks of bed rest and another of minimal activity had shrunk him down to skin and bone, or so it seemed every time he glanced in the mirror, where he’d also spotted the leg rash that bit deep enough to leave permanent scars. Though his physician forbid him from training at his sports club or resuming work for another fortnight, Tim would not play the invalid a moment longer.

  Until felled by a coughing fit halfway up the stairs.

  “A wise man once told me,” Han counseled as he eased the box out of Tim’s hands, “not to wait on chasing happiness, else it might escape you.”

  “And here I thought we were done with false prophets.”

  Han chuckled. “Well and done. My uncle aspired to many things, but godliness wasn’t one of them.”

  Tim cast a fretful glance back at the carriage. “You’re certain?”

  “Go. Or he’ll dig a trough in the floor with his pacing.”

  With a grateful smile, Tim climbed the rest of the steps. The door opened before he could knock, Aldridge stoic as ever. He started to perform a bow, but Tim extended his hand. Aldridge clasped it between his own, eyes twinkling as he directed Tim toward the grand staircase to the upper floors.

  Though he had dressed and groomed in the cozy third-floor room just that morning, Tim felt a crackle in the air as he entered. The smallest and humblest of the bedchambers at Berkeley Square, it still doubled the size of Tim’s Kensington apartment. Never one to miss an opportunity to redecorate, Hiero had taken inspiration from the forest. Pine greens and lichen yellows accented the furniture’s earthy browns. The leaf motif of the wallpaper gave the illusion of a canopy of branches over the bed, with linens and pillows in lush, mossy textures. Secluded at the far end of the room, his writing desk curved invitingly around the wall of majestic mahogany bookshelves, which awaited population.

  The most notable piece, a pop of chartreuse tucked under the window, was, of course, the fainting couch, formerly of Hiero’s dressing room. Tim didn’t imagine he’d while away too many afternoons lounging on it, but he took it in the spirit it had been given—a reminder of the attraction of opposites that forged their undeniable connection. That had led him here, to this new life with the man he adored.

  A man who threw open the hidden door that just so happened to adjoin onto the master bedroom. Hiero paraded in as if he’d recently been beatified, his red-and-gold dressing gown over violet silk trousers evoking the papal robes. The scent of him, smoke and spice with a hint of nervous sweat, fanned the flames of Tim’s desire.

  He locked eyes with his sleek, suave, faintly ridiculous Hiero. How Tim longed to worship him.

  “Welcome home, dear Kip.”

  Tim noted the tremor of hesitation in his voice and hastened to silence it. “You’ve made it so,” he whispered, quieting their doubts with a lingering kiss.

  Hiero drew him into an embrace that did not break until Han and Angus burst in with the first of the boxes. Tim let Hiero take charge of directing them, knowing it would calm him to make sure Tim’s possessions were in order. As much as his Hiero thrived in chaos, Tim had noticed one of the ways he expressed his care was in settling things for others. So Tim nodded when consulted and otherwise enjoyed being able to stand in a room full of friends with his arms around his lover without judgment or censure.

  Perhaps he truly was home.

  “This was once my boudoir,” Hiero remarked as they set the last of the boxes by the desk.

  “So you’ve said.”

  “A lifetime ago, it seems now.”

  “Hardly a revelation. You’ve had so many.”

  “Even so.” Overtaken by a pensive mood, Hiero retreated a few paces to observe Tim in this new environment as a painter might an unfinished portrait. “It suits you. You complete it in a way I never could.”

  Tim smirked. “The room, or the household?”

  This drew out his smile. “The household is an ever-changing thing. It grows new members as we speak. Others might come to tire of it, seek out new adventures or families of their own. But this room, I feel, has found its person.”

  Tim heard in his words what neither of them was yet prepared to say. Too many things between them remained uncertain, including how they would acclimate to living in such close quarters. But he ignored any reservations he felt in favor of kindling the flicker of hope in his heart. That he had found his place in the world, his people, and, more importantly, his person.

  “Pity that.”

  Hiero started. “Oh?”

  “I fear I’ve already betrayed her. In that I’ve become rather partial to the bed next door. And it’s... delicacies.”

  Hiero clicked his tongue. “Careful. The fainting couch is easily wounded, if you’ll recall.”

  “Really? I always thought her quite sturdy.”

  “In construction, yes. But even those of us made of stronger stuff can wobble when it comes to matters of...”

  “Personal history?” Tim closed the distance between them, weaving his withy arms around him. “Echoes of another lifetime?”

  At first Tim thought Hiero might offer up his usual evasions. But he gazed down at Tim with open, if timid, eyes. He felt a shiver skitter through him.

  “Come join me once you’ve settled,” Hiero murmured, “and we’ll speak of things long forgotten.”

  Tim caught him as he made to retreat. “I’m quite settled for the moment. Tell me now.”

  “Nonsense.” Hiero’s solemn stare regained some of its normal sparkle. “You haven’t even noticed your gift.”

  “My gift? You mean besides the refurbished room let to me at negligible cost?”

  “Oh, I will exact a price.” Hiero steered Tim toward the absurdly oversized wardrobe.

  In which he feared he would find a row of suits and
finery of a cost he could never hope to repay, even in flesh. But instead found only a dressing gown, monogrammed and matching Hiero’s own, but in silver and blue. A pair of burgundy silk trousers completed the set. Tim lifted up one of the cuffs to rub it across his cheek.

  “Thank you. For the warmest welcome.” He turned to see Hiero disappear through the adjoining door.

  “Dress. I await you.”

  “As you wish,” Tim shouted after him, already through the buttons of his waistcoat.

  Some time later, the decadent scent of rose and musk lured him into Hiero’s bedchamber. Thick velvet curtains had been drawn to block out the sunlight. The flicker of candlelight enhanced the intimate atmosphere, gilding the playful murals and bawdy statuary. A basin of steaming water had been set before a thronelike armchair, beside which Hiero tinkered with a tray of creams and elixirs. He’d shed his papal robe for an apron over his loose silk shirt and trousers. Seeing him barefoot and kneeling, Tim’s mind bloomed with possible scenarios for their afternoon of leisure.

  He reminded himself—especially his eager prick—to await Hiero’s instruction.

  “Ah,” Hiero greeted him with an anxious glance. “Come. Sit.”

  Tim stopped to card his fingers through the glossy waves of Hiero’s hair before obeying, concerned. He massaged his hands down the nape of his neck and over his shoulders. As soon as he worked out a knot of tension, another coiled in its place. Hiero pressed his face into Tim’s hip, uncharacteristically silent. Tim dropped a kiss to his crown, attempted to draw him up to his feet, but Hiero resisted.

  “Sit.”

  Tim sank into the luxurious armchair, its buoyant cushions and cradling cant almost erotic. He could not help but spread his legs wide, which only encouraged his burgeoning erection to sprout higher. Its arrogant twitch caught Hiero’s eye; he licked his lips. Tearing his gaze away, Hiero snatched a bottle of indigo liquid from the tray, poured three careful drops into the basin. As he swished the waters, another waft of spicy, woodsy scent enticed Tim’s senses.

  “That fragrance,” he purred. “Eau de Bash. What is it?”

  “Oudh.” Hiero offered him a sniff of the bottle. Tim inhaled, the smell so deep, so rich, so raw it was as if they were already entwined. Or so his throbbing cock was persuaded.

  “Touch me.” Tim reached for him.

  Only to be smacked away. “Patience.”

  He wanted to bite the smirk off Hiero’s mouth but decided to behave. Despite the intensifying simmer of his desire, Tim was curious. Especially when Hiero folded Tim’s trouser legs up over his knees.

  Hiero painted a generous stripe of cream from Tim’s ankles to his toes, then his magnificent hands set about massaging it into his left foot. Tim fought to relax and give in to his ministrations, to forget his concerns and let Hiero care for him. He let out a soft moan as Hiero eased his leg into the soothing waters of the basin, wishing his magical hands would hurry with his right foot so they’d be free to travel higher. Glutted by sensation, Tim only hungered for more: to be jerked and sucked, bent over the chair and fucked, to feel Hiero atop him, inside him, possessing him, melting into him.

  Tim woke from sensual reverie when Hiero lifted his first leg out of the basin, propped it on his thigh, and proceeded to scrub. He used a firm brush, tending to every inch of Tim’s cracked and callused foot with a concentration rarely glimpsed in him. This focused tenderness bubbled through Tim like the headiest champagne, leaving him fizzy with affection. He gave all his attention to watching Hiero, his master thespian giving the humblest performance of his career. And all for Tim.

  Hiero didn’t once look up, not even when he switched feet.

  “I learned this custom at my father’s table.”

  Shocked, Tim almost yanked his leg away. But he forced his body to soften. Opened his mind and his heart to what Hiero would confide in him.

  “He invited so few guests into our home that those he trusted were treated like kings.” Hiero placed Tim’s second foot back in the basin, then poured in a fresh rush of hot water from a covered pitcher. “Always he washed their feet when they arrived. Some were surprised, I think, even those of our culture. I’ve long thought of doing the same here, but feared it would be too...”

  “Revealing?”

  A hint of a smile. “But you... You, Timothy Kipling Stoker, are most welcome indeed.”

  Hiero’s starburst eyes flicked up. Their gazes locked. Tim marveled at all he read there, more than a simple verse or letter could ever convey. More meaning than could be uncovered in an entire library.

  Hiero unfolded a towel, slipping the basin to the side as, one by one, he patted Tim’s feet dry. Tim stifled a moan at the sweep of the fabric across his soles, refusing to be distracted from the banquet of information being spread before him.

  “I am my father’s only son, his youngest child. With all the privileges and all the expectations that entailed.” Hiero paused his ministrations, lost to memory. “I remember sleeping in a nest of pillows as a young child while my parents and my sisters worked around me. I remember their sad eyes when he would invite me to accompany him on some errand. They weren’t permitted to leave the shop or guard the register, but I learned to tally the accounts on my first day. My father gave me everything of himself from the day I was born until...” A heavy sigh. “Until he discovered who I was.”

  Tim, having moved to the edge of his seat, hovered over Hiero, unsure whether to gather him up or drop into his lap or wait on his signal. He wanted so many things, but most of all to hear the full span of Hiero’s tale.

  “You must understand he forgave so very much in me. My complete inability with sums. My tendency to pass the afternoon chatting with our regular customers. The time I mislaid a week’s worth of inventory whilst transfixed by a Punch and Judy show.”

  Tim chuckled. The noise startled Hiero out of himself, earned Tim a fond look.

  “Much the same as ever, then.” He scooted over to the left side of the armchair—room enough for a small family beside him, really—and invited Hiero up.

  Hiero cast off his apron and slunk into the space beside Tim.

  “I was no one’s idea of an ideal heir, least of all my mother’s, but Baba... He believed in me. Trusted I would find my way, even if it differed from his. And I did. But not how he expected.” Tim twined their fingers, anticipating the turn. “The first time he found me with a friend, we did not speak for five days. Mama shouted the house down and forced me to pray night and day, but Baba locked himself in their room. His disappointment cut so deep I kept away from anyone for a year. Dedicated myself to work and study and family... and thought about hurling myself in the Thames almost every night. But at that age, already prone to distraction and in a constant fever...”

  “You found someone new.”

  “I found them. They found me. I learned caution, but authority chafed. The strictures, the responsibility, their expectations...”

  “You provoked an incident?”

  “I tested my boundaries. Repeatedly. Until.”

  “Your mother.”

  “Alas.” Hiero heaved in a stuttering breath. “A devout woman. Disciplined, cold. Never touched except to strike. Near the end she considered me a plague upon our family. She would never have breathed a word of our troubles to anyone, but I became involved with a family friend’s son. His mother knew of a doctor who smote out that kind of sinful behavior. And that, the promise of me being reformed, was what convinced my father to send me away.”

  Hiero withdrew his hand from Tim’s clasp, peeled back his sleeve to reveal the scar around his wrist. Tim didn’t hesitate to curl a possessive hold around Hiero’s arm, caress the scar.

  “Monsters.”

  “If only they’d had claws and horns instead of vile machinations, I might have stood a chance.”

  Tim let out a soft growl. “How long?”

  “Two years.”

  His cursed response earned a weak chuckle from Hiero. “Names. Any det
ails you can remember. I will hunt them. I’ll see to it—”

  Hiero pressed a hand to his chest. “They’ve been dealt with. I have become, as you might recall, a man of means.”

  Tim blew out his anger. “You’re a treasure.”

  His stomach did a little flip at the faint blush that colored Hiero’s cheeks. Possibly the first time in recorded history they’d taken on a bashful tint.

  “Go on.”

  “Not until we have all the poison out.” Tim drew him into a half embrace. “Your parents.”

  Hiero grimaced. “My father visited every month. At first I strived to hide my wounds from him. I wanted to be well again. I wanted to return to them. I would have done anything to leave that place. Even obey. As time wore on, it became... impossible to hide what was being done to me. I begged him to stop it. Promised to go away to school, promised to marry...”

  Tim steeled himself against where he knew the dread tale would lead.

  “But he did nothing. My baba, who used to carry me on his shoulders until his arms shook, left me to be...” A sniffle was all Hiero allowed himself, and a strenuous clearing of his throat. “Visiting me was his penance. The price he had agreed to be rid of me. I was never getting out.”

  Tim cinched him in closer. “They underestimated your resourcefulness.”

  “So they did. Though I was not yet the wily wonder that sits here with you, I was not, as you say, without options. Indeed, I held on that last half year under the delusion I was close to the end of my tenure. After the worst of the floggings, I was certain I’d earned my way to absolution. I’d even made a friend.”

  Tim smirked. “Han?”

  “Well, if you mean to spoil all the secrets, I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell it.”

  “My apologies. Please go on.”

  Hiero sighed. “Yes, Han. We escaped. On our first attempt.”

  “To considerable renown among the inmates of the asylum.”

  “One can only guess.”

  Tim hugged him fiercely. Felt for the first time like he could draw an accurate sketch of the man he held, one with a history, a family, a youth not dissimilar to his own. Though he had not suffered anything like the abuse and rejection Hiero had known, Tim marveled at how alike their childhoods were. Both sons of merchants, not rich but not poor, with two sets of stable parents until their respective tragedies struck. He’d often wondered how his beloved mother and father would have reacted to learning of his proclivities. Now he understood their ignorance to be the one blessing to come of their early deaths.