by Lee Welch
It was such a buoyant, happy feeling. Happiness, in the middle of this bizarre mystery! He kept trying to put it aside, and it kept bubbling up. A gift.
His strong suspicion that Thornby was connected to that other place had not abated, but it was impossible to think of him as anything other than a man, and a brave one at that. John had to avoid glancing at him though; if he looked for a moment, he wouldn’t want to look away. And then he’d forget himself again. Although, perhaps Thornby would like that? The knowledge that Thornby might truly be interested in him was making it well nigh impossible to think of anything else. He’d been at a stand ever since Thornby had said, “I like a bit of rough,” with that plummy accent and those wanton eyes. Thornby would probably fuck like an officer about to go back to a posting. He had that edgy look about him, all nerves and desperation.
He would probably do absolutely anything.
John closed his eyes for a moment. Must concentrate. He was here to do a job. It wouldn’t do for Lord Dalton or his valet to come up and find them here.
There were a couple of rooms off Lord Dalton’s bedroom. One was a dressing room; John rifled through tweed suits and town suits and shirts and under-things, sticks and shoes and hats. The most well-worn of Dalton’s outfits seemed to be a nautical looking cap, and a couple of thick jerseys of the type usually worn by sailors. Odd. But perhaps the Marquess preferred to be incognito when he was about his business at the coast. The jerseys had the faintest whiff of the curse about them—a suggestion of shit, spite, and rotting fish—but it was no more than a suggestion. The jerseys seemed to hold no clue. Probably they had just absorbed a bit of the reek from their owner from being worn so much.
In the sitting-room-cum-study next door John found a number of deeds for properties in the west of Scotland. To judge from some of the other letters and paperwork, Dalton was in the process of buying more. There were some nautical charts, and a couple of ledgers with records of payments to ships’ captains. He supposed all this was to do with Dalton’s commercial seaweed-growing scheme.
He searched the coal scuttle, the mantelpiece, checked behind the pictures and under the rug. There was nothing that looked remotely like the makings of a spell, let alone one powerful enough to keep a man trapped in one place for over a year.
He crossed back through the bed-chamber, where Thornby was still searching, and opened the connecting door to the first Lady Dalton’s room with the chimera key. He went in and drew back a curtain a few inches, sending clouds of dust cascading down. Daylight showed what had once been an elegant lady’s boudoir furnished in sky blue, gold and white—the feminine equivalent to the gentleman’s room he’d just left. Now it was festooned with cobwebs, and grey with dust. Sensing Thornby at his shoulder, John re-locked the inter-connecting door.
“Mother’s room. It hasn’t changed a bit,” Thornby said. He sounded like a man in a dream. “There’s the picture with the lion. And the seashell; she used to hold it to my ear. It’s dusty. She wouldn’t have liked that.”
“Let’s look around,” said John.
“He wouldn’t hide a spell in here, would he?”
John knew what he meant; the room had a holy feel, a shrine to the dead woman. He put his hand to the wall. “It does feel empty. Of magic, anyway.”
Thornby had opened a small writing desk. He froze, staring at a couple of tin soldiers standing at the front. “Those were mine,” he said slowly, half to himself. “They were my favourites. I left them here to look after her because I had to go to school.” He picked one up. “They were supposed to be enemies. One blue, you see, and one red. But they were friends. They had all kinds of adventures.”
There were not many papers in the desk. Perhaps the first Lady Dalton had not been much of a correspondent. John picked up a couple of loose sheets. The first seemed to be menu ideas, the second some instructions to a dressmaker. The letters wandered about the page, large and looping. The spelling was rudimentary, at best. It was not the hand of a well-educated lady. “Is that her writing?”
“She never cared about it. She used to say I must write her letters for her. She laughed about it. I say, look over there—there are tracks in the carpet where the dust is worn away. Father must come in here sometimes. They come from his room.”
Sure enough, a darker path across the dusty carpet led from the door to Lord Dalton’s room to a set of blue velvet drapes on an inside wall. John followed the path across the room and pulled the cord of the drapes.
They parted to show a life-size portrait of the most beautiful woman imaginable. She was so lovely, it was difficult to look away. Her dark hair was dressed in a bun, but several tendrils curled around her fine-boned face. Her mouth was well-modelled and sensuous, and her grey eyes so beautiful one could have gazed into them forever. They were large as a doe’s, tumultuous as the sea on a stormy day, and ever so slightly slanted. Around her neck was a string of pearls the exact shade of her milky bosom. She was shown half standing, caught forever in the act of rising to her feet. She wore a gauzy white dress in the fashion of the twenties, and was surrounded by huge pink and white roses and a marble column. A wolfhound with a blue collar lay at her feet, gazing at her adoringly.
There was such life in the picture you felt she would step out of it and whirl you round the room. And yet, there was something sad about her too, a subtle tension in her jaw, longing in her beautiful eyes. She was joy and sorrow and beauty and pain. John, who had never desired a woman in his life, felt that even he could have fallen in love with her.
A beautiful woman. Yet the more he looked, the more he was sure she was not a human woman at all. Her eyes. The way her mouth curled at the corners. The whole damned feel of her. She was beautiful all right. She was perilously fair. Because she wasn’t human. She was from that other place. Earlier, he had merely suspected that Thornby somehow had links to that place. Now he knew exactly who the link was.
No wonder Lord Dalton seemed half mad. This was what he had lost.
And no wonder John hadn’t been able to sense the source of the curse. If she had done it using fair folk magic, it would be as difficult to detect as everything else about that place.
“Your mother,” John said. It wasn’t a question; there was such a strong resemblance. And yet he needed to hear Thornby confirm it.
Thornby nodded, looking a bit choked up. “It’s by Lawrence,” he said eventually. “It wasn’t finished when I went off to school. God, she’s just as I remember her.”
John looked at the portrait again. He couldn’t help thinking of his own mother as she’d been when he was a child—her coarse, black hair and pock-marked skin, her kind, tired eyes, her hands red and roughened with work. And Thornby had had that fantastic creature as his mother—all light and softness and gaiety and fire. What must it have been like? John could not imagine.
He must tell Thornby what he’d realised. Now.
God, what an awkward thing to have to tell a man. But Thornby had just been in that other place—perhaps even now he saw the resemblance between the fairy queen and his mother. Perhaps even now he was beginning to guess what that made him.
The silence was broken by the muffled sound of a door opening and closing.
“Father’s room,” Thornby said under his breath, eyes widening. “Father.”
John closed the drapes over the picture. Thornby shut the desk and the curtains. Then they heard a key in the lock of the inter-connecting door. Perhaps the Marquess had a fancy to gaze at his first wife’s portrait and torment himself again with what he’d lost. Or perhaps he’d heard some small noise.
They fled through the passage door and John locked it silently behind them with the chimera key. They had turned their backs to walk down the passage when they heard a key in that door too. Had they disturbed the dust? Had the Marquess noticed?
Thornby muttered something under his breath and pulled John through the next door along. It opened onto one of Raskelf’s many dust-sheeted guest rooms; black beet
les scuttled off into the empty fire grate as they entered. John locked the door, listening intently. When it seemed certain they weren’t being pursued, he turned and leaned on it, closing his eyes in relief. It would be much, much better if Lord Dalton remained ignorant of their search.
When he opened his eyes, Thornby was standing directly in front of him, so close they were almost touching. And there was no mistaking his expression.
“Well, Mr Blake?” Thornby said.
***
As Thornby leant forward to kiss him, Blake caught his jaw and held it. Maybe Blake didn’t kiss. A pity, but some men didn’t. Thornby put his hand on Blake’s crotch, feeling him hardening through the wool of his trousers; a nice, thick cock from the feel of it. Thornby was about to undo the fly, when Blake grabbed his wrist as well and held that too, firmly. Was Blake grabbing it to stop him, or to make him stay? Thornby raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
Blake squeezed his wrist a little tighter, immobilising him.
“Wait,” Blake said, through clenched teeth, his voice strained.
Oh Lord, had Thornby misread the situation? Surely not. The way Blake had been looking at him earlier had seemed unmistakable. Thornby had played his cards openly enough. And Blake had smiled at that nonsense about liking a bit of rough. But now—they were still standing here, unmoving, with Blake holding his jaw and wrist in a smarting grasp.
So, what the devil was going on? Was Blake wrestling with his conscience? Was he afraid of being found? Or was standing stock-still and holding his partner in a vice-like grip simply some unusual sexual predilection? Blake had his eyes closed now. His mouth was moving slightly, as though in prayer. Thornby tried to move away a little, to give Blake room, if that was what he needed.
“Are you all right?” Thornby asked. “We don’t have to, you know.”
Blake said, in strangled tones, “I want to. Wait.”
Well, that was clear enough, and, actually, Blake’s grip was quite—exciting. The back of Blake’s hand, crushed between them, was pushing against Thornby’s cock. He pressed against it a little harder. He tried to free his wrist again, to touch Blake, or to move away, and could not. He was hard himself now, achingly so.
Blake smelt heavenly—of fresh sweat and maleness and faintly of some spicy herb. He was warm too; heat seemed to radiate from him, almost visible in the cold air of the spare room. Thornby pushed against him, and ran his fingertips over the inch or two of Blake’s cock that seemed to be all he was allowed to touch. God, it was fucking torment! It had been over a year and a half since anything even half as exciting had happened. He’d probably spend in his drawers if Blake let him. He realised he was holding his breath and let it out. It came out in a whimper; of lust or of anguish, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.
Then, so suddenly it made him gasp, Blake let go of his wrist and jaw, grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward into a kiss, rough and frantic. Blake’s stubble grazed Thornby’s lips. So, Blake had made up his mind. Thank God.
Blake pulled away and began tearing at the front of Thornby’s breeches with both hands. He was having trouble with the old-fashioned placket. Perhaps he’d never encountered one before. He almost snarled at it, dark eyes narrowed as if he’d hex it for not coming undone at his touch. Thornby pushed him away for a moment, undid it himself, and unbuttoned Blake’s fly at the same time.
The moment he’d done it, Blake pulled him back into that open-mouthed kiss, hand now working Thornby’s cock. Blake must have licked his hand, because it was slick. He did it just right, not too hard, not too fast; practiced. Clearly, Mr Blake was not nearly as respectable as Thornby had once supposed. Thornby moaned into his mouth, grabbing at him. And—God—for several long sweet moments, all his problems fell away. There was only the sensation of Blake’s hand on his cock, and the delight of having Blake’s thick cock in his own grip.
He realised his own hand was dry—it mustn’t feel that good. He swept his thumb over the head of Blake’s cock, feeling silky liquid spread as he did so, but that wouldn’t be enough. He was about to sink to his knees to remedy the problem when Blake groaned into his mouth, grabbed him tightly, and spent. Thornby glanced down to see the pearly stuff spattering all over his own black silk waistcoat.
Blake leaned in again and bit Thornby’s neck through his cravat, at the same time subtly altering his grip on Thornby’s cock. Lovely, long, firm strokes, then shorter, faster ones. Thornby could feel the climax building from the soles of his feet. Blake’s teeth were at his neck. Thornby came with his head thrown back, cry choked, trying to be silent.
They stood for a moment, breathing hard. Blake was resting against the door, face pressed against Thornby’s neck. He sighed deeply, breath coming cold through Thornby’s cravat where it was wet from his mouth.
What now? Now was a time to be careful. Thornby had run into trouble more than once in the afterglow. The moment they’d finished with a man, some men started regretting it. Some liked to take it out on the one who’d made it happen. Blake hadn’t struck him as the type, but his odd behaviour beforehand might mean he’d just acted against his better judgement.
Then Blake took his hand away from Thornby’s softening cock and put both arms around him, pulling him close. He did it so sweetly, so naturally, running an affectionate hand up Thornby’s back, that Thornby relaxed into him, eyes closing. What bliss to stand in a man’s arms, to feel his solid warmth, and to know that he would not turn nasty, but was on one’s side. He let his head rest on Blake’s shoulder. Blake shifted a little and Thornby wanted to plead, Don’t go. Stay with me.
Their breathing had slowed to normal, when there came the unmistakable sound of someone turning the handle of the door they were leaning on. There was a surprised female exclamation, followed by the jangling of keys.
“Can you believe it?” Thornby said under his breath, half frowning, half laughing. “That’s old Diggins. They’ll be getting the rooms ready for the Greys. Come on, there’s a connecting door here, too.”
Thornby did up his breeches, rubbing ineffectually at the wet blotches on his waistcoat. Blake grabbed the chimera key from where it had fallen, and they slipped through the connecting door into another spare room. Blake hovered at the door to the passage for a moment, judging when it would be empty, then let them out.
They walked along the empty passage to the top of the stairs, where Blake stopped. Thornby raised an eyebrow at him. He felt, for a moment, like what he had once been; a young and careless gentleman about town. “Well, that was exciting. We didn’t find anything, did we? Yet somehow I don’t feel disappointed, I can’t think why. What now? Want to find somewhere private? We could—”
He broke off. Blake’s expression was not encouraging.
“I’m afraid I need to tell you something,” Blake said.
“I see,” Thornby said. Something bad, obviously. He lifted his chin. “Come then, Mr Blake. I’ll show you the very fine terrace at the front of the house. It was built by the fifth Marquess in 1730 and they say it gives the best view in any of the Ridings. Mainly of overgrown hedges these days, but perhaps we can cultivate a liking for those?” He walked past Blake and down the stairs to the great front door.
Once on the terrace, however, Blake seemed not to know how to start. He looked gloomy and uncomfortable. Thornby longed to say, For goodness sake, whatever you’ve got to tell me, wouldn’t it go better in bed? The happiness he’d felt a few moments ago had evaporated. So many horrible things had happened and now something else was coming. Couldn’t Blake have waited a bit, and let them enjoy themselves first? The bad news wouldn’t get any worse, surely? He felt a little annoyed with Blake, and knew it wasn’t fair, which made him more annoyed. Damn Diggins and her hordes, too.
Finally, Blake said, “Tell me, Thornby, what do you know of your mother?”
“Mother? What’s she got to do with anything? She’s dead.”
“Yes, but what do you know about her?”
“I wasn’t here when it happened. I was eight. I’d been sent off to school.”
They had called him out of class to tell him. The master’s desk had glowed in the sun like a bay horse, like Periwinkle, who was Mother’s blood mare. “I’m very sorry to inform you, Thornby, that your mother has died.”
He had stared at the man dry-eyed, cold with disbelief. It was not true. It was some new torment that went with school, like the way the bigger boys tripped you on the stairs, or made you do things to them in the dormitories.
“You may be excused lessons for the rest of the day, if you wish. You may go to the infirmary.”
No, it was a trap; if you missed divs, you got the cane. He looked again at the gleaming desk. If he touched it, it would be as warm and firm and silky as Periwinkle’s flank. Mother went for a ride every morning. She would be out on Periwinkle now. It was impossible she was dead. How could she be like the maggoty starling he had poked a stick at the other day?
“I’ll go back to lessons, sir,” he’d said, and noted with relief the approval in the master’s face.
“Very good, Thornby. You show your quality, boy, if I may say so.”
So, he had gone back to his lesson. But he had waited for another letter from Mother, for another parcel. And none had ever come.
He realised Blake was looking at him, and said airily, “She drowned, you know. She went boating at midnight.” He pointed west. “There used to be an ornamental lake over there, with an island in the middle. Father had it drained, afterwards. Looks nice and green, doesn’t it? But the whole area is a bog. It’s ruined many a good pair of shoes I can tell you.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Thornby.”
Thornby shrugged. “It’s made the local cobbler rich as Croesus. You should appreciate that, being a working man yourself.”
“What you said at dinner—do you really suspect your father of foul play?”