“Of course not.” But the answer was a little too immediate—rushed, almost. Edward had never known Maurice to rush. “Don’t be so damned foolish.”
“Oh, you know me. Forever a fool.” Edward stared at his brother. “I’m always doing foolish things. You, on the other hand...”
Maurice looked back down at his desk, then back up at Edward. For a moment, a split second, a flash of something close to pain passed over his face.
“It would be foolish, wouldn’t it?” Maurice’s voice was so quiet, almost a whisper. Almost as if he were speaking only to himself. “Very.”
Edward thought of Gabriel, of the hope in his eyes that had him trembling, torn between fear and need. “I know what you would tell me, brother. You would say just that.”
“It...it would complicate things unacceptably. I abhor complications, as well you know.” Maurice slowly sat back down, picking up his pen. “Which is why you are mistaken. Lady Ploverdale is not responsible for anything I do.”
“I see.” Edward watched his brother begin to write, feeling as if he had somehow failed an unwritten test. “Then I will leave you.”
“Please do.”
Edward left the study. As he closed the door, he heard the soft, sad striking of a match. The air filled with cigar fumes, somehow more bitter than they had ever been.
He should walk away. Maurice had never been amenable to much discussion, especially when it came to his heart. Edward couldn’t recall him ever expressing a preference for any woman of their acquaintance—only a series of stockings and heavily perfumed letters left outside his lodgings at Cambridge, or the occasional anguished courtesan standing outside one of his London properties. His brother definitely had women, maybe even kept them, but never allowed them to infiltrate his private world.
He’d certainly never given up smoking for one of them. And he’d never spoken quite like that before, a tiny note of vulnerability, his mask of superiority cracking.
And now Maurice was working alone, smoking, clearing up Edward’s mess, while he continued to do exactly what he wanted. While he went further and further with Gabriel, putting each of them in more and more danger with every look, every touch, his brother denied himself even the most private sacrifice.
Gabriel’s words ran through his mind, devastating in their compassion. You allow yourself no agency.
This was a choice he had made for Maurice. He had chosen sadness for his brother, sadness and isolation, without so much as a backward glance.
No. This would not do.
He turned back, opening the door of the study. Maurice sat at his desk, his face almost comically irritated, cigar clamped between his teeth.
“No.” Before thinking too much about it, Edward pulled the cigar from his astonished brother’s mouth. He ground it into the corner of the desk until it broke in half, hot ash spattering the papers, his fingers smeared with dark tobacco.
Maurice rose slowly. “What in God’s name do you think you are—”
“I have complicated your life abominably. I’m selfish, and useless, and have forced you to spend precious time shoring up my worst excesses when you could have been exercising your power in other areas.” Edward spoke rapidly, the words boiling up from his chest with all the pained urgency of fever. “I’m a terrible friend, and a worse brother. So please, please, when you find some pleasant complication in your own life, do not attempt to banish it. Allow yourself a little of the selfishness I’ve always considered my birthright.”
Maurice blinked. He sat back down in his chair as Edward moved closer, ash fluttering to the study floor.
“You are not me, Maurice. You have more mastery of yourself than I can ever hope to command. You would never allow a fondness, or a passion, to put anyone or anything in danger—and yes, that is what frightens you, I know it. Some sons are condemned to repeat the sins of their fathers, while some are condemned to crusade against them.” Edward placed both hands on Maurice’s desk. “We both know the crosses that we bear—but you ignore your strengths. I know you could feel the deepest passion, the finest feeling, and allow that passion to change no one but yourself. So please...feel it.”
Maurice stared at him for a long moment, his eyes burning with wordless eloquence. Then, with a slight pursing of his lips, he turned back to his papers.
Edward smiled, turning. His brother, lost for words...well, then. What he said had meaning, and power. He had done something.
As he opened the study door, Maurice spoke again. Soft, quiet, free of his usual arrogant air. “I do ignore my own strengths. Just as you ignore yours.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Edward’s meandering eventually brought him to the kitchens, where Hartley sat at the long wooden table. Surprised to find a creature of Hartley’s elegance in such domestic surroundings, Edward watched him from the door; Buttons poked his head out of the waistcoat, observing as fiercely as his master.
Hartley was writing. Still writing; who could he possibly be writing to this much? The man had no family left to speak of, no lovers that lasted more than a month; why on earth did he need to write so many letters?
A sick swoop of suspicion filled Edward’s heart. Clearing his throat, he walked into the kitchen a little more loudly than he needed to as Hartley hurriedly placed the letter he was writing under a blank sheet of paper.
“So.” Edward sat, gently pulled Buttons out of his waistcoat and settled him in his lap. “More correspondence?”
“Oh, always. The lovers of London require careful feeding; too little, and they wither.” Hartley showed no outward sign of emotion; Buttons gave a small hiss, his eyes narrowing. “It sounds as if your little devil needs nourishment.”
“He’ll only eat small pieces of whatever I eat. For a country cat, he has decidedly refined sensibilities.” Edward gently stroked Buttons’s forehead; the kitten relaxed.
“How unlike most country cats, Scandal.” Hartley took a sip of coffee, his eyes sparkling with wicked inquiry. “And speaking of rustic pleasures...is your swarthy countryman from our parish?”
Edward rolled his eyes, trying to quell the sudden panic flowering in his chest. The idea of Gabriel and Hartley together in any context caused a savage burst of jealousy, not least due to Hartley’s callous reputation when it came to men. “Are you really incapable of visiting anywhere new without taking an inventory? Summering in Gstaad must be exhausting.”
“An excellent avoidance of the question. Truly world-class.” Hartley cocked his head, like a bloodhound picking up a scent. “Which makes me think I might be correct. The village girls must weep into their porridge every morning.”
“No doubt the route to the church swims with tears.” Edward put his feet up on the kitchen table, trying to project a carelessness he certainly didn’t feel. “Given our current circumstances, I’m surprised you can’t keep your mind focused on more important matters. The way the man chooses to entertain himself is completely irrelevant.”
“Someone’s touchy.” Hartley grinned. “Or someone’s annoyed they can’t release their tension in a light-hearted way. Did the poor thing get too attached? Love notes left in the vestry?”
Edward swallowed, trying not to frown. He couldn’t have this conversation—not now, and certainly not with bloody Hartley. Their friendship had always been a mildly vicious one, resting on gossip, teasing, half-friendly competition; vulnerability was not allowed. Real, shared feelings of any kind felt...odd.
He had already shared so much with Maurice this morning. He hoped that Hartley, at least, wouldn’t manage to divine the secrets of his heart.
“Lord knows.” He found his most elegant, cutting drawl, using it like a weapon. “I don’t give a damn if he’s weeping on the altar. I have more to worry about than an old acquaintance who doesn’t know Mayfair from a hole in the ground. No doubt he’s read the scandal sheets and had his head
turned a little. I really couldn’t care less.”
“What monkish self-denial.” Hartley pushed his coffee cup away, stretching with feline elegance. “I’d say he looks like every soldier, sailor or hotel porter you’ve dragged back to Mayfair since the start of the Season, but a good ten times more attractive. But then, what do I know?”
Edward had to ward him off, take him away from a truth too precious to share. What he and Gabriel had was not to be wasted on Hartley. “I think you’re far too kind to the man. My tastes run to those who can correctly use a shaving brush.”
Hartley laughed. “Now that’s the Caddonfell I know. Cruel as any blade.” He smiled, adjusting his waistcoat. “Foolish though, in my opinion. The man seems smitten with you. His eyes never leave your face.”
Edward shrugged, focusing on the pattern of the wooden table. “He’s probably astonished at how regularly washed it is.”
“Such a terror. You’d make a dragon tremble.” Hartley yawned, pushing his coffee cup carelessly aside. “Well then. Given you’ve written off your swain, I’ll see how I can amuse myself with him.” He smiled. “I’ve grown a little sick of pale London morsels. Perhaps a slice of country pleasures will revive me.”
Edward knew he should ignore the obvious provocation. Hartley was clearly searching for any weak point he could exploit. But his hand shot out before he could stop himself, gripping a clearly astonished Hartley by the wrist.
“Don’t test me.” Edward tightened his grip. “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself in my house, with this spectre hanging over us. You’ll put us all in a thousand times more danger.”
“That’s what I thought.” There was a sympathy in Hartley’s eyes that Edward wasn’t used to seeing. “Something is occurring with him. You’d never have fallen into such an obvious trap otherwise.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Edward glared fiercely at Hartley, hoping that Buttons was doing the same. “Absolutely no idea.”
All Hartley did in response was stare. Edward, to his complete astonishment, found himself wilting under the man’s steady gaze.
Was the morning really going to unfold like this, confession after confession, insight after insight, with no breakfast in sight? Lord, he was starving. He looked down at Buttons, who looked up at him with an identical expression of exhausted annoyance.
He sagged his shoulders. Hartley merely leaned forward, his eyes irritatingly clear.
“I...oh, Lord, I thought he’d begin to bore me. Or that I’d throw him over and think no more about it.” Edward looked helplessly at Hartley, noting the twinkle of mirth in the man’s eyes. “For God’s sake, don’t laugh. I’ve been bored to tears by things that occupy other men for months. A man barely has to have dinner at the Mayfair place before I’m utterly sick of him.”
“You use an awful lot of superfluous words when you don’t know how to explain yourself.” Hartley coolly examined his nails. “Although you’re correct. You’re as easily distracted as a dog on a duck hunt.”
“Normally. In some cases it’s almost a strength.” Edward ran his hands through his hair. “But now... I can’t stop. It just grows and grows, every damn day.”
“I’m sure Bryce can make a poultice for that.” Hartley smiled, raising an eyebrow. “It sounds painful.”
“Leaving your guttersnipe mind aside, it is painful. Horribly so.” Edward sat back down with a weary sigh. “As if...oh, I don’t know.”
“As if your very heart has been torn from your chest, set upon two legs, and left to wander the world without you. The most precious thing you have, completely exposed, defenceless against all who wish to have it.” Hartley drummed his fingers against the table, breaking the spell of his words. “It isn’t even a preference, keeping him close. It’s a need.”
Edward stared at his friend, astonished. Hartley was a gadfly, floating on the surface of Society without ever seeming affected by it. Despite the intimacy the Society of Beasts afforded, Hartley had never disclosed anything more than the most frivolous affairs.
“Where...where did that come from?” A wave of embarrassment flooded him. “I...well, if you don’t wish to...”
“Oh, nonsense.” Hartley kept tapping his fingers on the table, as if the sound comforted them. Although his face was calm, his eyes didn’t quite meet Edward’s own. “I’ve observed enough incidences of this particular disease. I can imagine how it feels. Rather like those apes one can train to drink a cup of coffee—I can mimic the action, even if the desire is somewhat lacking.”
Looking at Hartley’s determinedly downcast gaze, Edward knew he didn’t believe a word of it. “One would have to be a truly astounding observer.”
“Or perhaps a sufferer who doesn’t wish to discuss his malady.” Hartley’s smile was as tight as a steel trap. “A long story. Water not only under the bridge but several miles beyond it.”
“Forgive me, but it doesn’t quite sound as if the water is—”
“If you wish to avoid false forgiveness, do not continue.” Hartley’s eyes finally met his; a glimmer of pain shone in the man’s usual sardonic expression. “Please. We were discussing your predicament. I may have provided a somewhat heavy-handed metaphor, but there are simpler words for it. Love being one of them.”
Edward stopped short. He opened his mouth, searching for a perfect retort, before shutting it tight. Fear coiled in his belly, sudden and intense, tempered with the unwelcome knowledge that Hartley—damn the man—was right.
This was love. Gabriel was his heart, his whole sorry excuse for a heart, and walking around unattended. The urge to take him, to keep him close, was what had him sleepless and shaking, following him from room to room like a dog...
...and it would destroy him. If he didn’t handle it with utmost care, it would destroy them both.
“I cannot do it.” His voice shook as he said the words; Hartley looked up. “I will not. I... I’m not strong enough.”
“It’s not a matter of cannot. You’re already entangled. And if I may say so, up until now you’ve looked ridiculously happy about it. Like a desert-dweller who doesn’t realised the water in the oasis is poisoned.” Hartley shrugged. “You practically float. So does he.”
“No.” Edward buried his head in his hands. “No, no, no.”
Not only the foolishness, not only the certainty of an unhappy ending—but the risk. The terrible risk to Gabriel...not only from himself, and the horror that lay within his name, but from Sussex. From anyone who wished to destroy a Caddonfell. “I’ve been so stupid.”
“Yes. You undoubtedly have.” Hartley softly shook his head. “Lord knows why a man would choose such an ultimately agonising state.”
Edward shrugged away from his grip, fighting a sudden swoop of nausea. He’d doomed them both. “Why do I never bloody think? Why do I just jump into the fray, completely thoughtless?”
Hartley let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Now? You’ve never displayed the slightest ounce of remorse for any number of atrocious decisions, each one leaving you more miserable than the last—but this, a tumble in the Hardcote hay, has you ruing the day you were born?”
“Love does not bring joy. I know that all too well, and from what you said, you know that too.” Edward stood abruptly, pulling Buttons into the crook of his arm. “I’ve been foolish to even entertain the idea.”
“Don’t blame me for your emotional incontinence.” The hurt on Hartley’s face was quickly covered by his usual aloof mask. “You’ve never been inclined to discuss such things before. We may have finally discovered something you can’t do particularly well.”
Edward stared at Hartley, a dozen biting replies at the tip of his tongue. He could say so many things, so many cutting, horrible remarks that could ruin him, obliterate him completely...
But Gabriel wouldn’t like that. Gabriel wouldn’t like that at all.
“I...” Edward closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Hartley.”
“My goodness.” Hartley patted him on the shoulder, as one would an invalid. “You must be infatuated.”
Edward nodded numbly. With little more than a curt, hurried bow, he turned away—and stopped.
He remembered how incompetently he had performed every single household task during the frustrating week trapped inside the house. How he had cursed his incompetence, his foolishness, his inability to make anything work exactly as he wished it to.
But he had learned.
“Not all of us are born knowing how to love.” He looked at his friend, half afraid that the man would mock its earnestness. “If the sentiment is not nourished in childhood, it flowers with difficulty when a man is in the prime of one’s life.” He stopped, gathering himself. “But...love, as I have seen it practised, does not require one to be an expert practitioner when one begins. One learns as one goes. It...it’s one of the only states where the broken can function as well as the whole.”
“Goodness.” Hartley’s smile was less cynical than Edward had feared. “You almost make it sound like a good idea.”
Edward shook his head, not knowing how to answer. As he left the room, Buttons quietly licking his hand, he heard the secretive scribble of Hartley’s pen begin once more.
Chapter Forty
After taking a short walk through the gardens, finding a cup of lukewarm coffee in the morning room and adjusting a picture so that it hung correctly in its frame, Gabriel found himself back in Edward’s bedroom. He sat silently on the bed, surrounded by all the extravagant items of personal grooming that Edward deemed necessary to his continued existence, and thought wistfully of how beautiful the man was when stripped of everything but a smile.
As if his thoughts had conjured him up, Edward appeared at the threshold of the door. Gabriel nodded at Buttons, watching the kitten yawn haughtily as it padded off to the sunniest part of the corridor, then smiled at Edward as he walked languidly into the room.
The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts) Page 21