by J. A. Rock
“Nonsense.” Becca also made an attempt to laugh lightly. “I’m too sweaty to stand that close to William. He would call off the engagement at once. Warry should do it. That shall be William’s punishment for his carelessness. To learn from a man four years his junior and ten times his better how to fire an arrow.”
It seemed Warry would never convince his feet to move. He stood on the grass between the target and the others, wishing for a blinding instant that they would all take up bows and fire into him, for that seemed the only proper way for the nightmare to end. There was Balfour’s voice in his ear, telling him he would prove a pleasure. Balfour’s hand at his back, steering him about the floor in a waltz. And there was Hartwell’s breathless sound of need as his mouth closed over Warry’s. The deliberate certainty with which he had announced to everyone that Warry was happy with Balfour.
He met Hartwell’s gaze again and saw in it the same tortured longing from last night. The bow hung at Hartwell’s side, and he looked completely lost. Helpless.
Warry knew at once what he must do. It would be the simplest, most perfect revenge—and a most deserved punishment for himself as well. Silently, he closed the distance between them and took up a place at Hartwell’s side, dropping all but one arrow onto the grass. He lifted Hartwell’s arm and positioned the bow for him. Heard the hitch in Hartwell’s breathing and felt the brief seizure of the other man’s muscles before he surrendered and allowed Warry to guide him.
Warry pressed his body against Hartwell’s, wrapping his arms around the man so they were both holding the bow. He nocked the arrow expertly, resting his chin briefly on Hartwell’s shoulder. The shudder that passed through Hartwell nearly produced an answering one in him. He held his breath as Hartwell tipped his head ever so slightly back, as though he suddenly ached everywhere, just as Warry did, and was simply too exhausted to fight anymore. Warry let go of the bow with one hand so Hartwell now held the arrow in place. He placed his other palm against the small of Hartwell’s back, and revelled in the force of Hartwell’s jolt.
The bow was shaking so badly, Warry feared there was no chance of the arrow hitting the target. But he waited, letting the heat of his body seep into Hartwell’s. No one in the world existed but the two of them right then, and Hartwell seemed to know it too. He lowered his bow arm, letting the arrow droop downward and the tension slip from the string, but Warry nudged him. And waited, his hand on the back of Hartwell’s waistcoat, noting how slim, almost delicate, the nip of the man’s waist was. At long last, Hartwell lifted and steadied the bow, pulling back the string. His breathing was still quite audible and ragged. Warry very subtly adjusted Hartwell’s aim so the arrow was positioned perfectly for the target’s centre.
Then he turned his head slightly and whispered in Hartwell’s ear, “Go on then. Fire.”
Chapter 11
“I cannot believe I didn’t see it before.” Becca was near to wearing a furrow in the lawn with her pacing.
Hartwell was not entirely sure how they had got to this small, relatively sheltered patch of lawn, far from any windows and potentially prying eyes. The rest of the group had retired indoors after archery, but Becca had held him back and asked that her maid be sent out so that she might have a “conversation” with Hartwell. Hartwell was also not entirely sure what Becca had said to Annie to convince the young woman to stand a discreet few yards away—Hartwell hoped out of earshot, but given how loudly Becca was speaking and the way the girl was glancing furtively at them every few seconds, most likely not.
“This explains a great deal. A great deal.”
“What are you talking about?” Hartwell tried to keep his tone cool, but after what had unfolded on the archery green, that seemed an impossible task.
She whirled on him. “Do not play the innocent with me. You have kept enough from me already. You love my brother. I suppose I suspected it—yes, I’m sure I did—but I did not truly see it until now.”
“What?” He did not even have to feign his shock because her words were so patently absurd. Love Warry? Certainly, Hartwell had admired the lad on occasion. Anybody with eyes could see how attractive he was. And yes, he had kissed Warry last night, and yes Warry’s lips had been sweet indeed…but it had been a mistake. A terrible one that he had rectified by pushing Warry off and sending him trotting back to Balfour like a good pup before Warry ruined his prospects with Balfour and the ton began whispering that Hartwell could not get enough Warringtons to suit him.
What had got into Becca? She was usually a sensible woman. Not one to throw around words like love, the way some girls did.
“William, I’m going to need you to catch up with me. You look at my brother the way I look at cake, and when he is not attempting to glare the entire world into submission, that is how he looks at you too. Is that why you went out to the garden last night at precisely the same moment he also needed air?”
Hartwell couldn’t speak. That was all the answer Becca needed.
She heaved a sigh of frustration that made Annie glance around again. “William Hartwell! Did you propose to me because you are angry that my brother is courting Lord Balfour?”
“Of course not! I proposed to you because we agreed that to marry for convenience would benefit us both.”
“You proposed to me last night, after you had been out in the back garden, with all the finesse of a losing faro player throwing his cards onto the table in disgust. Did you do it merely to hurt him?”
“How could you think that of me?” he asked with a surge of righteous anger. “We needed to get engaged, and so we got engaged. Your brother may do whatever he likes with Lord Balfour. I care not. It is possible that I have looked at him once or twice and thought him attractive, but I imagine you of all people would understand if my desires do not run solely in the direction of women.”
“You think that is what I care about? William…” She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again with resolve. “I do not care who you share your bed with. I myself am—have been—entangled with women. With one woman in particular.”
Hartwell stared at her, not shocked, but hurt. “You never told me.”
“Yes, well. Society heaps enough shame on women without us advertising our indiscretions. I have always thought you one of the more understanding and compassionate men I knew, and yet…this was not a woman I could ever marry, you understand. Our dalliance had to be a secret, and I tell you this now with the understanding that you will repeat it to no one.”
He wanted to say of course—that all her secrets always had been and always would be safe with him. He wanted to take her in his arms and embrace her and revel in the knowledge that they were alike. That their marriage would prove a success simply because they understood each other so well. But he could think of nothing except his confusion and humiliation as Warry had pressed their bodies together and guided his arrow on the green.
He had hit the bullseye. That was the funny thing.
He shook his head. “You and your brother both,” he spat. “No thought for your reputations at all. I thought you had more sense than he, but clearly I was mistaken.”
Her eyes flashed the deepest hurt he could ever recall seeing in them—God, she looked just as Warry had last night when Hartwell had ended the kiss—and then that hurt transformed to pure fury. “Why do you speak of my brother’s reputation?”
“You should have seen the spectacle he made of himself at the Four-in-Hand the other night. I found him in a darkened corner, Balfour kissing his hand most lasciviously—nearly salivating as he did so—and Warry adoring every second of it.”
“The Four-in-Hand? What on earth was Warry doing at a gaming hell?”
“Perhaps he takes after your father.”
Becca looked as though he had slapped her. “My father’s habits are none of your concern.”
“Aren’t they? We are to be family soon. The Warringtons’ reputation will be very much my concern.”
Becca drew herself up, fire spark
ing in her gaze. “The engagement is off. I will spell it out for you, as you are too thick-skulled to see, what you did to Warry today—revealing his courtship with Balfour before the whole table—the way you have just spoken about my brother and about me…I would not marry you for all the world.”
Hartwell started in alarm. “You cannot do that.”
“Can I not? I believe I just did.”
“Becca, if I do not get married, and soon, my father will cut me off. I will lose my fortune.”
She laughed, the sound high-pitched and furious. “Oh, well then, so long as you are playing with my brother’s heart and my future happiness for a reason so excellent as money.”
“Me, play with your brother’s heart? Oh, that is rich. If you could see the way he has played me, all the while clinging to Balfour—”
“Somehow I doubt that is the whole of the story.”
“This is entirely your fault, you know. You mother him incessantly, and it has driven him right into Balfour’s arms.”
“Would you care to stop speaking?” Her eyes blazed. “For you have gone from inexcusable to the very border of unforgivable.”
Hartwell stepped back, startled at her vehemence. Unforgivable? He and Becca were the closest of friends. There should have been nothing between them that was unforgivable. They’d fought in the past as fiercely as cats and dogs, and yet Hartwell had never doubted that sooner or later one of them would make amends and they would go on as before. But now? Becca’s gaze was fiery, but her expression was cold, and Hartwell knew that she was not lying or exaggerating. She truly meant it.
“Your brother…” he began, and then had no idea how to continue.
Your brother torments me.
And oh, it would have been a much easier torment to withstand if only Hartwell didn’t want the damn boy, and if only it didn’t make him feel sick to his very soul to imagine Warry in Balfour’s bed—and not just because of the piercing jealousy that image caused—but because Hartwell wanted, in some part of him that was pure and free of taintedness, for Warry to be happy. He knew, with no shadow of a doubt, that if Warry bound himself to Balfour through marriage, nobody would ever see his shy, hard-won smiles again. It infuriated him that whatever stupid game Warry was playing, he was willing to marry a man like Balfour and sentence himself to a lifetime of suffering the man’s attentions instead of just admitting Hartwell was right, and he was making a terrible mistake.
Damn Warry and his pride.
Damn all the Warringtons and their pride, in fact.
“Don’t marry me, then,” he said, lifting his chin. “See if I care a whit. And when you’re an old maid because there is no one worthy of your attention, and Warry is buried in misery because there’s no one beneath his, we’ll see who is happy, shall we?”
Becca slapped him.
Hartwell’s head went back fast, in shock more than in pain.
“How dare you,” Becca said. Her face was pale. “Get out. I don’t want to see your face again. We are no longer friends.”
Hartwell let his mouth curl up into a sneer as he bowed. “As you wish, Lady Rebecca. Good day.”
“Balfour, hmm?” the Duke of Ancaster said in the carriage on the way home. “Good God.”
“It’s not a terrible match, I suppose.” The duchess tapped her gloved fingers on her knee. “If one cares not for heirs. Perhaps the earl favours the younger boys over Warry, do you think? Warry’s always been a little…” She pursed her lips and stared at nothing for a moment, her brow creasing. “Odd. Yes, odd. Do you remember when they came to stay with us, and nobody could find him, and he was out with one of the farmers helping with the lambing?”
Hartwell remembered. Becca had thought it amusing, and everyone else had considered it terribly gauche, but Hartwell had thought it strangely charming. Not the fact that Warry had eventually been discovered covered in blood and sheep’s afterbirth, but the way he’d lit up when talking about holding a newborn lamb, his eyes bright and his expression joyful.
“Still,” the duchess continued thoughtfully, her gaze finding Hartwell, “you really oughtn’t have shot at him.”
“It was an accident, Mother.” Hartwell’s sour mood was not improved by being trapped in a carriage with his parents.
“Yes, dear, just like the time my embroidery needle slipped and gouged your father,” she said drily. “I wonder, though, if Warry’s oddness is not precisely what makes the match work. Balfour is quite odd himself.”
Hartwell was glad someone agreed with him on that point.
“He keeps fine horses,” the duke noted.
“Yes, but surely you recall the rumours about his association with the Warringtons’ former valet. The one who stole their silver? Well, they did not admit he stole the silver, but certainly the silver went missing at the time he was dismissed, and the earl refused to write him any letters of recommendation.”
Hartwell pricked his ears at that. This was not a story he’d heard before.
“And we all know,” his mother continued, “what that means. The valet was Joseph’s too, I believe.”
“Ah, yes.” The duke nodded. “But I keep telling you, my dear, a man may rub elbows with a low-life in a gaming hell and have it count not at all against his reputation. And speaking of gaming hells, I would not doubt that the fortune Balfour is set to inherit factors into the earl’s decision to allow the match. Warrington’s gambling debts are greater than he’d like to admit, and Balfour does something rather baffling and mysterious with stocks I believe.”
“Stock?” the duchess asked. “Do you mean horses?”
“No, my dear. The markets, you know? The exchange.” The duke shrugged. “While I can’t ever approve of a first son marrying a man, I do understand if the earl is hoping to join his household with Balfour’s estate.”
Hartwell barely felt the jab, so bewildered was he by this new information. Balfour was an associate of Warry’s former valet?
The duchess shifted in her seat. “I suppose. But Earl Warrington was livid when he dismissed that servant. You’d think it would disturb him to see his son matched with a man who hobnobs with the fellow who stole from his household.”
“We don’t know that he hobnobs.”
The discussion descended into familiar, airy bickering. Hartwell reached for his father’s walking stick and used it to rap on the ceiling. “The Bucknall Club!”
“Oh, really,” his mother murmured.
His father grunted.
Hartwell escaped the carriage when it drew to a stop outside the club, bidding his parents a good day. The doorman welcomed him politely, holding the door open so Hartwell could sweep inside, and once in the lobby, a boy divested him of his hat and gloves.
The club was a series of sumptuous rooms where a gentleman might drink, converse, gamble, read, dine, or even escape the day by taking a nap in one of the gloriously comfortable wingback chairs. It was still early, so Hartwell wasn’t expecting any of his friends to be there yet—they were mostly night owls—but he spied Stratford, as shy and meek as a country parson, poring over a broadsheet. He nodded a hello and continued on into the next room where he was pleased to see Gale glaring at a glass of port while being genially accosted.
“But how on earth did you know the letter in question was hidden inside the cover of the old book?” a young man with alarmingly golden curls asked.
Gale took a swig of his port. “Well, it was obvious! Tiresomely obvious!”
Hartwell moved forward and shooed Gale’s admirers away. “Has there been another story about you in the newspapers?”
“The Morning Post.” Gale sighed and slouched deeper into his seat. “I must flee to the Continent or to some uncivilised part of the world where nobody can read. America, perhaps.”
Hartwell sat. “That seems drastic. Especially as you must still conclude your current case.”
“Dammit, Hartwell, I have asked you not to call it a case.”
“Just tell me who your lead
suspect is.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Is it murder or something duller?”
“If I tell you it is a financial crime, will you talk of something else?”
“Not a chance. But perhaps if you tell me what the Post said about you…”
“You may find that out easily enough.”
“You know I don’t read.”
Gale barked a laugh. “So, you do not know what happens in chapter twenty-one of that dirty little novel you picked up?”
Hartwell felt himself colour up. “Well…”
“Just as I thought. You will be asking me to find you volume two tomorrow.” Gale tilted his glass and stared after the golden-haired fellow. “Why won’t people just let me be? I don’t like them, and there’s no reason they ought to like me.”
“Don’t be peevish,” Hartwell said peevishly.
Gale narrowed his eyes, a dangerous expression indeed coming from him. “I was going to say congratulations on the engagement, but of course she’s already broken it off, hasn’t she?”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“The cuff of your sleeve,” Gale said, gesturing vaguely. “Archery accident? And, if I’m not mistaken, one of your cheeks is a little more pink than the other. Combined with your countenance, well, it’s—it barely even matters how I know, actually. I’m right though, aren’t I? Of course I am.”
“Of course you are,” Hartwell muttered. A waiter appeared with a drink, and he took it, almost pouring it over his lap as he attempted to study his cuffs. There was a faint mark on one where the string of the bow had snagged during Hartwell’s earlier misfire, but damned if he knew how Gale had put it all together. The man had the knack of taking seemingly random pieces of information and putting them together to make a whole. “Yes, I accidentally almost shot Becca’s—”
“Brother,” Gale said, nodding. “Warry, not the younger ones.”
“How can—”
“Because she wouldn’t have slapped you over any of the others,” Gale said, swirling his Port in his glass. “But Warry.” He narrowed his eyes again. “Accident or no, Lady Rebecca is far too clever to not see some greater significance in it.”