The Doctor's Discretion

by EE Ottoman

  That, though, would doubtless not be welcome from someone like him and particularly not while they were all but standing on the street.

  How many times had he done this, hoped and prayed that someone he was attracted to would see him for the man he was and not judge him only on his physical nature? How many times had he been horribly, painfully wrong? It was dangerous to want physical closeness or intimacy. Dangerous for Blackwood, too, when he came right down to it. Blackwood had been good to him, but Augustus knew how these things ended for men like him—for men like both of them.

  He nodded to Blackwood and stepped into the front hall.

  “How is our guest?”

  “All right. I gave him coffee and some more clothes to choose from. He’s spent most of the afternoon reading by the fire while I did some writing.” Blackwood closed the door, and they both continued down the hall to his rooms.

  Moss was curled in a chair, blond head bent over a book. He looked up as Augustus hung up his hat and unbuttoned his greatcoat. “Doctor Hill.” He slipped a bookmark into his book and stood.

  He was now wearing dark trousers, a black waistcoat, and a very attractive forest-green coat that was actually long enough to cover his wrists. William’s clothes, Augustus was sure.

  “Mr. Moss. How was your day?” Augustus came over to stand close to the fire.

  “Well, I have been able to get some reading done.” Moss sat down, picked his book back up, and balanced it on his knees.

  There was a pause as the three of them situated themselves around the room—Moss and Augustus in front of the fire and Blackwood at his desk, although he turned the chair so he could face them.

  “I am very grateful to the two of you,” Moss said at last. “But, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m not sure exactly who you’re working for or what you want.”

  “We’re not working for anyone.” Augustus ran his fingers through his hair. “And as far as what we want, I want to help. I hadn’t really thought beyond that, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s very similar to what your friend said when I asked him why we was helping me.”

  Augustus exchanged a glance with Blackwood while Moss stared at the fire, his expression pensive. Finally, he looked up at them both. “Well, I’m grateful.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Augustus turned away, towards Blackwood’s table, tugging off his coat as he went. “I’m sorry,” he told the room at large, “but I really must take this hand off.” He rolled his sleeve up and began unbuckling the straps.

  The damn thing was a lot easier to take off than put on, luckily. Augustus let his eyes slide shut for a moment. He felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as each strap was removed. The buckles had left red marks up and down his arm where they’d dug into his flesh. The cup that fit over his wrist was supposed to be tight enough to keep from rubbing, but he’d sweated into it enough that when he eased it off, the skin underneath was pink and irritated in patches. When the entire hand slid off onto the table, Augustus let his head fall forward, his lips parting on a long sigh.

  He took a moment to let the muscles in his shoulder, back, and arm loosen a little, and then looked up again.

  Moss and Blackwood were both watching him. Moss’ expression was curious, but Augustus couldn’t quite identify the look on Blackwood’s face.

  “Is there somewhere I can put this?” Augustus gestured down at the hand lying on the table.

  “Is there a reason it can’t stay there?” Blackwood asked. “Do you need to put it someplace out of the way to avoid damage?”

  “No, it’s just that most people don’t like looking at it when it’s not attached to me.”

  “Don’t bother with that on my account.” Blackwood waved aside the idea.

  “The hand on the dining table doesn’t bother me half as much as most of the things that have happened recently.” Moss’ tone was bland.

  “Well, we should think about supper.” Blackwood seemed to have set aside the whole issue of the hand. “I don’t suppose we want to risk going out.”

  “We probably shouldn’t,” Augustus agreed, although he would have done anything for a plate of beef, potatoes, and gravy right then.

  “There’s an eating-house I know of that sells good meat pies and another that will sell you beef or chicken already prepared if you send a servant with a dish,” Blackwood said. “But they’re a good walk away from here.”

  “I don’t mind the walk if I can have a moment to catch my breath before going out again.” Augustus massaged his left wrist.

  “Or you could stay here,” Blackwood offered.

  Augustus shook his head. “I could use the exercise. Besides, I’ve always thought better on my feet.”

  Blackwood just nodded. He looked tired and drawn. A spark of guilt flared in Augustus’ chest, knowing he’d caused that exhaustion, but he stamped down on it hard. Blackwood had offered when he could have said no.

  Augustus tilted his head so he could look at Blackwood without catching his attention. His gaze traced the angle of Blackwood’s jaw, the high slant of his cheekbones, the long dark sweep of his lashes. Blackwood’s black curls were cut in the Brutus style, highlighting the angles of his face and his dark eyes. All delicate grace in a brown waistcoat and matching coat. Since they’d met, Augustus had only ever seen him in dark conservative clothing. It wasn’t right somehow. Augustus wanted to know what he would look like in jewel colors.

  Blackwood’s hand lay on the table not far from Augustus’ left arm. He wanted to reach across and cover Blackwood’s long slim fingers with his own.

  He needed to stop looking. Moss was sitting right there, and anyway, Blackwood almost certainly didn’t want him now. He could not mistake Blackwood’s kindness for acceptance. He’d done this before and gotten harsh words and a blow to the face for his trouble. He didn’t think Blackwood would physically hurt him, but the rejection was inevitable.

  A woman pretending to be a man.

  Augustus shut his eyes against that, the pain and injustice of it, and held on tight against it. Each word stuck inside his chest like a shard of glass, painful and vicious. If I asked to suck your cock again would you look at me with revulsion?

  “Doctor Hill?”

  He opened his eyes again to see Blackwood looking down at him.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  For a moment, Augustus didn’t know what he meant. Then he followed Blackwood’s gaze down to the end of his left wrist.

  “You seemed to be in pain when you removed your wooden hand” Blackwood said.

  “It hurts to wear.”

  “And does it still hurt?” Blackwood’s hand rose in a small motion as if he meant to reach for Augustus.

  Augustus shifted away before he could. “It’s fine now.”

  Blackwood’s sat back in his chair. He gave Augustus a smile that seemed rather forced. “I see. Well, good.”

  Augustus wanted Blackwood to touch him. He wanted to feel his long fingers rub across the places where Augustus was sore, the tense knot of muscles at his shoulder and the back of his neck. He wanted to lean against Blackwood, to reach out and tug him close.

  He’d been so solid all today, calm when Augustus needed him to be, nervous in the morning, yes, but never panicking. He’d taken care of Moss, given him clothes and a book to read, put him at ease. He might be angry with Augustus, but he’d treated him civilly, and treated Moss with nothing but respect when most men wouldn’t. Most men would look at both of them with nothing but contempt and disgust, but Blackwood didn’t.

  Augustus wanted him so intensely he all but shook with the effort of keeping it on the table and away from Blackwood.

  He stood, no longer content to be still. “I’ll go to that eating-house and get us food, shall I?”

  The cold air felt good against his face as he stepped out onto the street and started off at a brisk pace, trying to outwalk his jumbled emotions. The razor edge of anxiety warred with desire, neither
one of which he could afford to indulge at the moment.

  The eating-house was bustling when he got there, all the tables already filled with men drinking, eating, smoking, and talking among themselves.

  “I’ll take whatever you have to be sent out,” Augustus told one of the waiters as gave them the dish Blackwood had given him and the money. The man nodded and took it away to the kitchen.

  Augustus leaned against the wall of the entryway, watching people come and go. He wasn’t the only one who had chosen to take food home with him. Quite a few people, servants by the look of them, came in carrying dishes that were whisked away to be filled with meat and vegetables in the kitchen.

  The waiter came back carrying Augustus’ own dish, now smelling of onions, savory herbs, and roasted chicken, and Augustus started back towards Blackwood’s rooms.

  He pulled the bell when he arrived, balancing the covered dish awkwardly in the crook of his left arm.

  There was a few moments’ pause, and then Blackwood opened the door.

  “Good, you have the food. Mr. Moss and I have just laid the table upstairs.”

  “Excellent.”

  Blackwood took the dish as Augustus removed his hat, and undid the buttons on his coat. “The chicken should still be warm as well.”

  Blackwood led the way back up to his rooms, where Moss was just setting down the last of the cutlery.

  Augustus uncovered the dish of chicken, and Blackwood poured them each a glass of wine.

  They sat, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, around Blackwood’s small table. It was a quiet meal. In the light of the fire and candles placed around Blackwood’s parlor, Augustus could clearly see the dark circles under Moss’ eyes, the lines of strain and fatigue around his mouth.

  He was younger than either Augustus or Blackwood, if Augustus had to guess, but he looked old in the firelight.

  When they had finished, Moss made to rise and clear the dishes away. Blackwood reached from where he sat to put a hand on Moss’ arm. “Let Doctor Hill and me do that.”

  “You don’t have to.” There was amusement, exhaustion, and something darker, almost like anger, warring in Moss’ expression.

  “No, I insist.” Blackwood squeezed his shoulder and then let go and stood, reaching for the dishes. Augustus stood as well, stacked the plates, and carried them with Blackwood down to the kitchen.

  “Will your landlady wash up if we leave them here?” Augustus placed dishes in the kitchen’s washtub as Blackwood carried in a bucket of water from the back pump.

  “Probably.” Blackwood stripped off his coat. “But I’m not making more work for her.”

  The water was bitter cold. It bit at Augustus’ skin like ice. He held it under just long enough for it to hurt but not long enough for his fingers to go numb. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend it was ocean water, feel the spray against his face, the wind cutting through his coat and going straight to the bone. He snorted a small laugh at himself and started to scrub the dinner dishes.

  “You’re supposed to heat this up, you know,” he said to Blackwood who smiled ruefully in acknowledgement.

  “Probably. I didn’t think of it.”

  They stood side by side washing the dishes from the dinner table. When they were done, Augustus helped Blackwood carry the washtub of dirty water to dump out into the back yard.

  “I should go home,” Augustus said when they were both back inside and his coat was on and everything put away.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a drink?” Blackwood asked.

  Augustus gave him a long look. He didn’t think Blackwood meant anything beyond a literal drink, but still, Blackwood’s gaze dropped away under his. Augustus would have sworn he was blushing, though it was hard to see under his dark skin.

  “I didn’t mean...”

  Augustus waved his hand, dismissing the possibility. “It’s been a long day. I should go home and sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow at Doctor Russell’s house.”

  “About that. I’m worried about leaving Moss here on his own. Not that I think he’ll do anything, but I’m technically not supposed to have overnight guests,” Blackwood said. “If he were a lady, or only spent the night and left in the morning, my landlady would look the other way I’m sure. She likes me. But I’m concerned about leaving him unattended all day long. She might ask questions or remember something unusual if questioned, and that could be unfortunate for all of us.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “We could take him with us.”

  Augustus thought about that, but there was no greater danger in taking Moss to Doctor Russell’s house than having him in Blackwood’s apartments. “All right.”

  “We’ll need to get him out of the city soon. If not tomorrow, then by the end of the week.” Blackwood shifted his weight, glancing at the door as if he expected someone to interrupt them. “I thought of asking my brother for a loan, but I don’t know if he’ll give it to me. Still, it doesn’t feel right, sending him off without any money to his name.”

  “He can’t stay here.” Augustus ran his fingers through his hair. “Doctor Cooke will involve the law soon if he hasn’t already. They’ll send soldiers to search for him, most likely.”

  “I know.” Blackwood drew in a long breath and then let it out on a sigh. “We’ll see what we can do. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” Augustus turned towards the door, and Blackwood followed him all the way to the front hall and let him out onto the street.

  ~*~

  Moss was curled up with a book again when William came back up from seeing Hill off. He slumped into the other chair and stared at the fire.

  He felt wrung out, as if the day had been weeks long instead of hours. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the way Hill had looked last night, face pale, braced as if for a blow. Had he expected William to hit him, truly?

  William head dropped forward with the weight of it. Whatever he had thought, Hill had acted as well today as could be expected given the stress they were all under. He hadn’t shied away from William or acted as if he didn’t trust him.

  What could he do to fix this? He didn’t even know what there was to fix. He’d been angry with Hill last night. Now, though, his mind was filled with the recent memory of Hill, his arms folded on William’s table, his gaze heavy-lidded. He could still see so clearly the curl of Hill’s hair where it touched his ears and brushed across his collar, remember Hill’s hand in his own. Then he’d circle back to the stricken look on Hill’s face the night before.

  He’d made a mess of this; that was clear.

  “Are you all right?”

  William looked up to find Moss had closed his book, marking his place with a finger, and was gazing at him with a small crease between his eyes.

  “I don’t know.” William rubbed his forehead. “I think I’ve made a mistake, or possibly multiple ones.”

  “By bringing me here?” Moss’ frown deepened.

  “Oh no, it’s something else, something personal.” William wasn’t going to share the details of this with anyone, at least not without Hill’s permission.

  Moss gave him another long look but then shrugged and opened his book again.

  William stood and went over to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, please.” Moss set aside his book and took the glass William offered him. He took a sip and made an appreciative noise, eyes drifting shut.

  William came back to his chair by the fire and settled into it with his own glass.

  “You sure you don’t want to tell me about your problem?” Moss took another sip.

  William watched the firelight reflect off the cut glass of the tumbler, tasted the heady, woody fire of the whisky on his tongue. “What would you do if you told someone of your...” He trailed off, unsure of how to put this. “Your nature...”

  Moss arched his eyebrows.

  “...and that person did not respon
d well?” William said all in a rush.

  “Ah.” Moss looked away from him to the fire, his expression going brittle. “Assuming they wanted to associate with me again? I don’t know, but it would be difficult for me to trust them, after that. How could I trust someone who denied what I want, who I am, all of it? Why would I want to? Some trusts, once broken, can never be recovered.”

  “Oh. I see.” William stared down at his whiskey and wondered if there was a hole dark or small enough for him to crawl into.

  “But that’s me. Maybe whoever this is"—Moss emphasized the last with a small, amused twist of his lips—"will be more forgiving.”

  William wondered if Hill was a forgiving man. Either way, when this was over, and they’d gotten Moss somewhere safe, he’d have a lot of apologizing to do.

  “I have a problem of my own. Now that I’m free, I have been debating contacting a friend of mine.” Moss took a sip of his whiskey.

  William straightened at that. If there was someone Moss trusted, they could be a potential ally, able to assist Moss more effectively than him or Hill. “Do you trust this friend?”

  “I do. He’s one of the people I trust the most, and the only one in New York at the moment.” Moss hesitated, his gaze going to the fire. “But I was given up by someone. Someone laid information against me. I don’t for one moment think it was Gregory, but if I reach out to him now, I could bring a lot of trouble down on him, more than even from harboring a fugitive. Whoever came after me could come after him. He doesn’t deserve that. Whatever this mess is, he doesn’t deserve to be involved.”

  “I can see how that would be a difficult decision to make.” William watched Moss’ hand tighten on his glass.

  “But if I don’t reach out to him, then I’ll have no one in the city who I can trust.”

  “You’ll have me and Doctor Hill, and we’ll do the best we can,” William said.

  Moss took a long breath, finished off his whiskey, and set the glass aside. “Thank you.”

  He yawned, covering his mouth as he did. His eyelids drooped with an exhaustion that must have been acute. William was willing to bet money Moss’ day had been far harder than his own, and he felt like he’d been trampled by horses.