by KJ Charles
And now there would be consequences, and they would have to be faced. He couldn’t hide behind the hope Amanda’s authorship would go undiscovered. It wouldn’t be fair on the publisher, to be exposed to whatever terrible things John Raven might write; it was utterly unjust that Philip should unknowingly host his slanderer. He would have to admit the truth, and that he’d been too much of a coward to tell it earlier, and pray that he and Corvin would be merciful.
What if they weren’t? What if Philip ordered them gone from his home, with Amanda’s leg still mending? What if Lord Corvin took his revenge? He could destroy any hope Amanda had left of ever making a decent marriage with a few cruel words. All he’d need to do was say that he’d stayed in a private home with an unmarried, unchaperoned woman to destroy her. If he added that it was Miss Frisby, staying with Sir Philip Rookwood...
Bile rose in Guy’s throat. He wanted to tell himself that surely they wouldn’t, surely they’d permit Amanda to withdraw the book, but he was too overwrought to believe it, and in any case, could she do that? Would the publisher expect her to bear all the costs? They couldn’t possibly afford to pay for that—but if they didn’t even offer—
“Oh God,” Guy said aloud. “Oh, Amanda.”
He could take the blame.
The thought came to him, horribly plausible, sickening in its implications, impossible to deny. If he said he’d written the book himself, not just known of it but spun its slanders without Amanda’s knowledge, Philip would be furious and betrayed, but he surely wouldn’t punish Amanda. Guy could do that for her, and if it ended his new friendships, well, that would have happened anyway, when they left for Corvin’s estate, or Philip’s London home, and Guy was left here, with Amanda, on their own.
He stared at the ceiling long after his candle had burned out, listening to the faint hum of voices from downstairs. It sounded like the Murder were enjoying themselves.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Philip woke early. He wasn’t a slugabed, but neither did he have any communion with the lark as a general rule, and he lay irritably awake, wondering what to do.
He’d missed the point where something had happened to disturb Guy. Everything had been going so well. He’d felt a flush of real pride to see the pallid, nervous plank of a few days back joking with his friends over that absurd conversation. Guy had found his feet, and that wasn’t the only part of himself he’d found.
Christ, he’d been lovely in Philip’s arms. Philip had never seen the point of seducing virgins; he liked people to know what they were about, and it had always seemed to him that those who prized virginity were actually seeking ignorance, or chalking up points in a game where their win was someone else’s loss. Whereas helping Guy to discover what he wanted, and teaching him to ask for it...oh, he could see the point of that.
Debauching, indeed. Philip was uncaging Guy, tearing down the bars that held him stiff and trapped, setting him free from the misery of a life that could barely be lived because so much of it was denied.
Or, he’d thought that was what he was doing, and then Guy had gone a truly bad shade of green and fled the evening.
Maybe he was sick. Except he wouldn’t have gone to his recuperating sister then for fear of contagion. No; something had happened, someone had said something, and Philip was going to find out what the devil it was, because he wasn’t going to watch that vibrant, open, responsive loveliness retreat back into a shell of conventional opinion.
He dressed himself rather than ring for Sinclair early and suffer the inevitable consequences when Corvin’s Cornelius voiced his objections. Some might consider that refusing to disturb one’s valet because he was in bed with someone else’s valet was taking considerate employment too far; Philip preferred to tell himself it was an investment for his future comfort.
He went downstairs. Breakfast would not be served for another hour, but there was bustle in the kitchen, and he stuck his head in to request a cup of tea. It occurred to him he might drop in on Miss Frisby. He felt an urge to talk about Guy with someone who wasn’t John or Corvin, someone who might actually understand, even if she didn’t understand what it was she was discussing.
He strolled along the corridor, therefore, cup and saucer in hand, approached the door, and heard muffled shouting. It was Amanda Frisby. Her voice was high and shrill and tearful, and if someone was bothering her, Guy’s sister, in Philip’s house—
He reached for the doorhandle, ready to dispense brimstone, and only just stopped himself as another voice rose in angry, distressed protest and he recognised it as Guy’s.
Philip stepped back, unsure of what to do. He had heard that siblings argued fiercely as a matter of routine, but even if that were the case, Guy was not an argumentative man, and Amanda hadn’t struck him as either hectoring or lachrymose. Something was badly wrong if the Frisbys were going at each other this way.
And it was not his business and if he stood here any longer, it would indubitably qualify as eavesdropping. Philip made himself step away, into his study, where he drank his tea in a worried frame of mind. He felt restless and unnerved. He did not at all like the idea that, having deflowered the man, he’d left him in a state of nervous tension, shouting at his sister. He hadn’t meant to do harm.
There had once been a picture of Sir James, his half brother, on the wall. Philip glared at the empty space from which he’d removed it. “Christ, have we not done enough damage to that family?” he muttered aloud. “Did I have to do more?”
No: he wasn’t tolerating this. He was going to—actually, he was going to do some work until breakfast, let the Frisbys calm down, and then he would have it out with Guy, find out what had distressed him, and deal with it. Preferably by taking him back upstairs and giving him something else to think about, starting with those gloriously sensitive earlobes.
But Guy wasn’t used to soothing his nerves with pleasure, and Philip couldn’t root the convention out of his soul overnight. If he had to apologise and promise their dalliance would go unmentioned and unrepeated, he’d bloody do it. He told himself that firmly, and wondered why he should feel so bleak at the idea that Guy would cut himself off from joy.
“Do some work, Rookwood,” he said aloud.
There were papers about the beet crops on his desk. That made him think about Guy again, so certain Philip could persuade his men to believe in this sugar-beet castle in the air.
Philip had never talked to his labourers. The fact was, they weren’t his. They doubtless all knew him to be a bastard, and even if they didn’t, he was always conscious of it. The house was not his, the lands were illicitly borrowed. If he’d been a gentleman he would have resigned the property, and the title if he could, to the cousin who would inherit both on his death. That would have left him without a penny, and he was disinclined to embrace poverty for a point of principle. So he held the house, and reminded himself that the only difference between the Rookwoods and half England’s other families was that his illegitimacy was famed rather than concealed or only suspected.
Still, he could never quite rid himself of the fraudulent feeling when it came to men whose fathers had worked this land, and whose sweat had tilled it. Or whatever the word might be; he wasn’t a countryman. His true father was a cold-hearted swine with exquisite lace ruffles pinned to dirty sleeves: a man who never paid his tailor, lied to women he wanted, and had probably never left London in his life. Philip had encountered him a few times in the sort of hells no decent man would visit. He’d bowed the first time, and received a chilly stare and the amused curl of a lip; they had ignored each other ever since. Even so, it was probably better than a father like Guy’s, who knew one intimately yet still didn’t care.
And his thoughts were on Guy again. Philip picked up some papers, purely so he could throw them down in disgust, shoved his chair back, and went for an irritable and solitary walk.
HE RETURNED TO THE house for breakfast. Guy was at the table. He’d taken a single bite from a piece of toast, and was
making monosyllabic responses to John’s efforts at conversation. John shot Philip a look composed of concern and accusation. Philip glowered at him.
Guy lingered at the table like Banquo’s ghost until Philip had cleared his plate, then said, with determination, “Sir Philip. May I have a moment of your time?”
Sir Philip? “Of course,” Philip said, with equal courtesy, and a sense of impending doom. “Please come to my study.”
He led the way, ushered Guy in, shut the door, turned, and said, “What the bloody hell?”
Guy looked sick as a dog. “I need to make you an apology.”
“Guy, for God’s sake. There is absolutely no need for this distress. If you’re concerned about yesterday—”
“Can you just listen?” Guy’s fists were clenched, knuckles white. “I need to tell you, I have lied to you and—and betrayed your hospitality, and you will have every right to be furious with me. I want you to know it’s all my fault, nobody else’s, and I hope that—”
“Wait, wait, stop.” This was sounding bad. If Guy had complained to a magistrate or some such in a fit of prudery, they could be in deep trouble. “What exactly have you done?”
Guy licked his lips. “I wrote the book.”
Philip stared at him blankly. His mind was so entirely turned to the possibility of denunciation for unnatural offences that he couldn’t make any sense of a book. A letter, yes, but— “What book?”
“The Secret of Darkdown.”
“You did what?” Philip yelped.
Guy flinched, and opened his mouth, but at that point there was a thunderous hammering on the door, which was unceremoniously flung open, and David Martelo strode in. “You. Both in the sickroom, now. Amanda is saying she will get up if you don’t come in, I’ve her woman holding her down, and if she damages that leg I’ll throttle the pair of you. Move!”
“Oh no,” Guy said. “No, she can’t—”
David grabbed him by the collar and physically dragged him out. Philip shouted an enraged, “Hoi!”, sprinting after, and the three of them crashed through the sickroom door, where Amanda Frisby sat up very straight, face red, all flags flying.
“Well, I never!” the attendant woman yelped.
“Please leave us, Jane,” Amanda said, and waited for the door to shut. “Guy Frisby, I will murder you. I told you—”
“Manda!” Guy shouted.
“No! Don’t you dare— I wrote it, Sir Philip. Not Guy. I wrote the book, and I’m very sorry, but he is not going to take the blame, and I dare say it was very foolish of me and you’re furious, but it’s me you should be furious with and I can prove it because the manuscript is in my hand and—”
Guy was trying to talk over her, voice anguished. Philip lifted his hands. “Stop. Stop,” he begged. “In the name of sanity. Miss Frisby, are you saying you wrote Darkdown? Not Guy?”
“Yes. Me. He always tries to take the blame for me, even though I’m twenty-three, and I won’t have it.” Amanda spoke emphatically. David hovered behind her, with a distinctly protective look. “And if you do choose to throw me out I shall understand, and I’ll write a letter of apology if you like, but please don’t blame Guy. I didn’t even let him read it till a few weeks ago.”
“Guy didn’t write it and it’s not his fault. I grasp that. Why are you both so appalled at making this admission? What on earth is this panic about?”
“Lord Corvin said he’d pursue the publisher,” Guy said. His lips were pale. “And we can’t afford it if they sue or ask us to bear the cost of withdrawing the book, or any of the other things that might happen. I realise he’s deeply offended, but truly, we never intended it to seem an insult.”
“I. Not you,” Amanda snapped.
“But who the devil says he’s offended?” Philip almost shouted. “Nobody’s offended!”
“That is absolutely true,” David said. “We’ve all been laughing over the book for days. Not, uh, disrespectfully,” he added quickly. “It’s a marvellous read. Everyone’s fighting over who’ll have it next, and Phil’s ordered copies for us all.”
Guy gaped. “But Corvin kills you, Philip. In the book. He said it was a gross slander!”
“No, he— Oh God, he did. All right, yes, but he didn’t mean his portrayal as a villain. He will have been speaking about the description of his hair. Or perhaps the part where Darkdown feels remorse about shoving me off a roof instead of saying, ‘Whoops,’ and trotting on with his day,” Philip said, brutally sacrificing his best friend on Guy’s altar.
“It was just Corvin being Corvin,” David added. “You mustn’t listen to him. Nobody does.”
“He and Mr. Raven were talking about horsewhipping the author or pursuing the publisher!”
“Oh, hell and the devil. Guy, I promise you, none of that was out of a desire for revenge. It was—”
“A desire to be further talked about,” David said over him. “To turn a minor scandal into a major one by whatever means necessary, to provoke a month’s chatter over teacups from the pages of a book. The Three Birdwits can’t see a fire without throwing fuel on it.”
Amanda gave a squeak of laughter and clapped her hand to her mouth at once. David smiled down at her. She looked up, eyes bright.
“Harsh. But not unjust. We didn’t consider the feelings of the author in the matter, but no harm has been done, or will be. I will speak to Corvin,” Philip said. “He will tell you himself that you have nothing to fear, and nothing for which to apologise other than describing his hair as red instead of russet, for which you will never be forgiven, but I shouldn’t worry because we all know he’s deluding himself. For heaven’s sake, don’t give it another thought.”
Guy’s mouth worked. He looked utterly sick, and Philip didn’t even think. He strode over and put his hands to Guy’s shoulders. “It’s all right. I promise you. It is all right.”
Guy was rigid under his hands for a second more, then Philip felt him shudder. He pulled the man close, just about remembering to make it a comforting embrace rather than anything more, and glanced over at Amanda Frisby with what he hoped was a suitable expression of wry amusement. She was regarding him with something uncomfortably like assessment, but that expression fled on the instant, replaced by a smile of relief.
“Thank you, Sir Philip. I did try to say to Guy you wouldn’t throw us out. And I truly am sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known you.”
“That would have been a great pity, because I’m impatiently waiting my turn to read it. There is nothing for which to apologise, and my friends will be delighted beyond words by this development, particularly Sherry. He adores Gothic novels.” Philip realised he was rubbing Guy’s shoulder in a soothing manner, and stopped.
“He’s right,” David said. “And I’m sure John will want to discuss the finer points of caricature with you, expert to expert.”
“And with that, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Frisby, I think I might take your brother to recover himself,” Philip said. “He’s a little overwrought.”
“That’s a good idea,” Amanda agreed. “I’ll speak to you later, Guy Frisby.”
Philip dragged Guy up the stairs, through the house. Guy didn’t resist, but Philip felt his arm tense as they approached the little room where they’d made love yesterday.
“We’re not going there,” he said shortly. “Come on.”
He led the way up into the attics and out onto the roof. The sun was blindingly bright now. Guy put his free hand over his eyes. “Why are we on the roof?”
“It’s the best I can do for a view without a four-mile walk. Sit.”
There was a convenient sitting-place he’d found on previous expeditions, a flat rectangle raised sufficiently high that one could see over the parapet and across the fields and trees. Gazing out over the landscape had worked very well yesterday. He sat next to Guy, stone warm through his breeches, not touching. “Right. Now, will you please tell me what that was about? Not the book, be damned to the book. But what on earth di
d you think I was going to do, and why did you think telling me you’d written the thing would help?”
Guy’s shoulders were heaving. “I— I’m sorry. I panicked. I thought— You’ve been so kind, and I’ve lied to you since I got here.”
“Trivially.”
“It’s not trivial! The damned book slanders you in the worst way. It insults Lord Corvin and has him killing you—”
“It’s a Gothic novel,” Philip said. “A particularly ridiculous one. Anyone who looks at Sir Peter Hawkwood and sees me is a bloody fool.”
“Falconwood.”
“Whatever bird you like. I don’t care.”
“I do,” Guy said. “I know what it feels like to be talked about, and you probably know it worse than me.”
“Being talked about because one is a notorious bastard is a very different thing to being talked about because one is painted in ludicrous colours for popular entertainment. If I found that an unacceptable way to go on, I should hardly be friends with John. Very well, I understand that you were afraid you’d caused me harm.”
“And lied about it,” Guy said, stifled. “I let you—let you say things, yesterday—”
“Your eyes are no less lovely because your sister wrote a book,” Philip said. “I grant that you should have told me earlier, though I can entirely see that there may never have seemed a good opportunity, and you have had a lot on your mind. What I actually want to know is why you were so afraid of telling me the truth that you named yourself the author, evidently against your sister’s will, to protect her. What did you think I was going to do to her, Guy?”
Guy made a choking noise. There was a long silence. Philip didn’t break it.
“It wasn’t just you,” he said finally. “I was afraid— You know all Corvin would have to do is mention her name—”
“He doesn’t ruin women except by request,” Philip said. “I told you that. Did you think I should have thrown her out of her sickroom bed to get my vengeance? Were you truly afraid that I would respond to ridicule with cruelty? Can I possibly, at all, make you see that I don’t give two fucks for being caricatured in some literary farrago, but to realise you believe me so callous and malicious and selfish—”