It was only then that Kit noticed Clara was distinctly dishevelled. Her bonnet was crumpled on one side and her gown was mud-stained. When she turned her head towards Kit, he saw her cheek was red and grazed.
“Clara!” Kit exclaimed. “My God! What happened?”
“Oh, Kit!” she sobbed, and threw herself into his arms.
Kit pulled her close. She was shaking and giving awful, strangled sobs, but somehow Kit managed to turn and meet the gaze of the strange gentleman she had arrived with.
He was a very young gentleman, and quite handsome. His clothes were very fashionable, his high collar points forcing his chin into a slightly raised position that gave him a haughty look. He was saved, however, from appearing entirely arrogant by the anxious look in his eyes.
“My apologies for intruding,” he began, “I escorted your sister home after she was attacked in the park—”
“Attacked?” Kit said, alarmed.
“Yes, I caught sight of her being set upon and began to run towards her. Unfortunately, her attacker saw me coming and made off before I could apprehend him.”
Kit stared at him, shocked. Who would attack Clara? On the heels of that thought came another: it seemed Clara had not been imagining things when she thought she was being followed.
“I wish I could tell you more,” the young gentleman said unhappily, “but I saw very little of the man. I was some way off when I noticed them struggling, and he was long gone by the time I reached your sister.” He shook his head. “Perhaps she will be able to tell you more when she has calmed.”
Kit nodded at him. “Thank you for helping her home, sir. We are indebted to you.”
“Not at all,” the young gentleman said. “I'm glad I could be of service.”
Clara had gone still in his arms now, which was somehow worse than the shaking. Concerned, he said, “I’m sorry to be rude, but if you’ll excuse us, I think my sister needs to lie down.”
“Of course,” the young gentleman said promptly. Then, addressing himself to Clara, he added gently, “I hope you feel better soon, ma'am.”
“Thank you for helping me,” Clara managed to whisper.
Kit nodded at the young man, then turned to help Clara upstairs, leaving Tom to see him out.
When they were nearly at the top of the stairs, Clara said in a strangled tone, “Is Peter in the kitchen with Mrs. Saunders still?”
“Yes."
“Don’t tell him I’m back yet,” she said quickly. “And can you ask Mrs. Saunders to keep him down there until I’ve washed and made myself presentable? I don’t want him to see—” She broke off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Kit said gently. “Go and fetch fresh clothes from your chamber. You can bathe and change in my rooms—Peter won't even know you're home until you’re ready to face him. I’ll go and speak to Mrs. Saunders and get hot water sent up. And then we’ll eat and talk. Does that sound all right?”
She lowered her hand and took a shaky breath. “Yes. Thank you, Kit.”
An hour later, Kit and Clara were ensconced in his small sitting room. She'd bathed and dressed in clean clothes, and they’d eaten a light luncheon. Now Clara was lying back on the chaise longue with a vinegar poultice on her cheek to take out the bruising and swelling that was coming up.
“So,” Kit said mildly. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Clara didn’t move her gaze from the ceiling. “I’ve been a fool,” she said bitterly, and her eyes brightened with sudden tears for a moment before she screwed them tightly closed. A tear slid from the outer corner of her eye, down her temple and into her hair.
Kit waited, silent, for her to speak.
At last, she let out a shuddering breath and said shakily, “A few weeks ago, I went to see Percy Bartlett. I asked him for money. I told him I wanted it to help with Peter’s upbringing, and if he didn’t give me it, I was going to see Sir Algernon.” Holding the poultice in place with one hand, she turned her head to meet Kit’s gaze, her own defiant—she knew already what Kit’s view would be.
Percy Bartlett was Peter’s father—and Peter was not a love child. Clara had been a servant in Sir Algernon Bartlett’s house, governess to Percy’s younger sisters. A very pretty, very appealing young governess, with no one to protect her from the rapacious son of the house.
Kit sighed. “Oh, Clara.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she gritted out. “You’re wondering why I did such a stupid thing?”
Kit eyed her for a moment. “Why did you?” he asked gently. “And why didn’t you just come to me if you need money?”
Still holding the poultice, she shook her head minutely, her expression tight and angry. “Why should he get away without contributing anything to the cost of raising the son he forced upon me?” she demanded. “It’s only right he pay something towards Peter’s upkeep!”
“How much did you ask for?”
Her jaw tightened. “Five hundred pounds.”
Kit considered that. On the one hand, it was not an unreasonable sum to request from a man of Bartlett’s standing, who would one day inherit his father’s sizeable wealth. On the other hand, Bartlett was known to be a wastrel who gambled away every penny he was given, and whose father kept him on a very tight leash. If he had a tenth of that sum to hand, Kit would be astonished.
“And what did he say?” Kit asked.
Clara returned her gaze to the ceiling. A muscle in her jaw worked. “He was furious. He told me he’d not give me a penny and if I didn’t promise to stay quiet, he’d make me sorry.”
Kit nodded. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you agreed?”
Clara shook her head minutely. “I told him if he hadn’t paid me by the end of the month, I would be going to see his father.”
“And since then, you’ve been followed in the street at least once—and now attacked in the park?”
Clara was silent. She stared miserably at the ceiling.
“You don’t need his money, Clara,” Kit said gently. “Peter is my godson, and if I’ve not made it clear to you already, then know this: I regard him as my personal responsibility. I may not have Sir Algernon Bartlett’s wealth, but I’m comfortably off and will make provision for Peter’s future. You have no need to worry about him.”
“Kit,” she said, her voice breaking, “You don’t understand—I wanted the money so I could—so I could—” She gave a sob and covered her mouth with her free hand.
“So you could what?”
“So I could leave London,” she whispered.
Kit stared at her, unsure what to say. His heart twisted at the thought of her and Peter leaving. It just being him, alone in this big house.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t want to go, but it’s Peter’s chest. I took him to a doctor two months ago. He says I have to get him out of London. There’s no choice.” She pressed her lips together for a moment before she went on. “His cough’s getting worse. It plagues him at night. I can’t—” She broke off, shaking her head helplessly.
“It’s all right,” Kit said. “I just wish you’d come to me, Clara. Don’t you know I’d do anything to help you? Did you think I’d cut you off because of this? Leave you without an income? When you and Peter have lived with me these last five years?” He could hear the hurt in his own voice, and Clara heard it too. She fumbled blindly for his hand with her own, taking his fingers and squeezing them.
“You’re too good to me,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve you, Kit.”
He patted her hand. “Yes,” he said. “You do. And the sooner you realise it, the better.”
For a few moments, they sat quietly, then Clara whispered, “There’s something else.”
“And what is that?”
She swallowed. “I’m not sure I can get Bartlett to leave me alone now.”
Kit was silent, waiting for the explanation that was surely coming. Another tear made its slow way down her temple and
into her hair. “He’s a monster, Kit,” she whispered. “If he goes after Peter, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Perhaps if you withdraw the threat to speak to his father?” Kit prompted gently.
That was when she began to sob in earnest.
“What’s wrong?” Kit asked anxiously. “Clara?”
After a minute, when her sobs had subsided and Kit was nearly beside himself with worry, she said in a wobbly voice, “I—I already tried. I went to see him again, to call my threats off, and he just laughed at me—so nastily, Kit—he saw how frightened I was, and I could see he liked it. And now I don’t know what to do!”
“You should have told me before,” he chided gently, before adding more firmly, “Bartlett may be a nobleman but I am not without resources.”
“I know,” she sobbed, turning her head to him. “But why should you be put to trouble over my idiocy? It’s unfair on you.”
“Friends put themselves to trouble for each other,” he said reassuringly. “And I am very capable of dealing with a bully like Bartlett.”
“How?” she asked.
Kit gave it some thought. After a moment he said, “A public confrontation, I think. Something that exposes his behaviour to his peers. We will aim to shine a light on that cockroach and see if we can send him scurrying back under his rock.”
“Kit,” she whispered. “Don’t put yourself at risk for me.”
“I won’t,” Kit said with more confidence than he truly felt. “In fact, I intend to seek assistance from someone Bartlett would not dare to cross.”
12
Henry
“I’ll tell my doormen to let you in. Come any time after nine o’clock.”
After Henry took his leave of Christopher, the man’s final words continued to echo in his mind.
Did Christopher actually want to see Henry tonight? He’d seemed surprised when Henry had agreed. Maybe even disappointed, as though he’d only wanted to offend him, not to have him comply.
It was a thought that troubled Henry as he turned in the direction of home and began walking.
“If you are making amends, it has to cost you something.”
Christopher had plainly been angry and resentful about the events of the past—and Henry could hardly blame him.
As he strode back towards Curzon Street, his mind teemed with an undisciplined mix of thoughts. His memories of Christopher as he had been all those years ago. How he had appeared today. Henry’s fears as to how matters might unfold at Redford’s that night.
“You, on your knees for me. Sucking me off in front of everyone.”
Henry bit the inside of his cheek as he remembered those words, only easing up when he tasted blood.
“In the back room, where anyone can see.”
Henry’s heart thudded so hard at that thought, he felt it might burst out of his chest.
Could he really do that? Get down on his knees in Christopher’s club, in front of whoever might be there, and suck a man’s cock?
Christopher’s cock.
Well, he had to, didn’t he? He simply had to. He had begged Christopher to allow him to make amends after all.
And hadn’t Henry once asked the same of Christopher? Their first encounters, all those years ago, had taken place in the heady atmosphere of the Golden Lily, several of them in front of other patrons.
It had felt like the most debauched of sins. Settling himself down on one of those low velvet divans that were scattered about the place and just watching as Christopher Redford—the most beautiful creature Henry had ever seen—crawled gracefully between his legs and took Henry’s cock into his lovely mouth.
He remembered all those envious, hungry gazes, watching them. They probably thought he felt like an emperor being catered to, but that wasn’t it at all. He felt more like a prisoner, held fast and helpless by the skills of the alluring young man who was playing with him in front of everyone else. Making him spend into his mouth.
He’d felt helpless, a little humiliated.
And he’d loved it.
He’d never admitted that to anyone, not even Christopher himself. After they’d entered into their arrangement properly, he’d brought those encounters to an end, telling Christopher he wanted him all to himself—which was not untrue. But nor was it the whole truth.
All in all, he’d taken a great deal from Christopher during their time together, and what had he given in return? Christ, he hadn’t even met the most basic terms of their agreement. That thought made his stomach twist with shame.
So, if Christopher wanted to humiliate Henry—to give him taste of his own medicine as Christopher would see it—was that really such a surprise?
Pathetically, part of Henry just wanted something with Christopher, no matter what he had to do to make that happen. Even if it meant getting down on his knees and begging for the privilege.
When he’d walked into Christopher’s drawing room earlier this afternoon, and seen him for the first time in near enough two decades, his heart had quickened in his chest like it was stuttering into rude and painful life for the first time in years and years.
He had felt—not so much young, as alive—as though new blood filled his veins.
A terrifying and wonderful feeling.
When Henry returned to the townhouse, he found Marianne and Jeremy in the drawing room, both reading. Henry smiled to see their easy companionship. They were a very well-suited pair.
“Papa,” Marianne said, looking up. “Did you have a good day?”
He smiled, joining her on the small sofa. “I suppose so,” he said. “I met with my solicitor and… dealt with some other business.” His smile felt strained. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’ve been perfectly idle,” Marianne said happily. “I stayed in bed all morning and spent all afternoon reading. It’s glorious having an excuse not to pay calls—or accept callers for that matter.”
Henry laughed. “I thought that was why you liked living in town!”
“It is,” Marianne said. “Only not so much now that I’m size of a house.”
“Don’t be silly,” Jeremy said. “You’d barely make a gazebo!”
She laughed. “Wretch!”
“Only a dainty, charming little gazebo,” Jeremy said. “Barely big enough for one, standing!”
“You are an absurd person,” Marianne told him, blue eyes twinkling and lips twitching with humour. “Isn’t he, Papa?”
Before Henry could reply, she exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot! I had a letter from George today. I’ll let you read it later—it’s in my bedchamber.”
“How is he?” Henry asked.
“He sounded in reasonably good spirits,” Marianne replied. “But you know George—he’s not exactly one for those sorts of confidences.”
That was certainly true. Marianne shared her every thought with everyone, but George was quite the opposite.
“It sounds as if he’s been going round the estate with Mr. Holland quite a bit,” Marianne said. “And reading lots of his old Greek stuff.” She rolled her eyes.
“Different people enjoy different things, Marianne,” Henry said mildly.
Just then the door opened and Freddy entered.
“I’m starved,” he announced, flopping into a chair. “Can you ring for some tea and cake, Mari?”
“We’ll be having dinner soon. Can’t you wait?” she replied irritably.
“I’ll eat both, easily enough,” Freddy replied. “I missed luncheon, on account of my adventure.”
“Adventure?” Marianne echoed, interested now.
“A small one,” Freddy said, shrugging. “I had to rescue a lady in the park.”
Marianne gasped. She closed her book and set it aside, leaning forward. “What happened?”
Freddy proceeded to tell them that he’d been walking through Hyde Park when he’d spotted a man attacking a woman from afar. When he’d shouted and begun running towards them, the man had taken off, leaving the lady lying on the gro
und.
“Was she badly hurt?” Marianne asked worriedly.
“Thankfully, no,” Freddy said, “but she was terribly shaken. I escorted her home—she’s a widow who lives with her brother.”
“She was an elderly lady?”
“Not at all, perhaps only four- or five-and-twenty, though her brother was older.”
Pride warmed Henry’s heart. “Well, I think you’re a veritable Sir Galahad,” he said. “I daresay she was very relieved you came along. Her brother too.”
Freddy flushed a little, ducking his head. “It was nothing. Just what anyone else would have done. But I admit, I’m glad I was there. Goodness knows what would have happened if I had not been.”
“Do you have any engagements this evening?” Marianne asked, changing the subject.
“Percy and I are going to Sharp’s.”
Marianne frowned. “That’s a gambling hell, isn’t it?”
Freddy rolled his eyes. “It’s not a hell,” he said. “It’s a very respectable club.”
Marianne carried on doggedly, “So, you won’t be playing cards then? Or gambling at all?”
Freddy rolled his eyes at that. “I don’t plan to. Percy’s been asked to make up a table with Skelton, Tavestock, and someone else. I shall probably just watch.”
Henry frowned. “Skelton?” he said sharply. “Not Lionel Skelton?”
Freddy visibly bristled at the disapproval in Henry’s voice. “What’s wrong with Lionel Skelton?”
“He’s a scoundrel,” Henry said flatly. “His reputation is appalling, and Nigel Tavestock’s isn’t much better. I suggest you stay away from them, Freddy.”
Freddy blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he said. He sounded disbelieving and his cheeks had reddened.
“My advice to you is to stay away from Skelton and Tavestock,” Henry said firmly. “I can assure you that if they are being friendly to you and your friend, it will only be with a view to fleecing you.”
“I’m not a child,” Freddy said, getting to his feet. “I’m perfectly able to make my own judgments on the people I come across.”
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