Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  Iain wouldn’t have dreamed of telling a lie in response to that. “Yes,” he’d said shortly. That was when he’d been ordered to fetch the cane and go to the library to await his thrashing.

  Now, though, it seemed, his father had more to say, and Iain waited, dreading what was to come.

  “I’ve asked myself many times,” his father began in a voice that shook with suppressed rage, “why it had to be Tom who died that day. If I had to lose one son, why him?”

  Iain stared at the man miserably for several long beats, then dropped his gaze to the floor, sick and ashamed, unable to answer a question he’d already asked himself a hundred times over.

  “Have I not lost enough?” his father continued, his voice rising. “My favourite child is gone, but now you have to—have to shame me like this?” He brought his fist down on the desk, making the cane, and Iain, jump.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Sorry!” His father shook his head, disbelieving. For a long minute, he said nothing more, just sat there, brooding, brow furrowed, jaw set hard. His throat bobbed as he swallowed against some emotion, then he said, “Do you understand what this family expects of you, Iain? What I expect of you?”

  “Do you mean about my joining the army, sir?” Iain asked warily.

  “No,” his father bit out. “Obviously, I expect that, but beyond that, I have expectations about how you conduct yourself. I expect you to behave in a manner that places you beyond the reproach of your peers. I expect you to behave in a manner that your mother and I can take pride in.”

  A small, disloyal voice in Iain’s head reminded him of how often his regularly drunk father had conducted himself with shocking disregard for his wife’s feelings, but he held back the words and waited for his father to finish.

  The man fixed his gaze on Iain. Deliberately and quite slowly, he continued, “Let me be absolutely clear on this. If I ever hear the Sinclair name being smeared by any suggestion—even indirectly—of this sort of conduct from you again, you may be sure you will be disowned, and without a second’s hesitation. I will not have the Sinclair name besmirched by this sort of filth. I will not allow you to humiliate your mother and sisters with a scandal of this nature.”

  Iain swallowed and nodded slowly. He didn’t feel as though he’d be able to get words out past his dry throat, but he tried anyway. “I promise I’ll never—”

  “Don’t insult me with promises you’ll never keep,” his father snapped. “I’m under no illusions about you, my boy. Once a sod, always a sod. But be in no doubt, you’ll learn discretion or lose your place in this family. Do you understand?”

  Iain nodded unhappily and went back to staring at the floor.

  “Thank God, we’re not relying on you to produce heirs,” his father added flatly. “Alasdair might be a milksop, but at least he’s capable of tupping a woman and getting her with child.” At the tender age of two-and-twenty, Iain’s oldest brother was already married and had a son, with a second child on the way. “I can only hope that the army will make more of a man of you than I’ve managed to do.”

  Iain heard the sound of his father unstoppering a decanter, the glug of liquid being poured, but he didn’t look up.

  “If your mother asks what happened today,” his father said, “you will tell her that it’s a matter between you and me, and that it’s been dealt with. I don’t want you upsetting her with this.”

  “Yes, sir,” Iain told the floor.

  “For God’s sake, look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  Iain obeyed. His father seemed more like his usual self now, with a near-empty glass of spirit clutched in his hand. His expression was set in hard, angry lines as he regarded Iain. Giving a disgusted grunt, he threw back the remaining contents of his glass and reached for the decanter again. His hand shook.

  “Get out,” he said flatly. “I can’t even stand to look at you.”

  And Iain could only be relieved to leave him to his brandy.

  Chapter Four

  Now: 1824

  22nd May, 1824

  London

  Iain’s dinner engagement, on the night he resigned his commission, was with Murdo Balfour, a good friend he’d not seen for some time. Balfour had been involved in a huge scandal with a married woman the year before and soon afterwards had sold his townhouse in Mayfair, exiling himself to his country estate in Scotland. A few weeks ago, however, he’d written to Iain advising he’d be in the capital briefly and inviting him to dine.

  Iain had to take a hackney cab to Balfour’s new address, which was located several miles from Mayfair in an affluent area that was popular with wealthy bankers and merchants. It was hardly surprising, he supposed, that Balfour had chosen to move to this part of town, since he was no longer accepted by polite society. More surprising was the fact that Balfour had bothered to buy a new house at all, given that he now spent almost all of his time at his new estate in Scotland. Apparently, though, David Lauriston—Balfour’s “companion”, as Balfour had described him in his letter to Iain—had business in London from time to time, and it was for this reason that Balfour found it convenient to keep a house there.

  After paying the cab driver, Iain ascended the half-dozen steps to the imposing front door of Balfour’s new home and rapped the large brass knocker. Moments later, he was ushered inside by Balfour’s footman, relieved of his coat and hat and led into a drawing room that looked too small to be the main reception room of this large house. Glancing around at the comfortable, masculine furniture, the pile of books on the side table, the half-written letter on the escritoire, he surmised that this was more of a private sitting room. No doubt the formal drawing room would rival the splendid, chilly elegance of Balfour’s previous London residence.

  “Sinclair, it’s good to see you.”

  Iain turned at that voice to find Balfour standing in the doorway of the drawing room, grinning. He was dressed with less elegance than used to be his habit, his blue coat a little looser than was fashionable, his dark hair grown a little longer than before.

  “It’s been too long,” Balfour continued, walking forwards and stretching out a hand.

  “Far too long,” Iain agreed, shaking Balfour’s hand. He met Balfour’s gaze before adding, “The last time was the night of Mr. Lauriston’s accident in Edinburgh.”

  David Lauriston had been badly injured that night. When Iain last saw Balfour, the man had looked half-mad with grief.

  “A great deal has happened since then,” Balfour said lightly. “You’ve probably heard.”

  “I heard about the duel with Kinnell.”

  Sir Alasdair Kinnell was the man responsible for Lauriston’s injuries.

  “There was no duel,” Balfour said, but he was smiling slightly.

  “He challenged you, though.”

  “He did. But thankfully, honour was satisfied in another way.”

  “Is that so?” Iain asked, blatantly fishing. “How?”

  Balfour just laughed. “As if I’d tell you,” he said. “We made an agreement. A private agreement.” He walked past Iain, heading for the sideboard. “Drink?”

  “Brandy, thank you,” Iain replied. While Balfour poured the spirit, he added, “I heard Kinnell petitioned his wife for divorce after your little contretemps.”

  Rumour had it that the contretemps in question was over Balfour swiving Kinnell’s wife, though, knowing what he knew of Balfour and his preferences, Iain found that rather difficult to believe. Far more likely, in his opinion, was that the argument was over Lauriston’s injuries.

  Balfour shrugged and reached for a crystal decanter, filled with amber liquid. “He did. And I’ll wager his wife is glad to be rid of him.”

  “I was surprised to hear he cited you as her lover.”

  Balfour didn’t look up as he sloshed the brandy into two snifters. “Really? Didn’t you also hear about the spectacle I made of myself in Culzeans?”

  “I heard you publicly claimed you were her lover.
”

  Balfour looked up at that, grinning. “He really had no choice but to challenge me.”

  Iain raised a brow. “You always were a provocative fellow, though I don’t believe you were her lover for a moment. I’m well aware of what fires you up, and it isn’t pretty little matrons. I know why you challenged Kinnell to that duel. I was there when he pushed Lauriston under that horse.”

  Balfour offered him one of the snifters. He looked perfectly calm but for a betraying tic that pulsed, just once, in his left cheek.

  “I did it for a number of reasons,” he said. “Partly for Elizabeth—Kinnell was beating her, you know—and I had my own grievances against the man, from our schooldays. But yes, it was primarily for David.” He shrugged, philosophical. “Part of me still wishes I’d put a bullet in the bastard, but there were more important considerations to think about. And I have the satisfaction of knowing I publicly humiliated him. That’s something.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Iain said, lifting his glass in an impromptu toast, and Balfour joined him, clinking his glass against Iain’s.

  “Will Mr. Lauriston be joining us this evening?” Iain asked.

  “Yes, once he’s dressed,” Balfour replied absently. “We’ve only just got up.”

  “Is that so?” Iain laughed softly. “Just out of bed, the two of you?”

  Balfour looked, quite suddenly, as though he wanted to kick himself and he said, tightly, “If you tease him when he comes down, I’ll skin you alive. David’s not like you and I—he’s modest.”

  Iain laughed again. “He can’t be that modest to have held your interest so long. I know how easily you bore, my friend.”

  Balfour glared at that. “Let me make this clear, before David comes down: what we share”—he glanced up at the ceiling as though he might find the answer written up there—“is a forever sort of an arrangement. As good as a marriage, as far as I’m concerned. And I expect you to treat David with the same respect you would show to any man’s—” He broke off, frowning.

  “Wife?” Iain offered helpfully. “Husband?”

  Balfour scowled. “Either,” he snapped, then added. “Or both—oh, I don’t know!”

  Before he had to reach a verdict, the door opened again and the subject of their conversation joined them—David Lauriston, as handsome and self-contained as that first time Iain had met him in Edinburgh.

  Lauriston walked towards them with a smooth, even stride, no sign of any lingering disability from his accident. “Captain Sinclair,” he said, smiling, and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Iain corrected as they shook. He wondered how long it would be before he could say that without a twinge of regret.

  “My apologies,” Lauriston replied. “Murdo did tell me your news. Mr. Sinclair. It’s good to see you again. Thank you for joining us.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” Purely to tease Balfour, Iain let his gaze travel up and down Lauriston’s body and, to his amusement, Balfour reacted immediately, clearing his throat and stepping between them. Ostensibly, his purpose was to pass a glass of brandy to Lauriston, but having moved between them, he stayed put, forcing Lauriston to take a step back to accommodate him

  Iain glanced at Lauriston to gauge his reaction to the other man’s possessive behaviour. Lauriston looked amused but oddly tender too, his gaze fond even as he raised a teasing brow at his lover. As for Balfour, he wore a faint flush across his cheekbones. Of annoyance perhaps, or mortification. Or possibly both.

  “So, tell me,” Balfour said briskly, in the tone of a man who very much wanted to change the subject. “What decided you upon leaving the army?”

  Iain shrugged. “Life as a soldier is very different in times of peace. Not to my taste, I find.”

  “You miss the battlefield?” Lauriston asked, his tone curious.

  “Not the battlefield as such, more the general sense of...purpose, I suppose.” He gave a small self-mocking smile. “The truth is, these last few years I’ve done little but play the part of a court jester for the King.”

  “Oh, come now,” Balfour said. “You don’t do yourself justice. The King admires you so much, he takes you into his confidence about all sorts of interesting matters of state. Does that not give you a sense of purpose? At least when you’re reporting the results of your observations back to your masters—”

  “Murdo—” Lauriston interjected, and Balfour glanced at him, sensitive to the faint note of censure in his lover’s tone.

  “I wasn’t criticising. He’s said as much himself in the past,” Balfour protested. When Lauriston looked unconvinced, he added, “For God’s sake, we’ve been friends for ages. He tells me things.”

  Lauriston just raised a sceptical brow, which was hardly surprising given that the last time he’d been in Iain’s company, Balfour hadn’t been terribly friendly to Iain. Then again, on that occasion, Iain had spent that whole evening flirting shamelessly with Lauriston...

  “It’s true, Mr. Lauriston,” Iain said, taking pity on his friend. “Balfour and I actually get on very well most of the time—it’s only when you’re around that he grows peevish with me.”

  Balfour laughed at that, a short burst of helpless amusement that made his dark eyes flash and Lauriston’s disapproving expression soften a little.

  “I still think it’s very indiscreet of you to speak of your friend’s private confidences in front of me,” Lauriston scolded him.

  “Well, it’s not as though you’d say anything to anyone,” Balfour grumbled. “I’ve never met a more tight-lipped man in my life.”

  “Even supposing,” Lauriston said implacably. “You should really apologise.”

  “Fine,” Balfour said, sighing. He turned to face Iain. “I apologise for breaking your confidence in front of my lover, a man who I know will not breathe a word of what he has heard to another living soul anyway.” He turned back to Lauriston. “There, will that do?”

  Lauriston’s cheeks had pinkened at Balfour’s use of the word lover, but he made no protest. Now he was trying to look severe and failing miserably, his eyes dancing with happiness and suppressed mirth.

  “That was an awful apology, but if it satisfies Captain Sinclair, I daresay it will have to satisfy me too.” He sent a questioning glance in Iain’s direction.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Iain said again, his light tone belying what that second correction cost him. “And yes, it will do very well, Mr. Lauriston. Now, I do believe Balfour invited me to dinner?”

  “He did.” Lauriston smiled. “Are you hungry, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Famished.”

  “Come, then. We have an excellent cook, and I can promise you she’s outdone herself tonight.”

  THE DINNER was excellent. Balfour and Lauriston preferred to dine informally, so the footmen were dismissed once the dishes were brought in, the three of them left alone to serve themselves, an approach that Iain heartily approved of.

  The company was excellent too, though it made Iain feel melancholy, seeing his friend’s obvious delight in his lover. It wasn’t that he begrudged his hosts their happiness. No, the melancholy was all on his own account. It seemed he had a hitherto unacknowledged self-pitying streak that made witnessing their contentment strangely painful.

  Balfour and Lauriston were so utterly at ease with one another, every glance they shared was warm with easy intimacy and affection. Iain couldn’t help but reflect that he’d never shared such companionship with another—except James Hart, of course, and James was not his lover. James was only his friend. Or had been, until Iain had ruined everything.

  Perhaps that was why he felt so sad, seeing Balfour and Lauriston together—because it made him think of James, and of how much Iain missed his friendship. He felt the tug of it now, that invisible thread that connected him to James, an aching sort of pull.

  With effort, Iain pushed his melancholy thoughts aside and turned his attention determinedly to his hosts. There was a degree of entertainment to be had from watching
the haughty, aristocratic Balfour tending to his lover’s wishes with such unexpected and amusing devotion.

  Right now, the man was trying to press a slice of blackberry tart on Lauriston even as Lauriston protested he couldn’t manage another bite. It was, it seemed, his favourite sweet, and Balfour had especially asked the cook to make it.

  “You could still do to put a bit more weight on,” he was saying now, adding a pool of custard to the dish.

  “Nonsense,” Lauriston said. “I’ve always been lean. My mother and brother are too—it’s how we’re made. Whether you like it or not, Murdo, I’m a skinny chap.”

  “I think you look just perfect as you are,” Iain interjected, letting his gaze travel admiringly over Lauriston’s trim form. He had to suppress a laugh when he glanced at Balfour and saw the man’s lips were compressed—he really was far too easy to tease.

  Despite his protests, Lauriston ended up eating the tart, almost absently, and Balfour seemed to get an odd sort of satisfaction from watching him do so. When he finally pushed his plate aside, Balfour reached over the table, using his thumb to brush a crumb of pastry from Lauriston’s mouth, the gesture at once tender and promising. Given the heat that passed between the two men right then, Iain half expected to be handed his hat and asked to leave. But, ultimately, Balfour sat back, though he shifted a little in his seat, making Iain smile to think of what was causing him the need to alter his position.

  Lauriston seemed equally affected. He had to clear his throat before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice carried the too-bright note of someone keen to divert attention away from himself.

  “So, what are your plans for the future, Mr. Sinclair? Have you thought about life after the army yet?”

  “You used to talk about setting up a stud farm,” Balfour reminded him.

  “I did,” Iain agreed. He glanced at Lauriston. “My boyhood passion was horses, Mr. Lauriston. That’s why I joined a cavalry regiment.”

  “A stud farm sounds like a promising prospect, then.”

  “It might well be,” Iain said. “But the fact is, I already have something else in mind.”