by Ava March
As expected, he found his team of four waiting around the corner on Curzon Street. The footman held open the door as if it was any other night and his master did not have a disheveled young man in tow.
“The town house.” Max followed Tristan inside the carriage and took a seat on the black leather bench.
Tristan settled on the opposite bench, one hand at his waist, keeping his trousers in place. The door snapped shut. Faint golden light from a nearby streetlamp seeped through the windows beside each bench, keeping the interior from pitch darkness.
“Is that all right?”
Tristan pulled his attention from the window. “Pardon?”
“That we are going to my town house. Is that all right?”
Max received a nod of agreement. Tristan turned his attention back out the window.
The carriage moved forward. The streetlamp’s light slipped away, leaving the dark outline of Tristan across from him.
“They weren’t all like that,” Tristan said into the silence, as the carriage wound its way through Mayfair.
“One is more than enough.” Max highly doubted it had been an isolated incident. Tristan had told him during their first night together that he preferred not to be hit with a closed fist. Clearly there had been a reason for that particular request.
How many other bastards had Tristan had to endure? How many had treated him like a toy to be purchased and used, with no thought at all to if they broke him in the process?
Max’s hands began to curl into fists. With effort, he flexed his hands, tamped down the rising fury. Took comfort in the knowledge Tristan would never have to face such bastards again.
“You have my thanks, Max, but I will have you know you did not need to do that. I’m well able to look after myself.”
Max kept his thoughts to himself. The steel behind Tristan’s voice indicated now would not be a good time to debate the point. They had both been through enough that evening. No use adding an argument.
“You were watching me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
And there was no use at all in attempting to deny it. “You were occupied. I didn’t want another. It wasn’t... I wasn’t... It was not for titillation.” Max wanted that to be clear. “I wanted—” He shook his head, unwilling to admit why exactly he’d requested to watch Tristan. “Did your gambling debts drive you to work there?”
He had not given it any thought when he had decided to give in to Rawling’s nudge. How did someone come to work at a brothel? What drove them to make that choice? It could not be an occupation anyone in their right mind would aspire to.
“No. I was already employed at the house when I struck my deal with Rubicon.”
“How much did you owe her?” Just because Max hadn’t asked Rubicon did not mean he wasn’t curious.
“Initially, over a thousand pounds. Used to visit the hells to fill my afternoons. My luck eventually ran out, and then some. Rubicon agreed to pay my debts for me.”
And likely for an exorbitant rate. “What percent did she charge you?”
“Percent?”
Max resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. “Interest on the loan,” he replied patiently. “When one takes out a loan, the other party, typically a bank, charges a percent of the total, or interest, to allow the debtor use of the funds. She did not strike me as the sort to lend money out of the goodness of her heart.” Given her callous disregard for Tristan, that woman cared only for the profits that would fill her pockets.
“Oh.” That sound said quite clearly Tristan had not given the notion of interest any prior consideration. “I don’t know. She did not mention a percent. A quarter of the money I brought in went toward the debt. Half went to the house, and a quarter I was able to keep.”
“For how long?” That, coupled with the knowledge of how much Tristan charged for his time, would give Max an idea if the rate had approached usury levels, not that there was anything he could do about it now. Wasn’t as if he could go back and negotiate better terms for him.
Tristan shrugged. “She said she would let me know when the debt was paid.”
Max’s jaw dropped. “She could have kept you there for years. All the while holding your debt over your head.” The business-minded part of Max recognized it had been a brilliant plan on Rubicon’s part. A way to ensure an employee never left and would never complain about the clientele. But another part of him, a larger part of him, bristled with outrange and indignation at the way Rubicon had so neatly used Tristan’s ignorance and need against him. “Why would you ever agree to such a thing?”
Even in the darkness, Max could see the line of Tristan’s shoulders go stiff. “I did not have any other option. Well, I did, but I would rather not be left for dead along a street somewhere.”
Max winced. He could only surmise Tristan’s gambling debts had been held by unsavory money lenders. The sort who would have had no compunction whatsoever seeing their threats through to completion. Men won and lost fortunes at gambling tables, and with those losses Max knew there were some who paid with their lives.
He still despised the madam with every fiber of his being, but he also could not help but be grateful the woman had been willing to come to Tristan’s aid. The loan had been on horrendous terms, but it had kept Tristan alive.
The carriage slowed to a stop. Max looked out the window to his front door.
The full impact of the evening slammed into him. He had engaged in a fistfight with another man at a brothel, had actually purchased Tristan’s freedom from said brothel, and had brought him, with bare feet and ruined trousers, to the front door of his Mayfair town house. Even though it had to be pushing up against eleven in the evening, his neighbors kept Town hours. Bright windows interspersed with dark ones dotted the homes across from and next to his own.
“Stay in the carriage. I’ll return in a moment.” Ducking to fit through the narrow door, Max stepped out onto the walkway. “Morgan,” he said, calling up to his driver, “bring the carriage around to the kitchen door.”
Best to have a room readied and bring Tristan in through the kitchen. It was late enough so that the day staff would be abed. He’d put him up in a guest bedchamber. Of that he was certain. Even though he wanted to keep Tristan close by his side, safe in his arms, the tension that had radiated from Tristan held him back. After he deposited Tristan in the bedchamber though...
He hadn’t a clue what would come next, and he had made enough rash decisions for one night. Tomorrow, after they had both had some rest, he would decide how they would best go on from here. Well...that was assuming Tristan wanted to go on with him.
Oh, and he mustn’t forget. He needed to have a bank draft delivered to Rubicon in the morning.
With a shake of his head, Max went up the stone steps. The door opened as he approached.
His night butler shut the door behind him. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Please have the green bedchamber readied and alert the staff we have a guest.”
Chapter Six
The carriage rolled to a stop behind the massive town house Max had disappeared inside of. Tristan had assumed Max was somewhat wealthy—poor men could not afford to visit Rubicon’s—but hell and damnation, Max must be far beyond wealthy if he lived in such a home. Even the back was impressive. Four rows of tall windows stretching up toward the night sky, a flagstone courtyard, a lit brass lantern next to a tidy black door. The twenty-five hundred pounds Max had agreed to part with tonight must have been nothing at all to him. Whereas they hung over Tristan’s head.
Max had watched him, had seen him with that man. Had witnessed him choking on the man’s sour prick. A shiver of revulsion gripped his spine. He had never been more mortified, more humiliated in all his life, than when Max had handed him the coat from his own back.
Nor had he ever been more grateful than when Max took him from that bedchamber. He could still feel the lingering warmth from Max’s hand splayed over his lower back. That undeniable sense of comfort, of security.
The tidy black door opened and Max emerged. There wasn’t even a faint creak of springs, just a slight shift in the well-sprung town carriage, as the footman hopped off the boot. The servant reached for the door, but before he could open it Max beckoned him with a flick of his fingers.
Max bent his head, obviously giving the footman an order. Tristan tilted his ear toward the window, but couldn’t make out Max’s words, just the low rumble of his voice. He couldn’t ignore the feeling whatever they were discussing concerned himself. Still, he resisted the urge to slide down the window. That would have been rude. Instead, he made do with watching as the footman nodded and went into the house.
A few long strides had Max at the carriage. He opened the door. “Come along. Let’s get you settled in.”
Holding his trousers in place with one hand, Tristan exited the carriage.
“That will be all, Morgan,” Max said as he shut the door. “This way.” He indicated the town house. “I hope you don’t mind entering through the kitchen,” he added in an undertone.
“No. Not at all.” As if he would insist on being shown through the front door, as if he was some sort of guest of honor.
Tristan did not spot a single servant as Max led him up to the second floor of the house. A situation clearly of Max’s doing. He wasn’t dim enough to believe Max did not have any household servants. A town house of this size would require an army’s worth.
And hell if the corridors of Max’s home didn’t put Rubicon’s to shame. There the grandeur had been mere trappings. Here, he could feel the wealth in the soft rugs beneath his bare feet, sense in the understated yet finely crafted console tables interspersed along the wall all of the generations of men who had come before Max, built up the fortune necessary to afford such a home.
Max paused before a door at the end of the corridor to open it. “You can consider the room yours for the duration of your stay.”
Yes indeed, Max employed an army of servants. Very efficient ones at that. A freshly stoked fire in the hearth, lit silver candlesticks on the mantel, bedside tables and chest of drawers, the damask drapes drawn closed over the two windows, and the dark green coverlet on the large bed had been pulled back, exposing the white sheets.
“Thank you.” He hadn’t known what to expect, though he would not have been surprised if Max had shown him to the servants’ quarters in the garret.
And he couldn’t help wondering what exactly Max had meant by the duration of your stay. How long did Max intend for him to stay? One night, or longer?
“The washroom is over there.” Max waved a hand to the partially open door next to a writing desk. “Water is being heated for a bath. Should be ready shortly.”
As if on command, there was a tap at the door.
“Enter,” Max said.
The same footman from the carriage entered lugging two large buckets of water. Tendrils of steam rose from the surface of each.
Tristan instinctively took a step to the gray marble hearth and turned toward it, showing the footman his back. His hand tightened around the wad of fabric that was the placket of his trousers.
The servant did not spare him a glance though. He could have been invisible for all the notice the man took of him.
A splash of water against porcelain cut through the room. Tristan started. Hell, his nerves were still on edge. He closed his eyes, willed a deep breath. Focused on the way the heat from the fire seeped through his clothes, warmed his skin.
Another splash of water, and then there was the faint snick of a knob.
The footman must have left to fetch more hot water.
He sensed more than heard Max approach.
“Where did he hit you?”
The sound of Max’s voice, deep and low with concern, enveloped him like a comforting blanket. Tristan unwrapped the arm crossed over his stomach and slowly motioned toward the spot.
Large hands settled on his shoulders, gently turned him. Fingertips parted his hair near his left temple. The area was still sore but not sore enough to cause him to flinch as Max carefully probed around the spot.
Max made a distinctly displeased sound. “Bastard,” he said under his breath, more a grunt than a word. “Does it hurt?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“The truth, Tristan.” The soft tone had vanished. “Else I will summon my physician for his opinion.”
Taking a quick step back, he swatted Max’s hand away and opened his eyes, glared at Max. “I don’t need a damned doctor to bleed me.”
Max raised one eyebrow.
The man wouldn’t stop until he had the answer he sought. Tristan knew it without a doubt. “It aches a bit but it’s a dull ache. Will be gone by morning.” He would need to sleep on his other side, that was all.
Dark brows lowered, Max’s gaze swept over his face. Tristan’s answer must have satisfied him for he gave a crisp nod. “If you have need of anything, my bedchamber is at the other end of the corridor.”
With that, Max turned on his heel.
The smart snap of the door closing echoed throughout the room.
A long exhale deflated his chest, slumped his shoulders.
The clock on the mantel indicated it was just past eleven. Not late at all, but it felt like he had been awake for days. He went to a nearby armchair and let himself collapse into it.
There was another tap at the door.
“Enter,” Tristan said, mimicking Max’s command.
The footman came and went a couple more times. When he did not return, Tristan pushed himself up from the chair and stripped off his clothes. He kept the bath short, not allowing himself to luxuriate in the water that was on the perfect side of hot. No use growing accustomed to it.
He wasn’t quite certain what to make of Max. He’d made his acquaintance less than a week ago, had only spent two evenings with him, less than six hours total, and the man had purchased his freedom, and then some, from Rubicon tonight.
Should he seek him out? He had told Tristan the location of his bedchamber. Had that been a thinly veiled command to warm his bed? Max had certainly paid a handsome sum for him. Or promised to pay a handsome sum.
Tristan grabbed a towel from one of the hooks in a neat row along the wall and did his best to squeeze as much of the water from his god-awful hair as possible. A bone-deep lethargy had settled over him. It took effort to actually lift his arm to comb the knots from the length. He would just have to go to bed with it damp. There was no way he could keep his eyes open long enough for it to dry. At least it wasn’t winter, and he would not run the risk of catching a chill.
He padded out of the washroom, the large bed beckoning him. Max hadn’t outright told him to visit him, and based on Tristan’s prior experiences with him, Max was the sort of man who was up front about his desires. Taking the lack of a demand as no demand, Tristan moved about the room, extinguishing the candles. His gaze fell onto the heap of his clothes on the floorboards. In the morning, he would fold them and ask a maid for a needle and thread. And buttons—he would need those as well to repair his trousers.
With only the golden glow from the fire in the hearth lighting the room, he crawled into bed and pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders. As he lay there in the large bed, the sheets soft against his bare skin, his eyes drifting shut, he could not help but ache for a pair of strong arms to hold him close.
* * *
Tristan stared at the folded clothes on the polished mahogany chest of drawers. A maid must have been in the room at some point before he had awoken. The fire in the hearth had been his first clue. It should have gone out during the night, yet flames f
lickered up toward the flue, chasing away the summer morning’s chill.
He set the freshly pressed white cravat and shirt aside, and held up the trousers. The maid had not only laundered his clothes and left him a cravat, but also replaced the buttons on his trousers. And tucked beneath the chest of drawers, the heels just visible, were a pair of shoes. Had the maid chosen dark brown leather to go with his dark brown coat, or had that been a coincidence?
Since Max had installed him in a guest bedchamber, the servants were treating him as a guest of the house. Still, servants did not make purchases without their master’s consent. Max had either given the order or nodded his agreement to purchase the shoes, which would have gone onto Max’s account at the cobbler.
There was nothing to be done for it now except be grateful. He pulled on the clothes, intent on seeking out Max. While he had offered his thanks during the ride to the town house, it had been a rather...petulant thank-you.
Truth be told, he’d been petulant toward Max the entire evening. Snapping at him, sulking in the carriage, swatting his hands away. All-around behaving like an ungrateful, surly child.
He had not been in his right mind last night. It had been the shock of seeing Max there, in that bedchamber at Rubicon’s. The way he had rushed into the room, fists at the ready, a downright terrifying scowl on his face. The way he had unleashed the power of those hard, strong muscles onto Tristan’s client. The way Max had stood up to Rubicon, been concerned for him, the worry and indignation pouring off Max in great heaping waves. Tristan had not been able to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Max’s offer to escape that house, to escape the never-ending queue of men who would come the next night and the night after. Had not been able to refuse Max’s aid.