by March, Ava
Jack blinked. His brow furrowed. “Will...”
He marshaled his anger, drew it around him like a cloak. Lifted his chin. “Go back to your duke.” He turned on his heel.
“Will, wait.”
Will whipped back around, knocking Jack’s hand aside that had been reaching for his shoulder. “No, Jack,” he said, coming damned near close to a snarl. “And the next time you need help with an errand or someone to indulge your prick, don’t come running to me. I’m through being used by you.”
And that’s all it had been. All it had ever been. Jack sought him out, tolerated his presence, when he needed him. Nothing more. But when Will needed Jack?
But he didn’t need Jack. He had gotten along on his own just fine for the past decade, and he would find his way out of this damned city on his own.
With his head held high, he turned his back on Jack and began again to make his way to his pathetic little room.
The sounds of heavy footsteps did not follow him.
By the time he entered his room, his throat was damned near clogged. With a hand that shook more than slightly, he turned the key, locking the door. The room was cold, autumn’s chill firmly entrenched in the air. But he didn’t light the fire. Didn’t light a candle.
Breaths hitching on each exhale and jaw clenched in an effort to ward off the torrent roiling within, he told himself over and over that he didn’t need Jack. That he couldn’t miss something he never had.
Yet as he lay out on his lonely narrow bed, the only coat he owned still on his back, he knew he was lying to himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Leaning forward, Jack looked up and down the street. Among the horse-drawn carts and hackneys, he spotted a man on horseback, but it was an old gray nag. And only one man.
Letting out a sigh, he settled back in his chair. He had no notion when His Grace and Mr. Walsh would return from their ride. At a few minutes before eleven in the morning, the duke had appeared before the boardinghouse on his black hunter with a mare in tow. Jack had just made it down to the street when Mr. Walsh had emerged from the front door. The young man had been on the mare, he and the duke turning from the boardinghouse, before Jack had been able to offer assistance. He doubted the two had noticed him standing across the street.
Wherever they had gone, surely they would return shortly. If nothing else, the sun would set soon enough. Unless their day included a supper at the Mayfair town house.
The prospect of sitting there, waiting, for another few hours with only his thoughts to occupy him...
With a shake of his head, he pushed up from the chair and began pacing.
He wanted out of this room. Wanted to speak to Will. Needed to speak to Will. But there was nowhere he could go. Nowhere to escape the worries filling his mind. Will had made it more than clear last night that he wanted nothing more to do with Jack. That alone hurt like hell, but Will’s reasons? Those gutted him.
“...someone you hold in such disdain...”
“...I was leaving you before you could leave me again.”
“I’m through being used by you.”
As much as he wanted to, as much as he had spent a good portion of the afternoon and a rather sleepless night, the bed feeling beyond empty, trying to argue against it, he couldn’t deny Will had it mostly right. And that, coming to that conclusion, hurt most of all.
Except for last night, Will had always stood by him. Always been there for him. A constant in his life he could depend upon. Deep down, Jack was scared to his bones of being abandoned again. That prospect always lurking like an ugly, frightening omen, just waiting to descend on him again. He’d done everything in his power to prevent a repeat. Had chosen to be alone than to invite another instance. But time and again, Jack had turned his back on Will. He’d kept moving on, kept leaving Will behind. Kept abandoning Will. He had repeatedly done to Will what Jack himself feared most of all. Yet whenever he returned to this end of Town, Will never denied him. Had always welcomed Jack. Been pleased to see him.
And the only instances when he had seen Will over the past six years was when he’d needed Will’s help. His Grace didn’t travel to London often, but he visited the City every two or three months. Not once had Jack paid Will a visit simply to spend an afternoon or evening with him. To see how he was faring. To talk with him as old friends were apt to do. He’d avoided Will, had preferred not to encourage more worry. Had told himself his position didn’t give him the luxury of traipsing about whenever he pleased. He needed to be available if his employer had need. Yet not once in six years had he requested so much as an evening off from his duties. And His Grace wouldn’t have denied him. No one else in the duke’s employ worked every day. No one else had never taken a short holiday.
Regardless of everything that had transpired between them over the past week and a half—and that was a rather significant everything—above all, Will was his friend. The best friend he’d ever had. And Jack had avoided him for his own selfish reasons.
There were two points though where Will hadn’t been completely correct. Jack didn’t blame Will for the interruption yesterday evening. There was no way Will could have known His Grace would choose that moment to request Jack’s assistance. It had simply been...an unfortunate situation. And Jack didn’t hold Will in disdain. Far from it actually. Will’s confidence alone, the way he embraced his desires when it came to activities of a more horizontal nature, held Jack in awe. But Jack could see how his disapproval of Will’s dishonest inclinations outside of a bedchamber could be perceived as disdain. And after all Will had done for him, throughout their lives and especially more recently, that he’d made Will feel that way? That Will believed Jack looked down his nose at him?
A wince crossed his face.
Will was trying to move on, had been working—gambling—toward it for years. And he was doing what he’d always known. Rather than make an effort to help Will find a position, Jack avoided him whenever possible and when he needed Will’s help, he had made comment after comment about Will’s gambling and the other means Will used to earn a few coins. He had...
Midway between the door and the window, Jack paused.
He had judged Will and found him wanting.
Oh hell.
Will hadn’t had it mostly right. He’d had it right.
Jack had indeed judged his friend. He had indeed not been there for him. He had little notion of Will’s life after they had first parted ways a decade ago. As he’d realized not long ago, he didn’t even know if there was anyone in the area Will called friend. He’d assumed Will was taking the easy path, yet Will hadn’t confirmed or denied Jack’s assumption. For all he knew, Will could have tried to find a position and been turned away.
“No one will hire someone like me.”
Little wonder Will’s patience with him had snapped last night.
With nothing better to do with himself, Jack checked the street again. When the hell would the duke return?
His sigh, seeped in frustration, echoed about the small room.
Where was Will at that moment? It was nearing time for supper.
He should check the taverns near Will’s room first...if the duke would ever get back from wherever he had gone.
As if privy to Jack’s thoughts, a burly black hunter and sleek bay mare trotted down the street, slowing to a stop before the boardinghouse.
Finally.
The duke dismounted from his horse, gave the reins to Mr. Walsh, then strode across the street, directly toward the hotel.
Jack checked the knot on his cravat, ensured it was centered. Then he gave his coat a tug to straighten it. He did not want even the barest hint of a repeat of the last time the duke had stopped by his room.
An echo of that horrible, acute embarrassment rolled through him. But Will wouldn’t have felt embarrassed. He would have answered the door as if nothing was amiss and not been doing his damnedest not to appear mortified to his bones.
Jack went to the door, turne
d the lock, and waited for footsteps to approach.
How long had it taken Will to decide to leave him? Had he made the decision the moment Jack had put his position before Will, yet again? The moment when Jack had gone out the door?
“There’s nothing of value in me.” Will’s voice, heavy with defensive anger, sounded in his head.
Jack’s breaths stilled.
When he’d left the room, the duke had asked him about locking the door. Jack had replied, “No. Nothing of value in there anyway.”
Had Will’s choice of phrase simply been a coincidence, or had it been deliberate?
The sound of knuckles rapping on wood jolted Jack to the present.
He turned the knob and opened the door. His Grace’s dark hair was wind-tousled from the ride, the elaborate knot of his cravat not as tidy as usual, and while a broad smile did not curve his mouth, the spark in his eyes indicated his afternoon had gone very well indeed.
“Good evening, Morgan.”
“Good evening,” Jack said, remembering to leave off the address as requested while at the hotel.
“After Mr. Walsh pays the tailor’s shop a visit tomorrow, I will need you to convey him to the town house. You will need to fetch the traveling carriage as there is no way his many trunks will fit into a hackney. Tuesday mid-morning, we will depart for Hampshire. I’d prefer to leave tomorrow, but Mr. Walsh insists on giving his notice in person, though I was able to convince him working another day was not a necessity. It will be much too late to depart Monday afternoon, so we must wait until Tuesday.” The duke let out a little grunt, a play at a show of displeasure. But Jack doubted anything could displease the man at the moment.
The happiness radiating from His Grace sliced deep into Jack’s chest. It wasn’t that Jack wasn’t happy for his employer. He was, and genuinely so. But the duke’s happiness was one Jack could never have. And having to witness it, to see the joy on the man’s usually stoic face and to feel the sense of utter contentment radiating from him, hurt.
Jack had had a tiny taste of that sort of happiness with Will. Just a glimpse. A tantalizing touch. And it had been...wonderful.
Beyond wonderful. It had been what he’d always craved, briefly filling the void that ever-pulled at his heart.
“No doubt you are pleased to hear your stay at this establishment will soon end,” the duke added.
Doing his best to conceal his true feelings on the matter, Jack gave the expected answer and nodded. “Do you need my assistance seeing the horses back to the carriage house?”
“No—” He paused, cutting himself off. “Actually, yes. Could you take them both back? There’s a decided lack of available footmen in the area, or anyone besides you whom I’d trust not to run off with them. I will hire a hackney later to take me home.”
“Once I’ve delivered the horses, would it be an inconvenience if I took the evening off from my duties? There’s a friend I wish to pay a call on before I leave Town.”
“It’s not an inconvenience. Mr. Walsh will have no need to leave his rooms until the morning.”
Jack did not want to think about why exactly Mr. Walsh wouldn’t need to go anywhere tonight. To think about it would remind him yet again that his own night would only include an empty bed. Hell, he missed Will. “Thank you.”
The duke tipped his head. Jack grabbed his greatcoat and followed him down to the horses. He had one last task to attend to. But after, he’d have until half past eight in the morning to locate Will. The man might not want anything more to do with him, but Jack couldn’t ignore the feeling that if he left London without speaking to Will, then he would have missed his last chance to ever see his friend.
The prospect screamed at him to push the horses to a gallop to reach Mayfair as quickly as possible. It was only concern for the beasts’ welfare that kept him to a sedate trot, carefully winding through the busy streets. All the while, true fear gripped hold of his gut. The fear he’d never see Will again.
The fear he’d lost the one person who mattered most to him in all the world.
* * *
Will opened the door of the Black Bar tavern on Castle Street. The raucous shouts that had seeped through the closed door as Will approached went up ten-fold in volume, pressing against his ears.
A few inquiries along his way to the Rookery had pointed him here. There was no way he would have found it on his own. From the outside, the tavern more resembled an abandoned building than a place of business. Its single window on the ground floor covered with old planks, the two on the level above void of glass and anything that could serve as drapes. A gin whore trying to entice potential customers but a few paces from the front door. A group of boys arguing along the street. Then again, that description fit most every building in the area.
Squinting, he looked through the thick haze of cigar and cheroot smoke hanging heavy over the heads of the patrons seated at tables strewn about the room. At the back of the tavern a thin line of weak light leeched from an almost closed door. Had to be the back room.
Rather than try to wind around the tables, he took a path along the bar. A man stumbled as he turned away from the pack around the bar, ale sloshing from his tankard. Will quickly sidestepped to avoid crashing into the fellow. The man might appear to be a few minutes from passing out from the vast quantities of ale he’d surely poured down his throat, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of starting a fight. And the last thing Will needed was an angry drunkard intent on pummeling him to bits for some imagined transgression.
No one stopped him from approaching the door that was a touch from being closed. He entered the room. The few men loitering along the edges turned their heads to look at him. Big, bulky men. The sort who employed their fists before their words.
Definitely hired muscle, there to protect their employers in the event a disagreement broke out.
Well, not quite protect. Men who ran flash houses and owned nunneries knew how to use a blade and didn’t shrink from fighting their own battles. The muscle was there more for appearance’s sake. Proof their employers were powerful men, able to command others to do their bidding.
Will gave that lot a tip of the head, polite, respectful, but not intimidated, and turned his attention to the room. It resembled others he’d played in before, but its qualities were somehow magnified. Much quieter than the tavern and with an air of tense expectation. There were three tables, two of which appeared full. The last had five men seated around it. Men who didn’t appear as run-through and spit-out as those occupying the main room. Coats not tattered and worn. Gold fob chains peeking from waistcoats. Hardened faces with eyes glinting with greed. A decent pile of coins and pound notes occupied the center of their table. And they looked to be playing brag. Definitely the table he needed to join.
Keeping his stride loose, he approached the table. He’d joined enough card games with unsavory individuals to know how it was done. No need to try to ingratiate himself. No need to pretend an association he did not possess. All his would-be opponents cared about was money and the prospect of winning his.
“Care for a sixth?” he asked, letting the stews creep back into his voice. Not so much to sound like the street urchin he once was, but enough to sound like it wasn’t his first visit to the Rookery.
Five pairs of eyes looked up at him. Assessed him. The one with the short blond hair and compact frame... Yes, Will did recognize him and had bested him once before at a hell. That had been a good year ago and a win less than fifty pounds. Highly doubtful the man remembered him.
“Got any blunt?” asked the one on the blond’s left. He had dark thinning hair and a gaze even harder than the others.
“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” Will had come prepared, after all.
The dark-haired man glanced to his fellows then nodded once. “Ten-pound minimum. No maximum.”
He had indeed found the right table. Will inclined his head, accepting the terms of the game. Taking the empty chair, he sat down. He reached into h
is pocket, withdrew a handful of coins and dropped them before his spot at the table, the clang of metal against metal so familiar it made him want to wince.
All the things he’d done to earn a living had begun to feel...dirty. And he did not like that feeling at all. The feeling that not only Jack had judged him and found him severely wanting, but that Will had done the same and come to the same conclusion.
He pushed the thought aside. Distractions wouldn’t do. He needed to focus all of his attention on the game and on his opponents if he wanted any hope of coming out the victor. And if all went well, tonight would be the last time he’d ever have to sit down to a card game.
The last time he’d have to worry if he’d see the dawn.
His pulse picked up. Even if he won, he would be lucky to walk out of this room. Men in the stews who could gamble with ten-pound minimums—more money than most of the poor sots in the main room saw in a year—were not gracious losers. They did not take kindly to defeat, especially to someone who wasn’t in their circle of acquaintances...or circle of friendly adversaries, however one wanted to view it. And he wasn’t simply playing against one of them, but a full table.
But he wanted out of London. Wanted to put the bloody city and Jack behind him for good. The risk be damned. The time for caution, for slowly filling that bag beneath his floorboards, was over. And if he didn’t see the dawn tomorrow, so be it.
Chapter Fourteen
Jack paused at the street corner to allow an overloaded wagon pulled by a team of two large Shires to pass. He shifted his leather bag from his right hand to his left, then stepped from the walkway. The bag contained everything he’d brought with him from Hampshire. A few clothes, his straight razor, a comb. Not much. When he’d left the country, he hadn’t expected his stay in London to last almost a fortnight.
And he definitely hadn’t expected to spend his second to last day in London frantically searching for Will.
He didn’t even have the full day to look for Will either. In fact, he shouldn’t be taking the time to look for Will now. He should have hailed a hackney once he’d deposited Mr. Walsh at the boardinghouse. Should be on his way to Mayfair at that very moment to fetch the traveling carriage. But Mr. Walsh had said it would take him some time to pack his trunks. And as Jack had been the one to carry those trunks into the boardinghouse, he knew the young man had a fair amount to pack. With no maids to assist him, it would take well over an hour to see to the task. Enough time for Jack not to take a direct route to Mayfair.