by J. A. Rock
Gale grimaced, trying not to smile.
“Oh, come now, I did not mean it as—”
“You do not think I can handle de Cock, Mr. Chant?”
“I rather think it depends which cock.”
Gale lifted his brows. “There’s really only one I’m interested in handling at the moment.”
Chant inhaled sharply, then licked his lips. Gale wondered if he had gone too far. Conflict was evident in the other man’s eyes. Gale shifted closer and saw hunger flare in Chant’s gaze. Not since Teddy at the salon had Gale so much as offered himself for any carnal act that was not with a molly. He leaned closer, placing a hand on Chant’s thigh, and there it was, that sweet, soft longing he’d imagined on Chant’s face. That need. Chant let out an unsteady breath and leaned forward a fraction of an inch, his lips parting…
And then he drew back.
The small room suddenly had that cavernous, empty feeling, and Gale knew at once that Chant’s thoughts were somewhere in the past. Gale’s first instinct was to be mortified. But there was enough desire and regret in the other fellow’s gaze that he knew Chant’s hesitation was not a reflection on him.
And so Gale smiled softly, even though his heart pounded and the back of his neck felt hot as a brand. “No,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The time is not right.” He brushed Chant’s thigh reassuringly with his thumb, then removed his hand and straightened.
“I am sorry.” Chant exhaled.
“Nothing to apologise for,” Gale said briskly, picking up his tea cup and putting it to his lips, though nothing but dregs remained in it.
“I find you so very attractive. I do not even understand my own hesitation.”
“Your Reid’s memory is quite alive in here. Let there be no self-recrimination, my good man.”
Chant sighed. “I have cooled the heat of the moment, have I not? Ah, what a fool I am. Should you have the patience for me, Gale, I assure you I am… I will be… willing. At some point.”
“Sir, you have already been endlessly patient with me. Think no more of it.”
“Oh, I shall think of it every waking moment and probably even when I sleep.” Chant scrubbed his fists over his eyes then let his hands drop to his knees.
“Well, the more time you spend thinking of it, perhaps the sweeter it will be should the day come when you feel ready.”
Gale meant the words sincerely. Yet he could not help but think of Teddy. How close they had been to stripping off each other’s clothes and enjoying whatever the night had to offer. How unexpectedly thrilling it had been to brush Teddy’s tight curls back from his forehead and imagine kissing those soft lips… and then how Teddy had turned from him and gone off to tup that French artist. Men seemed to enjoy gazing deeply into Gale’s eyes, but eventually they all saw something there that made them recoil.
No, he admonished himself. That was not what had happened here. Chant had not rejected him. The fellow was merely fighting the ghosts of his past. He was clearly a man who felt deeply and therefore hurt deeply. There was actually something quite pleasing in how obviously he wanted Gale but how a part of him remained loyal to this Reid.
Chant was studying him with an expression Gale couldn’t quite sort out. “Do not ever tell me you are not a decent man,” Chant said seriously.
Gale swallowed. As he had just proposed an act of grave indecency with a fellow to whom he was not married, it seemed rather shortsighted of Chant to call him decent merely for withdrawing that proposal.
“If it will not make you think me horribly inconstant,” Chant continued, “might we sit nearer? If you do not like my hand on you, you need only say, but I do rather enjoy the contact.”
Gale shifted closer, until their thighs met. The front of his breeches was still a bit tight.
Chant put an arm around Gale’s shoulders as comfortably as though they were the oldest and dearest of friends. They sat in silence for a moment. Then Chant’s hand drifted up, his fingers threading through Gale’s hair. Gale stiffened. Forced himself to take measured breaths. What on earth… ? Chant carded the strands gently, and Gale felt a strange but not unpleasant prickle go up his spine. Chant’s fingers brushed the hair at Gale’s temple, and then his nails dragged very lightly to the back of Gale’s scalp where they dug in just a little. This time, Gale’s whole body seemed to jump like a candle flame.
He swallowed hard. “What… what are you doing?”
“Shall I stop?”
“No. I—I just don’t understand what…” He trailed off.
“Have you truly never known the pleasure of having your hair stroked?” There was a smile in Chant’s voice, but a sadness in his tone that made Gale at once defensive.
“I… I’m sure I…” But he could think of no instance where anyone had run their fingers through his hair this way. The room grew completely still, until there was nothing but Chant’s gentle touch, and Gale’s awkward pattern of tensing, then letting go, and then tensing again as he tried to acclimatise himself to the sensations. “No,” he muttered finally as though conceding a great defeat.
“Do you dislike it?”
“The only thing I dislike about it is that I am perpetually dreading the moment you’ll cease,” Gale snapped.
“Well, then I shall never cease.”
Gale snorted in spite of himself.
“If you will indulge me, I’ll arrange you so that it is easier for both of us.”
“Chant…”
Chant seemed to be waiting for the rest of whatever Gale had to say. But Gale did not have more to say. He inhaled and then released his breath, trying to slacken his body but to little avail. “All right,” he whispered.
Chant huffed in amusement. “I shall not eat you alive, poor fellow.” He took Gale’s shoulders and eased him down so Gale’s head rested on Chant’s thighs. This did nothing for the strain at the front of Gale’s breeches, and Gale did not see how this position made things any easier for him. Perhaps for Chant, who now had greater access to Gale’s hair, and was—oh God—making full use of that access while Gale lay rigid with his legs folded awkwardly on the settee. It was as though pure warmth were cascading slowly down his spine, over and over again. His scalp tingled pleasantly, and with each new path Chant’s fingers traced, Gale found it harder to stay still. He squirmed a little. Then attempted, quite involuntarily, to press into Chant’s touch. Chant gripped a lock of Gale’s hair by the roots and tugged lazily.
Gale gave a most undignified sigh, a ragged sound that nearly turned into a plea on its way out. He swallowed. “Do you think Howe knew the dog was de Cock’s when he took it?”
“I think you must stop thinking about the case for the day and let yourself rest.”
“Do not call it a case.”
Chant ran the tips of his fingers over Gale’s nape, and Gale groaned.
“All right. You may call it whatever you wish if you’ll only do that again.”
Chant obliged.
“Oh God,” Gale whispered. He turned so that his face was partially pressed against Chant’s thigh. The back of his head nestled against the hardness in Chant’s breeches, and Gale rather thought that what they were doing right now was far more intimate than anything they might have accomplished with their matching cockstands. He was truly at a loss to think of a time when he had known more pleasure. What a pathetic thing to admit, and yet it was true. He allowed himself a few breaths to regain his composure, then turned his face outward again. “And where is de Cock now?”
It seemed a credit to Chant’s inherent decency that he did not reply in my breeches or any such thing.
Chant did not answer at once. He stroked Gale’s hair with a feather-light touch, then tugged again at the roots—a gentle, back and forth tug that seemed to convey mild chastisement and a great deal of affection. Neither of which Gale knew what to make of. “If you will not let the Runners handle this, Gale… then what is the next step? To find the captain?”
Gale frowned, thinking
again of the captain’s pale eyes. Visser’s absurd story. He imagined a group of sailors offering up scraps of their scant rations as Flummery bounded among the men. He thought of Elise, alone in the world.
“The next step, Chant,” he said slowly, “is to find that damned dog.”
Chapter 8
Chant, like all of England, had read of Christmas Gale’s exploits in the news sheets, but he’d never given much thought as to the man’s methods. When Gale had said their next step was to find Flummery the dog—a ludicrous detail the news sheets would no doubt adore—Chant had thought that they would return at once to Jacob’s Island, possibly laden with a string of sausages to lure the beast out. Instead, he found himself, much to his surprise, accompanying Gale to Bucknall’s where Gale folded his long limbs, encased in clothing borrowed from Chant’s wardrobe, into a comfortable seat and ordered a late luncheon.
Then, as Chant watched with increasing confusion, Gale emptied his purse and stacked up a pile of silver threepenny pieces. Then he gestured one of the footmen over and murmured something to him. The footman nodded, then vanished. Moments later, a boy entered the room. He was about twelve or thirteen, if Chant had to guess, with a freckled face and otherwise unremarkable features. Gale spoke to him in an undertone and then swept the stack of threepenny bits off the table and into the boy’s cupped hands.
“The hall boys here are the most remarkably useful little fellows,” he remarked to Chant. “They are terribly resourceful. By tomorrow, we shall have such a parade of hairy dogs from Jacob’s Island that you will hardly believe your eyes.” He quirked the corner of his mouth up briefly and then said lazily, “I gave him your address, of course. My mother would be horrified were I to set a parade of boys and dogs upon her.”
Chant narrowed his eyes. “Did you not tell me you had rooms of your own in Russell Street?”
“Oh, I’m afraid that slipped my mind for the moment.”
“The devil it did.” But Chant laughed and enjoyed what he suspected was a flicker of surprise in Gale’s eyes at his reaction. Had Gale thought he would be annoyed? For all that Gale had said that he would wait for Chant to be ready, Gale was nothing if not a contradiction. He reeled Chant in with one hand while he pushed him away with the other.
The footman appeared again with drinks. “Lord Soulden is here, my lord.”
“Ah!” Gale exclaimed. “Please ask him to join us.”
The footman bowed and slipped away.
Soulden. Chant knew the fellow as one of Gale’s friends. He was handsome and rich, and said to be quite the fop. He cared more for the state of the buttons on his gloves than he did for the state of the world and all its tangled mysteries, and Chant was curious as to what Gale, who was currently sitting in front of him in a flat cravat with a stain on it—his own, not one of Chant’s—could ever have in common with the fellow.
Soulden entered the room shortly thereafter. He was tall and well made, the very pinnacle of manhood, with an easy smile and a wide gaze.
“Christmas!” he exclaimed and sat down at their table. “How are you, my dear fellow?”
“I have told you that if you call me Christmas, I shall call you Pip,” Gale said, narrow-eyed and prickly. He waved a hand at Chant. “This is Chant.”
Soulden smiled. “Have we met? I’m terrible with names, and I do apologise.”
“It is a pleasure,” Chant said and shook his hand.
“Chant and I have rather got mixed up in a mess,” Gale said. “With a merchant ship’s captain called de Cock.”
Soulden’s expression sharpened suddenly, and he cast a curious glance at Chant. Then he leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers against the knee of his pantaloons. When he spoke at last, he sounded mildly bored. “Have you?”
Gale sounded just as bored. “What do you know of de Cock?”
“Why, my dear fellow,” Soulden said, “I’m quite the expert.”
“Soulden,” Gale drawled.
Soulden’s mouth twitched. “Very well. What do I know of de Cock? Very little, I fear, but more than you if you think he’s the captain of a merchant ship.”
Gale’s brow furrowed. “Is he not?”
“He’s a privateer, Gale.”
Chant reeled back a little in shock.
Soulden continued. “And I have heard whispers.”
Gale seemed singularly unsurprised by Soulden’s revelation about de Cock. “What kind of whispers?”
“Whispers that perhaps de Cock does not think himself bound to his letter of marque.”
“And whose toes might I step on if I take this any further?”
“I’m sure if anyone was in danger of having their toes trodden on, they would most certainly let you know,” Soulden said blandly.
“Yes,” Gale said. “Thank you, Pip.”
Soulden snorted and rose to his feet. “It was a pleasure, as always, Christmas.” And then he fixed his smile on his face and strode away.
Chant watched him go. “What was that about?”
“I’m sure it was exactly what you imagine, sir,” Gale replied softly.
“And you will tell me no more than that, of course,” Chant said, though he felt a flush of warm pleasure not only that Gale thought he was smart enough to make a startling inference about Philip Winthrop, Viscount Soulden, but also that he had not shut Chant out of the cryptic conversation to begin with. If what he suspected about Soulden was true, it was a demonstration of great trust on Gale’s part. Chant felt honoured.
“Of course,” Gale replied, ducking his head to hide a quick smile.
“You really are the most astonishing fellow,” Chant said, and there wasn’t even a hint of flattery in the words. It was the simple truth.
Gale sighed and gazed at the bookcases that lined the room.
“Have you read all of them?” Chant asked curiously.
“Yes,” Gale said. “I have read nearly everything, I dare say.”
“If any other man told me such, I should think he was bragging.”
Gale hummed and tapped his long, thin fingers on his knee. “I find bragging to be a singular waste of time and energy.”
Of course he did. Chant couldn’t help his smile. Gale had to be contrary in every way, didn’t he? Even pride was petty to a man with his curious and extraordinary mind.
Presently, the footman brought them spring soup and bread, and Chant fell upon it gratefully. The food at Bucknall’s had been one of his main reasons for joining the club; he was hardly a social creature at all nowadays, but to be able to come to a place and be fed hot, hearty food at any time of day or night gave him the impetus to leave the house once in a while.
Gale ate a little of his soup but not his bread, and Chant again studied the thinness of his limbs and the pallor of his skin and did not like the conclusions he drew. His mind was no analytical marvel like Gale’s, but even he could see Gale was so deeply in thought he had almost entirely forgotten to eat.
“You are an example of vitalism, you know,” he said, knowing that would get Gale’s attention.
Gale looked at him, his eyes bright. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Chant said. “Your thoughts and consciousness are completely separate from all the other urges of your body.” He caught Gale’s faint smirk. “By which I mean hunger, of course, not any other appetites.”
“Of course,” Gale agreed. “So you think Mr. Abernethy should drag me into the Royal College of Surgeons as evidence against Mr. Lawrence’s controversial lectures on materialism, do you? Because if you think that would solve the debate, sir, then I am not sure if you have quite grasped the intricacies of it to begin with.”
“I am sure I have not,” Chant agreed. He shoved the plate of bread closer to Gale’s elbow. “Eat.”
Gale tore off a piece of bread, ignoring the knife and fork completely. “So, vitalism. Do you think my consciousness is God-given, sir, or are you an atheist? You seemed unsure when last we broached the subject.”
“I’m
sorry I brought it up now. I suspect I thought I was being clever, but of course I was not. I know very little about materialism and vitalism and whatever it is the Royal College of Surgeons likes to argue about. But I think you are quite unique, Gale, whether it is God or nature that has made you so.”
“I cannot decide if you are a flatterer or not.”
Chant shrugged. “I find flattery to be a singular waste of time and energy.”
That won him a laugh, the sound faint and tinged with surprise. “And yet you are dodging the question, sir. Atheist or no?”
Chant considered that for a moment, his old melancholy colouring his thoughts on the subject as it always did. “I think that I am rather an atheist,” he said, “and my unwillingness to admit it comes from the fact that I wish I was not.”
The shadow of Gale’s smile faded. “Yes,” he said. “It would be easier, would it not, to believe in justice delivered and wrongs righted beyond this world?”
“Oh, I am not so high-minded as that, even,” Chant said. “And my motives are not as altruistic as yours. I have lost people I loved, and I should like to think of them as peaceful and happy and not just gone. That is all.”
Gale held his gaze for a long moment, and then he said, at last, “I think you are not as selfish as you believe, sir.”
A warmth filled Chant, and he wasn’t sure it was entirely due to the soup. They finished their meal in companionable silence.
Once outside Bucknall’s, standing on the pavement, Gale shuffled awkwardly. That calculated boredom he’d displayed in the club seemed to have deserted him. And then he said something entirely surprising: “Would you consider joining my family for dinner, Chant?”
And there was that warmth again, spreading through Chant quick as his own blood. He ought to be careful—he faced a greater danger standing here in front of Gale with all this heat and confusion and want inside him than he did hunting down a murderous privateer. Perhaps it was only the alcohol that had made Gale extend the invitation, but Chant was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I would be delighted.”