Wanted, a Gentleman

by KJ Charles

  “Thank you.” Martin had rarely felt more grateful. “Thank you so much. Let me meet his obligation.”

  “No need for that, sir. We’re decent folk here, and it was what was right.”

  “Then would you take something to set by for the next young lady in distress?” Martin suggested. The landlord agreed to that compromise. Martin added ten shillings for Liza, to fix her act of chaperonage in her memory should it be needed, made a note of the inn’s name and direction, and hurried outside.

  “They left at seven this morning,” Theo said as the chaise moved off. He’d given the postilion orders to make all the haste they could. “Curse it. I should have asked when we arrived.”

  “So they’re just two hours ahead of us now. They must have met with some accident yesterday. We could catch them before tonight if we’re lucky.”

  “We’ll need to stop at every inn we pass come evening,” Theo pointed out.

  “Were they able to describe the coach?”

  “Nothing of use. A plain-coloured chaise, they said. We don’t want to overshoot them.”

  “No,” Martin said. “Especially not if Miss Conroy is losing enthusiasm for the journey.” He exhaled. “I will admit, that worries me. If she’s changing her mind now, or coming to regret her choice . . .”

  “That puts him in a nasty position,” Theo said slowly. “It’s one thing to elope, quite another to drag an unwilling woman to the altar. Unwilling and under age. Of course, she might have just felt as though she’d had enough of the journey last night. Lord knows I have.”

  “True enough.” Martin grimaced. “On the one hand, I don’t want Troilus finding himself in a desperate position. Desperate men do desperate deeds, and this journey will have cost him a pretty penny and put him in jeopardy of the law. On the other, I can’t deny it will be easier if she’s pleased to see me than if we have to, ah, enforce her return.”

  “You’re hoping she’ll fall into your arms, sobbing, ‘My hero!’?” Theo raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You’ve forgotten your role. Noble doomed companion, remember?”

  Martin gave him a reproving look. “You read too many romances.”

  “Who says I read romances?”

  “You obviously do, you know them well enough. The improving works of Dorothea Swann—” He stopped dead.

  “I don’t have to—” Theo began hastily.

  “Dorothea Swann,” Martin repeated. “Dorothea Swann? Theodore, Dorothea?”

  “Look, I daresay you think you’re very clever—”

  “It’s you, isn’t it? That’s why you recognised the book by its binding. And you said you were a scribbler.” Martin found he was sitting upright. Theo, by contrast, was hunched into the corner of the carriage, hiding his face. “You’re Dorothea Swann. You are.”

  “It pays well,” Theo said into his hands. “That’s all.”

  “It is not all. They’re marvellous.”

  Theo uncurled with speed. “You said they weren’t as good as Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  “I did not. Well, maybe I did, but everyone can’t be Mrs. Radcliffe. I’ve read all of Mrs. Swann. Of you.”

  “You said I can’t write heroes,” Theo said doggedly. Martin had never met a writer before, but he had heard it remarked that, as a breed, their capacity to remember unkind reviews was extraordinary. “Astonishingly bad, is what you said.”

  “Well, they are, a bit,” Martin was forced to admit. “But your villains are wonderful.”

  Theo’s grey eyes lit, sun breaking through rain clouds. “And, Mr. St. Vincent, you suggested that the author of Melusina had clearly never known a man’s touch. Which, under the circumstances—”

  “I resign all claim to literary criticism.”

  “Good. You’re obviously unqualified.”

  “And you’re extremely talented.” Martin reached out, took his hand. “I mean it, Theo. I’m astounded. I’m proud to know you.”

  Theo looked at him, down at the hand that gripped his, up to Martin’s face. Then he slid off the seat and manoeuvred himself around.

  “What are you doing?” Martin demanded, although it was quite evident what he was doing. “Theo, for God’s sake!”

  Theo nudged his legs apart and settled between them, hands sliding up Martin’s thighs. “Enlivening the journey?”

  “On this road?” Martin demanded, as the chaise bumped. “If we go over a pothole you’ll bite it off!”

  “Give me a little credit.” Theo pushed both thumbs up together, stroking them firmly over the tight cloth that confined Martin’s balls. Martin gasped, and found he was spreading his legs wider. Theo gave a little satisfied purr, repeating the rolling movement until Martin couldn’t have counselled discretion for a hundred pounds. And after all, the postilion wouldn’t see, or hear, riding outside as he was. There was probably no place safer in England than a moving coach. He let his head drop back as Theo’s hands went to the buttons of his breeches, unfastening the front fall, delving past his drawers.

  “Tomcat,” he whispered.

  “Meow,” Theo said, and ran his tongue over the head of Martin’s prick.

  “Oh Lord.” Martin gripped the strap with one hand, got the other into Theo’s hair, let himself luxuriate in the feeling of mouth and tongue. No teeth: Theo was covering them with his lips. The coach lurched again, and Theo made a muffled noise that might have been a curse, but he didn’t stop his gamahuching, lavishing Martin’s stand with pleasure. He was breathing hard through his nose, the sound mingling with Martin’s harsh gasps.

  He pulled away, just a little. “Christ, I love your prick. Talk to me. Tell me how you want it while I suck you.”

  Martin looked down, startled, and realised Theo was fumbling at his own buttons.

  “Uh—like this.” Theo shot a glare up, since his mouth was again occupied. Martin gathered his scattering wits. “With you on your knees. Seeing how hard you get with a prick in your mouth. Are you hard?” Theo moaned assent. “Is that from serving me? Take it deeper. God, yes, like that. And frig yourself harder. I want you to spend with me in your mouth.”

  Theo’s noises suggested that was very possible. His hand was moving fast, and he was sucking Martin frantically, mouth so hot and wet and tight.

  “I am going to fuck you tonight, on your knees, just as you are now,” Martin told him. “You lovely wanton—oh Christ.” He lurched forward, doubling over with the force of his climax, spending so hard that his bollocks spasmed painfully, and only realised as his pleasure ebbed that he’d more or less rammed himself down Theo’s throat to do it.

  He released his grip on the fine brown hair—he’d held it tight enough that his fingers had cramped—and looked down at the kneeling man with a surge of guilt. “Are you all right?”

  “That depends.” Theo sounded hoarse and breathless, not angry. “Do you think whoever owns this chaise wanted the upholstery soaked in milt? Because it’s ankle-deep down here right now.”

  Martin started laughing. He was still shaking as he pulled Theo off his knees and up to kiss him openmouthed, and held him, half-dressed and panting as the chaise rattled on to the north.

  They made excellent time to Boroughbridge, where they had to decide whether to go west for Gretna or stay on the Great North Road. The horses had been fresh at each stage and the road surface not dreadful, and they’d arrived in the little town before three o’clock.

  It was quite extraordinarily busy. There was a horse fair on, along the very stretch of the Great North Road that ran through the town, with drovers and traders and farmers roaming the wide street and the scent of hay, sweat, and manure strong in the air. There were also a lot of inns, and Martin’s heart sank. How would they find any individual in this bustle? The Crown Inn opposite had a front the width of four houses and claimed it could accommodate over a hundred guests, and there were several other coaching inns in view.

  “We need to ask around,” Theo said. He’d restored himself to as much neatness as ever he achieved, and looked
quite respectable, but Martin couldn’t stop seeing him as he had been, red-lipped, gasping, flushed with arousal. It seemed as though everyone around them must surely see their criminal conversation, as if it were written on both their faces. “That’s assuming they changed horses here, of course. If not, we’ll have to hope somebody saw them and noticed which way they went.”

  “We’ll split up to ask.” At least that way nobody would see him with Theo, nobody would guess.

  Theo grimaced. “Would you leave it to me?”

  “It’ll take hours,” Martin objected.

  “Not really. I’m used to asking the right questions by now, and the town’s not so large as all that. You wait for me, have something to eat.”

  Martin felt a little guilty at how much he wanted to accept that, and a little feeble too. It was only asking questions. But he was so damned tired of being gawped at, and Theo’s care was as warming as the feel of his mouth. “Well—”

  “Let me,” Theo said. “Please.”

  Martin gave in to the indulgence. “Very well. If you don’t mind.”

  Theo’s smile looked just a little tense. “I shouldn’t offer if I did.”

  Martin wished he could touch him, just a hand to the arm. He could; surely nobody would think twice, but he knew he would feel unbearably conspicuous. “Thank you, Theo,” he said, low. “I cannot tell you how glad I am you’re with me.”

  Colour surged up into Theo’s cheeks. For just a second his expression was so raw that Martin wanted to demand what was wrong, then he gave his sly smile. “I hope you’ll be saying that this evening. Come to that, I hope I will be.”

  They arranged to meet at the Black Bull inn, at the far end of the high street, slightly less busy than the inns on the Great North Road itself, and Theo set off.

  Martin regretted the decision almost at once. It was easier to ignore the stares when he was with a companion. Now he felt not just alone but isolated. And under that, something else, he realised. He was lonely.

  That wasn’t a familiar sensation. Martin liked to be master of his own space, and time, and acquaintance. Solitude was a comfort to him, a proof of his independence, not a thing to fear. But he’d had Theo with him almost every moment of the last day and a half, and he realised with some surprise, he’d not wished the fellow away for any of that. He’d liked being with him, talking when there was something to say, sitting in silence without discomfort. He was going to miss him when this was over.

  He made a good meal at the Black Bull without incident—there were simply too many people here to make him noteworthy; he should have been more determined and rejected Theo’s offer, he told himself—and found a bench on which to sit outside the ancient inn to enjoy Melusina in the June sunshine, despite the to and fro of people. Theo approached not long after, munching on a slab of sticky dark-brown cake.

  “What on earth are you eating?”

  Theo offered it to him. Martin took a cautious bite and tasted ginger. “Apparently it’s called parkin,” Theo said. “I take no responsibility whatsoever.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Martin licked the crumbs from his lips and saw the way Theo’s eyes followed his tongue. “Any luck?”

  “Yes. Yes, I . . . Martin?”

  “Mmm?”

  Theo hesitated, then said in a rush, “What if Miss Conroy wants to go with him? What if she wants to marry him? You said we’d enforce her return. Did you mean it?”

  Curse his doglike way with a question. Martin stared out, along the street, at the brand-new brick houses that showed the town’s prosperity and the lower, crooked, whitewashed fronts of buildings from earlier years. “I don’t know. Surely, whatever she may think, this way of going about things is not for the best.”

  Theo sat heavily on the bench next to him. “And who is to decide that for her? You? Is it your responsibility?”

  “Her parents have the right, and they gave me the authority—”

  “To bring her back. That’s not authority, that’s doing their bidding.”

  “Do you believe this man means well by her?” Martin asked. “Really? That he will be a good husband, that he will think of her as much as of her money, that this is the start to a happy marriage?”

  “Probably not.” Theo looked hunted. “But it could be.”

  “Is this your romantic streak?”

  “Don’t joke. I want to know, Martin. I know how much it means to you that you bring her back well and—and unmarried. Oh, hellfire. You have to bring her back, whatever she wants, don’t you?”

  Martin took a deep breath. “No.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have to do what the Conroys want. If I bring her back against her will to settle my business with them—”

  “You owe them nothing.” Theo’s voice was savage. “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Martin said. “I will not choose my course on the grounds that it’s what they want me to do. If I did that, I’d still be wearing their collar.” Theo shuddered. “We will catch up with Miss Conroy, and we will ask what she wants. And if it seems right to let her go her way, then we will do so, and she and her husband will have to take the consequences of their acts in due course.” The certainty rolled through him as he spoke. “My responsibility here is any man or woman’s responsibility: to stop a wrong being done. If I don’t see a wrong to Miss Conroy, I shan’t intervene.”

  It would, of course, deeply wrong her father if his daughter married without his consent, since Miss Jennifer was Mr. Conroy’s to give away in law. That, Martin decided, was Mr. Conroy’s bad luck. If he’d wanted someone to do his bidding without thought or question, he shouldn’t have sent a free man.

  Not that he had any faith at all in Troilus’s good intentions. But even so, this felt like a knot unpicked in the mesh of conflicting wants and needs around him, and he’d unpicked it because of Theo’s interest. Because he was no longer alone with his thoughts.

  Martin wanted to reach out, grasp Theo’s hands, but when he caught his travelling companion’s eye, Theo simply gave a weak smile and shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Martin asked. “You look—”

  “Exhausted,” Theo interrupted. “My arse simply isn’t up to this.” He tipped his head back and inhaled deeply. “I found the inn they stopped at. Our runaways have stayed on the Great North Road and they’re heading up the east coast. Not to Gretna.”

  “Dear heaven.” Martin could have kissed him: for finding that out; for his insignificant, unnoticeable face that let him ferret out the information they needed without anybody thinking twice; for being angry on his behalf when Martin had been alone with his anger for so long. “If you hadn’t found that out—if you hadn’t written the book in the first place, come to that—I should have charged up to Gretna and not stood a chance. Thank you.”

  “Thank me when you return the young lady to her parents’ eternal gratitude,” Theo said. “Let’s go and catch them up.”

  They spotted the coach at about eight o’clock that evening.

  It had been a long journey from Boroughbridge. Theo had been silent and withdrawn for an hour or more. He seemed tired, perhaps unwell. Concerned, even, for Martin and the decisions he might have to make? Certainly he looked almost sick with worry, and Martin didn’t know why. It wasn’t, after all, Theo’s affair; he would lose nothing if they failed, or chose not to succeed.

  It had flitted through Martin’s mind that he’d never said Theo would be paid whatever the outcome, and it felt too late to say it now, as though that would degrade the partnership they’d formed. Theo wasn’t doing this for the money anymore, even though he needed it, Martin was sure. Theo cared.

  Martin wasn’t quite sure why Theo cared, nor why his caring meant so much. But he did, and it did. Inexplicably, unexpectedly, Martin had found a friend on this journey, and the thought warmed him in the cooling evening air. A friend who listened and understood, who stood by him, and of course it helped that he fucked like a wild an
imal.

  Martin only wished he knew what was wrong.

  The last few stages had been dismally frustrating, since they’d had to stop at every coaching inn they passed for fear they might overshoot their quarry. They’d agreed they’d keep going while the light lasted, which seemed to be hours longer than in London, and the sun was still bright and hot when their chaise had pulled in at the Farmers Arms, a yellow-grey brick building in Brompton on Swale.

  There was only one chaise in the yard. It was painted bright blue with red shafts and wheels, but coated with the dust of long travel.

  “That can’t be it,” Martin said. “We’re looking for something unobtrusive. Everyone would have remembered that.”

  “They would, wouldn’t they?” Theo stared at it. “You don’t want to look in here?”

  “No, of course we must. It will mean we can get out of this blasted chaise anyway.”

  Inside, the inn had a few customers. All men, of course; all white. Martin went to the woman behind the bar, since Theo was hanging back. “The coach outside, madam. Who came in it?”

  She swept him with a long, assessing look. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m seeking a young lady, travelling with a gentleman. A very young lady, with dark brown hair. I’m a friend of her family.”

  “A friend to the lady.”

  “To her family,” Martin repeated. “I have a very urgent message from her parents to deliver. Do you have a pair of travellers of that description here?”

  “Well, I do,” the landlady said. “Whether it’s the folk you want, I couldn’t say. They’ve taken the private parlour. Lucy, show the gentleman to the parlour, will you?”

  A serving maid approached, eyes widening as she took Martin in, but she bobbed a curtsey without comment.

  He glanced around. Theo was behind him, lips pressed together. “It may be them. Will you come?”