by KJ Charles
Theo winced on his behalf. Miss Conroy’s mouth opened in soundless horror. Martin stood, considering that, then he strode forward, grasped Geoffrey by the cravat, dragged him, struggling, sideways, and thrust his head down into the horse trough with a powerful hand. Geoffrey struggled violently, the water splashing around him. Martin pulled his head out, let him take a single breath, and dunked him again. This time he held him down until Geoffrey’s struggles were spasmodic, then hauled him up, soaked and spluttering.
“You,” Martin said, voice so low it seemed to vibrate in Theo’s toes. “If you threaten the lady, so help me God . . .” He shook Geoffrey like a rat and dropped him onto the muck, dust, and straw of the inn yard, then turned on Theo. “And as for you, sir, you treacherous villain, you had best not cross my path again. At least there was one honest man among the bilkers you bribed to damage my vehicle, so your . . .” He hesitated a second, apparently in search of the mot juste. “Your plots were foiled. I leave the pair of you to one another and wish you joy of the company. Now get out of my sight.”
He turned to Miss Conroy, evidently dismissing the cousins. Theo, for once, found himself the object of the crowd’s disdainful gazes. It was not at all comfortable.
“You.” Geoffrey pushed himself to hands and knees, staring at Theo with loathing. “You useless swine. When I get my hands on you . . .”
Theo looked at him, dripping, blotchy, shaking with rage and humiliation, and made a decision to walk back to the previous stage. It seemed unlikely he would be getting a free ride back south.
It was seven endless days before Theo was back in the careless, filthy embrace of London. He let himself into his rooms on Little Wild Street, dropped his bag on the floor, and collapsed onto the chair, feeling his sense of relief tempered with an odd unfamiliarity, as if this place were no longer home.
The last week had been unspeakable. He’d been passed on the long trudge back to a staging post first by Martin and Miss Conroy, bowling along in the chaise, then, sometime later, by Geoffrey. He had stopped in order to let Theo know precisely what he thought of him and his unforgivable, clownish foolishness in dropping that fatal document, his failure to somehow rescue the situation, his inability even to bribe a stableboy properly, his broken promises. They had shouted at each other for some time, Geoffrey’s hair drying unflatteringly over his skull in the sun, until at last Geoffrey had promised him that the bailiffs would be waiting when he returned to London, and drove off, leaving Theo alone once more, some three hundred miles from home, and with just a handful of coins in his pocket.
He’d paid for the stage, slept on floors, trudged miles on foot to husband the little money he had, and now, at last he was home. No bailiffs were to be seen yet, which was something, but they would doubtless come.
“Perhaps Geoffrey’s been busy,” he said to the cat that dozed on his windowsill as if it hadn’t moved in his absence, and poured himself a drink. What with one thing and another, he thought he deserved it.
A week previously . . .
“I know I’ve given you no reason to treat my intentions with anything but contempt,” Theo said, looking up into Martin’s face. His breath came uncomfortably short; there seemed to be something constricting his chest. “But if I said I wanted to help, that I wanted to do better, would you trust me? Could you do that?”
“No,” Martin said. “No, Theo, I don’t think I could.”
Theo sagged. Martin’s fingers tightened on his scalp. “And yet, I have a terrible feeling that I’m going to anyway.”
Theo’s head came up so sharply that his hair pulled against Martin’s grip. “Really?”
“Just tell me this. What is it that you want here?”
Theo thought about the bonds of debt and guilt under which he laboured, and how much of that weight he had made for himself. “I don’t know. I have danced to the Hazelwood tune long enough, and I shall not do that any more. What I want . . . Oh, Martin, I am so tired of my life.” He noted the widening of Martin’s eyes and smiled weakly. “Not like that. I am tired of scrabbling and gouging and weaselling my way through life to scrape together pennies for Geoffrey’s benefit. I am tired of the man I have become, and for such a foolish, sordid reason. A boy’s stupidity, for which my life has grown warped. I prefer the man you thought I might be to the one I am. And, also, I realised that if Geoffrey is to do his worst anyway, if the sword suspended over my head is going to drop, there is no reason I should not do as I see fit now.”
Martin nodded slowly. There was tension in his face. Not hostility—more as though he was hoping and trying not to hope. “And what seems fit?”
“Well,” Theo said carefully. “I tried to think of what would happen if you were the hero in one of my novels, and the truth is, something would happen to help you along. Some chance, some ally. As you said, I’m not very good at writing heroes.” He put his hand up to meet Martin’s on his shoulder, felt Martin’s fingers shift and flex a little. “So I wondered how you would feel about being the villain.”
Martin took a few seconds to grasp his meaning, and then that glorious smile dawned, sending tingles across Theo’s skin. “Because you are excellent at villains.”
“I do have some small gift for scheming,” Theo said modestly. “It just now occurred to me, you see, instead of thinking of how to rescue the maiden, I should be planning how to estrange the lovers, as a villain would. And . . . I have had an idea.” He dared to interlace his fingers with Martin’s a little more, and his heart skipped as they tightened in return. “I know it’s not much, after everything, but may I plot for you, Martin?”
Martin pulled their hands off Theo’s shoulder, fingers still entwined, and stooped to brush a kiss over Theo’s knuckles. “My dear Mrs. Swann, my very dear Dorothea. Please do.”
Coming up with a tale had been absurdly easy, once Theo had his way to tell the story. The only question had been whether he could make Geoffrey trust him, or at least believe he had changed sides again. Theo had been sure that he would seem quite convincing as long as he was sufficiently selfish and venal, and so it had proved. If he had begged for forgiveness or tried to offer repentance, Geoffrey would have seen through it at once. Greed, scorn, and insult were much easier to believe in than decency.
And, of course, proof of Theo’s story was written in his face with its painful bruises.
That had been the hardest part of the whole affair. It had been damn near impossible to make Martin hit him, to the point where Theo had started wondering if he could assault himself, possibly by running into a bedpost. Martin had never hit anyone since boyhood, it turned out. He simply wasn’t a violent man, and he’d ended up having to punch Theo four times, because he pulled the first two so much that they hadn’t caused the needful damage. The blows had still hurt, as Theo had pointed out bitterly, and the next two had been damn near unbearable, leaving Theo rocking and whimpering on the floor, and Martin holding him, barely less distressed.
Martin holding him. He’d dropped to his knees without hesitation and put his arms around Theo, whispering appalled remorse, which Theo frankly felt he’d earned. He’d feared Martin might have broken his eye socket once the man had really thrown his weight behind the blow.
But it had needed doing. Geoffrey was no brawler, and the sight of Theo’s battered features had been enough to unnerve him on its own. Then there had been the late hour and his sleep-addled mind; the high stakes he played for; Theo’s defiance and aggression, turning the established order of things on its head. Theo had unsettled him in all the ways he could, and once the ground was broken, he’d seeded it with threats of Martin’s intended vengeance. He’d gone to town there, playing on Geoffrey’s fears of retribution with dark threats of Martin’s uncivilised, vengeful nature. After all, it was common knowledge that men of colour were violent and dangerous, and Geoffrey’s mind was as common as they came.
That had been the easiest part: using Geoffrey’s nature against him. Theo knew how much his cousin hated t
o give up what he had, how ready he was to suspect others of sharp practice because it was exactly what he would do himself. It had obviously not occurred to him that Theo would sacrifice his own freedom and profit for Miss Conroy’s sake.
And he’d been right, because of course that wasn’t why Theo had done it.
The rest had been simple, if nerve-wrenching. He had bribed the stable hand at the Farmers Arms to seem to be about his business while not actually damaging Martin’s chaise, and the postilion to stop at a list of stages gleaned from the landlady and passed to Martin. He’d also had a stableboy at the White Hart sent out when they stopped, ready to flag Martin’s chaise down, just in case. Then he had merely needed to find a way to drop the incriminating contract convincingly, and watch the sparks fly right into the powder magazine.
Martin had insisted that he should not simply give Miss Conroy the contract and that they should keep up the pretence of enmity to the end. There was, he’d pointed out, nothing to be gained from making Geoffrey see how he’d been fooled, and it might potentially be of some use if he believed Theo was still on his side. Geoffrey hadn’t, but at least it seemed he had not yet put court proceedings for debt in motion.
That would come, Theo knew. His chances of persuading his cousin to mercy were small to the point of nonexistent, and he was quite sure the Conroys would not prosecute Geoffrey for abduction or rape if it could be avoided, which was to say, if Miss Conroy was not with child. They would not wish to advertise her lost maidenhead, after all. No, Geoffrey would have plenty of opportunity to revenge himself on Theo, and there was no doubt in Theo’s mind that he would.
He went to get a pitcher of water for a much-needed wash, dug out some reasonably clean clothes, and then sat down to look around the little, crowded office where he’d slept and worked for four years. It had felt like a prison often enough, but now that the shadows of a real prison loomed over him, he discovered the place was really very tolerable.
Tolerable, but empty. It had looked better with Martin in it.
He wasn’t here now, but perhaps he might have written. Theo heaved his tired bones out of the chair at that thought and hurried downstairs to pick up his letters from the Three Ducks. The mass of paper required a sack, and he tipped the lot out onto the floor of his office and sorted through it at speed, looking only at the addresses.
Everything was to the Matrimonial Advertiser. There was no personal letter for Theo Swann; nothing but a great slew of pleas and promises from the lonely and the desperate, the deceptive and the painfully sincere, the people making a mockery of love and the ones who never gave up hope of it. Nothing but advertisements. Nothing from Martin.
Theo had thought he might have written, that was all. Just to let him know how things had proceeded, to say if their scheme had worked, if Mr. Conroy had been grateful. Martin must have been back in London for days, since the stage had plodded along at barely more than walking speed. He would have had time to write, if he’d wanted.
Theo sat at his desk, looking at the wall opposite and making himself understand that Martin had not wanted to write. Then he began opening the advertisements, because even if he was to sit here alone and waiting to be arrested for debt, business was business.
A gentleman of mature years sought a young lady. A farmer wished for a wife. A publican’s widow wanted a husband experienced in the running of an inn. A lady marred by smallpox, a gentleman with more fashion than funds, the usual parade of characters passed over his desk, hour after hour. The cat on his windowsill slept and woke, yawned and stretched, investigated the papers and grew bored and wandered away, leaving Theo alone in a pile of dreams.
The clock had struck five when he unfolded the next advertisement.
WANTED, A Gentleman of better character than he knows, who plays the Villain to the manner born. Prompt application to M.St.V. is greatly desired as a Promise remains to be kept.
Theo read that three times, in a calm, sensible, rational way, making quite sure he understood its meaning, and then ran down the stairs so fast he almost tripped over the cat.
Martin had penned the advertisement several days ago, smiling as he did it, imagining Theo’s amusement. His own had faded day by day as he’d waited for any sort of response. First he’d told himself that the stage would take at least twice the time of the travelling chaise he’d used to whisk Miss Jennifer back to her parents. Then he’d started to fret over imaginings—if Theo had been left with enough funds to travel back to London, if his cousin had attacked him, or found some way to use the law against him up north where Theo had nobody to call on. Finally, this morning it had dawned on him that the Matrimonial Advertiser’s postbag must by now be so large that his own jest might easily be buried under a mound of sincere communications. He was composing a letter to be delivered directly when the knock came, and his housekeeper poked her head around the door.
“There’s a Mr. Swann to see you.”
Martin carefully wiped the nib and replaced the pen on the desk. “Show him into the parlour please, Peggy, and—I think you may go for the day after that.”
Peggy’s brows rose. “Can I, now?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“Well, I shan’t say no, if you’d like to be left alone.” Peggy pursed her lips. “Hmm. I wonder.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to stop looking like a hungry dog every time there’s a knock at the door that turns out to be the butcher. Is this a game one, then?”
Martin gave her the most threatening look he could manage. It had no effect whatsoever. Peggy had been with him for twelve years, growing from a scrawny, scrappy brat to a well-built woman of decided personality. She had somehow absorbed the knowledge of his desires along the way, and had moved from silent support to enthusiastic encouragement of any romance she could see or imagine. There had been nothing of that nature in his life for a full three years, and he had a lowering feeling that if things did not go well now, she would demand an explanation tomorrow.
She was smirking at him, obviously convinced of her own deductions. He sighed. “Be off with you, wench.”
Peggy shot him a saucy wink, murmured, “Enjoy yourself,” and danced down the hall, doubtless planning to spend her free evening with her own sweetheart. Martin put a couple of things in his pockets, squared his shoulders, and went in to the parlour, and Theo.
He was there, out of breath and dishevelled as he’d been the first time he’d come running to Martin’s door. Sitting on the edge of a chair, looking up at Martin with those rainy-sky eyes, one still puffy with the green spread of bruise, and a tension in his sinewy body that set Martin’s own nerves twanging.
“Good afternoon,” he managed, shutting the door behind him. Theo rose awkwardly, evidently unsure what to say. Martin felt as hesitant. “I’m pleased to see you. I wasn’t sure if you were going to come.”
“I only reached home at noon,” Theo said. “And I only saw your advertisement just now.”
Martin winced. “I’m sorry. It seemed like an amusing thing to do, until I realised how many you must receive.”
“It was buried quite deep. So.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his toes. “How is Miss Conroy?”
“She’s well. Rather chastened, I think, by her adventure. Very glad to be home, and her parents are glad to have her there.”
“And will there be, uh, consequences to her escapade?”
“It seems not.” Martin had had a long and excessively frank talk with Miss Jennifer on the way back, touching on the subjects of men, menses, and motherhood, since she seemed to have been kept in a state of profound ignorance about all three. He’d decided she should at least know what the future was likely to bring and, thanks be, it had brought her monthlies just a day later. It was the second time Martin had had to explain the facts of life to a young lady, his first being with Peggy, and he lived in hope that he would never have to do it again. “As long as Hazelwood keeps his silence, all should be well.”
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“And will he?” Theo asked. “Has Mr. Conroy paid him off? He’s a fairly desperate man.”
“Yes, well, that was difficult.” Martin made a face. They’d had to tell Miss Jennifer’s father of her disgrace, since it was all too likely that Hazelwood would use it. He had responded as one might have expected, with anger, shame, and blame, raging his refusal to pay the damned blackmailing swine a penny, until Martin had made a suggestion. “Mr. Conroy did not wish to reward his villainy directly. So he’s bought Felford Hall.”
Theo’s eyes widened. “He what?”
“Bought the family home, for a sum that leaves Hazelwood unencumbered and with a decent amount to live on. Many would say your cousin has done very well for himself.”
“He’s sold the Hall,” Theo said slowly. “Did he—did he want to?”
“Not at all, no. He raged and even wept, but Mr. Conroy was not to be moved. It was that or nothing, he said. I have you to thank for that idea, as for so much else,” he added. “Mr. Conroy was quite reconciled to paying him off as long as it hurt.”
“It will have done,” Theo said. “Believe me.”
Martin felt not a grain of remorse. Miss Jennifer had wept on his shoulder until the cloth was soaked. He’d have supported Mr. Conroy in having Hazelwood beaten to jelly.
“Well, he made the bargain. We had a few other concessions out of him for the money, also. A written statement that we can use against him if he impugns Miss Jennifer’s reputation. And, er, this.”
He withdrew the folded paper from his pocket and held it out. Theo took it, opened it, and read.
Martin had indulged in fantasies of him reading it for several days, of how he would react when he saw Hazelwood’s affidavit that the debt was cancelled. Theo’s reaction was nothing like the dramatic joy he had pictured. He stood still, a little frown creasing his forehead, and then he raised his eyes to meet Martin’s gaze, and Martin’s chest constricted as though embraced by a bear.