An Unsuitable Heir

by KJ Charles

  He looked strange. Phyllis at the Jack would never dress like this, both male and female. Mark wasn’t entirely sure he understood what was going on.

  “Uh,” he said. “You look—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all,” Pen snapped. “And no, I won’t embarrass you by taking you up on that kindly offer of going to sit in a pub, so why don’t you clear off?”

  “I know a place we could get a drink and nobody would look at you twice.” That wasn’t remotely true; Pen would be swarmed with admirers in the Jack. “Where nobody will give you any trouble, is what I mean.”

  “You know a place like that,” Pen said, voice flat with disbelief.

  “I do. And I owe you a drink, and an apology as well, so—”

  “That much is true. I’ll have the apology and not bother with the drink.”

  “It would be a lot easier if you took the drink,” Mark tried. “If you let me explain—”

  “No.” Pen’s voice was clear and loud. “No, I do not want to hear whatever this is. I don’t want to hear anything except for your apology and then your goodbye.”

  Mark sighed. “I really am sorry. I needed to find who you were, professional reasons, and I got…caught up in the conversation.”

  “Bollocks.” Pen sounded almost incredulous. “Absolute balls. You paid me a whole lot of compliments, told me lies to get my trust. That’s not professional.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Mark said. “But it wasn’t lies either. I got caught up. I liked talking to you.”

  “Telling me how much you liked my hair,” Pen bit out. “That was conversational, was it?” He was holding himself still, but Mark could feel his readiness to move. Maybe to flee; maybe not. Mark wasn’t fool enough to believe that a dress or a bit of eye paint turned anyone, man or woman, into a fainting flower. Phyllis had a right hook that could fell a horse, and used it freely; Pen wasn’t short of muscle either, and if he thought that Mark had been trying to trap him…well, Mark knew how he’d react himself to that.

  “It wasn’t,” he said. “And I wasn’t trying to fool you. I said I liked the way you look because you looked bloody good. You looked good then, you looked good in there, on the trapeze, and you look good now. I should have kept my mouth shut about that, because it wasn’t my business to say so, but it wasn’t a lie. You might want to tell me to piss off—”

  “Yes.”

  “—but let’s make it for the right thing, eh?” Mark tried a grin.

  Pen narrowed his eyes. “So you’d like me to believe that you were looking into me for your professional reasons but you were distracted by—what, precisely?”

  He wasn’t going to give in on this, Mark could see, and couldn’t blame him for his wariness. Which put Mark in a spot, because he shouldn’t have been flirting with the subject of an investigation in the first place, let alone with a lost earl who didn’t know who he was. It wasn’t fair.

  But if Pen thought Mark had been trying to trap or manipulate him, he’d never believe a word, and Mark didn’t want him thinking that anyway. It was bad enough having your tastes break the law without feeling like some bastard was hunting you down.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But so we’re clear, I’m not trying to bother you, and I know how to take no for an answer—”

  “You do not!”

  “Personally,” Mark said. “Professionally, I’m persistent. Personally, if you tell me to piss off, off I piss, all right? But if you want the question answered…” He moved a bit closer, so he could drop his voice. Pen’s brow tilted, but he didn’t move back. “I got distracted because I like the way you look, a lot, and I liked talking to you, and if we were in the place I was telling you about, where a couple of fellows can have a drink in peace and a bit of privacy, I’d have a lot more to say on the subject.”

  “The place you invited me.”

  “Professionally. Yes.”

  “But I don’t want to be the object of your professional attention,” Pen said. “I’m not interested in hearing who’s paying you or for what. So you can take your persistence elsewhere because I am telling you, professionally, to piss off.”

  “And what about personally?” said some bloody idiot who turned out to be Mark.

  Pen considered. “That’s the question. You see, if you had met me in some nice place for a drink, and if you hadn’t lied to me, maybe I’d have listened to what you have to say. I might have wanted to have another drink, even. But as it is—I’ll make you an offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “I will come for that drink,” Pen said. “To this place you know where nobody will look at me twice, right now. But you don’t even mention this professional business. One word of it and I leave and you don’t bother me again, ever. We’ll go for a drink and a chat, and if this place is what you’ve promised, and if I like what you say, I’ll decide what I make of you from there. And if, on the other hand, it turns out you’re lying to me…” He gave a tight smile. “I won’t take it well.”

  “Fair enough,” Mark said. “It’s not far.”

  Pen looked a bit startled, like he hadn’t expected to have a bluff called, but he went for a word with the doorkeeper, who gave Mark a sharp glance, and returned. “Well, then. Lead on.”

  Chapter 3

  Holborn was a busy road even this late, but it was cold enough that most people were just hurrying home, and the gas street lighting mostly served to cast shadows. Pen didn’t seem bothered about anyone looking too closely as they walked, and probably he was right not to worry. Still, Mark was conscious of his companion’s appearance, and relieved to cut down Castle Street and onto Greystoke Place.

  There were a couple of likely lads smoking at the corner—the kind, in Mark’s estimation, who’d ask for five shillings to have their pricks sucked, and then take their client’s wallet for good measure. That sort tended to hang around pubs like the Jack unless discouraged.

  “Oi,” one of them called. “Looking for a friend, gents?”

  “Nope,” Mark said.

  “Got one already?”

  “Piss off or I’ll break you in half. Go on, fuck off out of it before the peelers do you.” Mark stalked on without waiting for a response.

  “Problem?” Pen asked, taking a long stride to keep up.

  “Not if they know what’s good for ’em. Here we are. All right, Mr. Graves, mind if I bring a guest in? Pen Starling.”

  Graves gave Pen a lengthy once-over. “Mr. Braglewicz, and Mr. Starling. Is it Mister?”

  Pen went very still. “It’s Mister,” Mark said for him. “You letting us in?”

  Graves opened the door for them, and in they went.

  Mark took a rapid glance round, and was relieved to see Clem wasn’t there. He didn’t know how he’d have coped with that. By the way, that Indian bloke hardly older than you are? He’s your uncle. Let me explain….

  The Jack wasn’t heaving, what with being a Monday night, and on first glance it was just another shabby public that didn’t look like much. But Mark saw Pen clock the three women in suits and trousers, all smoking cigars and deep in conversation, and then his gaze settled on Phyllis behind the bar.

  “Oh,” he said, softly.

  “Gin?” Mark asked. “Beer’s good here too.”

  “Gin.”

  “Couple of gins, please, Phyllis,” Mark said briskly.

  “It’s a pleasure, sweetie. It really is,” Phyllis assured him. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Pen. Pen, Phyllis. She’s the landlady here. What she says goes, so watch it.”

  “Oh, tush. You’re very welcome, Pen.” She passed him a glass. “What a lovely name. Are you much mightier than the sword?”

  Pen coughed explosively on his gin. Mark shot Phyllis a glare, took up his drink and ushered Pen to a booth, which offered a bit more privacy. “Sorry about her. No manners.”

  “I, uh.” Pen cleared his throat, blinking away the inevitable tears from the Jack’s gin going the wrong way.
“Friend of yours?”

  “Old mate, although I wouldn’t throw old around in her hearing. One of the best, Phyllis is. I come here a lot.”

  “I didn’t think you meant it. About this sort of place. You don’t look…”

  “I’m a plain man,” Mark said. “But I’ve got a lot of interesting friends.”

  Pen nodded, glancing around. Mark watched him take it all in—Phyllis, the others, the ordinary look of the place and its quiet chat—and saw the yearning in his eyes.

  “Look like your sort of pub?” he asked, and wasn’t surprised by the nod. “You don’t have anywhere like this?”

  “No. Not like this, for a drink without any fuss. I was…I’ve never really…”

  Didn’t know where to look or who to ask, Mark deduced. London’s byways weren’t always easy to negotiate without someone to show you around. Getting your leg over was simple enough; finding friends took work.

  “Have you been coming here long?” Pen asked. He sounded a bit throaty and he was still looking around, but now more as if he wanted to avoid making eye contact. Mark got the impression he was being asked to fill the air for a bit.

  “Ten years or so, on and off,” he replied obligingly. “How I found it was, my mother went up on an affray charge. She’s an anarchist, doesn’t believe in the law, and it was her however-manyth offence, which made it a bit tricky to find a brief who’d represent her. So she got hold of this new lawyer, an Indian radical. Bright as a new sixpence, all charm, and he had me charmed into a dark alley about two hours after I met him.” Pen’s eyes widened, as well they might, but Mark had said that quite deliberately. He needed to make Pen feel on a level footing, not like Mark had played him to get some advantage. He wanted Pen to know. “He was a right one, Ganendra. Meant to be here to get his British law degree, but he stuck around for a good few years because he was having too much fun. Gone back off home now to bring down the Empire, trzymajmy kciuki.” He tipped his glass.

  “What was that?”

  “Polish. Means ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’ ”

  “Did you just drink to the fall of the British Empire?”

  “I was brought up in bad ways. Anyway, the point was, I didn’t have a clue back then. I was twenty or so, pig ignorant, never been laid hands on by a bloke before. Whereas Ganendra knew this place because he’d been brought here by a lawyer mate, who went to school with a theatrical type, who’s Phyllis’s other half. Came from thousands of miles away and ended up teaching me about my own damn city. That was him all over.”

  Pen looked like he had a number of questions, but settled for, “I’m having trouble picturing you as an innocent young man.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t innocent,” Mark assured him. “Blokes had never yet come my way, if you know what I mean, but Ganendra was something special. Not to look at, particular, but he charmed the birds out of the trees.”

  “And you kept coming here after he’d left?” Pen asked, swirling the gin in his tumbler. “I mean, if it isn’t your sort of place…”

  “As it turns out, most places are my sort of place,” Mark said. “I’ve got catholic tastes.”

  “You don’t mind…” Pen indicated the room in a general sort of way.

  “What’s there to mind? You know, people tell you a lot of things about how the world is or ought to be, but it’s mostly bollocks. Bishops and barristers bleat on about the laws of nature, but…well, fire burns, and if you drop a thing it falls, and after that I reckon everything’s up for debate. I’m not going to tell anyone how they should be.”

  Pen blinked. “You’re an anarchist about the laws of nature?”

  “I’m not an anarchist at all, same as I’m not an atheist,” Mark said. “I can’t be bothered. My mate’s an atheist and he’s always thinking about God and religion and whatnot. I just don’t care.”

  “You’ll care when the demons of the fiery pit clutch and rend your very soul eternally,” Pen said, in a voice that was suddenly deep and Norfolk, then reverted to add, hastily, “I had a religious upbringing.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “No. It wasn’t. We ran away, but I expect you knew that.”

  Mark drew his finger across his lips to indicate that they were sealed on the subject of work. Pen shrugged acknowledgement. “Go on.”

  “About what?”

  “You. You found out all sorts about me. I want to hear more about you. How does an anarchist’s son become—what is it that you are?”

  “Private enquiry agent,” Mark said. “Natural inclination. The work suits me, no heavy lifting, and I couldn’t join the peelers. It would have broken my mother’s heart.”

  “But would they—” Pen began, and clamped his mouth shut.

  Mark sighed. “No, they wouldn’t have taken a bloke with one arm. I know I’ve got one arm, you needn’t act like it’ll hurt my feelings if you mention it.”

  “Sorry,” Pen said. “I don’t much like people talking about how I look, you see.”

  “Even when they tell you your hair’s bloody gorgeous?”

  “That depends who says it.” There was a distinct set to Pen’s lips, as though he was trying not to smile. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Born like it. There’s a stump.” He caught the flicker in Pen’s eyes. “That a problem?”

  “Problem?”

  “Some people don’t like it. You know, what with the laws of nature say you got to have two.”

  “You just told me the laws of nature are mostly bollocks,” Pen pointed out.

  “Doesn’t stop people giving you a hard time for breaking ’em.”

  “No.” Pen took a sip of gin. “No, it doesn’t. Do you get a hard time?”

  Mark didn’t much appreciate the look of sympathy. He was nobody’s to pity. “Thing is, when you’re born without you do without. Some poor sod loses his arm on the railways or what have you and he’ll be making a right to-do of a simple job, but I grew up using what I’ve got, and I learned how to look after myself like anyone else. So yeah, there are people who hand out trouble, but I don’t have to take it.”

  “Right,” Pen said, with just enough hesitation that Mark had an idiotic feeling like he’d been flexing his muscles or something, trying to impress the ladies with how tough he was. Which was stupid, because anyone Pen’s build had probably met too many people looking for a fight, and he wasn’t the type to be impressed by brawling, and Mark shouldn’t want to impress him anyway. Appealing to Pen wasn’t his purpose here, and he ought to remember that.

  “It’s not like you get much of that,” he went on, trying to change direction without being too obvious. “But some people can’t abide difference. Nobody likes a deformity, do they? ‘Makes me feel sick to look at,’ ” he mimicked.

  “Someone said that to you?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve not heard worse.”

  Pen paused with his glass halfway to his lips, thinking, and finally put it down again. “I’ve heard lots of things, but…I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me.”

  “Nothing much wrong with me either, in my opinion, but that doesn’t stop other people having problems.”

  Pen met his eyes for a second, then looked down at the pattern he was tracing on the tabletop. “No. I…To be honest, I don’t much like the idea of missing an arm. Not because of you, but because of me. I need both arms for the trapeze and to think of missing one—ugh. I’d lose my life.”

  “You’d lose your job,” Mark corrected.

  “No, my life. We’re the Flying Starlings and we fly, it’s what we do. On the trapeze—that’s who I am.”

  “I saw you this evening,” Mark said. “You were…” He didn’t know how to say it, what superlative could sound real and not fawning, but what came out of his mouth was “Beautiful. You were beautiful.”

  Pen’s mouth rounded slightly. His lips were still a little reddened from the stain, his hazel eyes, a shade or two lighter than his hair, locked
on Mark’s. He’d forgotten to keep his shoulders pulled back, so their breadth was evident, and he was so perfect Mark couldn’t breathe.

  So fucking perfect, with the body of a young god and the eyes of a wary wolf. Mark couldn’t think about anything other than his eyes, and the back room twenty feet away, and how he could take Pen by the hand, and—

  The one hand, and Pen didn’t like that, he was sure. Which was a stupid thing to feel gutted by, because what good would either of them do the other when Pen had a coronet waiting?

  “Thank you,” Pen said, and for a second Mark couldn’t remember what for. “That means a lot.”

  He seemed oddly struck, which was peculiar because people must tell him that all the time, Mark thought, and then he realised Pen wasn’t thinking about his artistry, but his appearance.

  “I did tell you,” he said, hearing the rasp in his own voice. “I was waiting to see you in one of those costumes and your hair done and…yeah. Really good,” he added, answering the unspoken question. “Really.”

  “I, uh…” Pen licked his lips, apparently from nerves rather than for provocation, but it had the same effect on Mark. “Most people—”

  “Sod most people. I know what I saw.”

  “What did you see?” Pen asked on a breath.

  Mark waved his hand, wishing he had better words. “I saw you looking—well, looking like you ought to.” The costume, the movement, the power and grace. Masculine, feminine, human, animal, physical, and elemental, all at once. You’d need to be a poet to say the things he’d felt watching Pen up there, and Mark was an enquiry agent from South London. “It looked right.”

  “Oh,” Pen said softly. “Oh.”

  God almighty, the look in his eyes. Mark was a practical man who walked through life without worrying much about it, but he could feel his usual certainties trembling under his feet. He didn’t want to be practical or commonsensical or think about the future. Except not to do so wouldn’t be fair to Pen…but it was Pen who’d forbidden him to talk about it, he hadn’t wanted Mark talking about it….

  Mark put his left shoe to his right calf and scraped the hard edge of heel down over the knob of ankle bone so forcefully he couldn’t avoid a quick, sharp inhalation. The pain helped clear his head, a bit.