A Gentleman Revealed

by Cooper Davis

  Ethan chuckled, a bemused expression on his face. “I have it on good authority, actually, that our king regards ye not as a bastard, but rather, a newly discovered prince.”

  Alistair cringed. He’d not seen Arend since the table last night, hadn’t dared seek his company after last night’s disaster. “I shan’t even ask what my brother said.”

  “Ye needna’ ask. I’ll tell ye—he wholeheartedly approves this proposal. He likewise plans to give you a wide berth. Not out of anger, but because he thinks ye truly need it now. We spoke at length about it before I was let into your apartments. In fact, it was King Arend who saw me in.” Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “His Majesty believes the verra best of ye. Another point that matters to me, Finley.” Ethan leaned back in his chair, stretching. “So, what say ye?”

  “I am eager,” he told Dunshire, echoing Marcus’s own words, spoken at Lady Elsevier’s. “Very eager to undertake this . . .” The word nearly caught in his throat, with what it would mean, but then he found that he could soldier past it. “Full reformation. Thank you, Dunshire. But you must pledge to me—you won’t let me near your brother until I’m truly well.”

  “On that, Finley, ye have my word. Marcus won’t know what we’re about. I’ve told him I’m heading north to address tenant troubles. That’s not too unusual, so he’ll be none the wiser.”

  “And if he attempts to correspond with me?”

  “Ye won’t answer.”

  Alistair glanced at the viscount in alarm. “But he’ll revile me. I can’t refuse him a reply, can’t leave him without any word or apology. I must make something right.”

  “Ye’ll send notice that you’re leaving for Agadir, and that until ye can sort out your intemperance, ye must keep your distance. And,” Ethan added, “ye may apologize. Say what ye wilt. But naught more thereafter. Until the months in the Highlands are done. But just remember, Finley, my papa’s pistol is always close at hand.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Marcus had come to a powerful conclusion in the past ten days. Desperation had a way of making a gentleman do certain things, ones that—before—he’d have sworn beneath him. Such had the past weeks—with only the slimmest word from Alistair—wrought their will upon Marcus. One letter, one apology. One extremely terse missive, explaining that Alistair was leaving for the continent. Naught else.

  Perhaps that’s why he had no fight left in him, nor even the slimmest bit of pride. Desperation had put him in his papa’s coach, single-handedly propelling him through the king’s gates. And now had landed him on the ornate steps of the palace.

  “Good day, Lord Marcus.” Bentley, the royal butler yielded Marcus a deep bow. The elder gentleman had appeared on the steps of the palace as if he’d merely been waiting for Marcus to arrive. The fellow was—much like Alistair had always been—impeccable at his vocation. There wasn’t the inevitable, “Whyever have you appeared at His Majesty’s doorstep, unannounced, and unexpected?” There was, however, a pregnant pause.

  Marcus rushed to fill that void. “Apologies to His Majesty and to Prince Julian for arriving unannounced, but might I possibly obtain an audience with their Highnesses?”

  “I shall show you into the library, my lord.” Bentley stood back, extending a hand toward the ornately carved palace doors.

  And just as the butler didn’t ask why Marcus had arrived so indecorously, neither did he promise that Marcus might gain an audience with the royal couple. Marcus could only pray that the king and the prince would have mercy upon him.

  He found himself settled in the airy front library, and Marcus fought the intense pang of heartache as his mind filled with images of midnight card games, hand-holding with Alistair, and stolen kisses at every turn during that short-lived house party.

  You are my dream, beautiful Marcus.

  Marcus leaned forward, elbows on knees, and buried his face in his hands. The unbearable wave of emotions nearly proved too much. The mingled perfumes of fresh lilacs, lemon wax, and rarified opulence sang through his memories, making them feel alive, not something from the past. Intervening time dissolved, and that solid, aching lump that always lived in his chest became a leaden weight.

  How could Alistair have done this?

  Why would he vanish, and never look back, never regret?

  How could he not miss Marcus with this same never-ending sense of loss that Marcus himself felt?

  These questions were his constant companions and had been for weeks. But sitting here, now, they fairly screamed in Marcus’s heart and mind.

  Anguished, battling the sting of tears, he had no notion how long he sat, face in his palms. And he had no awareness when he ceased to be alone—until Prince Julian’s steady, kind hand came to rest upon his crown. “My dear friend. I am so glad you came to us.”

  Then, and only then, did Marcus finally come undone at his seams. A whiskey highball was pressed into his hand, a king came to kneel in front of him, and a prince sat near, slipping an arm about his shoulders.

  He’d never been so humbled, nor so at his bitter end.

  “There, now,” Jules murmured, pressing the glass upward and toward his lips. Marcus was shaking too hard to even maintain a steady grasp. “Here, my friend.”

  King Arend planted a palm on the sofa beside Marcus. “I want to haul that brother of mine back to this palace and string him up along the parapets. For many reasons, the chief of which is for his having done this to you, Lord Marcus.”

  “Have you any idea”—Marcus sobbed a breath—“where he is? Is he all right?” Another sob. “I thought I could do this, could walk away, could let him go. But this”—another sob—“is tearing me bloody apart.”

  King Arend patted him gently on the knee, a little stiffly. The man was Alistair’s own brother, his blood relation. He wasn’t Alistair, but for now, his gentling touch would have to do.

  Marcus used both trembling hands to raise the highball to his lips, and finally managed to meet his king’s gaze. “I love him. He’s impossible and horrid and he’s destroyed me. But God help me, I still love your brother.”

  “He never has been easy, Marcus.” Marcus. Not Lord Marcus. “Therefore, I never imagined that whenever Fin did finally fall in love that it would be easy, either. But his falling in love with you? And you likewise falling for him so madly as you did?” Arend laughed sympathetically, then clucked his tongue. “You are a prize, my lord.”

  Julian made a murmur of feigned jealousy. “You even have our king fawning over you, Marcus.” The prince squeezed his shoulder. “The Tollemach men aren’t easy as a whole, I can attest to that. Or you could query Lady Lucy on that count, if you doubt. But you certainly got a firsthand glimpse of Sam’s tempestuous nature—and suffered for it, too, no less.”

  Marcus stared into his highball, blinking back yet more tears. “Yes, but I daresay Alistair is the worst of your lot.”

  Arend tossed his head back and laughed. “Dear God, but you’ve the spirit to go nose-to-nose with Fin. And the heart. You do realize that’s what drove him away?”

  “He hit me in the face. He blackened my eye.” Recalling that night, Marcus’s indignation and anger ignited. Alistair knew he’d been mishandled by a past lover—and done it anyway.

  “Yes, that’s atrocious and inexcusable. But it was all part of his scheme, don’t you see?”

  Marcus shook his head, confused, his throat tight. “I was a game?” He glanced first at his king, and then to his prince. “He was toying with me?”

  Julian made a gentle shushing sound. “No, no, dear Marcus.” Then Jules cast a slightly censorious glance at his husband, silent words passing in the space of a heartbeat. Arend smiled faintly, then turned to face Marcus directly.

  “Here is what I mean to say about my brother. Your esteem for him didn’t—and couldn’t—square with the ill regard he bore himself.”

&
nbsp; “He’d never listen, no matter how many times I told him how beautiful he was . . . how brilliant and strong and—“

  “Which is what proved his undoing,” Arend told him quietly. “It wasn’t the truth of his lineage, nor even the endless consumption of spirits, nor his private demons. It was you. You were what finally caused the man to break.”

  Marcus stifled another sob, swiping gracelessly at his tears. “You’re saying I destroyed him.”

  “I’m saying,” Arend told him softly, lifting from his knees and settling squarely on Marcus’s other side. “That if he can get through this—if he can find his footing and his way to the other side—your love will not have destroyed him. It will have saved him. You, Lord Marcus, will have saved Alistair . . . from himself.”

  Julian reached for his hand. “But in the meantime, Marcus, you must likewise save yourself. He will return. And I wholly believe he will be worthy. But for now? You also need to save yourself.”

  Marcus wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Prince Julian, you are my friend. My dear friend. However do you imagine I can stop drowning like this?”

  Julian squeezed his hand. “By redefining your own life. On your own terms. Then, whenever Fin does return—you’ll be ready to meet him, toe-to-toe.”

  Marcus’s gaze went distant. It was difficult to redefine his life—or at least the dreams he’d held for it up until the past two weeks. For more than two years, the only thing he’d really wanted was a life with Alistair Finley. Family. Love. Matrimony. Traveling the world together; snuggling by evening firesides together, reading. But all of it had been defined by one over-arching characteristic—that they would be as one.

  “Yes,” he said numbly, “it seems I must rediscover parts of myself, too, if I’m to be the man he needs. And the man I need for myself.”

  And he’d be damned if, should his lover ever return, Alistair would find him living any way except to the fullest. Marcus was going to pick himself up, here and now, and rediscover the core of who he was—not move like a wraith, still defining himself by a man he’d lost, if only for now.

  Regaining his own equilibrium and strong sense of self was his only hope of salvation.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Some two weeks had passed since Alistair allowed Ethan to press him into reformation, hying him away to Alsderry Castle. And at least thrice during each of those days, Alistair regretted having Ethan Avenleigh at his side during the process. A sentiment which, on the balance, was offset by gratitude for the man’s presence some dozen or more times a day. His mood toward Ethan seemed to rise and fall depending on how powerfully alcohol sang to him that day, that hour. Even that moment.

  Mostly, Ethan kept his distance, hovering just near enough to assist Alistair through his worst spells. Even in the face of Alistair’s blistering tempers, Ethan had proved kind at every turn, offering levity when Alistair nursed a blinding headache or was so overcome by shakiness he could hardly hold a cup of tea without spilling it.

  Ethan had also given him use of a cozy study for the duration, and as Alistair sat there numbly now, staring at mounted antlers and tartans, he knew this morning would be one of those “worst spells.” He was in a scaldingly ill temper, having endured the unwelcome attentions of Ewan, the village tailor, this morning. The man had flirted shamelessly with Alistair, and somehow Ewan’s appreciation of his hefty size only left him more prickly than usual, reminding him painfully of Marcus as it did. And that only left him desperately morose, parched for true drink, neither tea nor water.

  Fucking liquor. Burning down his gullet, singing through his veins.

  Without Marcus in his life, the abandonment of spirits made him lonelier than ever. Having set aside his royal duties—leaving them in the capable hands of his undersecretary, Mr. Davish—he was even more unmoored. All his constants had been stripped away with one drunken thrash of his fist.

  With an anguished groan, he rose from the desk, roaming the masculine room, restless to the extreme. Swiping a lock of hair away from his forehead, his hand was unsteady. The room swam, becoming a blur of antlers and tartan, then tartan and antlers. Fucking bloody hell, he had to drink. He’d not survive this pain otherwise.

  Desperately, he glanced at the sideboard, even though he realized that no decanters stood there.

  He pulled at his necktie to loosen the bloody thing. Dear God, he could hardly breathe, almost as if he were being choked by the changes in his body, as well as the urges he battled every single fucking day. When would his situation improve? Would it even? Or was this to be his fate as a sober man? He’d been dissolute for so many years, he hardly knew what sobriety should feel like.

  Alistair sank down at the writing desk, and even with nearly two stone less, the chair complained, a creaky little reminder of how much work lay ahead. He buried his face in both hands, elbows on the desk, determined to remain thusly until this present spell passed.

  “Finley, man! There you are!” Hale, hearty, cheery Ethan. He wanted to take his pawlike hand and swat the viscount back out the door. All the same, Ethan came sauntering into the study, outfitted in traditional tartan kilt, which he’d taken to donning from the first day of their arrival at the castle.

  Alistair had registered surprise the first time he’d witnessed the man outfitted thusly. Ethan had merely laughed. “Och! Whatever did ye think we Avenleighs were about, man?” Ethan had waved a hand about the castle. “Alsderry is the seat of our clan. Marcus does likewise whenever he’s in residence here.”

  That particular image had immediately cast Alistair’s fantasies in an untried direction, as he’d visualized stripping Marcus bare by sliding first one, and then his other hand beneath soft folds of open plaid.

  Ethan breezed over to Alistair’s desk. He dropped the afternoon’s correspondence in front of him, a sheaf of letters that had been forwarded by his butler Brinkley. Greedily Alistair riffled through the envelopes, hoping for any word from Marcus, unlikely as that would be. When he found none, he fanned through the letters again, his headache worsening to a hammering throb.

  Alistair slammed the missives down upon the desk. “Nothing,” he growled. “Nothing whatsoever, yet again.”

  Ethan laughed mildly, sliding into the chair across from the desk. “Did ye honestly expect word?” Ethan asked, tone gentle.

  Alistair shot him a sour glance across that desk. “You would, in fact, surrender anything your brother sent to me, would you not? Letters, packets, the like? Anything whatsoever?”

  Ethan thought on that. “Aye, I would. I’m simply unwilling to allow ye the privilege of a reply. Not part of our pact.”

  Alistair had never honestly believed that, should Marcus choose to write him, Ethan might prohibit him from responding. “But he would think horribly of me!”

  Ethan shrugged. “Hate to say it, man, but . . .”

  “Don’t,” he snapped. He was a fool to imagine Marcus would correspond with him at this point.

  Alistair turned to the side, not wanting to even look at Ethan, his shame was so great. It was a wonder any of the Avenleighs would receive him, much less endeavor to help as they were doing.

  Apparently, Ethan took pity on him for he said, “However, I myself received word from Marcus this morning.”

  Alistair sat up tall, braced himself; then, abandoning self-respect, he nearly leapt forward onto his desk. “Wh-what did he say?” he managed, barely keeping his voice from shaking. “Did he mention me? Is he well? How is his eye?” He searched Ethan’s face, not bothering to disguise his desperation. “Is . . . is he all right?”

  Ethan gave him a kind smile, clearly considering his reply. “He’s fair enough, I suppose.”

  “What the devil does that mean? How is he? What did he write? Please, Ethan. Have some mercy on me.”

  “Ye canna suppose I’m here to spill my brother’s confidences, can ye?”

>   “Damn it. Damn, damn, fucking damn.” He reared back in his chair, and it shuddered beneath his movement. “I . . . just need to know . . . know if . . .” What did he need to know? If he had even the slimmest chance of regaining Marcus’s favor? His regard? His forgiveness?

  Ethan leaned back in his chair, sighing dramatically. “He didn’t mention ye, Finley. I’m sorry. He did not.”

  That was, perhaps, the worst sort of news. Did it not mean that already Marcus was casting thoughts of him utterly aside? Perhaps forgiveness of any sort was already wholly out of reach. Alistair stood and began roaming the study, his eyes again searching the sideboard for decanters that did not exist. “I need a bloody drink,” he blurted, rubbing his temples. That headache nested itself violently behind his eyes. “I need a shot of whiskey, man. What’s even the point of reformation if your brother shan’t forgive me?”

  Ethan rose and came to his side. Planting a strong hand on his shoulder, he said, “Ye need a ride. Fresh air. Vigorous exercise. Ye’ve been holed up in this room and the castle since we got here. I’m getting ye out on this land.”

  “I don’t want to ride or take fresh air or smell daisies or experience any other type of . . . life. I have no life. Give me a goddamned drink, Avenleigh.”

  Ethan clasped his other shoulder, pivoting Alistair forcefully until they were standing eye-to-eye. “I dinna tell ye of the letter from Marcus to cause ye despair.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything about the letter, full stop.”

  “I can tell ye—but ye must promise me this, Finley. Stop talking about liquor. Stop reaching for it every time ye despair.” Ethan squeezed his shoulders, giving them a slight shake for emphasis. “Ye must begin to think in new ways, man. Instead of a drink, take a walk. Instead of falling into yer cups, sort out something better. ’Tis the only way through, all right?”

  Alistair swallowed, nodding, and only then realized he was trembling from head to toe, his whole body quivering with desperation and anguish. Ethan squeezed his shoulders once more, then released him. He flopped into the chair across from the desk and retrieved a letter from his pocket.