A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (24 page)

“Oh God,” Harry moaned. “How long are you going to do this for?”

“Hours.”

“Urgh.” His head flopped against the bolster. “Help.”

“No.”

Julius didn’t use his hands. Teeth and lips and tongue, torturing and pleasuring at once, paying close attention to every scrap of skin that wasn’t Harry’s prick, until he was moaning without pause, hips jerking with the need for release, his stand glistening with its own moisture. Julius’s mouth was dry with the effort and rich with Harry’s taste, the salt of sweat, the musk between his legs.

He crawled up Harry’s body and sat, straddling his thighs, so that both cocks were gently jousting. Harry groaned with deep pleasure, eyes closed, and Julius encircled them both with a smooth, pale hand and began thrusting against him.

“Oh God. I’m going to die.” Harry arched helplessly. “I love that. Love
you.
”

Julius bent over him, working them both together. Too far for a kiss, but that meant he could see all of Harry, his face flushed, long dark lashes fluttering, lips parted so invitingly and swollen where he’d bitten them. He looked so frankly, earthily fuckable, so lost to pure enjoyment of the flesh, without guilt or shame, and this, my God, this was what life was for, this was why he had not died with his twin at Waterloo, this was the
point
of it all—

Julius flung his head back so hard that his neck cracked and he cried aloud as he came. Harry writhed under him, gasping encouragement and need, and spasmed in his hand even as Julius’s spend spattered his chest.

Julius flopped forward over him, not giving a damn for the mess, and lay, breathing hard, in Harry’s embrace.

“I love you,” Julius observed at last. “To a degree that frankly startles me.”

“Good. And I honestly think, don’t you, that things might come right now? That all might be well?”

“Yes,” Julius said with satisfaction. “I think it very probably will.”

“I should dress for dinner,” Harry observed some time later. “Gideon would like that.”

“Silk knee breeches?”

“All of it, yes. I’ll need to go home to change. Good heavens, it’s past six.”

Julius rose, naked, to peer out of a chink in the curtain. “It’s damned foggy. Will you take a chair, or at least summon a link boy?”

“From here? Don’t be silly. Really, Julius, I survived six years in Ludgate, I think I can walk to Richard’s house.”

“Charkin—”

“This isn’t Leicester Square. There are watchmen, and lights.” That was true, and it really was no distance. Julius gave a nod of capitulation as Harry dressed. “I’ll be very well. Good-bye, Julius. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good fortune, my dear.”

Julius kissed him good-bye, shut the door behind him, and contemplated his own evening. It was unattractively foggy outside, thick yellowish coils drifting by the window, carrying with them a bitter cold. His rooms were warm, his body pleasantly sated, he’d put on loose trousers and a banyan rather than bother to dress, and he simply couldn’t summon up the energy for society.

He could have a solitary evening with a book. He’d had very few of those since Harry had entered his life, and the prospect was deeply appealing. Dominic, whose taste in books had become surprisingly varied over the past months, had spoken of
Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus
with high praise, and Julius had a copy on his shelves. Perhaps a Gothic tale would be a suitable accompaniment to this dark and foggy night.

He found the book, settled by the fire, and had read all of three pages when a rapid knock sounded on the door.

The disadvantage of rooms, and servants who lived out. One might be able to fuck in peace, but had to open one’s own door. Cursing, Julius did so, and saw a slim man with shockingly red hair. He wore a voluminous topcoat and a look of urgent concern.

“Mr. Norreys,” said the man, and Julius recognized his voice before his face.

“Good God. Cyprian?” Richard’s valet looked entirely different without the white powder. His garish head and brown eyes gave him the look of a particularly intelligent fox. “Come in. What’s the matter? Is Richard not well?”

Cyprian ignored that. “Is Mr. Harry here, sir?”

“He is not. He left for Albemarle Street less than half an hour ago. If you came from there you may have missed him in the fog.”

Cyprian’s face twitched. “I tried Quex’s first. Is he going to stay at Lord Richard’s, sir? Or is he going out?”

This interrogation from a servant was damned impertinence. But this was Richard’s Cyprian, and his voice rang with a tension that made Julius’s own nerves resonate in response. “To his grandfather’s for dinner. What is wrong?”

Cyprian hesitated, just for a second, then plunged in. “Sir, you know the man Charkin was stabbed in Leicester Square on Friday evening. He was wearing Mr. Harry’s puce coat.”

“And?”

“Did you ever meet Charkin?”

“Of course not.”

“I did,” Cyprian said. “I was looking for Mr. Harry, a man of a medium height with dark brown curly hair who worked at Theobald’s, and I had to ask around to identify which of the two assistants was my quarry. They looked alike, sir. Not in the face, but same height, similar build. In the dark, under gaslight and shadows, with both of them wearing a coat of Mr. Harry’s, it would be an easy mistake to make.”

“What would?”

“To kill the wrong man.”

Julius stared at him. “Are you serious? You think Charkin was mistaken for
Harry
?”

“I do.” Cyprian’s narrow face was tense. “I have no proof of it. I have nothing solid. Frankly, sir, if you can tell me I’m a fool, I’d be grateful. But…” He made a frustrated gesture, the most human, unguarded reaction Julius had ever seen from him.

“I am not quite prepared to believe you’re a fool,” Julius said. “Begin. How would anyone have known to look for Harry in Leicester Square, of all places? Who knew he was going there? He didn’t tell me.”

“No, sir. But he probably told his valet.”

“His
valet
? What has his valet to do with anything?”

Cyprian gave him a tight smile. “We do act of our own accord occasionally, Mr. Norreys.”

Julius wasn’t sure of his own valet’s first name. He was aware the man had an independent life, of course, but had never had the least inclination to ask about it. For all he knew to the contrary, Frampling could have a sideline in assassination, and stalk London in the small hours, garroting people with his cravat. “Well. Go on.”

“Mr. Harry confides in his valet. It’s certainly possible he said where he was going on Friday. Ballard definitely left the house just after Mr. Harry did, and returned late, in a mood the second housemaid—an intelligent girl—called
grim.
The next day, the under-butler made a jest about Mr. Harry’s puce coat and Ballard cursed him. He said he never wanted to hear of the damned coat again.”

“Ballard was angry about that puce coat on Saturday, after Charkin was murdered in it—by mistake?—on Friday.” Julius considered it. The inference was surely far-fetched. But Cyprian was far from foolish, and the idea of a threat to Harry slid coldly down his spine. “Very well, to the meat of it. Why would Ballard want to kill his master?”

Cyprian took a deep breath. “Lord Gideon knows that Mr. Harry has been buying and reading radical polemics of the most treasonous sort. That he received expensive trinkets from a wealthy lover when he was supposed to be courting Miss Verona. That he intends to assist Miss Verona in defying him—”

“Wait. How does Lord Gideon know, and where do you have all this from?”

“His housemaid is in my pay.” Cyprian made that outrageous statement without the slightest embarrassment. “She has seen Ballard there more than once. And Lord Gideon pays his salary, of course. I believe Ballard reports to him.”

Something Richard had told him clicked into place. Gideon’s suspicion that Harry had a wealthy lover, coming on the heels of his gift of the lapis pin. “If Harry received a lover’s token, would he tell his valet so? Damn it, of course he would.” With that irrepressible smile, no doubt, unable to conceal his pleasure.

“Mr. Harry is very frank with the servants, sir,” Cyprian said. “It’s quite upset Lord Richard’s household.”

“Lord Gideon. He is obsessed with his name. He has a half-blood grandson who is defying him and helping his granddaughter do so as well. He fears Harry is to be prosecuted for anything from sedition to murder. And he can’t disown him. The grandson who is everything he hates, and he has no way to get rid of him—”

“Except one,” Cyprian finished.

“But no, wait. Lord Gideon sent Harry a letter, just today— Oh
shit.
It was bait.” Julius lunged for his boots.

“And Ballard’s vanished.” Cyprian dropped to his knees to help with the damned stupid too-tight boots, since Julius seemed to be all thumbs. “He left Albemarle Street without notice earlier this evening.”

Julius shrugged into his greatcoat and clapped on a hat at random. He had no time to load pistols, and he’d dropped his cavalry sabre over the side of the troop ship as he returned from the wars. He did have a swordstick, though, a gift from his brother on their twenty-fifth birthday, and he seized it now.

“I told Lord Richard my suspicions, sir,” Cyprian went on as he readied himself. “He has gone to Lord Gideon’s home, to watch over Miss Verona. Lord Richard will not allow harm to come to anyone. If Mr. Harry takes a chair from Albemarle Street, he should arrive there safely—”

“But he never does take a chair,” Julius said. “He’ll walk. And I don’t feel the streets are healthy tonight.”

“Nor do I,” Cyprian said. “We should hurry.”

“Which way will he have gone from Albemarle Street?” Cyprian asked as they headed through the fog of the streets, toward the broad expanse of Piccadilly. They would have to make a choice as to their course there. “Up Bond Street and via Clifford Street? Or Burlington Gardens and Saville Street?”

Julius ran through the topography in his mind. There were too many choices. “Curse it. Are you armed?”

“I have a pistol.”

Of course he did. “Good. Bond Street has to be safe enough, it’s well lit and there’s a Watch post.” For what that was worth. “You go up there, take Clifford Street. Go down and up Cork Street and Old Burlington Street. I’ll take Sackville Street, check Burlington Gardens, then double back up Saville Street toward Lord Gideon’s home. If we can’t find him on the streets we’ll meet there. Raise hell if you see any trouble.” Not that noise would carry in this muffling fog. Proof of that came at once as they both hurried over the road, and a hackney loomed out of the murk without warning. Julius cursed, darted around it, and ran for Sackville Street, leaving his redheaded companion to take the larger road to the left. It was some time since he had run—a matter of years rather than months, in fact—and the wet chill of the fog curled around his lungs as he inhaled sharply.

Well, you wanted a Gothic evening,
he told himself as he raced up Sackville Street, not troubling to look at faces. Harry wouldn’t be on this street, but he might conceivably have cut along Burlington Gardens, to shave a few minutes off the walk. If he had not, it would delay Julius badly to check and double back, but it was a detour he had no choice but to make.

Was this a fool’s errand? Part of him insisted it had to be. Gentlemen did not have their grandsons assassinated. But there was no questioning the old man’s obsession, or his ruthlessness, and he’d been backed into a corner, desperate to rid himself of an unwanted young man who brought him nothing but shame.

“God rot the bloody Vanes but one,” Julius said aloud as he hurried down Vigo Lane. His breath sent tendrils of fog curling ahead of him, like the exhalations of a dragon.

Then he was on Burlington Gardens. The light of the gas lamps seemed to be clogged and obstructed by the fog, so that they were wrapped in gauzy yellow halos, no use in negotiating the slippery cobbles underfoot. The street wasn’t particularly wide, but in this damned murk he could barely see across it, let alone down it. To his right, elegant townhouses were a pale, looming presence. To his left was the high wall that bounded Burlington House’s magnificent gardens, its imposing bulk intensifying the gloom.

“Harry!” he bellowed, despite his aching lungs. “Harry!” His voice rang weirdly flat.

Nothing. He hurried round the curve of the wall, straining to see through the murk, and heard the sound of scuffling, and a grunt.

He didn’t shout then. He ran.

Harry had been regretting not taking a chair. He much preferred to walk, but it was damned foggy, and so cold that it froze the marrow of a man’s bones. Still, the effects of last night’s drinking and this afternoon’s lovemaking had left his eyelids sagging. He needed to wake up, to be at his best and brightest for Gideon. If the old man wanted reconciliation, he should see that his grandson had taken pains.

That had been made more difficult by the absence of his valet. He hadn’t left himself much time to dress as it was, and he’d rung three times, with increasing irritation, before a footman had appeared to inform him apologetically that Mr. Ballard could not be found. He did his best to help Harry with a rapid toilette, demonstrating a keen and intelligent interest that suggested his professional ambitions lay in that direction. Harry made a mental note to mention it to Cyprian. He did think his cousin’s valet might have volunteered his own skills under the circumstances, but doubtless he was too high in the instep to serve anyone but his master.

He went up Old Bond Street, because it was well lit and had a few walkers even in the fog. He could have taken the broad road all the way up to the Clifford Street turning, but as he walked by Burlington Gardens, a link boy saluted him.

“Light yer way, sir? Please, mister,” the boy added as he hesitated. “Freezing my bones, I am, and nobody out tonight. I ain’t earned my supper yet. Go on, guvnor, I’ll get yer there.”

It would be slightly quicker to go up Burlington Gardens and Old Burlington Street, and a few minutes meant a great deal to a man wearing knee breeches and silk stockings in this cold. Harry was already losing sensation in his toes. And he had an excellent top coat, unlike the ragged boy.