A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (25 page)

“Very well, then. To New Burlington Street.”

They headed down Burlington Gardens, the boy leading them to the wall side. It made little difference, given the foggy darkness, but Harry’s city senses still twitched. “Let’s walk on the other side.”

“Oh, sir, it’s filthy,” said the boy. “Mud all over. Ruin your nice shoes.”

“The other side has a good pavement,” Harry pointed out.

“Nah, honestly, sir. Let’s stick to this side.”

Instincts honed in Bonaparte’s Paris flared into life. “The other side,” Harry told him. “Cross now.”

“Now, listen, Mr. Vane,” said the boy loudly, and Harry bolted. He got only a few paces, colliding with a figure that loomed out of the filthy mist, but it meant that the cudgel that came down behind him swished harmlessly through the air instead of breaking his skull.

Two, you can take two,
noted the part of his brain that had kept him alive through long dark years, and he brought up his knee into the first assailant’s crown jewels while planting both fists into the fellow’s belly. But even as his attacker doubled over, grunting in a most satisfactory way, there was a thud, a bewildering impact, and then a sharp pain up his right arm that sent weakness rushing though him. He stumbled backward, and felt someone grab him from behind.

Ah, no, there are three,
his street-fighting brain informed him.
You’re dead.

The man in front raised his cudgel. The link boy had dropped his torch as he fled, and the flames from the ground cast a hellish glare up the great dark form. He loomed over Harry like retribution for one terrifying second, then gave a high-pitched scream and fell over backward, as though his knees had collapsed. There was a solid thud of impact, as of a kick to a head.

And then a shape, dodging round the two fallen bullies, and a voice as impossible and desperately desired as his mother by his bedside during illness. “Harry!”

“Julius!” Harry gave a gasp of relief that turned to a hiccup as cold metal scraped against the underside of his chin, as close to his throat as his high collar and cravat allowed, and the grip on his injured arm tightened in a way that sent a rush of nausea through him.

“Don’t come near!” shouted his assailant. His voice sounded frightened, angry, and familiar.

Julius stopped, rapier glittering in the madly jumping light of the flames, facing Harry as he stood with a knife to his neck. He could feel the man behind him breathing hard.

“Ballard, I assume,” Julius said. “Drop the knife.”

“Drop the sword,” Ballard retorted, breath hot on Harry’s ear.

Julius turned his wrist. The blade’s angles caught the firelight as it twisted, but it was lethally steady. “No.”

“If you come near I’ll kill him!” shouted Ballard into the fog.

“And you will be caught, and you will hang.” Julius’s voice made the freezing fog feel like a warm blanket, it was so remote and inhuman. “I want your master.”

“Behind!” Harry shouted. He could see the shape rising behind his lover: the man he’d punched in the balls, staggering to his feet. Julius spun and lunged, whip-fast. His victim screamed; Julius pulled back the blade and lunged again, swift and merciless.

“The next one goes through your heart. Run now,” he suggested, and turned back to Harry as the bully lurched back, wailing low, hand to his slashed face. The rapier gleamed red in the firelight. “I said I want your master, Ballard.”

The rogue valet had used Julius’s momentary distraction to tighten his grip on Harry’s arm, fingers digging in. “Then do what I say or I’ll kill him!”

“Not Harry. Your real master.”

Silence, except for the scrabbling of the two wounded bravos in retreat. Clearly Ballard hadn’t paid them enough for this, and Harry couldn’t blame them, with Julius radiating lethal intent.

“I know who you’re working for,” Julius said. “And so, interestingly, does Mr. Cyprian.”

Ballard made an explosive noise. The knife scraped against Harry’s skin.

“Yes, he is trying,” Julius agreed. “Cyprian
knows
. Lord Richard knows. The game is up. Your master can’t protect you and you can’t protect him. You can, however, protect yourself. Drop the knife.”

“No,” Ballard said thickly. “I tell you what. He’ll come with me—” The blade dug harder against Harry’s chin. “—And you’ll send me money. A thousand pounds. Then I’ll let him go and you won’t follow me.”

“Or I could just shoot you,” suggested a smooth voice from behind Harry. Ballard’s hand jerked in shock and Harry let out a gasp as the knife seared his skin.

Cyprian. Of course Richard’s valet was here with a pistol. Of course he’d come from nowhere, he moved like a cat in slippers. The blood pounded in Harry’s head and arm and throat.

“The thing is, Ballard,” Cyprian said, “Lord Richard doesn’t want me to kill you. But
I
think it would be better for him if you were dead.”

Seconds ticked by. Harry stood, a hot line of pain on his neck. Beneath it, his cravat felt warm and wet. Ballard’s chest heaved behind him. He would be calculating the odds, no doubt, and finding them poor. There was no quiver to Julius’s sword point, and there had been no compunction in Cyprian’s voice.

“Hell,” Ballard said at last, sagging in defeat, and moved the knife away.

Harry put his good elbow backward into the man’s stomach with as much force as he could muster, before ducking and spinning away, out of his grip. There was the rattle of metal on cobbles as Julius dropped his rapier, and then he was on Ballard, landing a savage punch that sent the man staggering backward. Cyprian hopped out of the way and Julius and Ballard crashed to the ground together.

“Mr. Harry.” Cyprian picked up the torch and turned it to get the pitch burning evenly. He kept the pistol up in his other hand, pointing toward Ballard. “Are you hurt?”

“My arm. It’s all right.” It was not; he rather feared it was broken, but now was not the time. “Where did you spring from? What’s happening? Who is Ballard’s master?” He glanced down to where his lover was landing another vicious blow on his erstwhile valet’s face. “Were you really going to shoot him?”

“No, sir. Lord Richard would be displeased.”

“Oh. Good.” Harry looked at the melee on the ground, where Julius was laying into Ballard as though he were ranged against Napoleon’s forces once more. “We should stop that before Julius kills him, shouldn’t we?”

“As you prefer, Mr. Harry,” said Cyprian. “Mr. Norreys? We do need him to walk.”

Julius let Ballard’s head drop onto the cobblestones and rose. His lip was bleeding.

“Julius,” Harry whispered, and very nearly fell into his arms. Cyprian moved away, discreet as ever, taking the pool of torchlight with him, and Harry held on to his lover, feeling the quivers of reaction running through his strong slim body, knowing that he was shaking too. “God. Thank you. I thought I was going to die.”

Julius’s mouth met his in the dark, careful and tender. Harry could taste his blood. “So did I. Good God, I was afraid.”

“You didn’t look afraid.”

“I thought I might have lost you.” Julius’s arms were almost painfully tight round his ribs. “I don’t think I could bear that again.”

“I’m here. I’m safe.” Harry attempted a laugh but it didn’t sound quite right. “And I love you, but I’m so cold and it
hurts.
”

“Yes.” Julius released him. “We’ll get you back to Richard’s and then I am going to go tear your filthy grandfather limb from limb.”

“Gideon? Why?”

“A long story,” Julius said grimly. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

Their arrival at Albemarle Street provided the final proof, were any needed, of Richard’s command of his household. Harry saw them all in the big mirror as they tumbled in. Himself, dressed as for Almack’s, face fishbelly white, and with his snowy cravat stained scarlet with his own blood. Julius by him, lip split, absurdly clad in a silk banyan embroidered with tropical birds, and with the knuckles of his perfectly manicured hands a mess of blood and bruising. Cyprian, his dark green livery making his garish hair look even brighter, holding a pistol on his battered, defeated fellow valet.

There was one moment of total silence as the butler and a row of footmen stared. Then the butler cleared his throat.

“Do you have Lord Richard’s orders, Mr. Cyprian?”

“A doctor for Mr. Harry, please. And two men to restrain Ballard. Tie him to something. Be careful; he’s a murderer.”

Glances flickered among the staff, but there was not a murmur, although Harry saw a certain enthusiasm in the faces of the footmen who stepped forward to take Ballard. Perhaps he had not been popular.

“Should I send to Bow Street?” suggested the butler.

“Only on Lord Richard’s order, please. Is he returned?”

“Not yet. Very well, Mr. Cyprian.” Butler and valet exchanged bows; the butler swept away majestically; and that was, it seemed, that.

Several of Richard’s staff escorted Harry into the comfortable drawing room, brought warm water and brandy for the shock, cut the coat off his painfully swollen arm, removed his cravat, and applied plaster to the cut under his chin. A doctor appeared with remarkable rapidity, pronounced his arm unbroken but the muscle torn, strapped it up, and vanished again. Julius and Cyprian had disappeared, so there was nobody to talk to. It was all, in fact, quite under control. He was cold, though, despite the fire. Cold and very tired, though his head felt hot. Harry found his eyelids lolling.

“Harry, dear boy.” Richard’s deep voice brought him back to wakefulness. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Harry!” Verona sank to her knees by the chair in a flurry of skirts. Her face was pale and her eyes red with tears. “Oh, dear heaven.” She clutched his free hand. Her own were very cold.

“Vee?” He struggled to sit up, and felt a cool hand on his shoulder. Julius, standing by him. “I’m all right, I promise you. There’s no need to cry.”

“There is.” Her fingers dug into his palm. “Oh God, oh God.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Harry, but Gideon is dead,” Richard said from behind her.

“What? How?”

“Well, Cyprian and I went over to advise Richard of the events of the night,” Julius said, “and your grandfather excused himself, went into his study, and blew his brains out. No, Richard, I will not dress it up to protect anyone’s sensibilities. He tried to have Harry murdered.”

“He hated you,” Verona whispered. “While we were waiting for you, for dinner, he began to talk about you, and your mother, and father— It was awful. Harry, I don’t think he was quite sane.”

“No, really?” Julius’s tone dripped restraint.

“And thank God Richard came, because I was frightened. And then we waited and waited, and it was eight o’clock, and Grandfather said,
He’s late,
with the most ghastly smile of satisfaction, and I swear I
knew.
” She clutched at his hand.

“That was the moment that I too decided Cyprian’s intuition had been correct,” Richard said. “I have rarely seen such a malevolent expression on a human face.”

“And then Mr. Norreys arrived. He walked in and said that you were safe and your valet was secured, and Grandfather simply…crumpled.”

“I don’t know what possessed him to order a murder—” Richard began.

“He was a tyrannical monomaniac,” Julius suggested helpfully.

“—But I believe the realization of what he had done came upon him. I think he must have felt remorse, Harry.”

“For me?” Harry said. “For George?”

“In any case, he went into his study, and…we heard a shot.”

They’d doubtless guessed the old man’s intention to take the quicker way out. God forfend the family name should be disgraced. “What about Ballard?” Harry demanded. “Will he be prosecuted?”

“I’d be very happy to testify,” Julius said. “If that’s what you want, Harry. It’s another scandal around your neck, though.”

“I don’t care about scandal. If he murdered George, he should hang.”

“It will be hard to prove, with Gideon dead,” Richard pointed out. “It might be better to handle this privately, but we’ll talk tomorrow. Verona is shocked, you look dreadful, and there will, I fear, be a great deal to be tidied up.”

Harry missed the tidying up. His weeks of high living and wracked nerves, his bruised arm, and the night’s shock all combined to lead into a high fever, which kept him confined to bed with no more thought than his own misery. He was racked by aches and chills, and worst of all, dreams. Ballard stood behind him offering a cravat which turned to a razor as Harry put it to his own neck. Gideon capered hideously, like a wizened goblin, laughing at him with a lipless mouth. Julius stood at the foot of the bed gazing coldly down, and his mirror image stood next to him and said,
Give me back my pin,
in Julius’s voice.

He found out afterward that he was feverish for more than a week. It seemed an eternity to live through, thrashing in sheets that were either too hot or too cold, but it broke at last. Harry slept for another solid day afterward, and woke demanding bacon and eggs. He was given soup instead, ate two bowlfuls, slept again, and woke to find Julius sitting by his bedside, reading.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Julius carefully marked his page. “And at a most exciting juncture in my book too. The hero and his creature have ventured into the wilderness together, leaving humanity behind.”

“What?”

Julius took his hand and leaned over to look into his eyes. “Dear heart, if you will do me a service, don’t fall ill like that again. I was really quite distressed.” His fingers tangled with Harry’s. “You frightened me.”

“Sorry,” Harry rasped.

“Here. Lemonade, which is, apparently, the correct beverage for your condition.” Julius poured him a cup from a jug that stood by the bed. “Adding insult to injury, in my view, but one cannot argue with Richard’s nurses. How are you, dear one?”

“Better.” The lemonade was delicious. “Hungry.”

“Yes, so I heard. You’ll have some weight to make up if your clothes are to fit. Harry, my sweet, I have news you must hear.”

“Oh God. What now?”

“Well, Gideon’s death was ruled an accident by an extremely pliable coroner,” Julius began. “The Vane reach is admirable. That averted disgrace, and meant that his possessions were not forfeit to the Crown. However, when his will was read, it transpired that he had not changed its terms since your discovery. He left everything to your cousin Verona. I’m sorry.”

Harry gulped lemonade, steadying himself. “Well, he wanted me dead. He’d hardly leave me a fortune.”

“Indeed. Armed with this news, Miss Vane was advanced a large sum on her inheritance from Gideon, which she promptly used to elope with Sergeant Rawling. It seems
someone
had provided her with the funds to purchase a marriage license some days earlier and she seized her opportunity.”

“Ha!” Harry gave a weak whoop, and clutched his head. “Ouch.”

“I cannot tell you, dear boy, how many cats have been put among the Vane pigeons by this. Lady Cirencester was heard to speak in a raised voice.”

“Is Verona all right?”

“She has become extraordinarily rich,” Julius said. “Of course she’s all right. The marriage has been represented as private due to her many bereavements.”

“Including Gideon.” Harry frowned. “What about Ballard? Has he faced his trial?”

“No, nor will he. No, be quiet. I understand your feelings very well, but the fact is, to have him plead in open court that he was set to murder one Vane by another, and mistook you for your radical colleague in a seditionist bookshop recently raided by the Home Office…You must see that Cirencester wouldn’t have it.”

“Cirencester doesn’t make the law.”

Julius shrugged. “Ballard has been…removed, and I am assured that he will not be back. More than that I cannot say. Don’t argue, Harry. Your attack, illness, and bereavement came at the perfect time. A number of ladies seem to have gained the impression that you have been suffering brain fever brought on by distress, and have spoken vocally of the cruelty of punishing you further for the sins of your father. Lady Beaufort was heard to declare,
Not prosecution but persecution,
which has been generally thought rather neat. Lord Maltravers found himself disinclined to hold an engagement ball where half the ladies in attendance would be looking daggers at him, and Dominic reports that Skelton has pulled in his horns accordingly. Nobody will prosecute you, Harry. That’s over.”

Harry sagged against the pillows. “And Silas?”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Julius said with resignation. “The damned bookshop is open, Dominic’s lips are closed, I know no more, and you’re not going to go looking.”

Harry wanted to argue but his throat hurt. He took another gulp of lemonade.

Julius gave him a moment, then asked, softly, “How are you? Disappointed?”

“Oh, well.” Harry tightened his grip on Julius’s hand. “It was wonderful fun, you know, being a gentleman. Some of it, at least. I don’t suppose I could have expected it to last.”

“You’re a Vane,” Julius said with sudden savagery. “Alexander Vane’s son. Yes, you could have expected to be treated as befits your birth.”

“I have been,” Harry said. “I’m my mother’s son too. It’s all right, Julius, really. I don’t need to be rich. I suppose the Vanes are very angry, but Silas will have me back, and I could always try my mother’s family if all else fails. Only…” He ventured a smile, looking into Julius’s strained eyes. “Might you have time to spare for a not-quite gentleman of no means?”

“Oh, damn you.” Julius leaned over the bed, sliding a careful arm around Harry’s shoulders, till they were forehead to forehead. “You’re not going to be of no means, you wretch. You know I’ve enough for us both.”

“Not to live as you do. Not to be the height of fashion.”

“Did that; got bored,” said Julius with decisive concision. “Harry, listen to me. I lost half of myself when Marcus died. I find myself whole again because of you. Because you showed me what it was to be happy, when you had reason enough to be as lost in self-pity as I. Because you loved me when there was little enough to love. Because you’re joyful.” He gave Harry a wry smile. “I called you Galatea. I thought I was the sculptor bringing cold stone to life, but I very much suspect I had it the wrong way round. Simple as this, Harry: While you will have me, I am yours, and if you intend to let a trifling matter of money impede that, you’re an idiot.”

“Do you know,” Harry said, feeling rather breathless, “most people don’t call their lovers idiots when making a declaration.”

“Perhaps there would be less idiocy if they did. It occurred to me that you might wish to recuperate in the countryside. A long convalescence, somewhere with good riding, perhaps. Richard has properties all over England. We might borrow somewhere until such time as we decide what to do. I don’t honestly know what that will be, but you’re not going back.” He gripped Harry’s shoulder more tightly. “I have had my fill of seeing you in danger. You are not going back to the stews and the radicals. You are staying with me, and that is all there is to it.”

“You said
while I will have you
a moment ago,” Harry pointed out, unable to hold back his smile at the warmth in Julius’s eyes. “Presumably I have a choice in the matter?”

“No, you damned well don’t,” Julius said, and pulled him over for a kiss.

Harry was back on his feet a few days later. He and Richard were discussing his future, which seemed very likely to involve a certain amount of hard work, over kippers when there came a soft knock at the breakfast-room door.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Richard,” murmured the butler. “Sergeant and Mrs. Rawling have asked to be announced.”

Harry was on his feet at once, too fast for his head, which spun a little. He hurried into the drawing room, Richard at his heels, opened his arms, and received Verona, hurtling into an embrace with a force that sent him lurching back against Richard’s powerful chest.

“Steady,” he gasped, holding her away. “My goodness, Vee, you look well.” She did, in a very dashing bonnet, her eyes sparkling and face pink. Marriage definitely agreed with her. Harry held out a hand to the large man who stood behind her. “Sergeant. Congratulations, with all my heart.”

Rawling shook his hand with enthusiasm. “Thank you, Mr. Vane. I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Not in the slightest. It was a very understandable mistake.” Harry grinned at him, and Rawling smiled back. If it had not been for the scar, he would have been a pleasant-looking fellow enough. But one could hardly blame a man for scars from Waterloo.

“Sergeant Rawling.” Richard moved forward. Rawling straightened, obviously expecting hostility. Richard’s glance flicked over him, Verona, Harry. “I cannot approve your way of going about things, but I don’t suppose you felt you had a choice.”

“No, my lord.”

“What’s done is done.” Richard extended his hand. “Treat my cousin well, sir.”

“I shall.”

“Of course he does.” Verona tugged at Harry’s sleeve. “Sit down, Harry, you look terribly pale still. I won’t keep you long till you’re better, but listen. You know about Grandfather’s will?”

“Of course.”

“The lawyers have agreed that my period of guardianship is over and I should have my own inheritance too, from Father. They were very quick. I think that was Lady Cirencester, you know, she is quite wonderful. I engaged my own lawyer, on her recommendation. Because
a woman has the right to control her own fortune and decide her own future,
do you not agree?”

That was a direct quote from the
Battle-Cry.
“Of course I do.” Harry smiled at her.

“But do you?” Verona demanded. “Do you agree that, just as Grandfather had every right to leave his money to me, I have the right to spend it as I wish? Not be told what to do by male relatives?”