A Suitable Replacement (8 page)

"Uh—" Kelcey stared hard at his filet, fingers clenching his fork. "I have no traditional employment, though I do work for a living."

"What manner of employment is untraditional?" Max set his own fork aside when Kelcey did not reply. "Come now, sir, you cannot leave me adrift after a taunting bit of information like that."

"I—" Kelcey looked away, fussed with his silverware briefly, before firmly drawing his hands back and looking up, chin lifting. "I told you I learned to be quiet because of school, but that was not entirely true. I apparently inherited the family affinity for violence and sneaking around—"

"What!" Max nearly dropped the wine glass he had just picked up.

"Not like that," Kelcey added hastily, alarm overtaking his expression. "I mean—I'm quiet, and large, and a fair hand in a fight. I—I am infrequently hired as special protection for valuables and such. Discreetly, of course. I pass quite well as a gentleman, so people do not realize that I am safeguarding the valuables they seek to steal. Most often I escort jewels, documents, artwork, other such things the wealthy put so much stock in."

Max laughed. "So for all that you have the look of a dashing highwayman, in reality you guard against the brigands."

His laughter died when Kelcey looked as though he had been slapped. "I don't—do I really look like such a terrible—"

"No!" Max pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing for the hundredth time since meeting Kelcey that he could bash his own head in. "Sir, I have never encountered a highwayman in my life, for which I am deeply grateful. I refer only to
stories
, the outlandish tales with the sort of not-really terrible brigands who sweep lords and ladies away for rav—" He broke off and covered his eyes with one hand, wondering if he could will himself to
die.
Drawing a deep breath, he let his hand fall away, but could not quite make himself lift his eyes as he said, "I obviously do not spend enough time around people, to be so crass and clumsy in everything I say. I am not normally quite this awful, sir, I beg your pardon."

To his surprise, Kelcey laughed. "I do not think anyone has ever described me as a ravishing highwayman before."

Max really did want to cut out his own tongue sometimes. "I—it is only that you are very dramatic, and stand out, and move with that damnable silence. I meant … I would never mean to imply anything untoward about you." He would never admit he wanted to drag Kelcey up to bed and ravish him thoroughly. That he wanted to offer himself in his sister's place with reckless abandon.

The silence stretched on, but Max could think of no way to recover the easy chatter and move the conversation forward. He had just admitted he found Kelcey attractive, hadn't he? And Kelcey had laughed it off. Max wanted to slink back up to his laboratory and pretend the whole evening had never happened.

"Sadly," Kelcey finally said, "real highwaymen are little more than desperate persons acting under desperate circumstances, and they most often hurt people by accident rather than on purpose. My job is not always easy, but it's not as dangerous as it is made out to be."

"I cannot imagine facing scoundrels like those men you saved me from every day."

Kelcey laughed softly, and Max finally dragged his gaze up again, though he could only maintain eye contact for a moment. "It is not every day. It is not even most days. I have many years of experience dealing with such persons, so when it does happen on the odd occasion I am better prepared than most."

Max frowned. "Many years? But you are a few years younger than I, certainly, and I am only thirty-three years of age."

"Twenty-seven. Old enough to have many years of experience with violence to my name. Most people, upon knowing who I am, do not invite me to join them for dinner. I was dragged from my home when I was only ten and told my parents had been killed and my aunt and uncle were to be hanged, and what did I know about all they had done? It never much improved, and I learned to tread quietly, aim true, and hit hard."

"I'm sorry," Max said quietly, feeling abruptly lost and inadequate. "It sounds like you've been treated unfairly your entire life, and my sister and I have done little to alter that pattern."

Kelcey's mouth quirked up in a wry smile that might have been endearing save for the tightness around his eyes. "The patterns of my life are not for you to be troubled by, my lord. As I have said on many an occasion, it is not the breaking of the engagement that troubles me. We were—are—friends. I was only ever hurt that she seemed to forget that. I would have helped her if she had spoken to me. Instead she ran away and left me floundering in the dark, as though she did not trust me. That is her prerogative, of course, but it hurt all the same."

"I think she panicked and did not which way was up, and felt foolish and afraid. They are not emotions she has suffered often, so when she does suffer them she flounders about in the dark herself. She is also protective, and probably tried to do what she felt was best," Max replied, heart hammering. Kelcey was right:  he
had
said that very thing several times before. Max had never really heard it, however, and he did not know what to do now he had registered the words.

The door opened, making him jump and nearly knock his wine over, and he kept his eyes on the table as the servants took away their plates and replaced them with glasses of some frothy, creamy punch Max did not recognize but definitely wanted more of. "What is this?"

Kelcey looked at him as though he were mad, but then his expression cleared with a boyish smile. "That's right, you've been away. They call it dream punch, and I still could not tell you the precise contents. The recipe changes slightly with every household. But brandy, something called coconut? Cream, various spices. I've only had it a few times before, at dinner parties I accompanied Mavin to."

"Well, I can promise you it will always be here now my staff has made the mistake of giving it to me," Max replied, draining his glass and pouring more from the pitcher left on the table. After the gin and three glasses of wine, he should not be imbibing further, but nervousness and embarrassment were easier to bear when dulled by alcohol. "You are always welcome to come over and indulge."

Kelcey coughed abruptly into his drink, caused it to splash all over his hand and the table as he hastily set his cup aside and turned his head to finish out his coughing fit. After a few minutes he turned back and retrieved his napkin to wipe his mouth, then took a cautious sip of his drink. "I beg pardon, my lord."

Max shook his head, dismissing the apology, wondering what had provoked the fit. "Are you well?"

"F-fine," Kelcey said. "I appreciate your kind offer." He cleared his throat and mopped up the mess on his hand and the cup, then resumed drinking with a cautious sip. "I think I will soon be too busy working, however. All the time I've spent with your sister, I have been putting work aside. Long past time I resumed it."

"I am sorry if she—we—have caused you problems in that regard," Max replied. "She is quite a bit on the demanding side. I bet life was much quieter before Mavin."

Kelcey shrugged as he drained his glass and helped himself to more punch. "I enjoyed the noise. Before I met Mavin, I spent most of my time reading. Sometimes I would try to attend various social functions, but that seldom went well. Currently, I am trying to get in to tour the Royal Museum of Martial History, but …" He shrugged again and drained half his freshly-refilled glass.

"What is so difficult about going to the museum? I've been there any number of times, as there are many resources there pertaining to my study, and I've given a few lectures …" He trailed off as Kelcey removed the cufflinks of his left sleeve and pushed it up to reveal the small tattoo inked up a little ways past his wrist.

A traitor brand, a black shield emblazoned with a red 'X'. All those so marked were not permitted on royal grounds without permission or approved escort. "You're allowed to go to the royal theatre, but not the bloody museums?"

"Your sister got me permanent permission for the theatre because it is some distance from the rest of the royal grounds and had only fallen under the crown in the last seven years." His face twisted, etched deep with lines of bitter anger, and Max winced inwardly, willing to wager that it was a permission Kelcey had never been able to obtain for himself.

Max traced his fingers along the rim of his glass. "Well—uh—I am not good for much, but I can probably secure the museum permissions for you. It's stupid they did that. You were a bloody child!"

Kelcey's mouth quirked again and he drained his glass. "It does not help that I wound up in the mode of employment I did."

"That should have nothing to do with it," Max said, slamming his empty cup on the table. "You were a child. Your family is dead. What more could they possibly fucking want before they are appeased? That sort of—of gross stupidity and casual cruelty is exactly the reason we never got on with my parents. You're not a bloody criminal; you should not be treated as one." He glared at his cup before surrendering to impulse and refilling it, but was only moderately soothed by the rich punch.

The door opened once more, and servants ghosted in to take away the remains of the punch and replace it with Max's favorite bread pudding and cups of whiskey-laced coffee. More alcohol. Max was one hundred percent certain he was going to say or do something incredibly stupid but could not be bothered to care any longer. His head was floating, his body was slightly too-warm, and his earlier humiliation had become a distant thrum he could ignore until he was sober. The dim lighting gave everything a dreamy quality, Kelcey was beautiful, and it was so easy to believe for a moment that it was an ordinary night in their household, enjoying a good meal together before they retired to enjoy themselves in an entirely different way.

Max licked his lips and dug into the bread pudding, moaning softly at the sweet taste, the crisp top and soft underside, laced with cream and whiskey that meshed perfectly with the dark, potent coffee.

By the time they finished and everything was taken away, his head was so heavy and floating with booze he wanted to fall asleep right there at the table. He pushed his chair back and stood up—and nearly fell right over face first into the table. Laughing, probably too loudly but beyond caring, he fumbled his way from the table and toward the door.

A hand curled around his upper arm, and Max huffed another laugh as he was drawn back and steadied. "Careful," Kelcey murmured. His fingers slowly uncurled from Max's arm, leaving him momentarily bereft, but then it landed just below his neck and slid down to the small of his back to guide him gently forward.

Slowly they made their way back to the study. Max briefly pondered the safety of his desk but in the end eschewed it in favor of taking one of the chairs by the window. Kelcey opted to sit on the small sofa, and only the fact he would make an idiot of himself kept Max from moving to sit beside him.

More alcohol, he definitely required more alcohol. Standing, Max walked-stumbled to the bar and poured two glasses of gin.

Part of his brain kept trying to remind him of all the reasons he was going to regret getting drunk—and drinking so many different kinds of alcohol in one night—but the rest of him did not give a damn. He wanted to drink and pine, and to hell with anyone who tried to stop him.

"What?" Kelcey asked.

"Nothing," Max said. "Talking to myself. I tend to do that when …" He finished the sentence with a shrug and handed over the gin before sitting down next to Kelcey on the sofa. "Well, when I drink, but honestly I do it when I'm alone, drunk or not."

Kelcey chuckled. "That does not surprise me, somehow. I caught Lady Mavin doing that more than once."

Max frowned at his drink. Why must Kelcey always bring up Mavin?

"Are you—are you pouting?" Kelcey asked.

He could feel his face growing hot, and took a hasty swallow of gin. "No. Absolutely not. I'm a scientist; I do not
pout
."

Kelcey stared at him, then broke into one of those grins that made Max want to punch his stupid face because he could not kiss him senseless. He leaned forward to do precisely that, caught himself only when Kelcey reared back. Hastily discarding his glass, Kelcey stood. "I-I should go."

"What?" Max stood, still clutching his own glass. "You don't—"

But Kelcey was already gone, the closing of the study door painfully, humiliatingly loud.

"Have to go," Max finished uselessly, and drained his gin, discarding the glass on the couch before ambling over to snatch up Kelcey's glass and finish that off as well. "You could stay. You could see if I might be a suitable replacement." He threw the glass across the room toward the empty fireplace, enjoying the sound of glass shattering-scraping against stone.

He loved his sister more than life, but there were still days where he hated her—and that wasn't fair, because he knew really he just hated himself for not being as bright and alive as her. For never being good enough, even as a fucking replacement.

And it was long past time he went to bed.

Chapter Five

The worst part of getting stupidly drunk was that he spent most of the following day recovering from it, which meant by the time Max was feeling more like himself, the theatre loomed over him like a sharp blade waiting to fall. If his stomach was not still roiling from the very thought of alcohol, he would enjoy a bracing drink or six before heading out.

As it was, he was going to have to endure the outing sober and hope he did not make a bigger fool of himself. He had been clearly, even kindly, refused. It was hardly the end of the world. They barely knew each other, after all, and he had been refused before. It had not yet killed him. He would grit his teeth through the awkwardness and wait until all smoothed out again, and perhaps they could still be friends.

Sighing, Max finished dressing for the theatre, completing his formal black and silver attire with a diamond set Mavin had bought him years ago. As ready as he would ever be, he looked in the mirror just long enough to ascertain he was respectable and all was in place, then scooped up the book he had picked out as an apology gift.