Discreet Young Gentleman (10 page)

Rob's face softened, grew tender as he disappeared into the story. "The other man seemed to be watching him—him, from out of all the others there. Once, they brushed against each other in the crowded ballroom, and Henry felt his knees grow weak at the touch. After that, it seemed they were playing a game: advance, retreat. The man in the green mask would be lost in the crowd for a quarter-hour, or more, and then Henry would feel the merest touch of a hand on his back, on his arm, and the man in green would be smiling at him below the mask, just out of reach again.

"The night went on, and the revelers danced, and the wine continued to flow. And the surreptitious touches grew bolder, the pursuit more heated. Finally, Henry couldn't stand it any longer. He waited until he was sure the other man was looking at him, then turned and went out onto the veranda. He stood there and waited, steadying his trembling arms against the balustrade. At last he felt the warmth of another body pressing up against him, a kiss on the back of his neck. Just as he started to lean back into the embrace, it was gone.

"Henry turned and saw the green-masked man walking swiftly away—not back into the ballroom, but down the stairs from the veranda to the street. He followed, having to run at first to keep up, and he said he always remembered how loud his breathing sounded in the dark, quiet streets. His quarry stopped at last, on the Rialto Bridge over the Grand Canal, stopped, and turned, and held out his hand. And they kissed there, at last, and Henry said it was the fourth most romantic moment of his entire life."

Rob paused for a moment, his eyes wistful. "I stood there with him, while he told me about it. Henry said Venice had changed, but the bridge was just as he remembered it. Anyway, that night—that night long ago, the stranger took Henry's hand, and they ran down the steps of the bridge together, and into the warren of streets. The streets twisted and turned about them, and then they went up some stairs to where the young Venetian had a room. They came together there, with their masks still on, explored and took and ravished each other for hours, until the dawn broke at last.

"And then, with the morning sun, they knew they had a choice. They could part, still anonymous, still masked, making what they'd shared a single instance of magic, a perfect moment to look back at their whole lives. Or they could take off their masks and see what they could build from it."

Rob was silent for a moment. "What would you have chosen?"

"The magic," Dean whispered, then cleared his throat. "It could only be disappointing. There could have been anything behind that mask. Crossed eyes, pimples, pockmarks." Freckles. "Maybe he snored, bit his nails, liked the wrong music. The magic was better."

"That's what they thought, too. They shared a last bittersweet kiss at the door to the room, and that was the third most romantic moment in Henry's life. And he walked down the stairs, and tried to find his way back through the tangle of streets to his lodging. He got lost, of course—everyone does in Venice, unless you live there, but at last found his way to a landmark he knew. The Rialto Bridge. He stood there, in the middle of the bridge, and dropped his mask down into the canal.

"And he almost cried, for the first time since he was a child, because he knew then he'd made a mistake. He would never be able to find the young man's room in the warren of streets, and they wouldn't recognize each other even if they did meet again.

Men don't cry, Henry told me. Englishmen don't. But he was about to, when he heard footsteps behind him on the bridge.

"He turned, and standing there holding a green feathered mask was the most beautiful young man he had ever seen in his life. And the man said, Il mio nome è

Roberto.'"

Dean looked out the window, at the grey waters of the Severn just to the west of the road. "Don't tell me: the first most romantic moment in your friend's life."

He could hear the smile in Rob's voice as he replied. "No, after much deliberation Henry ranked it second. He wouldn't tell me about the first, except that it happened shortly before Roberto died, some thirty years later."

"Thirty years." Dean shook his head. "Why did you tell me this?"

"Because you wanted to know how I could let someone like Henry touch me. Do you really think, after hearing his story, that I had difficulty going to bed with him?"

"Perhaps. But the others?"

"Everyone has a story. Whether they tell it to me or not, I know it's there. Henry gave me that gift, and it's in his honor that I named myself Robert, for his Roberto."

Dean looked at Rob at last. "That's not your name, either?"

The other man smiled. "Well, half of it is. But the point—"

"Half! Oh...Albert?"

"No."

"Herbert, then."

"Don't bother to guess," Rob said, his chin set resolutely. "I won't tell you."

"All right, then, tell me something else. Has it always been older men? Have you never been with anyone your own age?"

Rob relaxed, and was fully amused now. "Are you offering? I wouldn't say no to a fine-looking man like yourself."

"Oh, stop it," Dean said, wishing he could contain the color that suffused his face.

"I suppose you feel obligated to keep your flirting skills in practice, but I'm fully aware of what I am."

"Are you?" Rob said softly. "We started this conversation by talking of chains.

What of your own chains, my lord Carwick? You can't even see yourself through them."

He was six again, his mother painting his face with a sour-smelling buttermilk concoction. "If only you had your father's skin," she'd said, voice thick with distaste.

"If only we were both like your Aunt Margaret."

But perhaps freckles did have their appeal. When compared to liver spots.

Chapter Nine

Dean sat in the coach with the Quarterly on his lap, flipping pages to find the first new entry. Struggling to focus on the words despite the jostles of the road, he found his own previous account, from near the end of May. Such a shock to find out from the Quarterly that I'm an earl, it began dryly. Perhaps there are some occasions where a messenger could be put to good use— don 't you think, Uncle Jonas? But Jonas Smith, who lived nearest to Carwick and had thus been present when the former earl, Uncle Parmenius, had passed away, was not one to waste coin. Not when he was due to send out the Quarterly within a week or two anyway. Dean smiled to himself. His uncles were an eccentric lot, and doubtless the rest of them approved Jonas's frugality.

Except, perhaps, Uncle Godfredus, who rarely approved of anything. "My uncles," he said out loud, shaking his head. Rob let down the window shade, blocking the dust and the view of the gently undulating Cotswolds, and turned to face him. "Tell me about them."

"I'm not the storyteller you are," Dean said with a shrug. "I wouldn't know where to begin." "Well, first off: was the last earl really named Parmenius?" Dean grinned. "Oh, yes. My grandfather had ten sons, and—"

"Ran out of names?"

"Ha! Parmenius was second, after Aeneas. Then came my father, who was christened Erastus. He died first, before his older brothers, so he never held the title. It came to me because Uncles Parm and Aeneas never married. After Father come two sets of twins: Silenus and Silas, and Aloysius and Albertus. Then come Godfredus, Jonas, and Phineas. Except for the three eldest, they're all still alive."

"Silas and Jonas didn't get off so bad," Rob observed. "But what's wrong with other good English names like Francis, or Nicholas?"

"Chances are Grandfather knew men with those names. The man could keep a grudge. I never met him myself, but there's a reason my uncles ended up so reclusive."

"I'm sure your grandfather had a lot on his mind, with ten sons to provide for."

"There is that," Dean admitted, poking into the basket the serving girl at the Black Bear had provided them. Rob had eaten all the cherry tarts. He helped himself to a slice of ham pie before continuing. "Somehow, he managed to give them each a sufficient portion so they could live off the interest, if they were frugal. Which is why we end up with absurd economies like announcing the death of the head of the family in the Quarterly, instead of posting all those individual letters." He balanced the wide ledger on his knees, and, pie in one hand, flipped a page with the other. The coach wheel dipped into a rut, scattering crumbs over the Quarterly.

"Give it here," Rob ordered, hand outstretched. "I can read it to you while you eat, if you're not fearful of family secrets being revealed."

Dean, mouth full, waved his hand in approval.

"The first entry after yours is signed Silas," Rob said. "Does it always go in the same order?"

He nodded, swallowing. "Yes, it's meant to go by proximity, from one person to the next nearest. The order will change now that I've moved to Carwick, but I haven't stopped to figure it out yet."

"Makes sense. June 3, 1815 Weather continues warm. Holly put up strawberry jam; bit tart for my tastes. Didn't you mention Holly once?"

Dean nodded. "Uncle Silas's housekeeper. And bed warmer, if the rumors are true."

"The one who can't tell green from red?" "That's the one."

"She features more in the entry. Hollys demmed sister Ivy— ridiculous names—is visiting. Eaten her way steadily through half the potted shrimps we were saving for summer pic-nics. Nasty woman. Cat hates her—won't share the shrimps." Rob looked up, laughter twitching at his lips. "He's got a point, there. Any person disliked by cats is instantly suspect." He looked back down at the book. "Fine one to talk about names, too! Although Silas is certainly better than—" He bit off a word. "Er...Phineas, I suppose."

"You almost said your name, didn't you?" Dean leaned forward. "Come on, Bertie, spill. It can't be worse than my family's unfortunate nomenclature."

"How you got away so easily with 'Dean' amazes me."

Not a topic Dean wished to pursue. "What have I missed? Gilbert, Colbert, Lambert. Uh...Hubert."

"No to all four." Rob returned to the Quarterly. "Crops off to a good start. Sorry to hear about Parm. Fox got after the chickens again, might need a dog after all. Your Uncle Silas isn't what I'd call overly sentimental, is he?"

"None of them is. He's better than most of our family: at least he has Holly. Loners, the lot of us, who far prefer to keep in touch through that," Dean gestured at the Quarterly, "than get together in person. My father used to dump me from time to time on Silas when he went to buy music scores in Paris, but apart from that I mostly know my uncles only through their words."

"Hmm. One might imagine their wives would encourage them to be more social."

"Only two of them stirred themselves to marry, my father and Albertus. And for what it's worth, both wives left them." Dean flushed to realize what he'd just revealed.

Family secrets, indeed. He hurried on, hoping Rob wouldn't linger on the information.

"Aunt Emmeline managed six children while she was still with Uncle Albertus, including four boys, so should anything happen to me, my cousins have the title secure."

"I was so worried," Rob said dryly. "Not much more from Uncle Silas, unless you're interested in Holly's recipe for potted shrimps. Next is..." He turned the page.

"Ah, Albertus himself, with several pages of his offspring's news. The doings of your cousins should take us comfortably to luncheon. Will we make Bishops Norton?"

Dean peeked out the window shade, considered the position of the sun. "Yes, we'll dine there, and later perhaps stop to rest the horses in Gloucester. But if we do—I'm sorry, we absolutely cannot make time for the Cathedral."

Some time later, Dean lay on his back on the tower roof of Gloucester Cathedral, eyes closed, enervated by the comfortable weight of the late afternoon sun.

Intellectually, he knew that he had an important mission to accomplish, and that he had damned well best get back to it. But an August day like this one wasn't designed for hurry, and if he couldn't be on the bank of Little Stream at Carwick with a fishing pole in his hand, then drowsing two hundred-odd feet above Gloucester was a damned fine second. The sun was probably burning him pink, and sowing a whole new crop of freckles, but just now it was hard to care.

A finger poked him in the ribs. "A mere two hundred and sixty-nine steps," Rob said, "and you're tired?"

Dean opened one eye and glowered at his companion, who was lounging propped on one elbow next to him. "That curate—the young one who let us up here—he was flirting with you."

Rob smiled up at the cloudless sky. "Yes, he was."

"But he's a priest!"

"Church of England, not Catholic."

"That's supposed to make a difference?"

"Mmm," Rob said. They're not sworn to eternal celibacy."

"They're allowed to marry," Dean corrected. "But I'm sure they aren't supposed to have relations outside of marriage."

"For that matter, no one is. You're not a virgin yourself."

Dean stretched and resettled himself on his back. "Ah, but I'm Presbyterian. Since I'm not one of the Elect, I'm damned no matter what I do."

"Good," Rob said. "Get creative." He reached and re-tucked Dean's shirt, which had pulled free right above the hip, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Dean, skin tingling from the contact, reminded himself sternly that he had a fiancée, and a goal to accomplish. "Save it for your priest. And you know damned well that even if he can get married, he's not supposed to be looking at you that way."

"Ah, well. I imagine the religious life is a great temptation for men and women who enjoy their own sex. Close-knit communities of one's own kind, a certain amount of seclusion from the world—"

"Wait." Dean sat up straight. "Did you say 'men and women'? Women.. .with women?"

Rob laughed. "That's never occurred to you?"

"Well, no."

"Believe me, it happens. Easier to hide, too—no one turns a hair when two spinsters set up house together to save expense. And then, of course—"

Dean groaned. "Don't tell me: Discreet young gentlewoman sought as companion for mature widow. You know, Rob, I've lost