Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (16 page)

I’m going mad.

“I see Mrs. Driscoll. Let me have a word with her and see what people are saying.” Kat took Flor’s arm and, before Sam could object, glided them across the lobby and out of sight. Alone and with people watching him, Sam set a carefree look on his face and headed toward a footman carrying glasses of punch.

After taking one, and wishing he could have taken more, Sam claimed a pillar near the stairs and emptied half the glass in one draw. It was easy to feign an interest in the crowd while not looking at them at all. There was only one face that was going to catch his attention tonight.

John.
That he had given Sam leave, actually asked him, to call him by his first name gave him a rush of pleasure, just as it had at the ball. And thinking about the ball reminded him that he had had several opportunities to reveal his nature to John already. Every time he thought about it he felt a twist of guilt in his stomach. He was not sure why. It was his business, after all. He did not owe John such a confidence.

Lying to yourself too?

Sam did not wish to think about it. Instead, he thought about John. Why was John doing any of this social maneuvering for him? If anything, he would have thought John would be glad to see him leave town. Then again, Sam had also assumed that John would threaten him, then ignore him, and certainly never call him by his name as if they were friends. Sam had been wrong on every assumption he had made about John since the whole mess had started and, now that he thought on it, even before that.

He actually had to smile at how pleased he was to be so wrong, to find that Lord John Darnish was not only shockingly handsome but also kind and selfless. It had not been Sam’s experience that such qualities often mixed.

Sam cleared his thoughts and returned to the current situation, though he was still in the dark on what, exactly, the situation was. If only John would arrive and explain himself. So focused was Sam on finding John’s face in the crowd he did not consider whom else he might see. Until he spotted Richard heading toward him.

Not this.

Richard held a rolled musical score in one hand, which he tapped against his chest in lazy fashion. Richard had always been good at keeping up the facade.

“Avery,” Sam said first.

“You’re lucky you’re not laid out in a hearse on the way to your family vault as we speak.”

“The speaking would be difficult if I was in the hearse. And we’re all lucky to be alive every morning. What’s your point?” Sam snapped, forgetting his promise to stay calm.

“What if Jackson hadn’t been there to embarrass you out of a duel? What if your damn hotheadedness had lead to a dawn meeting, you little fool—”

“Go to hell, you
big
fool.” Sam turned away. He disliked Richard and always had. His popularity with the ton, his charming manner, and his damned Roman god features. Just like Henry.

“Besides,” Sam continued, gripping his glass, “your precious Henry would not have sullied his hands with killing me. He told me to my face he would delope.”

When Richard didn’t reply, Sam looked at him. His cheeks were pale, but his eyes had darkened. He took a step forward. “Did you know he would do that? If you could be sure that Henry would delope, did you plan to challenge him and kill him after he fired his shot in the air?”

Sam almost scoffed, sure that Richard was just antagonizing him, but another look at his hard eyes told Sam that he was serious. Deathly serious.

“You think I would murder someone like that?”

“You hate him,” Richard spat. “And if I couldn’t see it so blatantly every time you’re in the same room with him, I would know for certain because you told him at Jackson’s, didn’t you?” Richard glanced around them, then took another step, effectively trapping Sam against the pillar. “You may hate him, but I love him. If you ever lay a hand on him again or do anything to hurt him, I will make you sorry.”

Sam forced his back into the pillar as real fear gripped him. Did Richard honestly believe he would have done such a thing? Had assumptions about him sunk so low? Sam released a frustrated grunt that sounded too much like a laugh.

“Do you think this is a joke?” Richard growled.

“Ah, there he is!”

Richard stepped away and turned. John came toward them.

“Darny,” Richard said with a nod. Sam wondered if Richard had heard about John’s offer to be his second. It was likely he had.

“Afternoon, Rich,” John replied. “Interrogating Sam, are you?”

“Just curious about his side of things.” Richard shrugged.

“I would get used to it if I were you,” John said to Sam with a laugh. “And don’t think the ladies won’t be driving you mad with their coddling and attention.”

“What?” Richard and Sam balked in unison.

“Oh, come on, Rich,” John said with a conspiratorial lilt. “You know how contrary the ladies can be. The only thing they adore more than a triumph is a sympathetic defeat.”

“Sympathetic!” Richard cried. He shot a glare at Sam as if John’s words were somehow his fault.

“Ah, that’s right,” John said. “I forget that you were not at Jackson’s yesterday. Did you hear about it?”

“I most certainly did hear about it.” Richard crossed his arms.

“Oh, then you know already? Too bad. I was looking forward to indulging in more gossip today. It’s a terrible vice, but there are worse ones.” He chuckled and took a sip from his glass. “Any new actresses for this performance? I hear there are some lovely new faces in the chorus.”

“I hardly know. Excuse me.” Richard nodded in a minimal show of civility and stormed off.

Sam released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Can’t say I’m surprised there,” John said, his voice sobering. “He and Brenleigh are fast friends, after all.”

Sam rubbed his hands over his face. The irony of John not knowing the truth of Richard and Henry’s relationship was too much to add to the pot at the moment. “What is going on?” Sam said. “What on earth did you mean by ‘sympathetic defeat’? And I ran into Sir William earlier and he said—”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” John grinned. “It seems that Lord Brenleigh and Sir Samuel had a quarrel at Jackson’s yesterday. It was quite the sparring match.”

“What did you say to everyone?” Sam pressed.

John placed a hand on his hip in a dandyish pose and looked suddenly thoughtful, though there was a glint of humor in his eye. “Well, I arrived just as the quarrel began. They almost came to blows right there, I can tell you. Then—and this is the most shocking part—Sir Samuel accused Lord Brenleigh of being a coward. Yes, yes. I know. Inexcusable. Of course, since I was standing right there and Shaw and I are good friends—”

“You told people that?”

“Yes, of course, good friends. Anyway, I offered my services as his second. Damn shameful business, a duel, but a man must be honorable.” John made a mock sad face as he spoke, and Sam could just imagine a more genuine version of it making the rounds of the parlors and card rooms of London. “I won’t bore you with every detail, gentlemen, but, sad to say…” John sighed heavily and shook his head. “Sir Samuel knew he was wrong. Knew right away, but impulsive or not, the deed had been done.”

Sam flinched. “You said that? To whom? To everyone?”

John nodded, then went on with the ridiculous one-man conversation he was reenacting. “To make a long story short, Sir Samuel could have gotten out of it. I have no doubt Brenleigh would have given up his right to satisfaction even in the sparring match, but Sir Samuel refused. He told me—and I shouldn’t be telling you this since I think he may have told it to me in confidence—he told me that he had acted a horrible arse and he wasn’t going to slink away from a deserved thrashing. So tell me, would you willingly set yourself against someone a full head taller than you, with more skill, and with justified anger to encourage him? I’m not sure if I could, gentlemen. Oh, no. Sir Samuel may be a bit snappish at times, but no one could call him a coward. Takes integrity to own up like that.”

Sam was speechless. He was not sure how to feel. On the one hand, the story was humiliating. Being soundly thrashed by someone a full head taller than he, to quote John’s words, was not precisely flattering. On the other hand, John had somehow made him out to be noble in defeat.

“And this is how you hoped to ‘form the tale’ everyone told?” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I doubt anyone will believe it.”

“They already do. I have been running my mouth so much these last two days my throat is sore. They should believe it anyway, since it’s the truth.”

“Truth?” Sam shook his head. “I called him a coward. I refused to take his hand when he offered to help me up. That is hardly ‘noble in defeat,’ or whatever nonsense you said.”

“All right. Mostly the truth. You could have gotten out of it and you did recognize that you behaved badly,” John countered.

Sam pressed his lips together. John looked at him with such a anxious smile, almost like a boy waiting for praise of his accomplishment. The image was made only more tempting by John’s immaculate evening wear, his pine-green waistcoat picking up his bronze eyes magnificently. Sam wanted to wrap his arms around him and thank him until he was hoarse.

“And I did not climb into that ring on some fine principle of taking what I deserved,” Sam insisted. “I did it because I was angry and I wanted to hurt him, plain and simple. I didn’t plan to lose.”

John’s sighed. He took another drink from his glass and looked out over the room.

Damn.
“Forgive me. You did not have to help me at all, and I’m complaining. I did know I was wrong, and I did know I was going to lose. I would have been mad to think otherwise.”

“You could have won,” John countered. “I watched. It may not show in the typical way, but you are just as strong as Brenleigh, and you have a very fine form—” John cut himself off, and his cheeks flamed in a look of panic. “I-I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I wasn’t
watching
you. I wouldn’t do that.”

Just tell him.
Sam hesitated as John’s discomfort grew, even though his actual words had sent a pleasurable rush of delight through Sam’s limbs. Strong. Fine form. He should tell him. He owed him honesty, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear the humiliation that would come when John informed Sam, however politely, that he was not interested in him. Men like them could be friends, of course, but the subject would inevitably come up.

But Sam had to do something, so he laughed.

“W-what is so funny?” John said, worry still etched on his face.

“You,” Sam said through his laughter, for what else could do? Better to laugh than cry. “You act as if I’m going to punch you in the nose. My recent dabbling in fisticuffs should not give you much to fear.”

John blinked, and then his lips began twitching and his shoulders shook. “Come on. You gave a good fight.”

“You’re generous.” Sam did not want to lose John’s friendship, if he could call it that. He liked him, which was more than merely lusting after him as he had before, despite what he may try to tell himself. Still smiling, he said, “I told you I do not think badly of such preferences, but I also want you to know that you have nothing to fear with me either. You must not continuously check everything you say in the worry that it will offend me or that I will take it the wrong way. After all”—Sam smirked—”I would wager I am not your type.”

John’s jaw fell open just before he belted out a laugh. Sam joined in, and before too long they were both red-faced and making a spectacle of themselves. People were watching and nudging one another, no doubt wondering what could have Lord Darnish in such pleasurable company with Samuel Shaw.

Sam smiled and tried to avert his gaze to something else, but John’s face drew him. Watching John’s fear and unease transform into something comfortable and content made his heart swell. He remembered what it felt like to be alone, to believe that one’s only choices were to hide or be hated. He didn’t want John to feel alone. He wanted him to know that there were bits of acceptance and safety to be found in the world.

But it was not all selfless. Sam wanted to be near him. He
wanted
to be his friend. He wanted John to talk to him and laugh with him because, heaven help him, Sam could not get the man out of his thoughts—

No, no. Don’t do this again.

He would just have to keep perspective. No matter how often John smiled at him or said kind things or made the marrow in his bones melt, he would not see it for more than it was, for he would be a fool to think someone like John would ever feel more than friendship for him. And Sam would not be made a fool of again.

* * * *

“John, you’ve had quite a bit to drink tonight. Are you all right?”

There was no censure in Lily’s voice, only concern. He rarely drank in her company, so he could see why she would be worried. But there was no need to worry. Worry about what?

“Everything is wonderful, my dear.” John beamed, taking her gloved hand in his and squeezing it. “I am feeling quite the thing tonight.”

Her delicate features pinched with even more worry. She looked around their box, which they shared with Weir and his mistress. John knew Lily could hardly stand Weir and despised the company of the bawdy, painted woman he kept, but it had to be done. He had to be seen with her in public places, though they did it rarely. Earlier that night he had suffered a pang of his old fear and the need to show her off.

He moved in very close to whisper to her. “I’m sorry, Lil. I know you don’t like showing yourself at the theater. I was feeling poorly and felt like I needed to, eh…”

She squeezed his hand. “How you worry so, I will never understand it. How—” She glanced and Weir and his mistress. “How could anyone ever learn of your difficulty? There is nothing to fear.”

Even in the dark theater box he could see her cheeks high with color. His were probably flushed as well, for he
hated
the story he had been forced to tell Lily all those years ago when they started their arrangements. Of course she did not know he preferred men. She believed he was impotent and that her role as his mistress was a shield to cover his masculine failing.