Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (18 page)

“Darny, I must tell you what Evers told me,” Michael began with relish. “Back at Harrow—”

“Evers never told a story that did not bolster his own consequence. Spare me,” John snapped. “Lily, darling, I won’t be but a moment. I was to extend an invitation to Sir Samuel’s sister from my aunt and it slipped my mind. Best I catch him before the curtain.”

Years of lying quickly and convincingly did not wear off just because one was drunk. John hurried out into the corridor, now thick with people making their way back to their seats, and caught up with Sam before he reached the stairs.

“Sam,” John called. As soon as Sam turned around, his face full of surprise, John cringed. Damn him for a fool, but he really was not sure why he had actually gone after Sam. There was no reasonable excuse to give other than the sick feeling John had had upon seeing that stupid, mean expression Sam pulled out when he felt cornered.

“You will not allow Michael to put you off the invitation, will you? He can be an ass, but he grows bored with himself quickly.” John said all of this in a rush, which sounded inebriated even to him.

Sam shrugged. “It won’t. Perhaps he’ll find me tedious enough and give up his own invitation.”

“Ah, good. I would much rather your company than his anyway.”
Christ, why did I say that?

“Oh. I wouldn’t be so sure.” Sam drew his hands together and began awkwardly picking at his cuticles. “I don’t run in your circles, and I’m not the best shot. In fact, I hate hunting. Not sure if my conversation will be of much interest, you know.”

Had he been sober, John might have worried that Sam was creating excuses just to get away from him. Drunk, John was too optimistic for it. He glanced around, causing Sam to nervously do the same, then leaned in close with a mischievous grin.

“If I tell you my worst sin, will you keep it a secret?” John whispered.

Sam stared at him, then seemed to remember his drunkenness and smiled. “I believe I will manage.”

“Very well, here it is.” John put on a terrified face and said, “I hate hunting too.”

A second passed, and then Sam burst out laughing. John joined him, delighting in the color that infused Sam’s dimpled cheeks and the way his eyes shrank to crescents. Even stretched wide, his lips were still full and smooth. Well, they seemed smooth. John did not know. Damned if he wouldn’t love to find out.

The corridor was emptying rapidly. Soon enough they were alone, standing next to the bare space between boxes.

“I must be getting back, before my sister decides to hunt me down,” Sam said. “Thank you for the invitation. Despite the success of your gossip”—he made a wry face—”I think I would like to get away from the rounds for a bit.”

John smiled, and there was an awkward moment in which he was not certain how to take his leave of Sam. He wanted to reach out and at least grasp his shoulder, but the parts of his brain that had yet to drown held him back. Instead, they both made cordial nods and parted ways, leaving John to weave his way back to Mosley’s box feeling strangely unsatisfied.

Chapter Eight

Friends

Sam made himself scarce over the next week, a feat made easy by his black eye turning from an impressive purple to an ugly yellow.

“By all means, Sam, occupy yourself with your books and a few early rides in the park,” Kat had insisted, cringing as she looked at him. “That hideous color puts me off my tea.”

“I thank heaven you were fated to be a countess, dear sister. You would have made a pathetic nurse,” Sam had muttered, though he had been happy to have the reprieve. The day after their night at the theater, Sam had accompanied Kat and Flor to a card party, where he had been forced to submit to every prying gossip and their false sympathy. He had also had to endure reports of Henry’s whereabouts and activities from the same scandalmongers, all of them no doubt hoping he would make some slander on Henry that they could repeat.

At least John’s version of events had taken firm hold, as far as Sam could tell. Still, it was best for everyone concerned that he keep to himself while interest died down. And he had a solitary week to think about John and remember his drunken words over and over again.
“I would rather your company than his anyway.”

It also gave him time to worry about the invitation John had pressed on him. He had not been lying when he said he was no fit guest for a hunting party, even if there would not be much hunting. A group of men, secure in their own social circles, discussing people and things Sam knew nothing about. Still, he had no intention of crying off, not when it meant spending time with John. Alone.

Mosley’s estate near Andover was a two-day ride, meaning that he and John would have to take rooms at an inn along the way. Seeing no harm in a bit of indulgent fantasy, Sam let his thoughts run wild with scenarios of shared beds, too much ale, and the possibilities such combinations could make. That they were planning to travel together at all—Sam had been careful not to assume—was confirmed by the note John had delivered by one of his servants.

Sam,

If you have not traveled to Andover before, there is a fine inn just outside Frimley Heath that will serve us well. We should set out early Saturday morning. If you would send a man over with your things, I will see that they are loaded to the pack horse before we meet up.

Did I neglect to mention that Mosley makes his shooting parties a casual affair? None of the other guests will have their valets, so I am afraid we must suffer through tying our own cravats for the span of the party. However shall we cope?

If you have any objections, please have a letter sent over. I do not anticipate running into you about town, as I’m sure your black eye has turned too ghastly for the ladies to tolerate. Till Saturday.

J.D.

As Sam hauled himself onto his best white mare and watched the sun rise through a break in the buildings, he could not help but smile. He had folded up John’s note, along with the other, and placed them in his breast pocket like a heartsick girl. How could he not, when the note was so light, so playful? When it told him how thoroughly at ease John was in his company?

Although, that same ease now rankled his conscience. His earlier justifications for not telling John the truth about himself were no longer bearing up in Sam’s mind. He still believed no good could come of it and even told himself that it did not matter because nothing more than friendship would ever exist between them. And yet, he could not ignore the trust John was placing in him and the awe with which John saw Sam’s acceptance.

It would not be so awe-inspiring if he knew I was the same.

He arrived at John’s house not a half hour later, just as John was joining one of his grooms next to an impressive chestnut mare. The beast befitted John’s superior height, making Sam glad he had chosen the giant currently beneath him.

“Ho, Sam!” John grinned as his groom laced his fingers and gave him a leg up. The weather had turned chilly, and John wore a splendid camel greatcoat with three tiered capes over the shoulders.

Sam sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and shifted his seat.

“I hope you had an easy morning,” John began as he righted his hat. “It’s a damn nuisance sitting down to breakfast before the sun is even up, but all the better to get an early start so the horses can be rested when we take dinner. But if you haven’t eaten, we could take luncheon at some public house before we reach Frimley Heath. I’m sure the horses wouldn’t object to two rests before nightfall.”

Being still early and the streets not yet glutted with noise, they rode in near silence for the first hour, exchanging only a few bits of information about the horses and the inn they would reach before dark. After that, Sam mentioned his week of housebound idleness and how he was glad to get out, and John spoke of the reset race he was to have with Weir after their return. And then, more silence.

Sam hardly expected John to prattle on for their whole day’s journey, but something about his straight, forward gaze and stiff posture felt heavy, leaving Sam’s spirits to sink with each passing hour.

It was just past noon as they reached Hounslow, where Sam had kept silent on any mention of luncheon, when John’s demeanor turned pensive.

“Sam, may I ask you a prying question?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you appear to, eh…?” John cursed under his breath, then said in a rush, “Why did you pretend to be cruel to that dog on the street that day? Why did you not wish me to see that you were rescuing it?”

Oh, God.
Sam sat in stunned silence, his gaze fixed on road ahead. He had assumed John was going to ask him about his quarrel with Henry again, but in some ways this was much worse. If he said he did not wish to discuss it, he knew John would not press the issue. But he deserved honesty about something at least.

“I do not like for people to think that I am weak.”

“Weak?”

Sam kept his eyes forward. He could not bear to look at John when he knew his face was turning red. “I have always had an affinity for animals. Too much so, maybe. Not a proud trait for a man to have. And after my pathetic display at the concert—”

Sam stopped himself when he glanced at John, but it was too late. The way John turned his eyes away told that he remembered. Damn it all, why did he have to mention that?

“It was not a display, and there was certainly nothing pathetic about it.” John spoke quietly, but his voice was firm. “I assume someone must have told you that caring for animals, showing sentiment over them was a weakness? Someone plagued you about it?”

Sam confirmed it with a nod. It had started the first time his father took him to ride with the hounds when he was fifteen. The tears he had shed over that fox, and the arguments he had made against its cruel death had earned him nothing but a hard slap across the face.

“Well.” John grunted. “May that person go to the devil and burn his arse on the coals.”

Sam was too shocked for a moment to say anything. Then, sputtering, he said, “B-but you don’t think it to be soft? You don’t think such a thing is womanish?”

“Womanish?” John stared at him. “Sam, my God! Have you forgotten to whom you’re speaking?” He must have seen Sam’s mortification, for he continued in a softer voice. “I find nothing weak or unforgivable in extending some gentle kindness to an animal. They bring us comfort, do they not? And as for the concert, I… Well, damn it all, I think I admired you a bit for it.”

What a fish Sam must have seemed, with his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide. Admired? What could that mean?

“You admired me for shedding tears over a sonata?”

“No. I admired you for showing some goddamned sincerity in that sea of statues.” John rubbed his face roughly with his gloved hand, his lips pursed as if in a battle with himself. “I live a life of lies, and it was pleasant to see something genuine.”

Ignoring his pounding heart and the glaze forming over his eyes was almost more than Sam could manage. The last person to soothe him and praise his sentimentality in such a way had been Henry all those years ago.

“I thought you would think ill of me,” Sam admitted. “On the street that day. I thought you were laughing at me.”

“I thought ill of you after.” John turned toward Sam again, starting to smile. “But you were not convincing for long. That cloak you wear is a shabby thing. Full of holes.”

Sam made a quick dash at his eyes when John was not looking. He felt lighter. He had not discussed such things with anyone since Henry. And while any thought of Henry was still sour, it did not dampen his spirits this time.

“I suppose I shall have to see a better tailor, then,” Sam replied. He changed the subject back to John’s upcoming race with Weir, which led to an impassioned rundown of his finest horses and which two he might choose. Sam had little interest in horse breeding, but he dared not say anything to stop such a lively show. The sight of John impassioned with something he loved was too enticing.

They stopped for luncheon at an alehouse so busy that the poor barmaid looked ready to drop. After eating, they set off and were in the saddle less than an hour when they drew their horses to the roadside to allow for a swift-moving chaise coming the opposite way. As it neared, Sam could see it was one of the one-horse equipages London bachelors often rented for excursions to the country. It was almost upon them when Sam raised his hand in recognition.

“Julian!”

Julian lifted his head in surprise, for he had seemed to be staring at the ground, and pulled up the reins. As Sam and John approached, hands raised and making their greetings, Sam became immediately concerned. Julian did not look like himself. He wore his usual fine clothes, but carelessly. His cravat was limp and tied in a lazy knot, and his coat and waistcoat lay unbuttoned and wrinkled. His typically immaculate locks stood dry and twisted, as if he had been raking his fingers through them.

“Sam.” Julian almost gasped. “What are you doing out this way? Afternoon, Darnish. Heading the same way as dear Sam here?”

Dear Sam. He shot Julian a warning glance. Not only did he look harried, he sounded it too.

“Going the same way and to the same place,” John replied cordially. “Sam’s to join me for a spot of shooting out at Mosley’s.”

Julian’s marble-smooth features wrinkled. He gave Sam a curious look. “Sam, I was hoping to see you, but back in town of course. Side of the road is hardly the place for a long chat, is it?” He laughed, but it sounded forced. “When do you think you will be back in town?”

Sam looked at John. “The party is a week, is it?”

John nodded.

“There you are.” Sam smiled, but he also stared at Julian with the question
What is wrong?
made plain in his eyes.

It was also plain that Julian ignored it. “Good. Wonderful. I will call on you then. Good day, then. Darnish.” And without any of his usual witty banter or graces, Julian snapped the reins and was off again, his chaise swaying at an uncomfortable speed.

John raised his brow. “I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Garrott so, mmm…”