Clockwork Tangerine (6 page)

“Oh, Westwood! He is lovely!” The elegant woman glided forward and caught Robin by the crook of his arm. Barely reaching his shoulder, she tilted her head back to look up at him, her mouth pulled into a moue. “You have gorgeous eyes, dear. And such bone structure. You’ll be lucky to sit out a dance tonight.”

“Dance?” Robin squeaked at Marcus as the purple-draped storm whisked him toward the front door.

He’d barely found something formal to wear that fit his long legs, and a hurried tailor had muttered dark curses at Marcus as he’d driven a team of seamstresses to finish altering an abandoned evening suit for Robin’s lanky body. A dinner was all he’d been aware of. Dancing was something totally outside of his realm of skills, but it seemed like any protest he made fell on deaf ears.

His shoes squeaked as he was rushed down the front steps, but no one else seemed to notice.

Or maybe Marcus did and that was the reason the damned man wore a broad smile on his handsome face.

They’d lost the sky to the fog. It descended over the city low enough to catch the ironworks embellishing the hill’s balconies. Despite the soup, a zeppelin belled its approach overhead, its lights cutting through the fog’s thin patches. As Robin watched, it slunk away, heading to parts unknown… and without a certain overly dressed inventor who found himself staring at a sleek-lined black carriage with a gold crest on its partially opened door.

“We’re taking a carriage?” Robin balked, dragging his leather-shod feet. “To go a few blocks?”

“It’s damp,” Marcus said by way of explanation. A footman helped the duchess up, taking a few moments to arrange her skirts. “And besides, this way I can be pressed up against you for a good half an hour without anyone seeing us.”

Robin stuttered. Or at least his heart had.
This
moment was Marcus’ declaration of intent and it came on the brink of a potentially disastrous evening. The man’s eyes bored through him and Robin flushed, the heat of his arousal roaming up from his belly to eat away at his composure and redden his cheeks.

He chose to ignore the flirtation but it was too late. His body’d already primed itself and Marcus’s hand on the small of his back held more than the promise of heat.

“Your
grandmother
will see us,” he hissed back at his friend. “And what’s this about a dance?”

“There’s a small gathering of a few hundred people after supper.”

“A few hundred people?” His voice broke, squeaking louder than his new shoes. “Are you insane? Marcus, I’m a pariah! It’ll be a disaster!”

“It’ll be fine.” The man straightened his shoulders and waved away Robin’s concern with an elegant toss of his hand. “You’ll see. Everyone will love you.”

“O
H
G
OD
,
this is a disaster.”

“Marcus, stop your pacing.” His grandmother eased back into a spindly-legged chair his uncle had brought over from France. Most of the Stenhills ran large, more so than the average man, and most of the ancestral home’s furnishings were built for their comfort. Everywhere but in the blue library where his grandmother still reigned supreme, despite his brother’s ascension to the family seat.

The room was a mixture of old and new, classic Continental seating but lit with converted arcane lamps, a costly expense seeing as his grandmother insisted on paying for the brightest white magick could create. When he’d been younger, Marcus and his brothers were required to have afternoon tea with the woman in the blue library so she could grill them about their studies.

Strange how, even as a grown man, crossing the threshold to the blue library transported him to a time when he snuck cakes off the tea tray while Micah or Brent droned on about learning Greek.

He’d half expected the older woman to move to the Dowager House once Brent married, but his wife, Hikari, appeared to be pleased to have their grandmother living with her, insisting the library and the east wing remain as the older woman’s domain. Despite the women’s very different cultural backgrounds, they got along famously.

Especially after the dowager stopped calling her Carrie and learned to correctly pronounce the Japanese woman’s name.

Now it was a giggle fest over breakfast and gardening parties. The dowager’s acceptance of Brent’s foreign bride went a long way toward gaining Hikari traction as the new Duchess of Harding. Marcus hoped that having Robin at the table—with the dowager’s blessing—would achieve the same results for Robin.

Unfortunately, bringing one’s father’s murderer to the dinner table without forewarning the family apparently wasn’t something easily forgiven, if his relatives’ shocked looks and low mutters were anything to go by.

“You’d have thought I’d brought Napoleon to dinner.”

“Please, do not mention that horrid man in my presence. Thank God, Jacquard’s son, Henri, invented that seeing-eye thing, or that bloody Corsican would have fled Elba. Then where would have we been?” She thumped her dainty fist onto a side table, jarring the dragon lily blooms in their vase.

“Exactly! See? That is the type of work Robin has developed, only… better. On a more human scale.” Unmindful of wrinkling his fine clothes, Marcus pulled up an ottoman to sit down in front of his grandmother, much like he had when he was a child. “He’s brilliant, Grandmother. You should see the things he’s invented. The good he’s done. He’s successfully worked out how to blend minor arcane with science. One of his devices
helps a woman walk
. Imagine what he could do for the world.”

“I’m sure there were people who said that about Babbage and his ideas,” the dowager murmured, patting her grandson’s hand. “But look where that led him. Look at what he did. He built the Heretic Society and nearly pulled the world down with him—all because of his ego.
That
is what people will say about your Robin—and don’t think I haven’t noticed you calling him by his Christian name. He was a part of the Society before, albeit not an active part.”

“No, they perverted his designs. Babbage and the others envied a
boy’s
successes and used them to destroy… to kill.” Marcus shook his head. “The mingling of the two philosophies
can
be achieved. We do it every day in small things. What Babbage and his cronies did was abominable. That was not Robin. That is not who he was. That is
not
who he is now.”

“Then that is going to be your struggle, Marcus. To show the
ton
… to show Britain… the man you believe your friend to be.” She patted his cheek, and he inhaled sharply, taking in her familiar violet powder scent. “That is if you think of him as your friend.”

“He’s more than… a friend, Grandmother.” He couldn’t look up. It was a now-or-never moment, and he’d never felt such a dread, not even when he’d heard of his father’s death. Standing on a precipice, Marcus knew he had to commit—had to step into the nothingness of truth—and have faith he wouldn’t be dashed to the rocks below. “I… have an unnatural fondness for him, Duchess. One might even say that I love him. As a man should love a woman, really.”

“Well, I would imagine the mechanics of that would be different.” The woman cocked her head, the sparkling gems dotting her silvery hair bobbing as she moved. She sniffed at Marcus when he lifted his head, shock dropping his jaw nearly to his chest. “I
have
been married, my dear boy. Quite happily, to your grandfather. I’ve
had
children. How they came to be isn’t a surprise to me, you know.”

“That’s… it?” Marcus found himself mimicking his grandmother’s head tilt. He shook it off, still numb from the lingering fear in his belly. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, that you’re in love with Robin. He’s a lovely boy. A bit eccentric, but that’s to be expected—”

“This is serious, Grandmother. He’s a
man
!”

“What were you hoping I’d do? Throw myself into a pique of anger? Very well.” She looked around, and her gaze fell on a porcelain shepherdess sitting on the table next to her chair. Picking up the tchotchke, she flung it, unerringly smashing it into the room’s fireplace. Clasping her hand to her powdered cheek, the duchess rolled her eyes dramatically and intoned flatly, drawing out each word, “Oh. Dear. My life is over. My grandson loves a man. Whatever shall I do? The. Horror. The. Shame.”

“
Grandmother—
”

“That wasn’t dramatic enough? My dear boy, if you want a scene, you’ll have to go find one of your brother’s little actresses. Not Brent. He’s faithful. Micah. He’s a rogue of the first order. Much like your grandfather was.” Sighing heavily, she cast a look about the room, then pointed to a ceramic dog on a nearby bookshelf. “Hand me that one. Might as well rid myself of all the ugly things people have given me over the years.”

“Duchess, this is… serious. My loving Robin is a criminal offense. He’s already been framed once. They
branded
him.”

“Are you afraid that the
ton
will do the same to you, then?”

“No, I could give a damn about what the
ton
thinks of me. I’m a viscount, and the family has a lot of influence. No one will move against me. It’s Robin I’m concerned about.”

“Then you will have to use that considerable influence to prevent that from happening.” She sniffed imperiously. “Once you tell your brother, Brent. Break it to him gently. He’s very old-fashioned. A dear, but sometimes he needs a few days to settle his mind on something new.”

“Am I crazy?” Marcus placed his hands on his grandmother’s, rustling her skirts as he scooted forward a few inches. “Am I insane to fall for this man?”

“Does he make you happy?” She leaned forward to kiss his temple.

“Yes. Infuriatingly so, and sometimes I want to shake some sense into him. He does stupid things, like run out into the rain or spend hours sketching how birds fly, forgetting to eat. I’m as much his caretaker as his friend,” Marcus admitted. “And there is—well, I think of Father and how he’d… what he’d think of me.”

At the core of his fears was the betrayal of his father’s love. The man stood firm in Marcus’s heart. Even dead, the old Duke’s words guided him, especially during times when he sought some direction. He’d never told the man of his perversions, fearing rejection even as he’d secretly hoped his father would have reacted as his grandmother just had—shrugging it off and wishing his son the best.

But doubts wormed through the solid foundation of his father’s love, and Marcus wondered if he’d have found himself in New Bedlam right alongside of Robin and other unfortunates.

“Your father knew about—this, Marcus. About your preferences.” His grandmother’s voice broke through his thoughts. “He didn’t care. Not one bit. He was more interested in raising the man he’d leave behind after his passing than anything else. I’d hope he would welcome your Robin with open arms. Well, maybe not. He was never a demonstrative man, but he’d harrumph his approval soundly. I’d hope for that.”

“He told you? About me?” The air left his lungs in a rush. “How did he… what tipped him off? Do others… know?”

“Probably not.” She shrugged, the tulle of her sleeves crinkling with a soft whisper. “He was your father. And a devoted one. He knew you—all of you—very well. Harding knew you preferred men to women, and it mattered to him about as much as his knowing of Brent’s obsessive need to have spotless silverware. We talked more about Micah’s inability to focus on one subject during university more than anything else. If anyone caused your father despair, it was
that
one. But Micah settled down—well, as much as he is going to. There was some worry there.”

“And he didn’t care?” Marcus struggled to embrace the knowledge his grandmother so casually dropped in his lap.

“Not so much, no. He only wanted his sons to be happy. And, well, for you all to do your duty to Britain. Lead well, and others will follow with their heart.” The dowager echoed one of her son’s favorite sayings. Sighing forlornly, she poked Marcus’s shoulder, then jerked her head at the ceramic dog. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to fetch that for me? If I’d known you’d only allow me one tantrum, I’d have chosen that over the ugly sheep woman. I’ve hated that thing for much longer.”

R
OBIN
COULDN
’
T
avoid the whispers or even the murderous looks cast his way. Everywhere he turned there was a forbidding frown, and once as he rounded a palm set in the corner of the ballroom, he found himself face to face with a man he’d only seen once and in the company of other men who’d come to witness Robin’s humiliation.

A court-ordered humiliation performed on the day when he’d been stripped of his clothes and bound to a table with thick ropes as a hot iron was pressed into his hip.

The round-bellied older man dressed in formal wear had been one of the men who’d paid to watch him seared. He’d been holding a glass of champagne and laughing, chatting with another man in the small group of revelers gathered at New Bedlam Island. From what Robin could gather, they’d supper with the warden once the branding was done and then make their way back to St. Francisco on a late ferry.

He’d not heard much after that. It was hard to hear anything over the crackle of his skin roasting beneath the iron, and the smell of his own flesh cooking made him sick. He’d passed out after a few seconds and woke up a few days later, his body weak from fighting off a ravaging infection.

The man walked past Robin, his thick fingers studded with rings, their gems flashing under the lights as he gesticulated, making a point to his companion.

It was as if the man had never set eyes on Robin before. That he’d never seen Robin’s naked and sweaty body or heard his cries for mercy when the pain grew too much for Robin to take.

Then again, perhaps he hadn’t really been looking at Robin’s face when they’d come into the asylum’s punishment room.

The last time he’d seen Robin, it was dark, and the man’s focus probably hadn’t been on Robin’s face. It wasn’t until nearly six months after the branding when a guard he’d formed a friendship with finally told him the men gathered in the room weren’t witnesses for the court. They’d
paid
a hefty amount of money to the warden for the privilege of seeing Robin’s humiliation. It hadn’t mattered
who
the man on the wooden table was, so long as he was nude, reasonably attractive, and being branded.