Elyse Mady (23 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Robert had retreated to the upper corridors to read Charlotte’s letter.

The sight of her handwriting had come as quite a shock to him. Somehow, inside the towering walls that enclosed him, it was easy to think the world a distant place, far removed from the casual violence and filth that filled Newgate.

Cook was still alive, at least. His wife sat with him every day, nursing him to health and it looked as though he would be fit enough to stand his trial.

Robert broke the seal, letting the subtle scent of hartshorn fill his nose. In the noisome stench of the stone prison, it seemed incongruous to be enjoying the gentle odour of violets but it was welcome none the less. He brought the paper to his face and inhaled deeply.

Charlotte.

He remembered her smiling at him over her cards, her gentle blue eyes full of mirth, as they’d colluded in a game of Commerce. Dropping her posy at his feet during his proposal because she’d been so nervous when he’d asked to speak to her alone in the parlour. The kindness of her outlook, the gentleness of her spirit. The qualities which he had so admired, even if, in his heart, he knew he could never love her as she deserved.

He’d proposed in March. They’d planned to marry at the end of July. Now he was man on trial for his life, his only sister living in disgrace and his name a byword for perversion. Half a year had wrought such changes in his situation that it was at times hard to comprehend them all.

The sharp bite of a hungry louse brought him back to the present. The hallway was empty, a rarity in this crowded hellhole. He tilted the paper to catch the weak rays and began to read.

Robert¸

I am writing this letter with no expectation that you will read it. My behaviour to you has been unconscionable and while I know that words can do little to convey my sincerity, I beg you to believe that if anyone has cause in this case to regret their actions, it is I.

I am sorry.

I am sorry that my father denied you.

I am sorry that I let myself be persuaded to break our engagement.

I am sorry that I have not stood your friend.

I will not pretend to know the particulars of your purported crime. That I was hurt and embarrassed and ashamed, it is true. But I know you and I know that you are a good man. While it may be that you had come not to care for me, you must believe that despite everything, I wish for you nothing but happiness, however you may achieve it.

I met your sister by chance, in the company of her friend, Mr. Ramsay. It was she who encouraged me to write to you. I am enclosing therefore a small token. I hope that you will not think so badly of me now but will instead remember me as,

A sincere and devoted friend,

C.S.

He fingered the small medallion that his former fiancée had enclosed, a gold cross on a fine chain. He had never known her to be without it. That she had gifted it to him was a moving gesture. He raised it to his lips and kissed it softly.

He fumbled with the clasp but it was so tiny and his fingers so clumsy that he could not undo it. The tiny links flashed in the sun, bright against the blackened stone.

“Let me.”

Timothy’s voice startled him.

Robert looked up to see him holding out an impatient hand. “It’s fine.”

“Let me do it,” Timothy ordered, his voice curt. There was something dark in his eyes as he spoke, but Robert could not distinguish it. He pushed himself up off the filthy flagstone and turned about, tugging at the roughly tied stock until it dangled loose.

He ducked his head to expose the back of his neck. Timothy’s hands curled around his nape, pushing aside his shirt collar as he hung the necklace in place. He felt its light weight against his skin, the gold warming.

As soon as it was secured, Timothy’s hands dropped away. Robert missed the sense of closeness, that small current that seemed to race between them whenever they were close. Usually, it was Timothy who tried to extend it, lengthen it as long as they dared. Today, he withdrew as quickly as possible.

“Done.” Again, the dismissive tone. An undercurrent of something else. Not anger. Not greed. Robert tried to puzzle it out but couldn’t make sense of it. “Now you may wear it and think of her always.”

Timothy’s lips twisted, and Robert knew then what it was he had heard in his voice.

Jealousy.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Timothy tipped his chin belligerently. “Don’t mind when your
am-oor
writes you a sweet little note. Probably dropped a whole halfpenny’s worth of scent on it. Drip, drop. Drip, drop.” He turned away, as though the sight of the cross around Robert’s throat was painful.

“Don’t,” Robert said again, but when Timothy looked up, the anguish in his eyes was so raw, it was his turn to recoil.

“Will you marry her?”

Robert shook his head.

“Why not? She’s writing to you, isn’t she? Sending you gifts? Perhaps she’s decided even being a tommy’s a darn sight better than being a spinster. Maybe she won’t mind it when you want her to take it from behind. Hard to get her with child but maybe if you close your eyes, you can imagine it’s someone else.” Timothy sneered, clearly relishing his disgusting words and the impact he thought they must be having on Robert.

But Robert wasn’t angry. He stopped Timothy by the simple expedient of kissing him. Timothy resisted for a moment and then kissed him back equally hard. Their tongues met, the bristles on their cheeks scraping against each other’s faces. Robert broke the kiss.

“I’m not marrying her.”

Timothy closed his eyes and swallowed, as though he could not believe it. His lips looked swollen and Robert could feel him, hard and ready against his stomach. They were both hard.

“Why not?” Timothy’s hands were at his breeches’ fall, unbuttoning the flap. His calloused hands slid inside and Robert couldn’t hold back the groan of absolute pleasure as Timothy’s hands moved up and down his shaft.

It was hard to speak. He was too engrossed by what his body was experiencing. With difficulty, he drew his mind back to his arguments. “Don’t—don’t love her.”

“So?” Timothy’s hands moved faster and now his mouth was fixed on Robert’s neck, sucking hard. The dual sensations of friction and draw made spots dance before his eyes, and he let his head roll back. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Marrying her would solve all your problems.”

“Not for me,” he gasped as he felt himself start to come. Timothy did not relent. He rained kisses across his face, hard, commanding, working his cock until Robert hurtled over the edge, his seed soiling his long shirt and covering Timothy’s hand. “I love you.”

Robert nearly howled the words, such was the force of his release. Only the small part of his brain that was still functioning prevented him from crying the words aloud. Timothy froze.

“Say that again.”

Robert had never, in the whole course of his life, dared to say those words to another man. It had always, always, been anonymous and furtive.

“I love you.”

Yet here he was, in the broad light of day, in a corridor where anyone might come upon them, so far gone that he would utter those words, heedless of who might hear them.

And yet, he didn’t regret them. He opened his eyes. Timothy seemed as stricken as he did. His eyes were swimming with an admixture of hope and disbelief but also, Robert believed, an equal measure of love.

Timothy leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss against his lips. Sweet and touching. As though he had not, moments before, moved him to completion with his hand or licked his throat or kissed his mouth. It felt oddly like a benediction.

“Robert.” Timothy whispered his name as he withdrew. “My Robert.”

It was the first time he had ever had anyone call him by name after an encounter like this. In the dark or against the wall of a public privy or even in Cook’s club, no one had ever acknowledged him as Timothy just had. Usually, there was no need for words. A man would make the signal, another would withdraw his cock and the business of sucking or fucking or fondling was completed without more than a word or two exchanged.

Even in Vere Street, the men, himself included, had paraded about under ridiculous pseudonyms. It was a form of identification, to be sure, but it was also a means of protection. Even as you took a man up the ass, there was no assurance that tomorrow, when you met in the market or crossed in the street, he wouldn’t reveal you. It was safer to disguise your true self.

With Timothy, there was no hiding.

And he didn’t want to.

“I love you too.” Timothy’s smile could have scoured the coal dust from the very stone.

“I don’t love Charlotte,” Robert clarified, tucking the crumpled letter into his pocket. He cared for her. He always would, in some small portion of his heart, but he had never loved her. It had been affection tinged with stubborn desperation and now, with Timothy before him, their words of love hanging between them, he knew that it never would have sufficed.

“Poor Charlotte,” his lover said. “But lucky, lucky me.”

They laughed, and Robert straightened his cravat, covering the fine gold chain that was a link to his past but not to his new future.

* * *

Hester was in the dining room when Wallis answered the door.

She’d had heard the knocker but occupied in arranging the flowers, she had not gone herself.

She wasn’t sure why she bothered, since Thomas was to dine Sir John Collet this evening. She’d urged him to go and assured him she would find plenty to occupy herself. Mostly, she desired the time alone to think and plan.

She had already assured the cook she would be happy with a tray in her room. Dining without Thomas made her all too aware of her status as a temporary visitor. When he was with her, she could persuade herself that she was a guest, not an interloper. Alone, it was much more difficult to keep up the fiction.

Hester had lost count of the number of times since their meeting with Mrs. Stroud and Charlotte that she had looked up and found him gazing upon her, an unreadable expression on his face. It perturbed her.

The fact that he had asked her to wait up for him when he returned from his club was unusual. In the normal course of things, she would be asleep. He might waken her—he often did, much to their mutual satisfaction—but his voice had been so serious when he’d asked to speak with her on his return, with no hint of playful seduction, that she had spent most of the afternoon considering its ramifications.

Today was Thursday. Robert’s trial was in two days, scheduled for the twenty-second of September.

She wondered how soon Thomas would ask her to leave. They had never discussed an explicit date. He was too kind to end their understanding before the outcome was known but still, she could hardly continue in his home indefinitely. Already, he had made several mentions of “changes” that would be taking place in the future.

It hardly required a diviner’s bowl to understand what he was saying.

Disheartened and heartsick, Hester glanced up as Wallis slipped into the room. He looked discomfited, as though he had swallowed something unpleasant.

“Are you well, Wallis?” During her time in Bruton Street, she had grown fond of the butler. He was correct and fussy and his obsession with the state of Thomas’s silver could be exasperating, even if Hester had to admit to the efficacy of his methods for removing the slightest hint of tarnish. Yet despite these oddities, his unquestioning loyalty to his employer and more to the point, his unfailing and staunch politeness to her had endeared him to her and Hester had come to appreciate and value his good opinion.

“Wallis?” she repeated, seeing that the butler was still standing motionless in the doorway. “Has someone called for Mr. Ramsay, or did they merely leave their card?”

Her question seemed to galvanize the servant and recall him to himself. “No card, miss.”

“No card? Then I suppose they will call for him again.”

“Actually, the gentleman wishes to speak to you.”

She set down the small shears in amazement. “Are you sure?” Who on earth would be calling here? For her? Her status as an invisible member of society had been well established. She and Thomas shopped and took rides in the park and visited the theatre. His acquaintances acknowledged him while pretending with equal vigour that she did not exist. It hurt but she knew that to expect otherwise was naive. She was a woman outside of the pale and she could not expect any other welcome. Thomas’s arms would have to be welcome enough.

The butler actually blanched. Stoic, unflappable, Wallis was unnerved. “It’s Mr. Ramsay’s brother, miss. He wants…he wants to know if you’re at home.” The question and the identity of the caller were so extraordinary that for a moment Hester simply froze.

The blossoms she had been cutting were arranged neatly before her on the cloth-covered sideboard. She had collected them from Thomas’s garden herself—a sheaf of greenery and more than two dozen chrysanthemum blooms. She looked down at them as though expecting to see an answer to her predicament in their golden depths.

“Mr. Edward Ramsay, or Mr. Francis Ramsay?” she asked instead. It was inane, of course, but the question popped out anyway.

“Mr. Edward Ramsay.”

Thomas’s eldest brother. How on earth had he learned of her existence and more importantly, what could he possibly expect the outcome of such a meeting to be? Did he mean to warn her against his brother? Demand she leave lest she ruin the family’s reputation? She could not imagine a more unlikely encounter and its purpose eluded her.

Seeing her hesitation, the butler said, “Should I inform the gentleman that you are not at home, Miss Aspinall?”

Hiding would be the easiest course. What would it matter if Thomas’s brother suspected the truth of her cowardice? Doubtless, he already considered her without the finer refinements; this would merely reinforce his suspicions.

But the dishonesty did not sit well with her. She had decided, in living thus, that she would not apologize for their unorthodox situation. But nowhere in her plans had she ever considered the possibility of meeting any of Thomas’s family.