Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (39 page)

“You hate me,” Sam seethed. The tears burned down his face, clouding his eyes and making it hard to breathe, but he did not care. All his panic and fear has shrunk down to the single point of knowing why. “You have always hated me. When we were boys, you made my life hell. For years you have made sport of humiliating me. Why? What did I do—” A wet sob broke his voice. He had no pride left. He was past pride.

Evers made a strangled sound, but Sam could no longer bear to look at him. He only heard him repeat his warnings about John, followed by the soft click of the door latch. Silence settled on Sam like lead until he could no longer take the weight. He crumpled next to the chair and buried his face in his arms while the racking sobs took hold. Helpless, terrified, and humiliated. Again.

At least this time it was not on a cold cellar floor.

Chapter Twenty-One

Broken

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and John would be damned if he imagined it.

He liked to think he was a patient and understanding man, which was why he had not been angry when Sam never met him at their agreed rendezvous near the empty shop. Something must have happened, a family concern, and John did not expect Sam to take the risk of sending him a note. He had resigned himself to a chaste, lonely evening and the knowledge that he would have Sam’s explanation the next day.

But he did not. John’s note went unanswered despite his footman assuring him Sam’s servants had taken it. When that same servant had expressed his certainly that Sir Samuel was at home, John had decided to stop by and see if there had been some new trouble with Miss Shaw. But when he arrived, Sam had not been at home, and John had a sick feeling that it was the ton version of not at home. Meaning, not at home
for you.

Worry and an honest amount of anger began to plague him when, the next afternoon, Sam blatantly turned his horse in the park and rode away from John. He knew Sam had seen him. By God, he
knew
Sam had recognized him when he raised his hand and smiled in greeting, so happy to see him. And yet Sam had pulled his reins and left. There had not even been anything subtle about it.

He was still worried, but anger was now winning out. What the devil could be going on? Even if he had done or said something to make Sam cross with him—which he did not believe for a moment—Sam would have told him so.

It was that anger that fueled him Wednesday night when he accompanied his aunt and cousin to a soiree being given by Lady Culfrey. An evening of cards and gossip was hardly to his liking at the moment, but he had promised his attendance weeks ago. He also had nothing else to do but fume and wonder at Sam’s strange desertion. A night of tame, respectable entertainment might distract him from his heartache.

And damn his bloody heart, but it ached! He was not just angry and worried, he was hurt.

The party turned out to be more like a small ball than a soiree, as the guests were so numerous that servants began spreading candles into overthrow rooms to accommodate the crush. It was the sheer number of people present that kept John from seeing Sam when he first entered. He stood near a scattering of chairs near the front parlor windows with his sister Kat and several other women John did not recognize. The ladies spoke in the hushed, serious way of those discussing scandal, and John noticed the sidelong glances of the other guests directed at Sam. Miss Shaw’s disgrace was probably the premier topic of conversation in the room.

But Sam seemed apart from it. He stared at the floor-to-ceiling windows, though the candlelight made it unlikely he could see anything but his own reflection. And John’s.

Sam snapped his head around suddenly, and their eyes locked. John had made it halfway across the room without realizing it. He had no plan. Should he let Sam know how angry he was, how hurt, or should his approach be more lenient? John had no time to decide as Sam exchanged a quick word with his sister before dashing off into the crowd.

It was a stab. John almost pressed his hand to his chest to feel for a wound. His hurt quickly shifted into bewilderment, then anger. Damned if he was going to be cut and not have an explanation! And he deserved an explanation. After what they had shared, after such perfect bliss with each other, he was owed more than a snub.

John pressed into the crowd the way Sam had gone, following the ripple of his less-than-polite retreat. Sam’s height made it easy for him to sink into the crowd, but John kept him in sight as he made it through the ballroom and into a smaller chamber that had been set up for card play. By the time John reached the room, he saw the glass doors across the way just closing, a figure disappearing into the dark garden.

Damn it!
John forced himself to slow his gait through the packed room lest someone notice him. By the time he slipped out the door, Sam was nowhere in sight, but John heard the hurried crunch of rocks as someone walked near the back gate. He ran across the flagstones and onto a gravel path. The mansion grounds were not large, and past a thick layer of trees and bushes, he could see the back stone wall. There was a wrought-iron gate leading to the carriage house and other servant outbuildings along the alley. Sam had just placed his hand on the gate when John called his name. Sam hesitated but looked ready to continue running.

“Sam?” John heard the plea in his voice and felt it. “Sam, for God’s sake, talk to me.”

“Ijusthavetogorightnow,” Sam blurted, his gaze down.

“Some gravely urgent matter?” John snapped. “Like yesterday in the park?”

Sam sucked in a breath. John could barely see him in the dim light coming from the carriage house lamps, but he could see enough to know that Sam was upset. He took another step. “What is it? You won’t even look at me?” When Sam still didn’t move or speak, John reached for him, only to have Sam spring back against the gate.

“Bloody hell!” John cursed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I just…” Sam clenched his hands before him for a moment, then said, “I just think it would be best if we ended our association now. W-while still on good terms.”

John’s head swam. Good terms? Association? “What are you talking about?”

“It would have ended soon anyway,” Sam said. “I think it would be best if we were to part before…before it became less civil.”

“Less civil!” John hissed. “Christ, man, what are you saying? Are you tired of me? I thought we… I…”
Say it. Tell him.
“Sam, I—”

“You would have left me eventually!” Sam declared, raising his chin. The set of his shoulders became hard, determined. “It would have only been a matter of time, so let us leave it here. All right? I enjoyed our, ah, time together, but I’ve learned not to drag a good thing too far.”

None of it made sense. It wasn’t just that Sam was throwing John over; he was being thrown over in a way that made
no sense.
“No. No, I don’t understand what you’re saying. What do you mean I would have left you eventually?”

“Don’t. Please don’t pretend.” Sam’s voice was painfully tight. “I own mirrors. I see myself every day. I’m ordinary, and you are so…” Another sob. “You’ve met Julian and you know about Henry and Richard now. You’ll learn about other men too, and they will be better than me, and I would rather not toil through the humiliation of a polite dismissal, so please let us part here.”

John staggered, as if Sam’s words were bullets in his chest. Did Sam believe what he was saying? He couldn’t! John’s heart broke open and he gasped, “But I love you.”

An agonized sob escaped Sam’s lips. He turned away, gripped the sides of his head, then faced John again like a man waiting to be shot. No. Like a man ready to fire a shot. “I-I don’t believe you! I think you believe what you’re saying, but you’ll see that I’m right. You won’t miss me. You’ll see I was just…” Sam was crying. John could not see it in the dark, but he knew. “You’ll see that I was nothing more than the best of no options. Please leave me alone.
Please
.”

Sam yanked his arm from John’s grasp and ran. The gate swung closed behind him, the sharp clank of the metal joining the fading sound of Sam’s heels on the cobblestones. John gripped the wrought iron where Sam’s hand had been and rolled his forehead against it. He gasped as a sharp pain radiated out from his heart. He clutched his other hand to his sternum and cried because it was worth the tears. Sam was worth the tears and a hell of a lot more.

He was not giving up. Something was terribly wrong, and he was going to find it out no matter what desperate measures he had to take. He would not let his happiness slip away.

* * * *

Michael threw back another swallow of whiskey, barely tasting the cheap malt as it burned down his throat. He was far too distracted by the sniveling piece of work sitting across from him. That, and the stench of sweat and old ale that permeated the dank tavern around them.

“Stop worrying yourself to death,” Michael drawled. “You’re the one who gave him four days to make a decision when we never discussed doing that. And it isn’t as if he really has a choice anyway. Just delaying the inevitable.”

Evers nodded, or his head drooped. The blasted fool had been swilling gin for the better part of an hour, and that whore liquor could put any man under the table in such a time. If Evers wanted to drink himself into oblivion, Michael could not care less, but the man had been growing increasingly nervous since Tuesday. He had also been asking a lot of questions Michael did not care for.

“You sure hiring a Bow Street man was wise?” Evers sniffed, looking into his pewter mug. “I mean, what if he goes to the magistrate? It’s a hanging offense, that, eh, what they’re doing.”

“Filthy sods.” Michael sneered. He had seen a few of those Roman and Greek artworks over the years, those depictions on vases and cups that were always kept from the public and the innocent eyes of ladies. Disgusting trash, better to be ground up and turned into stove tiles! Just the thought of John and that chubby little shit Shaw in such a state, joined like animals—

He poured the rest of the whiskey down his throat, hoping the burn the image out.

“You listening?” Evers whined as he placed his drunken hands carefully on the table. “The runner? What if he sees them, eh… What if he sees too much and goes running to the magistrate?”

“Don’t worry about it. The man I hired is up to his gills in debt and would do damn near anything for a few quid. His superiors won’t give a farthing extra for turning in a peer and a baronet on buggery.”

Evers winced at the last word and shrank farther into the folds of his greatcoat.

“My sentiments precisely. Bloody disgusting. Besides, if he went to them with such a report, he would probably be thrown out on his arse for the trouble he would bring down on them.”

Evers nodded again, his eyes closed in relief. “Good.”

“Not that I wouldn’t mind seeing them swing.”

Evers shot John a horrified look, which only made Michael shake his head. He had never been too familiar with Evers, but had always at least figured him a stout fellow. One had to be with a father like his, but he was squirming like some highborn miss in a butcher’s shop. Michael checked his watch. The runner was due any minute.

Evers leaned over the table, his mug gripped between his pale hands. “What I don’t understand is, why the part about Darnish? I mean, why did you want me to tell Shaw to stay away from him?”

“I told you. Darnish”—Michael refused to ever call him John again—”is reactionary. If he found out about this, he would do something brash. Call us out, or God knows, maybe even hire some river scum to do away with us. Can’t risk it.” Michael reached for the bottle and poured another inch of whiskey in his glass. He was lying a blue streak, of course. John was anything but reactionary. He had always been a soother, the type of man who smiled and tried to make conflicts go away. If Michael had to guess, John would probably fly in, offering to pay off the blackmail himself.

The truth was, Michael wanted to hurt them. As hideous and abominable as their relationship was, Michael could at least fathom the two of them liked spending time together. He liked keeping them apart. “It’s disgusting, that’s why,” Michael tossed out, waving his hand. “Good men should want to stop filth from dropping in the streets.”

“’s their private business… Not hurtin’ anyone,” Evers slurred.

“What?” Michael growled, slamming his fist on the table.

Evers lifted his head, meeting Michael’s glare with one of his own.

Michael had a few choice words for Evers’s drunken allowances when a shadow fell over the table and a wiry man dropped into the third empty chair. He was taller than either of them but skinny as a rail. His sandy brown hair lay unwashed and plastered against his forehead. It was obvious his clothes had once been rather fine, but had been worn near to the threads.

Michael curled his lip as he leaned away from the smell of wet wool and sweat. Honestly, didn’t the lower classes know how to bathe?

“Evenin’, sirs. How be the world treatin’ ye?”

Evers snorted into his cup while Michael raised his scented sleeve to his nose.

“Fair enough,” Michael clipped. “Evers, this is Albert, our…delightful runner. What did you see today?”

“Right to it, then, eh?” Albert reached into his coat pocket and removed a beaten leather diary. He fanned through it and settled on a pencil-filled page. “Didn’t neither of ’em go near the other today for certain. Followed ’em all last week, ye already know, but they ain’t been to that little nesty above the shop since Saturday. The real knob, that vice-count, he went to callin’ on the other one at his place Monday mornin’ but didn’t go inside none. The shorter one, he took his horse to Hyde yesterday afternoon, but he came back an hour later.”

“Did you see him speak to Darnish at the park? Any of Darnish’s servants?” Michael asked.

Albert frowned. “I ain’t got four legs to gallop, ye know. Couldn’t go chasin’ after him. And it ain’t as if I know the likes of that vice-count’s servants.”

“Fine, fine. What about this evening?” Michael said.

“Aye, d’you see Shaw t’night?” Evers added, his eyes wide on the man. “How’d he look?”