Kindred Hearts (19 page)

“‘Antics’.” Tristan snorted, and pulled off his waistcoat. “That’s a generous term.”

“They weren’t much more than that,” Charles pointed out. “Games you played. No one but you was ever hurt by them.”

“Pure luck, I assure you,” Tristan sneered. He leaned back on his hands as Charles pulled off his stockings. “Well, Mountjoy, if you’re ever in need of a position as a valet, I shall be happy to write you a reference.”

“Thank you,” Charles said mildly. “If you’d kindly get up?”

Tristan obeyed, hanging onto the bedpost for balance. Charles turned down the bed and helped him get into it, still in shirt and trousers, and folded the blankets over him. Tristan lay back on the pillows, his expression suddenly lost and lonely. “Charlie?” he whispered.

Charles smoothed his tumble of hair back off his forehead. “Go to sleep, Tris. Sweet dreams.”

Tris caught Charles’s hand and held it a moment, then jerked it to his mouth for a quick kiss on the fingers. Then he thrust it away as if it offended him. “Not likely,” he said grumpily, then he rolled over, his back to Charles.

Obviously dismissed, Charles went to the connecting door. “Good night, Tris.”

There was no response. Charles opened the door and went into his room.

Tristan
woke with his usual aching head and a vague memory of speaking to Charles last night—in the library? In his bedroom? His vision seemed to flicker between the two locations. Had Charles helped him to bed last night? God, had he
said
anything? Why did he seem to remember the touch, the taste of Charles’s skin against his lips? He groaned aloud. Could he possibly have been so
stupid
as to actually
touch
Charles?

He sat up abruptly, startling Reston and sending his head to pounding. “Reston,” he said curtly. “Is Major Mountjoy in his room?”

“No, sir,” Reston said in puzzlement. “He went down to breakfast an hour or so ago, and I believe he was going down to his regimental headquarters. Something about a letter from his old company commander. He did not share the details.” He lifted Tristan’s dressing gown for Tristan to slide his arms into. “Do you wish me to shave you now, sir?”

“Yes,” Tristan said, and went to sit in the chair. Reston lathered him up and started shaving; Tristan closed his eyes and let the daily ritual soothe him. He couldn’t have said anything to Charles; he was apparently unhurt, which he was sure he would not have been had he accosted Charles as he suspected he might have. Surely even calm Charles would have reacted violently to overtures from another man? He was a soldier, and used to physical force, and such a thing would impinge upon his honor, wouldn’t it? He groaned again.

“Nearly done, sir,” Reston said softly. “When I am finished, would you like something for your headache?”

“Do we have any of that tea stuff Major Mountjoy supplied?” Tristan asked.

“Yes, sir. In fact, the major gave me some more this morning. He said he thought you might rise with another headache.”

Tristan frowned. “He did?”

“Yes, sir.” Reston hesitated, then said, “I was not awakened by either of the footman to assist you last night. I apologize for not being here when you went to bed.”

Tristan snorted. “Major Mountjoy and George tucked me in, Reston, so I was well tended. Aside from sleeping in my clothes again.” He glanced down at his wrinkled trousers.

“We’ll take care of that, sir.” Reston left him to go lay out fresh clothing for Tristan.

Tris stared at himself in the mirror over the dressing table. Nothing new there; same old face, same old hair. Same old Tris. No outward sign of perversion, of sodomy, of unnatural lusts.

Why did these emotions not feel perverse at all, but natural and
right
? He’d always thought that sodomy was the worst of the sins, but he longed for Charles in a way he’d never wanted any of the women he’d had.

He’d always wanted to fall in love. What mockery it was that when he did, it was with a
man
.

The thought stunned him. Was it love, not just lust? Was he truly in love with Charles? In love with the one person he could never be with, could never share a life with, could never even admit his feelings for?

God, Fate was a bloody
bastard.

Charles
still hadn’t returned when Tristan left for his appointment at Angelo’s, nor did he show up there or at Jackson’s later, as he sometimes did. After his bout, Tristan washed up and joined Gibson at Jackson’s fireside, taking the pint of ale his friend had kept for him and settling in one of the big armchairs. “You’re still quick enough,” Gibson observed, “but you tire more easily. You need to put on some weight. Jackson thinks you don’t eat enough beef.”

The very thought made Tris nauseous, and he sipped at his ale. “I eat enough,” he said shortly. “Just because you and our host tip the scales at sixteen stone….”

“I don’t weigh sixteen stone,” Gibson said, snorting.

“Bloody hell you don’t,” Tris retorted. “And at least he has the excuse of most of it being muscle.”

“Yes, well, you can’t weigh much more than twelve or thirteen, and you’re bloody near six foot, Tris. It’s just not healthy. Not in a man your build. It ain’t… manly.”

“P’raps I should take myself off to a madge house, then,” Tristan said angrily. “
If
I knew where one was, which I
don’t
.”

“No reason you should,” Gibson said, startled. “And I’m not making accusations, Tris. Just worried about you. God knows you’re no molly. Not like….”

“‘Like’?” Tris echoed.

Gibson leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Willoughby,” he whispered. “There’s a madge house on King Street, and I’ll
swear
I saw him going in there.”

Gibson’s mistress had a house on King Street, so it was likely. “King Street?” Tris said, schooling his voice to a deliberately lazy drawl. “Slumming, was he?”

“Bloody bastard,” Gibs said, laughing. “Nothing wrong with King Street!”

“Just the neighbors.” Tris drained his ale. “Well, if you and Jackson are so concerned about my weight, you can buy me that beefsteak. And you can tell me more about Willoughby while you’re at it. I thought he was betrothed to Lady Simpkin’s niece?” And a good pair they were, the niece being as pallid and uninteresting as Willoughby was. He considered it. Yes, he could imagine Willoughby in a madge house. He had only had a vague idea what went on in one, but Willoughby struck him as the kind that would let a man do
that
to him, let another man take him over and command him. The thought should have disgusted him, did disgust him when he thought of Willoughby. But if the tables were turned and it was
Charles
commanding, taking…. He shuddered in sudden, fierce desire.

“Yes, pretty horrifyin’, ain’t it?” Gibs said. “Of course, if it were a choice between a sweet molly-boy and Miss Simpkin? Don’t know that I wouldn’t run off to the place myself.”

They laughed loudly and changed the subject until they were sitting at a corner table in a nearby pub. After the waiter had taken their order, Tris said casually, “So which house is the madge house? I hope it’s not too close to Sukey’s—otherwise casual passersby might think
you
were the one attending.”

“Oh, it’s down the street, four or five houses. The one with the blue shutters?”

“That? I thought that old retired general or admiral or something lived there.” Tris took a sip of ale.

“He did, but he died about two years ago. The house stood empty for a six-month, but a couple bought it after that. I had the misfortune to meet them once; they’ve no presence at all. Cits, no better. It’s supposed to be a private residence, and the visitors their guests, but they have the most rum sorts for friends, if so. And then Willoughby—the man won’t acknowledge anyone not of the ton, let alone a rum pair like that. I’d thought of reporting it to the authorities, but they’re quiet enough, and we’ve never had problems with them. No business of mine what a man does with his drawers down.” He glanced up as the waiter produced plates of beef swimming in juice and garnished with red potatoes. “Here you are, Tris. This will put meat on your bones.”

Tris regarded his plate dubiously, then shook his head and speared a potato with his fork. “Most people would report it,” he said, and bit into the potato. It was delicious, cooked to perfection, with a savory note from the beef juice. Too bad he wasn’t that hungry.

Gibson shrugged. “Not sayin’ I approve. Church says it’s wrong, it’s wrong. But it’s also none of my business. Not any more than a man addicted to the drink, or to laudanum—it’s a perversion just like those. As long as no one gets hurt by it, it’s none of my business.” He waved his knife at Tris. “I wouldn’t have said anything to anyone except you or Berks, you know. Those poor sods have enough trouble as it is. And I’m too softhearted to want deaths on my conscience.”

“I know,” Tris said. “Poor sods.”

The
street was quiet in the midnight dark, but there were lights ablaze in the house with the blue shutters. Tris had the hackney driver pull up two houses down and pretended to watch the house they’d stopped at, though its windows were dark. “Lookin’ for somethin’ specific, guv’nor?” the hackney driver asked from above.

“No,” Tristan said, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face and neck. “Just—observing.”

“Right,” the jarvey snorted, but shut the trap door anyway.

They’d only sat there a few minutes when a slim figure turned the corner, tapping casually along the sidewalk with a jaunty swing of his cane. He slowed as he approached the carriage, then studied the side panel and the open window a moment before approaching. In the flicker of the hackney’s sidelights, Tris saw a young, handsome face above a fashionably tied cravat, slender hands in faultless gloves, and a form swathed in an expensive greatcoat. All the hallmarks of a member of the ton, but Tris was familiar with most of them, and this was no gentleman he knew.

The man came up to the carriage and rested his gloved hand next to where Tris gripped the sill nervously. “Are you waiting for someone, sir?” The voice was low, silky, and unmistakably Cockney.

“No. Thank you.”

In the dim light, Tris couldn’t tell the color of the man’s eyes, only that they were light and lustrous. The dark lashes flicked downward, and the man withdrew his hand, only to draw his glove off slowly, and return the hand to the window, settling gently on Tris’s kid-covered one. “Are you certain?” the man said softly, and his naked fingers slid up Tristan’s hand to brush gently over the bare skin of his wrist. “I might be one you didn’t even know you was lookin’ for. Why don’t you step down from there and come wif me? I knows a place as is quite comfortable.” The curious mixture of polite language and obvious lower-class antecedents only added to the man’s appeal. Tristan shivered.

“No, thank you,” he said again, but his voice shook. He knew he should order the jarvey to drive on, but something kept him pinned in place. It was as if the light touch of the man’s fingers were a vise holding his hand to the edge of the window.

“It’s a cold night to be sitting out here what when there’s a warm spot just a few feet away,” the man purred. “A warm spot and seems like I could p’raps make it warmer.”