Lord Loxley's Lover (7 page)

From the whist table, Mr. Rochester frowned at them. The doubt and misery on his face made Lord Loxley’s heart ache.

“
I
think
you are really behaving quite callously,” said Mr. Rochester, as he shut the door to Lord Loxley’s bedroom rather more firmly than necessary.

“Am I?” Lord Loxley kept his face turned away.

“I don't know you at all." Mr. Rochester said, giving Lord Loxley a shove in the direction of the bed. "I thought you were kind and gentle."

"Mr. Rochester, I assure you—“ Lord Loxley began, flustered.

"
Don't
." Mr. Rochester's eyes burned with hurt anger as he pinned Lord Loxley on his back. "That girl is charmed by you, and in return you mock her."

"I don't mock her!” Lord Loxley objected.

“She thinks you are being sincere, while you pursue your base lusts.”

Lord Loxley clenched his jaw at the insult. “Miss Sarah Meriwether and I—“

“I don’t want to hear it, Fitz,” Mr. Rochester said, tucking his face against Lord Loxley’s neck. “Just let me have this.”

Lord Loxley winced, quite miserable with guilt and worry. He curled his arms up around Mr. Rochester’s head and shoulders, hugging him close. “Stay,” he whispered. “I beg of you.”

Mr. Rochester wrapped his arms around Fitz and held him for some time.

Neither of them spoke.

“
M
r. Rochester
, this is incredible,” Lord Loxley said, gazing at his accounts at Mr. Rochester’s apparent ability to draw money up from the wells like water. They’d discussed the amount of money that should go back into the estate—repairs, improvements, proper windows for the local school—and the amount of money that should be invested in new industries—a moderate variety of ventures, chosen with care by Mr. Rochester—but there remained a surplus of funds, which Mr. Rochester explained should be put toward the capital of Lord Loxley’s inherited income, and not otherwise touched. “Some of it should be yours.”

That caused Mr. Rochester to look over in confusion. “Mine? None of my money was ever involved in your estates.”

This response was so puzzling that Lord Loxley had to stop and blink at him.

“No, I mean that this income--it’s your work that has earned it,” Lord Loxley said.

Mr. Rochester’s brow cleared in understanding and then immediately furrowed again. Now they were, if not on the same page, at least in the same book.

“You pay me,” said Mr. Rochester. “And rather more than the going rate, I might add.”

Lord Loxley shut the account book and looked up at him with a frustrated huff. “Mr. Rochester, you have more than tripled my income for the quarter, through entirely your dedicated efforts.”

“With your money, on your estates,” Mr. Rochester countered, now that he understood fully where Lord Loxley was going with this. “I’m fully aware that making poor decisions out of over-sympathetic good intent is a deeply ingrained part of your nature, but the money is yours and I will not touch it.”

Lord Loxley folded his arms over the book, thinking of Mr. Rochester’s father rotting in a debtor’s prison, for an amount which Mr. Rochester would not disclose. “I will increase your salary,” he said instead, supposing that Mr. Rochester would not be able to object to that.

Mr. Rochester looked short-tempered about his employer’s stubborn and reckless stupidity. “If you increase my salary to more than is reasonable for even the most urgently demanded valet in the realm, I will use the excess as capital to pay for the repairs we’ve discussed.”

He was just honest enough to do it, too. Lord Loxley sulked unhappily, fully aware that Mr. Rochester was legally and socially correct in his arguments. It bothered him that he could not help Mr. Rochester’s situation, and the situation of Mr. Rochester’s parents, but Lord Loxley did understand that Mr. Rochester was far too proud to accept charity and would resent its provision.

And yet as long as Mr. Rochester was powerless, subject to another man, and with his family imprisoned and disgraced, Lord Loxley was very certain that they were all going to remain miserable. Even if he could manage to repair their intimate relationship, which remained irresolvably damaged, Mr. Rochester was still his domestic servant, which was a deeply unhappy state of affairs for everyone involved. It was Lord Loxley’s opinion that it would be much more suited if Mr. Rochester were the rightful lord of the manor, while Lord Loxley could be his bookish…

Lord Loxley’s mind trailed off in search of the proper word.
Molly
still felt wrong, even though subsequent conversations with Miss Sarah had covered the fascinating topics of molly houses, where a gentleman of a certain inclination might find
other
gentlemen of similar inclinations, most of whom fell into the categories of either mollies or their male lovers, and there were even molly weddings conducted between a gentleman and his molly-gentleman wife. This was both very interesting and rather perplexing to Lord Loxley, who thought he would make a rather poor molly and didn’t particularly want to try, although he thought he would very much like to make some molly acquaintances and thought he might rather try that at some point after he had re-established basic conversation with Mr. Rochester to the degree that he might
explain
that situation. He was quite certain that given the communication level of their current relationship, filling the house with ‘back door ushers’—this being another term gleaned from Miss Sarah’s surprisingly extensive knowledge, on account of Miss Sarah and her sisters being apparently very dear friends with their molly neighbor Mr. Innisworth, and one with implications which Lord Loxley wasn’t sure that Miss Sarah entirely understood—would only further damage Mr. Rochester’s opinion of his employer.

“Why won’t you let me call you Miles?” Lord Loxley asked, at last, raising his eyes from the desk to look beseechingly at his boyhood friend.

Mr. Rochester tensed at the question, sending an icy glare in Lord Loxley’s direction. “I thought I’d made clear that I don’t wish to have this conversation.”

“And I think you’ve put it off quite long enough,” Lord Loxley retorted. “
Why
may I not call you Miles, not even when we are intimate? You call me Fitz.”

Mr. Rochester snorted disdainfully and looked away. “A weakness on my part which I thoroughly regret.”

“
Confound
it, Miles!” Lord Loxley burst, slamming his fist on the desk and rising passionately to his feet. “
Why
?”

“Because you’re not
him
!” Mr. Rochester roared at him.

Anger promptly deflating into absolute confusion, Lord Loxley blinked at him. “I’m not whom?”

“You’re not
Fitz
.” Mr. Rochester said, and he sounded so entirely distraught about it that Lord Loxley couldn’t find the pique to correct him. “You’re not my Fitz.”

This was an utterly perplexing statement, and Lord Loxley sank back into his chair to consider it. It made no sense to him, but he was glad at least that Mr. Rochester had yet to storm out of the room, which made Lord Loxley determined to get as far with this as he could before that inevitable result. “Are you suggesting that I’m not
Fitzhenry Loxley
?”

The deeply exasperated expression on Mr. Rochester’s face as he sank his head into his hands was deeply reassuring, since it meant that Mr. Rochester was in no way questioning Lord Loxley’s identity, and that there was still enough of the old Miles and Fitz in both of them for Miles to be left speechless at Fitz’s incredible obliviousness.

“I’m suggesting,” Mr. Rochester said at last, with great care and his head still in his hands, “that you are not the man that I thought you were, and not the boy that I loved. The boy I thought I loved would never have abandoned me.”

Straight back to being utterly perplexed, Lord Loxley furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of this. “
Abandoned
you?”

“You never wrote!” Mr. Rochester shouted, dropping his hands from his face and looking at Lord Loxley with hurt and rage. “I was destroyed and despairing, and
you did not come.
”

Lord Loxley’s mouth opened and closed several times before he managed words. “I didn’t
know
!”

“You might have known, had you
written
.”

“I might have known had
you
written!” Lord Loxley countered, quite indignant. “I thought you were married to that Scottish
heiress
who had turned your head, and you did not wish to remember your university indiscretions.”

“What, that we might not even be
friends
once I was married?” Mr. Rochester asked. “Which I am not. All of that dissolved. It does, you know, when you’re ruined. All your friends vanish. They forget your address and ignore your correspondence.”

“I didn’t know,” Lord Loxley repeated helplessly.

Mr. Rochester laughed mirthlessly. He sounded exhausted and miserable. “You didn’t, did you? I’ve been wroth with you all this time because I forgot to take into account that you’re an oblivious fool.”

Lord Loxley grimaced good-naturedly at that, not liking the sound of those words coming from Miles, even though Lord Loxley could on no account deny them.

After a minute, Mr. Rochester rose to his feet. “I’m going up to Town to make arrangements for the investments we discussed.”

London. Which meant he would be gone for at least two days, and likely more.

“Miles—the wedding,” Lord Loxley said. It was in less than a week, to be held at Loxley Manor, and the preparations were closing in fast. Lord Loxley couldn’t imagine surviving a wedding, however simple, without Mr. Rochester around.

“You have my word that I’ll be back in time,” Mr. Rochester said, and then added: “sir.”

And then he was gone, and Lord Loxley left to stare at the wood of his desk in numb shock.

T
he next day
, Lord Loxley came up with a plan. He was fully aware that it was a dangerous, reckless, and possibly disastrous plan, and when Mr. Rochester found out he would certainly express strong feelings on the topic of it being
unusually
stupid, even for Fitz, but this of course discouraged Lord Loxley from his plan none whatsoever.

“Sarah,” he said, finding his betrothed in the kitchen, discussing the plans with his housekeeper for seating arrangements.

She smiled cheerfully up at him, having made herself fully at home. Sarah and Mr. Rochester still tended to repel each other in chilly, unfriendly circles as they moved through the house, but Lord Loxley had noticed them beginning to develop a mutual respect for each other’s good sense and had once even caught them at exchanging techniques for the handling of Lord Loxley.

“Fitzhenry,” she said, giving Mrs. Pellicott an apologetic smile as she excused herself and got to her feet. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid,” Fitzhenry said, as he led her into the nearest side room where they might speak privately, “that I am going to do something terribly foolish.”

“Oh, Fitz,” Sarah said, with a concerned frown.

“I have to,” he said. “The business will take me to London, but I promise I’ll be back in time for the wedding. There and back again—if I’m quick, I’ll be back tomorrow evening. If not, the day after.”

“What business?” Sarah asked, sympathetic but also concerned.

“I don’t want to tell you,” Fitzhenry said, “because it might not work, and if it doesn’t work, I don’t want you to know what a remarkably stupid idea it is. But if it
does
work it shall be ever so noble.”

Sarah frowned at this explanation, but did not try to dissuade him. “Is it for Mr. Rochester?”

“Yes,” Fitzhenry admitted.

She sighed. “Is he going to be
very
angry at you for whatever you’re about to attempt?”

“Almost certainly.”

“If he gets back before you do I shall not tell him that you are off doing something devilishly foolish.”

“I appreciate that.”

Sarah kissed his cheek and then smiled at him. “Go on, then. Go be a noble fool.”

Fitzhenry grinned at her, and went to London.

T
he city was
grimy and crowded as ever, with a stench that made Fitzhenry reel, and the stench only got worse within a stone’s throw of Fleet prison.

Feeling very small and very foolish, Lord Loxley climbed from the hired carriage and prevailed upon Mr. Egby to wait there for him to return. He wished very strongly that Mr. Rochester were at his side to frown disapprovingly at any man or woman who so much as glanced in Lord Loxley’s direction, but he knew that if Mr. Rochester had come along on this excursion, he would have bodily dragged Lord Loxley back home the moment he suspected what Fitz was about.

Taking a deep breath—and promptly regretting it—Lord Loxley strolled in through the doors of the prison and spoke to the man he found at the desk. “My name is Lord Fitzhenry Loxley. I am here to collect Baron Alexander Rochester.”

He had gone to his solicitor first, then to his bank, then to the agency which held the balance of Baron Rochester’s debts, then back to his solicitor, and at last had found himself in front of Fleet prison itself. And then within, facing a dog-faced man with less than half his teeth, who looked Lord Loxley over like he was considering any number of unpleasantries he would like to commit upon Lord Loxley and any other member of the Beau Monde who came within reach.

“Eaint paitess detts,” the dog-faced man slurred, a statement which Lord Loxley felt might possibly translate to ‘Pardon me, sir, but according to my most recent information Baron Rochester remains indebted to several creditors.’

“On the contrary,” Lord Loxley said, “I’ve seen to that.” And he furnished the gaoler with the writ affirming as such.

The payment had taken all of the surplus profits which were meant to be applied to the capital of Lord Loxley’s income, and most of the balance of that same income, and Lord Loxley was quite certain that Mr. Rochester would be enraged when he learned of such recklessness, but he hoped nonetheless that the results might help Mr. Rochester agree to the rest of Lord Loxley’s plan, which was considerably less dangerous—though probably no less foolish—than the solo excursion to Fleet prison.

It took him over an hour to goad and bribe the gaoler into compliance, a process which Mr. Rochester’s intimidating glare would have shortened considerably. At last Lord Loxley was led to Baron Rochester’s cell, the Baron’s identity was confirmed, papers were signed and exchanged, and Lord Loxley led the Baron out to the carriage, which was mercifully still waiting.

The baron was a withered old man who might long ago have been tall and handsome, but his hands shook and he had a tendency of losing his train of thought mid-sentence. Lord Loxley saw to it first that he was fed, bathed and barbered, freshly appareled in the best second-hand clothing that they could get on short notice, and then packed back into the carriage to snore contentedly on their way out of London.

Friendly but confused, the Baron seemed perplexed as to who Fitz was and where they were going, but he was overall pleased to be out of the Fleet and traveling through the countryside. Fitz reassured him whenever he was awake, fed him often, and repeated frequently his explanation that they were going to Loxley Manor to see Miles and that there was going to be a wedding.

“Fitz!” Sarah cried when the carriage pulled up, coming out to greet him. She met him with a hug, fussing over him at once. “Fitz! So you are back safely. I was worried. Did you—oh!”