Chapter Twenty-One
A MOST DISAGREEABLE churning in his belly jolted Kit awake along with a dizzy hammering at his temples, compounded by his feeble attempt to move his head. Prising open one eye, he sensed he was not alone. A warm body lay curled next him, and for a moment, he had absolutely no idea where he was.
And then, as bitter bile rose to his throat and the warm body shoved a basin under his chin, it all came flooding back, and he closed his eyes once more.
The next time he awoke, the nausea and pounding were no better, but the dizziness had receded, and his mind felt more alert. When he dared open an eye, a blurry image of the window and hazy bronze sky beyond danced into two and then back to one again, indicating it was most likely early morning. And still, a warm body nestled against him.
On his third waking, the warm body had gone, though a person with a hand in perfect ratio to his own had their fingers entwined in his. The same person, he thought, was murmuring softly, promising him everything would be all right. Lando. He’d know that sweet voice anywhere, no matter how hard he’d been smacked around the head.
How Kit wished that were true. He wanted to reply, to tell Lando everything wasn’t all right, but a different person was rolling him from side to side, turning his peaceful bed into a choppy ocean and making him seasick. A soapy cloth was swished around private parts of his body reserved for no one but an intimate, and he didn’t care for it, certainly not while lying in bed and certainly not in front of Lando. The indignity!
If he’d been feeling more himself, he’d have protested. But he wasn’t, and so he didn’t. Instead, he accepted the sips of something wet and warm pushed through his dry lips and fell asleep again.
Two days after his beating, Kit roused a fourth time, and this time, he stayed awake for longer. The warm body was back in his bed, filling his battered senses with the delicious biscuity smell of sleep and freshly laundered linen. For a few minutes, he inhaled it while simultaneously trying to ascertain if he would cast up his accounts. Then, gingerly, so as not to cry out in pain, he lifted himself onto an elbow. His stomach complained—as did his head, his ribs, and his right hip—but ye gods, the effort was worth it.
Henry Orlando Fitzwilliam Albert Duchamps-Avery, Eleventh Earl of Rossingley, dressed in nothing but a stark white nightgown, was tucked up alongside him, his blond waves fanned across the pillow like a spilled sheaf of golden corn.
A sight almost worth taking a shoeing for.
After drinking his fill, Kit flopped down again. Though his head was spinning, and his eyes weren’t working entirely as they should, he knew the vision was real. He was in his bed in the comfort of the rose bedchamber at Grosvenor Street but with very little recollection of how he’d arrived there. He remembered the beating, being set upon by two ruffians as he exited his lodgings, and he had a fair mind as to who had set them upon him. He also recalled his efforts to fight back before being overpowered. But how he’d then escaped remained a mystery his poor ill-treated brain hurt too much to comprehend. Abandoning all efforts, Kit drifted in and out of sleep until his companion stirred a little while later.
The earl even woke elegantly, with a languid stretch of his long limbs and a soft sigh. When his leg brushed against Kit’s bare one, causing Kit to move, he started, and his silvery-blue eyes sprang open. For a second, they were unfocused, and then a slow smile spread across his features.
“Kit,” he breathed, and his eyes filled with tears. “My dear Kit.” He brought a hand up to Kit’s face and traced a finger along the line of his lips. “Thank God. I was so scared I’d lost you.”
Kit’s voice was husky with sleep, his mouth dry. Even talking pained his ribs. “Not that easily.”
“Are you…do you…do you feel quite awful?” Lando’s beautiful eyes worriedly searched Kit’s face.
Despite feeling as if he’d been run over by the mail coach, Kit managed a small smile in return. “Not at all. How could I possibly, waking up next to you?”
A wince spoiled his gallantry as he tried to shift onto his side to face Lando.
“Shh, lie quietly.” With a gentle but insistent palm, Lando pushed him down again. “The doctor said you must rest. There is laudanum should you require it.”
Kit’s head spun enough already. “Perhaps. But not yet.” He twisted his stiff neck to the side, taking in the empty room. They were alone. Of course, because, scandalously, the eleventh Earl of Rossingley was in his bed. “You must leave through the adjoining door before the servants awake,” he whispered in as urgent a manner as his pains allowed.
“There is no need.” Lando sounded amused. “I think my fondness for you is now quite apparent to all members of my household.”
After drawing himself up, Lando reached across to the chevet where a glass of water waited. “Drink, but only a few sips until you can be sure your stomach is settled.”
With Lando’s aid, Kit found a comfortable position on his pillows, half reclining. The cool water tasted divine; if his nursemaid allowed it, he’d gulp it all down. Deeming him to have had his fill, Lando replaced the glass and took Kit’s hand in his.
“But…but…you’re in my bed,” Kit croaked. Fondness between gentlemen was all well and good, but clearly, Lando had not yet grasped the nub of the problem. “They will know what…what you are.”
Lando’s lips twitched. “Yes, I do believe that has become quite apparent, too, over the last few days. Reinforcing what they have already known for many years.”
He turned Kit’s hand over and kissed the rough palm, laughing softly. “Rest assured, Kit. I am not the first or only…ah…sodomite at Rossingley. And I daresay I won’t be the last.”
Kit’s black and blue brain felt quite muddled. “You…what? The other…earls?”
Lando laughed again as he trailed off. “Yes. One could describe my household staff as specially curated over several generations. We Duchamps-Averys have always prided ourselves on looking after our people, and in return, they serve us well, with utmost loyalty and discretion.”
That blow to Kit’s head must have been even worse than he’d believed. “So they know your…your…um…preferences?” He’d had a suspicion Pritchard might be aware of his lordship’s proclivities, but Kit was hard-pressed to imagine others were also privy.
“Gadzooks, yes.” Lando chuckled again. “The Duchamps-Averys are a rare breed; we manage to procreate and keep the line strong despite our naturally inverted tendencies. Not every generation, but more of my ancestors than one would expect are afflicted. My grandfather, for instance, had many a tale, by all accounts, though he did his duty and sired five children.”
Kit was puzzled. “You call it an affliction.” In brutal honesty, his head swirled so strangely, he would not be surprised to learn this whole conversation in his bed was nothing but a disconcerting and wonderful dream. Life could be damned confusing sometimes.
“Is it not?” Lando raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Blearily, Kit regarded his loveliness. “From where I’m lying? No.” He felt himself blush. Damned head injury had made him soft. “If I had the strength, I’d gather you up in my arms and cover you in kisses.”
“Then I look forward to your strength returning,” replied Lando, his smile widening.
“It’s… How the blazes did I get here, Lando?”
“You took a heavy blow to the head.”
“That part I’m very aware of.” Kit dabbed around the edge of his dressing. “Several, I’d wager.”
“You were mugged. Jasper fought off your attackers, then brought you back here.”
If his brain hadn’t felt ready to fall out of his skull, Kit might have queried why the dickens Jasper was there in the first place. And then confess to Lando that his beating wasn’t a mugging. That a chap named Clark was on his tail. That Clark might prove a fly in the ointment of the plan . But, overcome with weariness, those ideas did nothing but tickle the edges of his bruised consciousness, and he yawned widely.
Lando drew himself up. “And to that end, I should leave you in peace. You need rest. Jasper will be here soon with your breakfast and to help you eat and wash.”
“I am thoroughly spoiled,” Kit replied, and then, a little needily, “Are you going?”
“I must.” Lando placed a firm kiss on his bare shoulder. “You need some breakfast and then more rest. Though I will return to see how you are faring later. My brother awaits.”
“Brother?” Kit’s fuzzy mind wasn’t sure if it recalled a brother.
“Yes.” Lando kissed him again because he could. “His name is Robert. A soldier, a spy, a countryman, and my father’s favoured by-blow.”
*
“I CANNOT RECALL a time when you looked happier,” pronounced Robert without preamble. “Not in recent years, at any rate.” Placing the book he’d been idly flicking through down on the breakfast table, he threw Lando a crooked smile.
“Kit is finally awake and much recovered.” Lando took a seat opposite him and selected a breakfast roll. “Though he is drowsy still. He has not yet pieced things together.” He buttered the roll, then reached for the honey pot. “Tell me, have you tracked down Clark yet?”
Robert rolled his eyes as he sugared his coffee. “Did you really need to ask?”
“I daresay not, but don’t leave me in suspense. I have enough of that from Pritchard. Who is pining after Inglis terribly, by the way, and it’s making him quite the pepper pot.”
Robert chuckled. “I’ll convey that message so Inglis can brace himself for the onslaught when you finally make it back to Rossingley.”
“Soon, hopefully. I have my fingers crossed that Gartside will be tempted to place his bribe any day now.” Lando caught a drip of honey on his tongue, savouring it. “So if you have any useful thoughts regarding how we can disentangle Kit from this whole thing, then now would be a good time to share them.”
Leaning forward, Robert laid both arms on the table. “I have a friend at Bow Street. A discreet and helpful one.”
“I expected nothing less. Only the one?”
“Who had a great deal to say about Clark,” Robert continued blithely. “Not all of it good. The man is hard-working and diligent but not…well-liked. Or trusted. My chum described him as slippery as seaweed.”
Music to Lando’s ears. “Go on.”
“Our Mr Clark has a predilection for the finer things in life and is rather familiar with a small wharf just outside Wapping. Derelict, at first glance—nothing but a tumble-down granary. On closer inspection, however, it is a well-oiled drop-off point for free-traders, and one of those free-traders happens to be Clark’s older brother. Tea, principally. Some tobacco. Our friend Clark has been known to grease the palm of the local preventer on his busy brother’s behalf. Acting as a sort of go-between, as it were.”
“Hmm.” Lando frowned as he pondered Robert’s thinly veiled suggestion. “So you think the threat of him interfering further in Mr Angel’s doings can be dispensed with, given sufficient inducement.”
“I do,” agreed Robert. “It is my belief that, with the right combination of words whispered in his ear, he could be persuaded to forget he ever stumbled across a serial pickpocket named Angel at all.” He regarded Lando over the top of his coffee cup. “Assuming, that is, Mr Angel ceases his nefarious activities.”
“If our Gartside scheme is successful, then Kit will have no need.”
A small weight eased from Lando’s refined shoulders. Enticing a God-fearing man to wipe Kit’s name from his memory by dangling bags of coin in front of him had not been entirely to his liking. The problem being that bribed men became terribly good at spending their ill-gotten gains and soon developed a taste for more. Gleaning unsavoury facts about a person such as this troublesome Mr Clark and then levering them to your advantage was much more palatable.
“You will encourage Angel to keep the bribe?”
“Some of it,” Lando agreed. If he gets out of this in one piece as a free man . “If I’m able to persuade him. The money Gartside offers should primarily be put to good use righting a few of the wrongs on his estate. But a portion of it should go to Kit—which he will undoubtedly pass on to his sister—to recompense him for his troubles.”
Lando frowned again, the strands of an idea tugging at his thoughts. “Perhaps this Clark can be persuaded to…” He stopped again, trying to picture the steps. “Hear me out, Robert. When, and if, Gartside attempts to bribe Kit—any day now with luck—we need his impropriety to be exposed in front of myself, Cobham, and the others. Ideally, by a highly respected person of law.”
As his brain hummed with possibilities, Lando took a larger bite of his breakfast, suddenly ravenous. “Who better than a Bow Street runner with a secret to hide?”
Tilting his head to one side, Robert acknowledged the idea. “Who, indeed? I’m struggling to think of anyone.”
“Mmm.” Lando leaned back in his seat. “So am I. Except, somehow, our corrupt runner must be blinded to the master plan.” Pursing his lips, he nodded thoughtfully. “By a distraction of sorts. Yes… I do believe… I may have a solution. Do you have to rush back to Rossingley?”
“I fear so. My fallow acres on the eastern border are brimming with turnips to harvest, preferably before this fine dry spell turns. And the crops in Fernley Field won’t rotate themselves, you know.”
“Will they not?” Lando sighed prettily. “A pity.”
Robert pushed his chair back, stood, and brushed himself down. “By leaving now, I may, however, have time for a short detour to Bow Street. Only if his lordship wishes it, of course.” He endeavoured an obsequious pose and failed. The man had not a deferential bone in his body. “Perhaps Jasper should accompany me. I always find a display of muscles comes in useful upon these occasions, do you not?”
Lando grinned. “I’ve always been a fan of a muscular display; you know that, darling. On any occasion.” He took a dainty last bite of honeyed bread. “Which reminds me. I must retire back to bed.”