Chapter 8
Eight
Yves was beginning to think that perhaps Bradford truly was Father Christmas.
He had made those poor, wretched children smile, but more than that, he had made the world magical, if only for one night.
After three years of living in abject terror of London and the dangers it could hold for him, Bradford had given Yves the courage to venture out.
It was an invitation to rejoin the world.
Even so, Yves’ heart had bounced around like a tiny boat flung to and fro on a sea of wildly conflicting emotions.
He had been terrified to step outside of the club, even with Bradford there to shield and watch out for him and even in the dead of night.
His panic had subsided as they’d toured the city, however, but it had not disappeared entirely.
Still, it was a relief for Yves to see that he was not trapped inside The Chameleon Club indefinitely and that it was possible for him to rejoin the world. It helped that his thoughts had been diverted from his own plight by that of the caroling children.
“I cannot sequester myself inside The Chameleon Club day after day any longer,” he told Bradford as they made the turn onto Park Lane near Hyde Park Corner.
Without streetlights, the park itself was dark and very likely the scene of every kind of nefarious activity, despite the cold, but that no longer concerned Yves.
“No?” Bradford asked, pulling Yves closer against his side, where Yves was very comfortable.
“No,” Yves repeated with a determined sigh. “There is no telling whether the threat against my life and my freedom has truly passed with Guillame’s death. Indeed, I believe men like us will always suffer under some sort of threat as long as we persist in living without denying who we are.”
“I fear you are right on that matter,” Bradford said, turning his head toward Yves and resting his lips on Yves’ head in a gesture that was half kiss, half comfort. “But there are places in the world where there is less of a care about our sort.”
Yves hummed, and though he was interested to learn more, that was not the path his thoughts had wandered down.
“I cannot help those who truly need my help if I am constantly afraid of my own shadow.” He glanced up at Bradford.
“Those children and others like them. They need a champion. My sister and her family. Even my brother’s widow.
There are people who need me, even if that is simply my presence at Christmas dinner. ”
Bradford smiled at him. It was difficult to see in the darkness of the carriage, with only patches of light now and then as they passed streetlamps, but Yves could see the affection in his savior’s eyes and the gentle curve of his smile. “You wish to do more?” he asked.
Yves smiled. “More than keep myself in a safe, self-imposed prison for the remainder of my days?” he asked. “Yes.”
“I approve of your determination,” Bradford said. He then cradled the side of Yves’ face, tilted his head up, and kissed him thoroughly.
Yves breathed into his lover’s kiss and his touch, feeling warm despite the cold of the night.
He did not know what he had done to deserve the attention, let alone the regard, of a man as bold and bright as Howard Bradford.
Bradford should have lost interest in him days ago, but the connection between them seemed to be increasing instead of fading.
What if his dreams of having Bradford with him always could be turned into a reality instead of kept and savored as something sentimental that might have been?
What could he do to show this amazing man who had brought him out of his prison and showed him a glimpse of all the ways his life could be different if he could but trust and overcome the wrongs that had been done to him?
What did he have to offer the angel who had swooped into his life to lift him up?
Rather than depressing him or making him feel inadequate, those questions inspired Yves and made his mind spin with possibilities. It gave his kiss energy and life, so much so that Bradford laughed at his enthusiasm.
“There, there, my sweet,” Bradford said. “We are nearly home.”
Yes, yes, they were nearly home. In a grander sense of life and love and happiness. Yves felt so close to the life he truly wanted to live that he could taste it. Or perhaps he was simply tasting Bradford’s mouth as they fell into kissing once more.
The carriage lurched to a stop, startling Yves out of his amorous haze. Bradford, too. They both leaned back, breathing heavily to recover themselves enough to leave the carriage. Yves thanked God for the long coats that would hide the evidence of both of their arousal.
But as he stepped down from the carriage once Ben had opened the door for them, his breath caught and his heart nearly stopped.
The world of The Chameleon Club that they had left was vastly changed.
Yves took a few steps away from the carriage, then turned a circle and gaped around at the snowy world they’d returned to.
He had not been aware of the light flurries that had fallen over London increasing to a more insistent snowfall.
The skies seemed to have opened up with white.
The street in front of the club and Hyde Park across from it was dark, but there were enough streetlights flickering away, determined to shed their light even in the most impenetrable darkness, that the snowflakes stood out in majestic splendor.
“It’s beautiful,” Yves said as Bradford came to stand beside him, resting a hand on the small of his back.
“So it is,” Bradford said, glancing around with a smile.
There was so much peace in the fall of snow.
It dampened all other sound while adding a whisper of its own to the air.
For a moment, Yves was certain he could hear the echo of the carol the waifs they’d encountered earlier had sung.
The way the snow gathered on the ground and on the sides of the buildings around them, the trees planted along the street, and even on the carriage as Ben mounted its seat and drove it away so that the noble horses could be put to bed, was softly beautiful.
“I feel as though there are miracles in the air,” Yves spoke reverently into the night. “It is as though all evil and strife is being washed away from the world and a new dawn of possibility is being born.”
Bradford chuckled and took Yves’ hand, even though they were outside in a world that would certainly judge them, if given half a chance.
“The cycle of time and nature always turns,” he said.
“You are aware, I am certain, that the night that has just passed is the winter solstice. The dawn that will come with the sun in the morning is the beginning of a brighter time.”
Yves dragged his eyes down from the sky to smile at Bradford. “I can feel the newness all around me.”
The way Bradford looked back at him had more than just Yves’ heart jumping. He was not merely a poet and a man of vision and hope. He was a man of flesh and blood, one with as fierce of a pulse as any.
“Come,” Bradford said, his tone deep and husky. “Let us go inside.”
That was all the invitation Yves needed. He squeezed Bradford’s hand tighter and let the man lead him up to the club’s front door. The attendant on night duty must have been watching them through the window, because he opened the door without either of them having to knock.
The inside of the club was warmer than the world outside, but it was still dark and hushed.
Yves was loath to disturb any of his friends and walked as quickly and quietly as he could along the main hall and up the stairs.
Strangely enough, Bolingbroke appeared to be awake and playing the piano quietly in the dining room, likely a composition of his own creation.
“I have always enjoyed accompaniment to my amorous activities,” Bradford commented in a whisper as they continued up the stairs to the second floor, still able to hear the ethereal sound of Bolingbroke’s song behind them.
As soon as they were safe behind the closed door of Bradford’s suite, Yves unbuttoned his coat, shrugged out of it with eager speed, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs in Bradford’s front room.
Bradford followed suit, tossing his coat and hat aside quickly, then starting in on his jacket as he inched closer to his bedroom.
Yves laughed at the heated eagerness that seemed to glow between them, like the embers of the fire in Bradford’s grate that had yet to burn down all the way.
“I hope you do not mind having me again,” Yves said in an excited hush as he tossed his jacket aside in Bradford’s bedchamber, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and loosened his cravat.
“I beg your pardon?” Bradford asked, pausing halfway through the act of undressing himself.
Yves felt a twinge of self-consciousness, but hid it by rushing through removing his clothing even faster.
“You’ve already had me for a night,” he said as he bent to pull off his shoes.
When he straightened to tug his shirt from his trousers, then to undo his trousers, he went on with, “I was given to understand you loved a man only once and then tossed them aside for the next one.”
Bradford’s entire countenance changed so much to one of hurt and despair that Yves froze after pulling his shirt off. Bradford was in only his shirt and trousers, having taken his shoes off, but his hands had gone still on his shirt buttons. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked.