“Miss Shaw, a pleasure.” He bowed over her hand cordially, enough to please Lady Crowl without giving the girl the impression that he was reaching.
“My lord.” The girl curtsied with a stumble.
John smiled and was about to request a dance when Evers, whom John and Sam had both been ignoring to this point, stepped forward and extended his hand to Miss Shaw.
“I believe this set is near its end. Shall we form up?” His manner was soft and friendly without any hint of insincere attention.
Sam all but bared his teeth.
“I see I’m thwarted,” John said with laugh. “May I reserve a dance after dinner?”
Flor nodded several times, then seemed to remember that mute nodding was not ladylike. “Yes. Of course. Um, the quadrille, my lord?”
“I look forward to it.” John bowed once more as Flor and Evers turned to leave, frowning slightly at Evers’s back. What was the man playing at to be dancing attendance on Sam’s sister? The two were not exactly on friendly terms.
“Kat, I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr. Evers,” Sam said through his teeth.
“Not terribly well, but I’ve passed a word with him here and there. His father was good friends with Crowl, though. Good family, old stock. Very respectable.”
If John had had a drink in hand, he would have taken a long draw. Respectable was not the term he would use to describe Elliot Evers, nor that father of his.
“I see. Well…” Sam was tense, but there was little he could do in a public setting. John could just imagine the words brother and sister might exchange later.
“Well,” John began, stepping forward, “since my hopes for a dance have been ruined, what say you to a few hands in the card room? That is, if you can spare him, ma’am.”
She laughed. “I’m sure Samuel will be pleased to be spared. Off with you.”
The siblings rolled their eyes at each other, and then John and Sam headed for the card room. Halfway there, Sam turned back and said over his shoulder, “You have freed me from an evening’s torture. I think this may count as a blood debt.”
John laughed. “That bad, is it?”
“Are you guardian to any relations?” Sam asked.
“Yes, my younger sisters and two nieces.” John suddenly remembered that not even a full day ago he had feared for the future of those same girls, their dowries blackmailed away. His relief surged anew. “But they are all children. The oldest is only twelve.”
“Oh?” Sam gave him a wry smile. “In that case, you have a few years’ reprieve before your own torment.”
“I’m not sure I like that smile, man. Misery is a horrible guest. He’s always wanting more company.”
Sam laughed, his cheeks rising to reveal a dimple on one side. John had not noticed it before, but he certainly did now. They reached the archway leading to the card room when someone cut their path, causing Sam to place a tipsy hand on one of the pillars.
“Watch where you’re going, man,” Sam intoned, now obviously drunk. The man spun around but drew back when he saw Sam.
“Shaw.” The man sniffed.
“I didn’t know you were back in town.” Sam seemed to sober at once, and his posture turned defensive.
John stared at the man, sure he had seen him somewhere, when his memory served. Claiborne, it was, though he could not remember a first name. He was from a gentry family, distantly related to a baron, if John recalled. He was of an equal height with John, with the kind of white-blond hair and glacial features that spoke of Scandinavian parentage.
“Just a few days ago,” Claiborne said, though his gaze brushed over Sam’s head as if he was too bored to look at him. “Tell me, have you seen Julian tonight? Is he here?”
“No.”
Claiborne advanced and hovered over Sam. “Why do I not believe you?”
Hot anger suddenly raced through John’s veins. Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve been introduced,
sir
.” John lifted the quizzing glass from his lapel. “No, I’m sure I don’t know you at all.”
Claiborne snapped his head in John’s direction as if just noticing him. He examined John from head to toe in a way that made his skin crawl, then turned his laughing eyes on Sam.
“My, my, Shaw.” Claiborne sneered. “Don’t you know what they say about the wrong trees and
dogs
barking up them?”
Sam gasped and shot John a nervous look, only increasing John’s confusion. What the devil was that fool talking about?
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Sam said after a moment, lifting his chin. “I haven’t seen Julian since yesterday, and if you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.”
Claiborne continued to glare, and John was pleased to see Sam glare right back. Then, much as John could not believe it, the man had the nerve to turn his attention to John and ask in the same demanding voice, “What about you? Have you seen Julian?”
John lifted his quizzing glass again and replied in his haughtiest voice, “I’m sure I don’t know.”
Claiborne made a derisive snort before stalking off into the crowd. John stared after him for several seconds, a little shocked. Perhaps John had spent too much of his life in the regimented world of the ton, where manners ruled even between enemies.
“Isn’t he just lovely?” Sam fumed.
“Claiborne, is it?” John let his quizzing glass dangle against his waistcoat once more. He hated the affectation, but it was a useful weapon when needed. “And he was looking for Julian. Did he mean Garrott? That’s the only Julian I know of.”
“Eh, yes.”
“I didn’t get the impression you were inclined to help him even if you could,” John observed, then regretted the fishing comment. It was none of his business, after all.
Sam cleared his throat. “He’s an old friend of Julian’s, but a poor one in my opinion. He’s been out of the country for a while, and I would hate for Julian to renew a bad rela—friendship.”
John nodded but doubted Sam saw it, for he suddenly seemed very interested in the walls and the tops of his shoes. And John had ears enough to note the stilted manner of Sam’s speech, as if he chose his words carefully.
Dread began to creep in. Perhaps John had been foolish to feel too comfortable. Perhaps playing cards with him was further than Sam was willing to go.
Sam glanced around anxiously, then stepped close. “Perhaps we should talk for a moment somewhere? I should have been clear. I mean, I should have told you before—”
“Darny? There’s the old boy. Can’t find a wall in this place, it’s such a crush.”
Damnation!
Whatever Sam had been about to tell John was lost as Weir approached, descending upon them like a bear on hind legs. And just as loud. John bit off a curse and just managed to plaster on his usual easy smile as the man approached. Michael was with him.
“Don’t I know it.” John laughed. “Barely made it this far with my toes intact. How goes it, then?”
“With me? Fine, fine. Better to ask after you, though, eh? Darnish not showing up to a race? I was sure you were dead!” Weir boomed a thick Scottish laugh, which was taken up by Michael.
“I was sure it was you I saw over here. I told Weir we’d better come over and save you.” Michael cast a look at Sam, then back to John, eyebrows raised.
It did not escape John that neither man had even bothered to acknowledge Sam, let alone make an introduction. Good Lord, were they always this rude?
Are you much better? A week ago you didn’t know his name.
“As I’m nowhere near the ballroom, there’s no need for saving,” John said. “But you don’t know Shaw, do you? This is Sir Samuel. We were about to take a table, if you feel like playing.”
Weir looked at Sam with some abashment, as if he really had not noticed him there, while Michael pursed his lips and shrugged.
“Afraid I’ll have to bow out,” Sam said quickly. “I’m sure my sister needs me in the ballroom.”
John frowned and gave him a questioning look, but Sam seemed determined to avoid looking at him. What had happened? Was it something that Claiborne person had said?
“Family duties.” Weir grunted. “My commiseration, sir.”
“Yes, thank you.” Sam hardly looked up as he brushed past. “Eh, good evening then, J—Darnish.”
Darnish.
John’s shoulders slumped.
Sam was not even out of sight before Michael slapped him on the back. “Scurrying off to the ballroom. You won’t catch me playing lapdog for any of my sisters this age, I can tell you.”
John scowled, ready to tell Michael a thing or two about his manners, then didn’t. The words died on his tongue. Instead, he shrugged as if the subject held no interest. The perfect mask of Corinthian boredom. He did not say what he was really thinking and did not contradict anyone.
Just as he always did. Just as it had always served him.
So why did he feel so damned wretched?
Chapter Six
Better Than Anyone
“There is so damn little happiness in this world…”
Sam wiped the sweat from his brow and raised his fists again. He had lost his rhythm on the bag and needed a moment to get it back. A few bounces on the pads of his feet, and he picked it up again.
Thinking on it all for the past few days to the point of exhaustion, he still could not figure out what had come over him or why he had said such a damn fool thing. He was accustomed to regretting his words after the fact, but he almost always knew the source of his mistakes: anxiety, anger, the desire to not look weak. None of the usual explanations worked this time because in this instance he had not been lying or putting on some pose, and that was what really troubled him. Why on earth had he been so
honest
with John?
But that was a lie. If Sam was being honest with John, he would have told him the truth about himself. And he had almost done just that, twice. The words were right there, ready to drop, before Weir and that ass Sills had cut in. But he was glad they had interrupted. He had almost allowed too much drink and too much hopeful stupidity to lead him into a terrible decision.
Hopeful? Hopeful of what?
It was best to forget about John. Being his friend would be impossible without making every day a string of lies, as the encounter with Claiborne had shown, and being anything more than a friend was about as likely as a morning frost in hell. Even John’s friendship was unlikely, judging from the way Sills had looked down his nose at Sam.
Besides, he had other worries to occupy him.
That bastard Evers had danced attendance on Flor the last three nights in a row, and all Sam’s objections to Kat had fallen on deaf ears. Add to that Claiborne’s reappearance and the fact that Sam had not heard from nor seen Julian in four days, and he had plenty to think about.
Through the blur of the moving bag and his numb fists, Sam saw a tall blond figure stop a few yards away. He knew who it was, but he did not allow his punches to weaken. If anything, he felt a renewed urge to punch harder. He did not need this, not when he already had so many other thoughts keeping him up at night.
“Sam?” came that beautiful, warm voice. “I have been meaning to speak with you.”
Sam slammed his fist into the bag, causing it to strike the top board with a satisfying smack. There were other men in the gymnasium. He would not be able to outright ignore Henry for too long without drawing comments.
“I’m somewhat busy at the moment, your lordship.” Sam huffed and gave the bag a resounding left hook.
“Your hand must still hurt from the other day. And you’ve been at it for more than twenty minutes. You’re drenched,” Henry said with a nervous laugh. “I really do think we should talk. About things.”
“My lord, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sam ground out. “So if you’ll pardon me, I have more work to do here. God didn’t give to all of us with both hands,
my lord
.”
“Damn it, Sam. Don’t ‘my lord’ me,” Henry said in harsh whisper. He was close enough that the movement of the bag sent gusts of air through his blond locks. “You once called me Henry, and friend. I never retracted the invitation to do so.”
Sam leveled his fist into the bag so hard that a shock of pain ran up his arm. He held the bag to still it and glared at Henry. “Forgive my ignorance, but I assumed being called an abomination meant we were no longer on first-name terms.”
Henry winced as if Sam had hit him, and for a fleeting moment, the urge to really do it had Sam digging his fingers into the bag. It wasn’t just the things Henry had said to him. God, no, it was so much more. He had trusted him with everything that day, with his whole life, and Henry had thrown it in his face like it was filth. And then the terror afterward… How could he ever forgive?
“I left school after.” Henry’s voice was hollow. “I never got a chance to apologize for the way I—”
“And you still don’t,” Sam spat. “I don’t want your apologies or your friendship. I wasn’t good enough for you then or now, so why bother with the niceties?”
Henry’s eyes went wide and the tips of his ears colored. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the bag above Sam’s. “Is that what you think?” Henry whispered. “That I didn’t think you were ‘good enough’?”
Those cornflower blue eyes staring at Sam seemed so anxious and sincere, but he refused to believe it. He had believed Henry before. All those smiles and soft looks, then finally the night he had held Sam’s hand on the window seat, looking at each other as if there was no one else in the world; it had all been a lie, an experiment. He had been Henry’s toy.
“You still can’t stand the idea of someone not liking you, can you?” Sam heard his own words as if someone else was speaking them. “You were the same in school. If someone didn’t like you or didn’t want to bask in your superior presence, you made it your business to befriend them. Is that what this is,
my lord
? I don’t consider your attention a prize anymore, and it chafes on you to have one less follower?”
Sam had allowed his voice to rise, drawing attention. It was not every day that a nobody baronet told an earl what he could do with his civility. It was only in the far back of Sam’s mind that a little voice tried to tell him what a horrible bastard he was being, but it was too late.