“Why did you do that?” Sam continued, his voice still thick. When John made no reply, for he was uncertain what to say, Sam turned to face him. “Why did you offer to be my second? You hardly know me.”
It took John a moment to collect his thoughts. He was too distracted by the bruises already forming on Sam’s face and the side of his torso, not to mention the bleeding split lip. Sam was also still half-dressed and covered in sweat, causing John some very unexpected distraction. “You needed someone to stand with you,” he said. As to not knowing Sam, John was not sure if he believed that. In fact, considering the events of the last week, he was damn sure he didn’t.
“Someone else would have done it.” Sam picked up a towel and wetted it in the porcelain bowl near the wall before cleaning the blood from his face.
“I think we know each other very well,” John said.
Sam turned around with a start, his eyes wide.” W-what do you mean?”
A part of John screamed that what he was doing was stupid. “I mean, you know my secret, and I know yours.”
“My secret?” Sam’s eyes were wide as saucers as he twisted the towel in his hands.
“Yes. I think I know that you aren’t the man you lead everyone to believe you are. I’ve seen it more than once now. You don’t make it easy for people to like you, and I think you do it on purpose. Sam”—John rubbed the back of his neck—”that dog of yours never stole your watch fob, did it?”
Sam released a manic-sounding laugh. “The dog? You’re talking about the dog.”
That Sam had not punched him or told him to go to hell yet was a good sign, so John continued. “You’re a good, decent man, and you pretend you’re not. And I’m, well… I pretend that I’m decent.”
“You are not indecent,” Sam objected.
“You know what I mean.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “We haven’t known each other long, but I don’t think it’s too much to say that we probably know each other better than anyone.”
The red flush that infused Sam’s cheeks made John long to know how hot the skin would feel under his lips if he kissed him, which baffled John for many reasons. The least being that Sam was nothing like the men John took at the brothels. John had always favored sultry types with long, catlike bodies and chiseled features. Sam was nothing like that. If Sam was anything like a cat, he certainly wasn’t the sultry, slinking kind. He would be more the purring, curled up in your lap on a cold winter day kind—
“John?”
“Mmm?” John snapped his gaze back into focus. Had he been staring?
“Never mind.” Sam turned away as he began hurriedly collecting his clothes from one of the wardrobes.
“No, please. What did you say?”
Sam paused with his coat in his hands. “I said, I don’t mean to do it all the time. I just get so angry, and then I open my mouth and make everything worse.”
“Is that what happened at the wedding breakfast?”
“You mean with Evers?” Sam snorted. “No. In his case, I always regret not being harsh enough.”
John nodded. “And Brenleigh?”
Sam shook his head, then winced and pressed his palm over his eye. “No. That’s different. I can’t tell you about that. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
“I understand.” John forced a smile, though he was disappointed. “Are we agreed then? We know each other pretty well, huh?”
Sam flitted his eyes away. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“I would not mind getting to know you better still.”
Oh, that did not sound right. No, no, no.
Sam stared while John cursed himself. Ignoring John’s preferences was one thing, stating that he did not think they were wrong was yet another, but if Sam thought for even a moment that John would look on him that way…
“In that case, I hope you’re a good correspondent,” Sam said as he jammed his arms into his coat and stuffed his cravat into one pocket. “I will be leaving for the country as soon as possible.”
“What? Why?”
“Were you out there? My reputation, as inconsequential as it is, is going to be in tatters by the end of the day. I’ll be no more than a laughingstock, and I refuse, I
refuse
—” Sam’s voice broke. He turned his back as he continued to gather his things. “I’m sorry, John, but you will probably suffer some of this too. You offered to be my second, and people are going to ask why you would ally yourself with a brutish little nobody who—”
John grabbed Sam’s arm as he closed the wardrobe door. Sam started, but John did not let go. He was angry. “So you’re going to just let them? You won’t stay and tell your side of things?”
“Even if I had been in the right, which I wasn’t, the ton would still side with Brenleigh. Why wouldn’t they? He is everything they adore.”
Once again, the urge to know what happened and what their quarrel was about left John biting his tongue. Now was not the time for it. He released Sam’s arm. “You don’t understand. The gossips just want a story to tell, something dramatic that will make them the center of attention for a few minutes. If you’re smart, you can form the story. I’ve seen it dozens of times.”
“I’m not that smart, and I gave up the game a long time ago. So”—Sam grabbed his hat from the high shelf and clenched it in his hands—”if you’ll pardon me, I would rather leave here before I am laughed out onto the street.”
John reluctantly moved aside for Sam to pass, but as Sam reached the end of the aisle, he stopped and turned back. The bruises on his face were already beginning to darken. “Thank you for offering to stand with me. You were wrong when you said that you pretend to be decent, John. You are more decent than most.”
With that, Sam jammed his hat on his head and fled. A bloom of heat started in John’s chest and rose until he was sure the tips of his ears showed it. At the same time, a cold determination began to form in the back of his mind. Years of watching, listening, and always pretending had given John an arsenal of social skills that he rarely used. He had never had a reason to until now. And he would be damned if the venom of the ton was going to take from him the only person in the world kind enough to know him and yet still call him decent. He was not going to lose Sam.
Chapter Seven
Actors
Sam,
I have no right to make requests of you, but I ask that you delay your plans to leave for the country until Friday. If you allow me the rest of today and tomorrow, I will show you that the game our peers play is not as complicated as you think. There is a performance of
Artaxerxes
at the Haymarket Thursday night. I am told you have a box there. I recommend you attend and watch the performance, but pay no mind to the stage. The real talent is in the audience.
J.D.
As Sam’s town carriage lumbered over the cobblestone streets, he read the note again. He had folded and unfolded it so many times that the creases were starting to split. He could not help his lips from twitching up in a smile. Talent, indeed. He could easily imagine John smirking when he wrote that. In all the years of noticing him—leering at him, in all honesty— from afar, Sam had never taken him for a social critic. He had always assumed that someone who fit the ton so flawlessly must be a true creature of it. He was pleased to be wrong.
The last two days had been a misery. After fleeing Jackson’s, he had made it home to enjoy only three hours of solitude with a potato poultice over his black eye before Kat stormed in. The rumors of the fight must have been dramatic indeed, since Kat had seemed shocked to find him conscious and moving. Sympathy had not lasted long before her recriminations started. How could he do this to Flor? How was this going to reflect on her? Did Sam care nothing for his sisters’ reputations? How was he to escort them about town with his face in such a state? How could he have done something so despicable?
Of course she would not think to blame Henry. Even if it was Sam’s fault, it still would have been nice for her to not assume so.
The carriage swayed as he traveled the few blocks to Kat’s house to collect her and Flor for the evening’s entertainment and torment. Kat was reluctant because Sam was still sporting a brownish eye and a split lip, and Sam dreaded it for the nasty reception and humiliation he was sure he would receive. The only person who appeared to be excited, if her notes were anything to go by, was Flor.
The carriage came to a stop, and Sam was surprised to see Kat and Flor already bounding down the wide steps of the Crowl mansion. It was customary for him to at least join them in the drawing room first.
“Sam! You must tell me, please. Kat won’t say a word to me about it,” Flor said in a rush the moment the door opened. She stepped up with the footman’s help and dropped into the forward-facing seat.
“Enough of that, Flor. Really,” Kat said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not bad enough Sam has to let his temper rule him, you—”
“Temper? Sam?” Flor gave Kat a contemptuous look. “I don’t believe it. I think Lord Brenleigh must have done something provoking for Sam to call him out. That was it, wasn’t it?” She faced Sam. “What did he do?”
“I did not call him out!” Sam cried. Dear Lord, this was going to be worse than he thought.
“But you called him a coward, did you not? Oh, but that was
after
you called him out, wasn’t it?”
“Who on earth have you been talking to?” Sam asked as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
“What? Oh, I heard that from Mrs. Finney,” she said, naming the old Crowl family housekeeper. “She must have heard it from somewhere, I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t listen to gossip,” Sam chided because it was the proper thing for an older brother to say. He leaned back and tried to prop his chin on his hand against the window, only to wince and pull back from the pain.
Kat scoffed while Flor stared in fascination at Sam’s bruised face.
The closer they got to the Haymarket, the faster Sam’s heart beat. If only John had sent some kind of explanation to go along with that damn note. It had been two days, and he had heard nothing. And the fact that Julian had not called to inspect him and make any clever remarks about his fighting prowess was proof that he had left town, though Sam had no time to think about that now.
“Flor,” Kat said, drawing her attention, “when we arrive, do not relinquish your cloak right away. There’s a chance we might not stay.”
Sam knew she was right, that their reception could indeed be that bad, but the words still irritated him. “I suppose there will be no chance that
Brenleigh
will wish to leave early,” he snapped.
“Of course not. Lord Brenleigh did not start a brawl over God knows what in total disregard for his family,” Kat countered. “Besides, I very much doubt he will even be at the theater tonight, nor anywhere else. He probably
also
has the good grace not to show himself in public with a battered face.”
“My dear sister, I am flattered.” Sam pressed a hand to his chest. “That you would assume Brenleigh
also
has a battered face is the most credit you’ve given me in days.”
Kat made a disgusted noise and turned her attention to the door. Light streamed from the theater doors as people alighted from carriages and made their way up the polished marble steps. The doors and windows were flung wide to the temperate night air, showing a packed lobby of elegant silk gowns and form-hugging evening coats. Sam drew a breath and stepped down from the carriage. No matter what, he would keep his temper and his tongue in check, for Flor’s sake.
A part of him was still cursing himself for not leaving town. A vague note with no direction should not have been enough for Sam to tell his valet to stop packing. But he had done just that, and why? Because it was Darnish? John was a handsome man who Sam had spent years lusting after, true, and little more. He hardly knew him, as evidenced by the fact he had no idea what John had been doing the last two days.
How was Sam to act? What was he to say if anyone approached him? He had the sinking feeling John had spent the last two days spreading lies in his favor, but he had no idea what the lies were.
“Damn it, John,” Sam grumbled. “You have left me flapping in the breeze.”
“Sam?” Flor said, taking his arm.
“Nothing.”
Sam emerged into the reception area with Kat and Flor, where Kat hesitated before sighing and allowing the attendant to take their cloaks. Upon entering the lobby and sinking into the chattering crowd, it was not even a minute before Sam knew he was drawing attention.
“Good heavens,” Kat murmured.
They could go directly to their box without the obligatory milling about the lobby. Sam was about to suggest just that when a familiar rounded figure stopped in front of them.
“Sir Samuel! Lord, that’s quite the plum you’re sporting.”
It was Sir William Shrap who spoke, a glass of punch in one hand and a rolled-up music score in the other. He was a rotund man in his fifties, always talkative and with a constant air of distraction.
Sam cleared his throat. “Yes, I thought about wearing a purple waistcoat to match, but my valet overruled me.”
“Ho! Well now, that’s the way to look at it.” Sir William tapped his chin with the rolled-up paper. “A man who can’t laugh at himself is insufferable, that’s what I say. Just like a man who runs from his mistakes. Takes a strong sort to own up, even if it means coming out a little tender for it. I didn’t know him too well, but your father would have been proud, my boy, that’s what I say.”
What the devil?
“Well, I must be off and— Ho! I left my manners in the country, I dare say. Forgive me, my lady. Good evening.” He bowed over Kat’s hand and was given a quick introduction to Flor, who looked ready to laugh any moment. Finally, he turned back to Sam and said, “Off to claim my seat, then. I’d sacrifice a few beefsteaks for that eye if I were you, son. A wife would see to it, but you bachelors must mother hen yourselves.”
“Yes.” Sam forced a laugh. “Too right.”
Sam watched as Sir William walked away. What was all that about? Owning up to mistakes?
“What did he mean by that?” Kat whispered.
“I don’t know.” Sam’s back twinged, for there were more people looking at them now. The troubling thing was that he could not discern their expressions. Curiosity, for certain, but nothing hostile. There were a few nods and shifting glances, and…and was that lady was looking at with sympathy?