The last option, the course that rested squarely in the realm of fantasy, was even more unthinkable. Perhaps it would be best if Evers simply went away. London was a sprawling, dangerous place and fashionable men were not impervious to its sharp edges. Evers could be found in a dark alley some morning, his purse and watch stolen along with his life—
“Christ.” Sam groaned and bent forward, bracing his hands against his knees. He could never kill a man. It didn’t matter if it was the best solution or even the only solution. He knew himself too well and knew he could never stomach such an act. It would be a poison on his soul.
So there were no solutions, at least none that he could think of. His options were to sell his sister to a family that would despise her or allow John’s life to be ruined. In either case, he would be cut from John forever. Evers had made that clear enough, and so Sam’s options had little to do with himself and everything to do with who he chose to save.
But he had already made his choice, hadn’t he? He had canceled Flor’s journey to the country, much to the confusion and anger of his family. An unhappy marriage was at least a life. John would have no life at all if Evers made good on his threat to ruin him. Then Sam imagined Flor’s tear-streaked face again, her pleading fear and humiliation, and he shied from the decision once more. There had to be another way, and he prayed that he was simply too stupid to see it. If so, someone else might see what he could not.
That was why he walked down the wet, lamplit streets of Mayfair now, heading to a place he never could have imagined he would go. He was desperate, and begging for help from those one despised was the last act of the lost.
The butler took Sam’s name, then made a strange face when he said his purpose was urgent. The man was gone only a moment before he returned quickly and bade Sam to follow him. Sam frowned, wondering why the butler seemed in such a hurry. But Sam was too lost to care. His eyes began to ache because he did not want to be there. His anger was still heavy on his heart, and his pride refused to let him focus on what was important.
They turned a corner, and Sam was startled to see Henry waiting outside an open door. His expression was confused and worried. Why should Henry be worried?
“Sam? Are you all right?”
Of course he would ask that. With all the bridges Sam had spitefully burned, it had to be the end of the world for him to show his face at Henry’s door. Before he could answer, Henry ordered the butler away and pulling Sam into the study. He closed and locked the door behind him.
“Bloody hell,” came an astonished voice. Sam looked toward the sideboard to see Richard standing with a bottle and glass in hand. He kept shifting his gaze between Henry and Sam.
This was a mistake.
Sam turned to flee—yes, flee—but Henry kept hold of his sleeve and pulled him farther into the room. “Sam? What is wrong? If you had come just a bit sooner, you would have—”
“Missed us,” Richard cut in. “We only just arrived.” He and Henry exchanged speaking looks that Sam could not possibly miss. Richard was probably trying to communicate his displeasure, telling Henry to get rid of Sam and fast.
He had not expected Richard to be there too, and that stupid, inconvenient detail was the last straw. He had no more braces to hold up his walls. Tears pooled behind his eyes, and he cupped his hands over his face in a futile attempt to hide. The shocked gasp he heard had to be from Henry.
“Jesus, Sam. What is it?”
“I don’t know what else to do, where else to go. I…” And because Sam deserved the humiliation, the full defeat, he lowered his hands and faced his first love. “I’m being blackmailed.”
“Dear God,” Henry gasped.
Richard’s expression turned fierce, but he still poured a near-full glass of brandy before crossing the room and pressing it into Sam’s hand. Sam gulped down a quarter of it without thinking, feeling the burn of their eyes on him just as the liquor burned a path to his empty stomach.
“Who?” Richard demanded.
Sam sputtered over another sip. “Evers.”
“Son of a whore!” Richard bellowed, turning away.
Sam laughed through his tears like a madman. “I said the same thing to him. Can’t imagine it helped much.”
“What does he want?” Henry asked, his voice wavering. “Money, of course, but is he demanding more than you can give?”
The words did not have to be spoken among them. They all knew that in such a monstrous predicament they would choose to pay. And pay. That was why one had to avoid detection at all costs.
“It is more than I can give,” Sam admitted. “Far too much.” While staring in his glass, he told them about Flor and the dowry, about Evers’s family coming to ruin and their need to gain an explainable fortune. He even laid out what he knew about Evers ruse with the elopement to Scotland.
“The stupid bastard.” Richard snarled. “If he had just gone on to Scotland, he would have won.”
“I told him that too.” Sam snorted.
“And the proof? What does he have?” Henry went on. “How has he threatened to expose you if you don’t approve the marriage?”
“It isn’t me he’s threatening to expose. It’s— Damn it all!” Sam rubbed at his eyes. He wished there was some way to beg their help without mentioning John’s name, but it was impossible. He was ready to say it when Henry suddenly laid a hand on his arm.
“It’s Darnish, isn’t it?”
“Fuck! How could you know that? How?” Sam demanded, twisted away from Henry’s touch.
“Calm down,” Richard ordered. “You were not obvious, if that’s what concerns you. Although I did wonder at your sudden friendship.”
“Fuck you.”
“Sam!” Henry snapped, stepping between them. “Enough of that. The simple fact is Darnish…” Henry exchanged a look with Richard, who shrugged in response.
“What the devil are you two making looks about? Henry?” Sam flinched. The taste of Henry’s name on his tongue was still bitter.
Henry closed his eyes. “Darnish was here not even twenty minutes before you arrived.”
“What?” Sam took a step back, horrified. “W-why? What did he want?”
“He was concerned about you. He said you were no longer speaking to him or acknowledging his letters.”
“I’m not. I-I haven’t.”
“Why?” Henry begged to know. “He came asking me to speak with you for him since you are avoiding him. I told him you probably would not speak to me either, but he was adamant and…and he did not look well.”
Sam turned away, unable to bear the fresh heartache threatening to buckle him. He stopped at the fireplace and set his glass on the marble mantel. He stared into the fire. Even in his misery, a part of him could not help but feel elated. John had gone to Henry for help and had revealed himself in doing so. He cared that much.
It didn’t matter.
“I can’t see him anymore. I have to p-protect him. He can’t know about this.”
“You mean to say you haven’t told him?” Richard said in disbelief.
“How could you keep such a thing from him?” Henry frowned. “If Evers is threatening to expose him he has a right to know—”
“No! You don’t understand. Evers said that if I told John he would know about it. John would do something, try to make a move, and if that happened, Evers would take this…this
person
he hired to follow us to the papers with his evidence.”
Henry and Richard’s matched looks of confusion forced Sam to go back. He explained about the man Evers said he had hired, who knew about the place Sam and John spent time, and their other movements. He also managed, just barely, to explain Evers’s demand that he have nothing to do with John anymore. It was like sticking the blade into his own gut again and twisting. To never see John again. To never feel his arms around him or those silly, playful kisses he would lay on Sam’s temples.
“God help me,” Sam whispered into the fire.
“No,” Henry said flatly.
“What?” Sam sniffed, turning. When he saw the cold anger on Henry’s face, he recoiled. He had never seen that look in Henry’s soft eyes, not even that day at Jackson’s.
“I said, no,” Henry repeated. “We are not going to hope for God’s help or anyone else’s. We are going to do something about this.”
Sam had never thought to again find comfort in anything Henry had to say, but it washed over him. He looked to Richard, waiting for him to object, but his expression was even fiercer than Henry’s.
“I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with this,” Richard vowed. “It isn’t just mercenary blackmail. With your sister and his demand that you cut John, he’s torturing you, and he has to know it.”
Sam clenched his eyes against a fresh wave of tears. There was so many emotions plaguing him that they seemed to smother one another: relief, embarrassment, shame, anger. A goddamned mess. “I don’t know what you can do,” he admitted. “I came here tonight with no plan, just”—he snorted a humorless laugh—”just desperate.”
“There is much we can do,” Henry assured him. “First, I think we need to tell all this to Darnish.” Sam shook his head vigorously, but Henry continued. “Sam, listen. Even if Evers has a man following Darnish, he can’t possibly watch him every moment or gain entry to the clubs and houses. And as for what Evers told you about Darnish doing something rash…” He sighed.
“You shouldn’t have believed that,” Richard finished, eyeing Sam. “You just took his word for it. John needs to know.”
Sam felt defeated. And stupid. It was true; he had taken Evers’s insistence about John’s reaction to heart. But he had been scared, and all he had heard were the threats to John’s life. Sam’s heart had overridden him, and the beating son of a bitch was not very bright.
“God, I’m such a damn fool,” Sam lamented. He pressed the back of his sleeve over his eyes, though his humiliation on that count had already been well accomplished. “But what can we do anyway? Evers said John would not be able to hold up to scrutiny if the rumor was made, and he was right about that. He said his man spoke to whores John supposedly visited, and some admitted he paid them to pretend.”
Henry sucked in a breath and cursed. “Then we have to make certain the rumor never gets made. The one thing we have to our advantage is that Evers is counting on you being alone in this. I doubt he has considered the possibility of other threats.”
“Speaking of other threats.” Richard grinned maliciously. “I think we can manage some.”
“You don’t mean…hurt him?” Sam asked, trying not to sound sick. He should want to hurt Evers, but still the thought plagued him, for he doubted a beating would suffice. At least not the kind a man walked away from.
“As I said, there are a lot of, um, options,” Henry said, giving Richard a look, “but first, we must bring Darnish into this. Tonight. You said Evers is demanding your response by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes. I know.”
Sam longed to see John, to fall into his arms and beg his forgiveness, but he was also ashamed to face him. He had been so stupid, and he had hurt him. Even if Sam had been doing it to protect him, he had still hurt him.
“All right,” Richard cut in. “John just left, but I believe he was going home. He was hardly in a temper to make an evening on the town. I’ll call on him and bring him back here. If he isn’t home, I’ll wait and have one of his servants hunt him down.”
“I’ll go with you!” Sam declared.
“No.” Richard put out a hand.
“Why the devil not?”
“Because I have no wish to be a spectator on your inevitable quarrel, and my carriage is hardly the place for it. You should stay here and…” He looked at Henry.
“No, I will go,” Henry said, taking Richard’s hand. “I think it best if you stay here.”
Sam watched them, trying to read their silent exchange. If Richard went, it would leave Henry alone with Sam, and that was a result no one wanted. Old hurts would seep through the cracks, and they had larger concerns tonight.
Richard nodded once, and Henry headed for the door.
“Wait!” Sam called. “What are you going to tell him?”
“The bare facts, as I know them. Rich? Where am I going?”
Richard gave him the direction to John’s house while Sam allowed himself to finally sink into one of the chairs near the hearth. He wished he had the glass of brandy he had left on the mantel but was too damn tired to retrieve it. He wanted to sleep. In John’s arms. He wanted this nightmare to be over.
“I’ll bring him here, and we’ll fix this, Sam.” Henry’s gentle voice cut through his reverie. “All right?”
“All right. Thanks, Hen.” Then Sam gasped and turned his face to the fire. Hen? Hen! How could he say that? He had not uttered that name in almost ten years.
“R-right,” Henry stammered. “Yes. I’ll be back.” The door closed a second later, and Sam wanted to die. Henry had heard the name; it was clear in his voice.
Richard fell into the sofa across from Sam and crossed one buckskin-clad leg over the other. Sam could feel his eyes on him.
“What?” Sam said, trying not to snap.
“Hen?” Richard said flatly.
Bleeding Christ.
“Not now, Avery.” Sam groaned. “Just…not now.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the Light of Day
John wished he had returned to his house. The moment he left Brenleigh’s, he should have gone home and paced his study till the rugs burned, but he had been crawling out of his skin and knew his servants were already looking at him like he was mad. Again. That was why he had spent part of the night playing cards in a miserable mood, then another part of it shuffling through Vauxhall, trying to avoid people he knew. It was why he was now in Brenleigh’s carriage with the gray light of dawn pressing through the windows as his blood boiled.
“Evers, that miserable pig-fuck bastard!” John raged, unable to even string a decent curse together. Incoherence was better than putting holes through the velvet-lined walls. He could not believe all that Brenleigh had just told him.
“Thank God I found you. I told your household it was an emergency, but they had no notion of where to even start looking.” Brenleigh leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
“Thank you for that. Truly. You were under no obligation to search for me half the night or to help us—”