“That is what I, too, have been given to understand,” Howard said.
“You say he did try?” Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled tentatively.
“He did.” Howard would leave out the details of Clermont’s reaction to his efforts. “He wanted me to tell you that he loves you and cares about you and your family deeply. He misses you terribly and says he will do whatever is necessary to ensure that your late brother’s wife and his children are provided for.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said, reaching for Howard’s hands. “That is so very kind of him when Yves has received nothing but ill treatment from our family.”
“He has many wonderful things to say about you,” Howard told her.
Mrs. Cavanaugh lowered her head. “I did not do enough for him. Guillame truly was a tyrant. He made Yves afraid of his own shadow. I only ever wanted my brother to be happy. I do not care whom he loves, I only want him to love and be loved.”
Howard’s heart instantly warmed to the young woman as if she were his sister as well. She was deeply understanding in a way that many women were not. Then again, most women of his acquaintance did not know the particulars of what his sort got up to in their private time. It did not seem to matter, however. Women were far more accepting of difference when it came to love than men were.
“I am certain you did everything you were capable of doing,” he said, patting Mrs. Cavanaugh’s hands in his.
“I should like to do more,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said. “I should very much like it if Yves could join Phillip and I and our family for Christmas.”
Howard’s eyebrows lifted at the idea. It was a splendid one, as far as he was concerned. What could be better than reuniting two siblings who adored each other but who had been kept apart at Christmastime?
“I think that would be lovely,” he said. “I shall do whatever I can on my part to ensure your brother joins you and yours for the blessed day.”
“We have a grand Christmas feast at midday,” Mrs. Cavanaugh went on, glowing with hope and possibility. “Phillip has been so fortunate with his business endeavors this year. We’ve already invited Charlotte, that is, Guillame’s widow, and their children. They will be staying the night with us. Nothingwould make us happier or be quite as lovely a Christmas gift than to have Yves with us, too.”
“Then I shall make every effort under the sun to bring your brother to you for the holidays,” Howard said.
“You must also come, Mr. Bradford,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said.
Howard was touched at the invitation. “You barely know me, madame.”
“But you are a friend of my brother’s,” she said. “One who, it seems, cares a great deal about him. You must be a part of the family as well.”
Her words were simple, but they ignited something in Howard that he believed was long dormant. He had not cared one way or another about being part of a family for ages. His own family was mostly dead and gone, and they had never much cared for him at any rate. But now, the prospect of having a sister as lovely as Mrs. Cavanaugh and children for him to entertain with silly jokes and tricks was a surprisingly appealing prospect.
“I will do my best,” he said, squeezing her hands and standing. “I will do what I can to bolster your brother’s courage and help him overcome his worries to be with you all on Christmas.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bradford,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said, standing with him and giving him a smile that spurred him to want to move mountains for the woman.
He wanted to move mountains for Clermont. He wanted to do whatever it took to help his angel heal from the wounds his cruel brother had inflicted. But he knew enough about life and pain to know it would not be easy.
Six
Bradford was lovely to take such care with Yves and to help him in a moment of humiliating weakness. As far as Yves had been able to ascertain, there was no judgement in the way Bradford had carried him back into The Chameleon Club and sat with him until he felt well again. Or at least almost well.
Bradford had escorted him back to the dining room after having tea with him and made certain Yves was settled with his accounting books and other people’s finances. As soon as he’d departed for Guillame’s funeral, however, Yves had closed up his books and carried them upstairs to his room. He did not want to face the others at the club, even knowing they were sympathetic to him. He did not truly want to face himself.
He went back to bed, stripping out of his clothing and throwing the covers over his head. Sleep evaded him, however. He considered making use of any one of his extensive collection of phalluses to pleasure himself into sleep, but his hole was already sore from his night with Bradford, and it seemed almost sacrilegious to engage in self-pleasuring when Bradford was still in London.
In the end, there was nothing for it but to get up, dress again, and drag his sorry self back downstairs to the dining room, where luncheon was already being served.
“Cheer up, Clermont,” Bolingbroke attempted to lure him into being sunny. “It might never happen.”
Yves sent his friend a weak smile and sighed. “It has already happened,” he said. “Surely, you have heard about my fit this morning.”
Bolingbroke looked at him with an expression of genuine confusion. “No? I’ve heard of no such thing.”
Yves could not tell if his friend was being disingenuous or not. It hardly seemed to matter. Yves knew what sort of fool he’d made of himself. He knew that Bradford’s kindness, while wonderful, would not be there to cheer him forever. The man intended to depart for the Continent after the holidays. He’d made that much clear from the start.
Bradford would move on with his life and find another lover. Bolingbroke would likely make a name for himself on the concert stage and find someone to share his life with. Yvette and her family would move on without him, and before long, the world would forget there ever had been a man named Yves Clermont.
