Bolingbroke’s laughter shook Yves out of his sinking thoughts. “I have never seen a man so thoroughly depressed during what is meant to be the most festive and blessed season of the year,” he said.
“Your spirits would be depressed as well if you were trapped in a prison of your own making as I am,” Yves said.
Bolingbroke continued to grin like the amiable young man he was. “Are we not all trapped in prisons of our own making in one way or another?” he asked. “Anyone who belongs to The Brotherhood has set at least half the world against himself simply by who he loves and how he wishes to spend his time inbed. But I’d wager there are more of us and more people who are sympathetic to us than most would realize.”
“I would not be so sure,” Yves said, though a large part of him hoped Bolingbroke was correct.
“There are certainly more among the upper classes who are like us than not,” Bolingbroke went on. “Did not Judge Wedgewood himself say in the trial of those poor bastards, Pratt and Smith, that the poor should not be punished for something that the upper class gets away with on a daily basis?”
Clermont made a face as he tried to accept Bolingbroke’s statement. It was true that opinions were changing and advancements were being made, but none of that made him feel as though he could step foot outside of The Chameleon Club’s doors without feeling as if the air were being sucked from his lungs.
“I know just the thing for you,” Bolingbroke went on, resting his hand on Yves’ arm. “It is Christmas, and what is Christmastime for if not to sing carols and celebrate the season. Come.”
Bolingbroke got up and pulled Yves with him. The very last thing Yves wanted to do was to sing or perform in front of the rest of the dining room. He had an admirable, tenor voice, however, and was often in demand when the evening’s entertainment turned to singing and playing. Bolingbroke was an accomplished accompanist, and by the time Yves had made it halfway through the first old carol Bolingbroke played for him, his heart was beginning to lighten a little.
After the first two songs, Yves was ready to sit down and wallow in his gloom a bit longer. But Bolingbroke pushed him for a third song, and since the complement of his fellow club members seemed enthusiastically appreciative, which really did warm Yves’ heart and remind him why he felt so at home at the club, he spied Bradford striding into the dining room.
Yves’ heart leapt in his chest and he smiled despite himself. Even in mourning black, Bradford was the handsomest man he’d ever known. Perhaps because of the black, he looked dashing and formidable. Nothing and no one would dare to so much as say “boo” to Howard Bradford.
Better still, a smile spread slowly across Bradford’s face as he approached the piano. Whether he intended to or not, Yves found himself throwing his full effort into singing as beautifully as he could about the joys of the season and the love that came with it. If he was not careful, he would find himself very much in love with Bradford and not just enamored of him.
When the song finished, Bradford applauded him along with the others who had been watching. Yves was suddenly self-conscious and certain the rest of the club members could see just how high his regard for Bradford was. He stepped away from the piano at once. Bolingbroke seemed to guess what Yves wanted and switched from playing lively carols to sounding out the notes of a far more sedate ballad.
“That was beautiful,” Bradford said, meeting Yves as he stepped away from the piano and leading him aside to one of the windows they had decorated a few days before. “I’d no idea you could sing so melodiously.”
“I have always enjoyed singing,” Yves said. He appreciated the compliment, but he wrung his hands all the same, more anxious to hear how Guillame’s funeral had been than to receive praise. “How…how was the funeral?” he asked, already feeling the tell-tale signs of anxiety creeping up his spine.
Howard’s smile turned to one of sympathy. He cupped Yves’ elbow and led him even farther from the piano and the center of other people’s attention.
“It was a funeral,” he said once they’d taken seats in the far corner of the room, their position partially concealed by a screen. “They are all more or less the same.”
“Did you see my sister?” Yves asked, his heart aching with disappointment that he had not summoned the courage to see her himself.
“I did,” Bradford said with a nod. “Mrs. Cavanaugh is a lovely woman. She was so agreeable and kind.”
“Yvette is the kindest person I know,” Yves said, his eyes suddenly stinging with tears. It had been so, so long since he had seen her. Women were forbidden in The Chameleon Club. Perhaps Thurleigh and Haythorne would have made an exception for Yvette, but Yves had always felt far too guilty to even ask for her cursory admittance.
“She looks very much like you,” Bradford went on. “You have the same eyes, the same coloring, and the same features.”
“Yes, many people have said that.” Yves’ heart squeezed harder. “When we were children, I used to dress in her clothes sometimes and she in mine. Our own parents were fooled now and then and could not tell us apart, although Nanny always could.”
Yves smiled at the memory. He was not quite up to admitting that they had swapped identities a time or two when they were far older than they should have been to engage in such games. For Yvette, it had been a lark, a chance to see London through the eyes of a man. For him, it had helped him to make the acquaintance of a certain Lord Ormond, who, as it turned out, enjoyed both ladies and gentlemen and who treated Yves to an exciting evening that was only eclipsed in his mind by the night he’d just spent with Bradford.
That series of thoughts sent Yves from the highs of fond remembrance to the lows of knowing that Bradford’s attentions to him were merely temporary, and that all too soon, their passion would be just another memory stored on the shelf in his room upstairs, a room he could never leave.
“Don’t,” Bradford said, startling Yves by cupping a hand on the side of his face.
“I did not do anything,” Yves whispered.
“You were thinking,” Bradford said, brushing his thumb over Yves’ cheekbone. “Ordinarily, I approve very much of thinking. But in this particular case, I believe it was taking your thoughts places you’ve no need to let them go.”
“I am a failure,” Yves whispered, rushing straight to the conclusion of everything he was thinking and feeling. “I have been since Guillame frightened me into hiding.”
“But your cruel brother is gone now,” Bradford insisted. “I stayed long enough to watch his coffin lowered into the ground.”
“You did?” Yves sat a bit straighter.
“Indeed, I did,” he said. “Your sister begged me to stay and stand with them. She accepted me as your proxy.”
