“That seems fair,” said Hope, into the sudden silence.
She and her mother departed not long after, as the hour had grown late, and Micha, George, and Thomas attempted to return the rectory to something like proper order before Mrs. Allen came back in the morning and saw the mess. The nonsense that had made them comrades through the afternoon had fled, leaving them strangers again. Thomas tried desperately to think of something he could say that would bridge the chasm between his last remaining brother and the lover he could not acknowledge.
George smoothed his hair back into civilised order. “Charming child. I suppose you’ll wed the mother?”
“Well . . .”
“The marquess won’t like it, of course, but he fades with every passing day. Do what you will—there’s nothing he can do to stop you.” His hand came down on Thomas’s shoulder, warm and steady, but heavier than Thomas found entirely comfortable. “Take your happiness, Thom. And the devil can take our father.”
“George, I—”
“I should go.” Micha’s voice cut through him like a blade. “I have things to do.”
George’s eyes flicked his way, as if he had only just remembered the other man was still present. “Yes, you should.”
Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but Micha simply nodded and fled, the door crashing closed behind him.
George crossed the room to the sideboard, where there was a decanter of brandy, almost two-thirds full. He poured himself a glass, and then merely stood staring at it, tilting the liquid back and forth, lost in thought.
“George,” said Thomas. “George. I do not intend to marry Sheba.”
His brother’s eyes lifted reluctantly from the glass, as if they had trouble focusing on anything else. “But you’re not a man to keep a mistress. Is it because of her past? Or because I tried my luck with her?She’d have none of me, Thom. And if it’s a question of money, when the title’s mine, you can have all you want.”
Thomas drew in a steadying breath. “I care for her, very much, but I have no wish to marry. She has no such expectations.”
“Women always have expectations.”
“Not in this case.”
George lifted the glass, then sighed and put it down again. “I shouldn’t drink this. I want it too much.” He strolled back into the centre of the room. “Apologise to her for me, won’t you? It don’t mean a damn, of course. I’m a beast, I know I am, but maybe she’d like to hear it.”
“You are no beast, but I’ll gladly deliver the message.”
George made an abstract gesture of gratitude and slumped into a chair. “You might want to take that drink, old man. I have some things to tell you.”
“Are you well, George?” Thomas had no wish to drink either and perched anxiously on the edge of the sofa. “You seem to have found some measure of peace.”
“Some measure of it, perhaps. I don’t know. Trying not to drink. Hell on bloody earth.” George reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a tattered bundle of papers. “I found this among Edward’s things.” Thomas reached out to take it, and George pulled his hand back. “It’s going to shock you, Thom. I’m sorry.”
A chill crept over Thomas’s skin. “Show me.” George let him take the book, which was little more than a bound pamphlet, printed on cheap paper by a careless hand. The blurred frontispiece read:The Gentlemen of London, for the Year 1862. “I don’t understand? What is it?”
“Read it.”
Thomas let the pages fall open where they would and cast his eyes, somewhat uncertainly, over the words that appeared before them.Mr. B. Wils-n, No. 27 St. Giles. This pretty gentleman is somewhat plump, but fair of face, and possessing every requisite to make an agreeable bedfellow. He performs all paces in a pleasing manner.Thomas glanced at his brother, stillbewildered, a faint sense or premonition of sickness swirling within him. “I still don’t understand?”
But George only exhorted him with a wave of his hand to read on.
Thomas turned the page.Mr. K. R-ssell, Titchfield Street. An impressive stallion, near thirty years of age, a Yorkshireman by birth, rather lusty, with the strength to perform whatever labour may be requested. It is a pity he has received no education; however there are some who derive great relish from a certain coarseness of manner and vulgarity of expression that may be well served in his arms. He is also celebrated for the dexterity with which he yields a birchen rod for the gratification of those gentlemen who have occasion for this activity to raise the fire of Alexander in their veins.
Thomas could read no further. The little book slipped from between his cold, shaking fingers and landed on the floor at his feet, splayed wide like a broken dragonfly.
“So,” said George.
Thomas stared blankly at the thing on the floor. “There are men who ... sell themselves ... to men? As women do?”
“Well, of course there are. Don’t be a fool, Thom.”
“I’m sorry. It had simply never occurred to me.” He was silent a moment. “That must mean there are a great many men who desire to lie with men.”
