“Nettlefield,” murmured Micha. “Nettlefield.”
Thomas had no idea what he was thinking. Micha’s face, for once, was open, but his expression was so strange and so uncertain, it offered no insight into his mood. “Just while you recover,” he babbled, into the quiet. “If you wish. And, of course, I would not keep you stranded in Oxfordshire. I would have asked you before, not sprung the idea upon you like this, but I was afraid you were not strong enough for travel. The rectory is far too spacious for a man of my habits, and the doctor said country air would improve your health ...”
Micha looked up, a soft, brittle light glowing in the depths of his eyes. “I’ve been in London so long I’ve almost forgotten what the rest of England looks like.”
“Thom,” expostulated George, his voice cutting over Micha’s, “you can’t just invite anybody to live with you.”
Thomas turned to his brother, though he was unaccountably reluctant to look away from Micha in case it broke whatever spell had momentarily gentled and bewildered him. “Why? There is no impropriety in it. I don’t believe he is a danger to me. And we can claim him as a distant and removed cousin if it troubles you.”
“I don’t want him for a distant and removed cousin. I don’t know who the bloody hell he is, and neither do you.”
“No,” said Micha, suddenly. “No. I ... can’t. I’m ... I’m ... I don’t know what I am. I can’t accept anything more from you. I’m a stranger to you. And I have nothing but the clothes I was wearing when you found me in the street.”
“Oh.” Thomas gave an embarrassed cough. “About those.”
Micha gave him a look.
“As a matter of fact, you no longer have them. I’m afraid we burned them. They were filthy, Micha, and the doctor thought they might have carried your sickness.”
Micha’s lips curled into a smile both savage and mirthless. “Right. Wonderful. Very well. Then, I have literally nothing, not even the clothes on my back. I cannot repay you. I have nothing to give you.”
“I want nothing from you.” Heedless of his brother, heedless of anything, Thomas impulsively reached out a hand. His fingers curled lightly over Micha’s wrist, over his frayed cuff. The skin was cold and very tender, smooth as eggshell and just as fragile. “Please. To turn you onto the streets now, if you are truly as friendless and bereft of means as you say, would be a death sentence.”
“Please,” repeated Micha, as though Thomas had spoken in some foreign tongue. “Please?”
“Yes. Please. I beg you, accept my invitation. Grant me your faith, if not your trust.”
Micha was ice and stillness, as though the light pressure of Thomas’s fingers was a harpoon through his flesh. “I ... I ...” He swallowed. “You would ... truly do this? You want to do this?”
“Of course.”
“For me? For a stranger? A stranger like me?”
“Of course.”
“You would take me away from here? Away from London?” Micha’s voice cracked on some terrible mixture of hope and incredulity.
“Of course.”
He tore himself away from Thomas and dropped his head into his hands. The words drifted, muffled, from between his fingers. “I can’t tell if you’re a saint or a Bedlamite.”
“I agree with you,” said George, staring at his brother as though he no longer recognised him.
“I’m just a man, Micha,” said Thomas. “If you cannot believe in my goodwill, then accept it simply as a gift from God. I am His servant, after all.”
“No.” Micha shook his head. “I’d rather you than Him.”
“I’m not sure there is really such a choice.”
Another of his harsh laughs. “Believe me, there is.”
“If you insist.” Thomas paused. “What do you say, Micha?”
“I . . . I suppose I say . . . yes.”
“Jesus Christ.” George’s voice seemed too loud for the moment. “Are you trying to kill the marquess? Because I’d applaud you, but—”
Thomas interrupted, not sharply, but quite firmly. “This has nothing to do with our father.” He glanced back at Micha. “Now, if you will forgive me, I shall go make preparations for travel.”
