A Gentleman’s Position(2)

He began to say, “My lord,” raising his hand open-palmed. Lord Richard started to speak at the same time, turning toward him and gesturing as well, and their hands collided in the air.

David couldn’t move away, couldn’t beg his lord’s pardon for the clumsiness. Could do nothing but stand and feel the pressure of Lord Richard’s fingers against his, because his master wasn’t moving either. They should have pulled away, one or both of them, but neither did, and every tick of the clock as they stood and stared at each other, hand to hand, was a hammer blow that nailed the unspoken thing irrevocably into place between them.

The unspoken thing, the forbidden hope, the one point that made David’s service feel like servitude because he could not even ask. But Lord Richard still wasn’t moving, his deep blue eyes locked on David’s and wide with shock, and now they knew. Now they both knew, and there was no pretending otherwise.

David could feel the blood thumping in the ends of Lord Richard’s fingers, unless that was his own pulse. He licked his lips. “My lord?” He cursed himself that it came out as a question.

“Cyprian.” Lord Richard’s arm shook a little, but his fingers didn’t move. “Cyprian—I—”

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside. They both snatched their hands away at the firm knock at the door and were standing in separate silence as Mr. Norreys entered with the radical gaolbird Mason.

David listened to the subsequent argument with about a third of his mind, sorting the details into advantageous, usable, disastrous, while the important thoughts pounded through him. You want me. You know I know it. What will we do? What did that change?

Mason was, it seemed, rather more involved in the conspiracy than Mr. Frey had let on. David mentally consigned the pair of them to perdition as he watched his master’s control slip. He could feel Lord Richard’s fear for his friend, though it was well hidden behind his anger at Mason and the whole damned stupid business.

“Get him out of the country,” Lord Richard ordered, gesturing at the radical. His choice was made. Of course he would not let David take the decision to save a traitor from the noose; he would bear his own responsibility, even if it cost him endless self-reproach and probably Mr. Frey’s friendship.

David wasn’t having that if he could help it.

“This man is guilty of treason,” Lord Richard was saying. “And Dominic will accept an end to this insanity, all of it, or I will make him.”

“You won’t,” Mason said flatly.

“I beg your pardon?”

The radical took a step forward rather than back, glaring up into Lord Richard’s face. Mason was unshaven, gaol stained, and utterly unintimidated. David felt mildly impressed. “I said, you won’t,” Mason said. “You’ve hagridden Dom for fifteen fucking years, and I won’t have you giving him another dose of what’s wrong with him.”

Oh, you shit. That would have hit Lord Richard right in the guilt. His bitterly ended relationship with Mr. Frey had been a running sore for most of their adult lives…

And David could use Mason to burn it out. He could use this calamity, twist it to his advantage. The idea exploded in his head as Mason went on, his tone savage. Lord Richard stood apparently unmoved by the tirade, but David knew that stony expression and what it hid, and he was quite ready when Lord Richard threw a single desperate glance at him.

David met his master’s eyes, conveying a message. Let me do it. Let me work. Trust me.

Lord Richard looked back at Mason as he spoke. “Cyprian.” Brisk and brief. Only David would have known it was a plea.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Deal with this for me. Whatever seems necessary.”

Lord Richard turned on his heel and stalked out, back very straight. Mr. Norreys’s lips parted in silent astonishment, but David had no time to deal with the dandy, or with Mason. He murmured an excuse and followed.

Lord Richard stood alone in the hall, rigid with anger, and as David closed the door behind him, his master slapped a palm with brutal force against the expensively papered wall. “God damn it. Damn him.”

“I’ll need free rein,” David said urgently. Nothing else mattered for the moment, not even that touch. He had to do this. “I will make it go away, my lord. I will make Mr. Frey happy. I will deal with it all. Just let me.”

“Do it,” Lord Richard rasped. “That accursed, bloody— Do whatever you need.” He turned jerkily and strode off.

David took a single deep breath before letting himself back into the book room. I will do exactly that. What we need. I will save Mason’s neck and get Mr. Frey out of your way for good. And then, my lord…we’ll see.