An Unseen Attraction

  An Unseen Attraction is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2017 Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by K. J. Charles

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399593963

  Cover design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

  Cover photographs: Jen LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance (man); v.s.anandhakrishna/​Shutterstock (face); Fairytale Backgrounds (background)

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By K. J. Charles

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  28 OCTOBER, 1873

  Lugtrout was drunk again.

  Clem Talleyfer contemplated him with a sense of weary resignation. It wasn’t that he minded Lugtrout, much, except for the way he flouted the house rules with that casual contempt, because he could, or when he went into one of his occasional rants of repentance and salvation in between drinking bouts. And he did hate Lugtrout’s way of looking into a fellow’s eyes for too long. He’d do that, stare until your eyes watered and your shoulder blades itched, and it made Clem tense uncontrollably. He’d always disliked people doing that. Look me in the eyes, boy! had been a constant refrain at school, but they said the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Clem didn’t feel comfortable peering into people’s windows.

  In fact, he minded Lugtrout very much indeed. But there was no getting around it, the man lived here and would not be moving. Other lodgers came and went; Lugtrout stayed forever.

  Mr. Green had come, and he’d be coming back tonight. The thought sneaked in without Clem noticing it. It was quarter to nine, and a grisly, drizzly late October evening. Mr. Green shouldn’t be working so late. He’d hurt his eyes doing that in the gaslight, his brown-green eyes the colour of spring woodland pierced by sunlight under the thick glass of his wire-rimmed spectacles. Clem didn’t object to looking into Mr. Green’s eyes at all.

  Lugtrout made a half-choked hacking sound as though dislodging something horrible in his throat. If he spat it onto the rug, Clem was going to…well, he wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he’d be furious.

  He had to deal with Lugtrout now or the man would make the parlour uninhabitable for the other lodgers all evening with his snuffling and snoring, and probably wake half the house stumbling and ranting up to bed in the small hours. Talleyfer’s offered lodgings for skilled artisans, and also Lugtrout, and all the workers rose early, especially in winter, when daylight was precious. Nobody would be happy to be disturbed at midnight.

  Clem moved, reluctantly, over to the settle on which the drunkard snored, and gave his shoulder a tentative shake. “Mr. Lugtrout? Up you get. Come on, you can’t sleep here.”

  Lugtrout gargled, his damp lips moving soundlessly. Clem made himself shake the man’s shoulder again, hating the feel of greasy serge against his fingers. “Come on, Mr. Lugtrout.”

  “Piss off,” Lugtrout mumbled, without opening his eyes. “Nancy bitch.”

  He wasn’t a particularly large man, about Clem’s own five foot ten but lanky with it except for a potbelly. Nevertheless, Clem had wrestled him upstairs before now, and knew it wasn’t an easy or enjoyable task. He tugged unavailingly at the fellow’s arm, trying to step back for purchase, and found the little table behind him in the way. “Blast it. Get up.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  The voice, quiet and wry, came from behind Clem. He turned a little too quickly, almost stumbling over the little table behind him, to see Mr. Green in the doorway. “Oh, good morning. Evening.”

  “Good evening. I see Mr. Lugtrout’s up to the old work.” Mr. Green came forward. He was a small man, standing four or five inches shorter than Clem; compact, neat, and incredibly precise in his movements. He reminded Clem of the house sparrows that clustered on the eaves, bright-eyed and watching. “Could you use a hand?”

  “Oh, yes please,” Clem said fervently. It wasn’t just the fact of assistance with Lugtrout, welcome though that was; it was the way Mr. Green offered help. Didn’t ignore; didn’t insist; simply offered, and would go away if he was told no. It wasn’t Clem’s favourite thing about him, but only because of the stiff competition.

  “Well. If you put your foot against his…” Mr. Green demonstrated, bracing his foot sideways against Lugtrout’s dirty shoe, and waited until Clem had successfully copied the movement. “Hold on, let me move the table. Right. Crouch a little—a little more, you need your weight low—and take both arms. Now pull.”

  Clem pulled. Lugtrout came forward surprisingly easily and surprisingly fast, enough to send Clem stumbling back. Mr. Green was behind him as if he’d predicted that would happen, hands pushing against Clem’s back. They felt extremely cold, even through Clem’s jacket and waistcoat. He had never yet seen Mr. Green light the little stove in the workshop next door, and didn’t like to think of how cold he’d be getting this winter.

  Mr. Green stepped away as Clem regained his balance. Lugtrout was slumped against him, mumbling in a bleary, belligerent way. He stank of gin, and as Clem turned his face away in disgust, Lugtrout began to slip downward.

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Green said. Clem wasn’t sure what he did, but Lugtrout gave a bellow of sudden pain and jolted upright. Clem grabbed him to stop him losing his balance.

  “D’you know who I am?” Lugtrout slurred. “I’m a man of the cloth. How dare you manhandle a servant of the Church, you arsehole?”

  “There’s a bottle of gin in your room, isn’t there?” Mr. Green said. “Come, let’s go up and find you a drink.”

  Clem opened his mouth to protest that Mr. Lugtrout had had quite enough, but Mr. Green caught his eye and gave a tiny head shake. “Let’s have a glass, Reverend. Up to your room. Come. Could you give him a shoulder, Mr. Talleyfer?” He waited for Clem to get under Lugtrout’s arm, took the other with an encouraging tug, and they got the man up to his room on the second floor with hardly an upset. He was snoring within seconds of being pushed onto the bed.

  Mr. Green waved Clem into the corridor and shut the door with a gentle click. “There. With luck we won’t see any more of him for the evening.”

  “Hope so,” Clem said fervently. “Thank you. He’s not the easiest to handle in his cups.”

  “Well, drunks.” Mr. Green made a face. “My father drank.”

  “Oh.” That was wildly inadequate, but Clem couldn’t think of a better response. “Uh, would you like a cup of tea?”

  Mr. Green smiled at him, that quick smile of his. Clem loved that smile. It was always a two-part movement: his lips widened for a second, then twitched tight, as if he were blowing a kiss. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

  They settled in Clem’s little study. He had two rooms together as part of the arrangement by which he lived in and ran the house; neither was large, but the space was quite enough for him. Two comfortable chairs stood by the f
ire, and Mr. Green took his usual one as Clem busied himself putting the kettle on. Cat padded silently over and jumped onto Mr. Green’s lap, as he always did.

  Mr. Green had moved in eight months ago, at the same time as he’d taken the shop next door. Clem had been a little nervous about his occupation, naturally, and some of the other lodgers had complained about the prospect of smells or general oddness, but it had taken about a week for him to become a natural part of the house, as though he’d been here forever. A quiet, civil presence at the table, his interjections rare but always reasonable; silent in the small hours; never making trouble or leaving mess. Polly, Clem’s housekeeper, who had expressed her fixed intention to hand in her notice if she had to deal with any evidence of Mr. Green’s profession, now served him the choicest portions at every meal and considered him the very perfection of lodgers.

  So did Clem. Mr. Green, with his tow-coloured hair, his shifting hazel eyes, his swift movements, and his silence. Mr. Green, who never shouted and was never impatient. Mr. Green, who now came to Clem’s little parlour for a cup of tea almost every night Clem was in, so that their meetings had become a fixed point, the reward to which he looked forward all day.

  Clem needed to stop thinking about Mr. Green as much as he did.

  He got the tea canister out, then the china, then looked for the teapot. Mr. Green sat in silence, watching the fire.

  That was another thing. He never made conversation while Clem put the kettle on, or while he was doing anything at all. So many people needed to talk all the time, and it never worked. They chattered while Clem was concentrating on something, so he didn’t hear important things, or they distracted him from what he was doing and then he forgot to put the kettle on the fire or what have you and they got angry or, worse, laughed. Mr. Green never laughed at mistakes, or demanded attention while Clem was going about his business, or stared. He simply sat by the fireside without speaking, absently stroking Cat’s brindled fur, as though being here was the most comfortable thing imaginable and there was no need for speech, and no hurry.

  The tea was ready in no time at all. Clem added milk, no sugar, and handed Mr. Green the cup.

  “Thank you, Mr. Talleyfer. This is a pleasure.”

  “You must be chilled through,” Clem said. “After your workshop, I mean.”

  “It does get cold. I can’t afford fire.”

  “Oh. Is business not going well?”

  “Not bad at all, thank you. I meant, I worry about fire in the shop. The mounts are very dry, and treated, so they’re highly flammable, and even a spark could be disastrous. I don’t use a stove unless I must. But I’ve been thinking about this chair and a cup of tea with you all day.”

  Clem couldn’t help a quiver of warmth. Mr. Green was only talking about the pleasures of the hearth, he knew that, but still…“You’re always welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Green’s eyes smiled at him over the wire rims of his spectacles as he sipped his tea. “May I ask something? You run an excellent house here. It’s one of the pleasantest places I’ve ever stayed.” Clem felt himself redden, and mumbled a too-kind. “No, not at all. It’s clean and quiet and comfortable and orderly. Everything I like. Except for Mr. Lugtrout.” Mr. Green cocked his head sideways. “The rules say no drinking, but he’s a sot. No disturbance, but he makes a display of himself at least once a fortnight—”

  “I’m very sorry for the trouble.”

  “Don’t take it as a grumble. As I said, I’m used to it. But I do wonder why you put up with him.”

  “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to,” Clem admitted. “It’s a, a…” He’d forgotten the word, blast it, could feel it on his tongue, knew he sounded like a fool. It wasn’t even a hard word, but he couldn’t get hold of it. “A thing the owners insist on, that I let him live here.”

  “A condition of the lease?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “That seems a bit harsh.” Mr. Green frowned slightly. “Do the owners know of his, uh, habits?”

  “I don’t think they care,” Clem said. “I’m to give him lodging and put up with him as long as he chooses to stay. That’s the arrangement.”

  “Well, we can only hope he’ll drink himself to death,” Mr. Green observed, the brutality of the statement all the more startling because of its dispassionate tone. He glanced at Clem and gave a quick smile. “I beg your pardon. I don’t have much tolerance for drunkards. And I’m not sentimental.”

  “I should think work would be difficult if you were,” Clem remarked, and Mr. Green laughed. He had an oddly rasping laugh, quite a dirty-sounding one in fact, and it brought his often expressionless face to life.

  “Yes, I’d spend my days weeping and mourning. Best not.”

  “Is it difficult?” Clem asked, unable to restrain his curiosity. He’d never really asked about Mr. Green’s work. All the other lodgers had been so inquisitive, and Clem hated being barraged with questions so he’d tried not to add to that, but you could hardly not wonder, really. Just as you couldn’t fail to notice how the tips of Mr. Green’s fingers were always a little bit stained.

  “Because of the dead things? No, you get used to that very quickly. It’s delicate work, though. Needs care and precision.”

  “I shouldn’t be much good at it.” Clem smiled on the words, but Mr. Green gave a tiny frown.

  “Well, perhaps not. I shouldn’t be a very good lodging-house keeper. My ideal house would be one with nobody else in it, and I’m fairly sure that would be bad for business. Whereas you’ve made us all a home.”

  “Well, thank you. But it’s not skilled work.”

  “I’ve lived in lodging houses for ten years,” said Mr. Green. “If making one feel homely isn’t a skill, it’s a rare and precious gift.”

  Clem couldn’t think what to say to that. He never knew what to say to compliments. They made him feel he ought to say something pleasant in return, but he couldn’t comment on Mr. Green’s shop, because he’d never been in. He’d wanted to from the start, but the more interested he’d become in its proprietor, the harder it had seemed to look casually round the premises. “Could you show it to me? I mean, your work, that is.”

  That had been a non sequitur, he realised too late, as Mr. Green blinked. Clem’s father and schoolmasters had shouted at him countless times for changing the subject and wandering from the point, and he did try to guard his tongue against it; but then he got caught up in conversations with people he liked, which meant he stopped watching himself, which meant he’d done it again. Blast.

  Mr. Green didn’t look baffled or annoyed, though. In fact, he looked thoroughly pleased. “I’d love to give you a tour, if you’d care for one. Tomorrow?”

  They confirmed that appointment, and spoke a little longer, until the clock struck ten. Then, as he always did, Mr. Green bade him good night with that flickering smile, evicted the gently snoring Cat from his lap, and went upstairs, and Clem went to put the house to bed. He had a list for the things to do and the order in which to do them, committed to firm memory, after twice forgetting to lock the doors in the early days. Polly had made it very clear she had no wish to come in and find them all murdered in their beds.

  He’d just finished sweeping the scullery as the half hour struck. Time to lock up, but Mr. Power was not yet in. Clem knew each lodger’s tread in this creaky house, and after so long he was aware of who was in and out without consciously paying attention. It was a house rule that the doors were locked on the stroke of half past ten and not opened up again for any knocking, but Mr. Power was out courting Millie Blanchard from Clerkenwell Green. If he left his goodbyes until the clocks chimed the half hour, he’d need a few minutes to run back to Wilderness Row. Clem could potter around a little longer to make sure he got safely in.

  It was a concession he shouldn’t make, but he couldn’t blame Mr. Power for failing to return precisely on time. For one thing, he was late too often himself to throw stones at other people’s glass houses. For another, he�
�d lose track of time too if he was courting, if he and his sweetheart could walk out like Millie and Mr. Power, if…

  If Mr. Green.

  It was probably a bad idea to think like that, but it was very hard not to. Mr. Green with his bright eyes behind the concealing spectacles, and his quiet ways, and his understanding patience that made Clem feel like Cat did on his lap, hard bones melting under soothing strokes. His smile, like the flash of a bird in flight, here and gone, leaving behind an impression of beauty. His sure, precise fingers.

  His first name was Rowley, and one of his ears was flat at the top, as though the cartilage had uncurled, and Clem had no idea if he liked men, or women, or anyone at all.

  Other people were better at telling these things. Everyone in the Jack and Knave certainly was, though of course that was the point of the Jack and Knave in the first place. Sweetheart, with eyes like that, you can spill my drink whenever you like, Gregory had said on his first evening there when Clem had bumped the gin from his hand, and ended up sucking Clem off in the back room, which rather proved his point. At the Jack you could be sure of everyone’s inclinations, because you didn’t find yourself invited there unless you shared them, so Clem didn’t need to worry about trying to read invisible runes. He wished he’d met Mr. Green at the Jack.

  He’d gone so far as to consider asking one of the others to drop by. Gregory could probably tell Mr. Green’s interests from fifty paces. Clem had listened with fascination the other week as Gregory and Polish Mark and the journalist Nathaniel had discussed how “you could just tell” about men’s tastes, or their guilt, or if they were hiding something that could make a good story. Clem didn’t seem to have whatever ability it was that let other people “just tell,” and it felt as if there was an entire world of communication going on at a pitch he couldn’t hear.

  Not to grumble, but he would have liked it if he could “just tell” about Rowley Green.