An Unsuitable Heir Page 23

  “A bit. Yeah. I do. Jesus, Pen, I love you.” Mark sounded almost disbelieving. “You’re magical.”

  “I’m not,” Pen said. “I’m me, and you took the trouble to look. And I see you, Mr. Penny Plain Practical Man who ‘just gets on with things,’ pretending not to be the most wonderful man in the world. And I don’t care if nobody else sees that, any more than Greta does about Tim. I know, and that’s all that matters.”

  “God.” Mark pulled him round, resting his head against Pen’s. “I love you.”

  “Me too. Do you think we’re going to get away with this?”

  “I don’t know. Hapgood looked pretty unhappy but if he’s got no pieces of paper to wave, what will he do? Witness statements won’t stand for much without supporting evidence or a willing claimant. It would be a farce. With luck he’ll wash his hands of the whole thing.”

  “I hope so,” Pen said. “And what about Conyers? Greta?”

  “Couldn’t be a clearer case of self-defence,” Mark said. “There’ll be a coroner’s inquest to decide if charges ought to be brought, but Nathaniel and Justin left two dead men back in Harpenden without any trouble to speak of. Christ, I hope Hapgood isn’t difficult; we’ll be unpicking this shambles forever if anyone puts it all together. How are you feeling?”

  “Me?” Pen thought about it. “All right, I think. That is, my cousin was murdered, and my sister’s going to get married, and I’d quite like to pull a blanket over my head and scream for a while, but if I can get out from under this earldom—I knew I didn’t want it, it was like being buried alive, but I didn’t realise how deep. And to think I can get back on the trapeze—”

  “Without Greta?”

  Pen burrowed into him. “Ugh. I know. It’ll be worse for her in some ways, but it’s what she wants. I’ll probably find a new partner, and use a different name too, rather than be Lord Moreton’s brother-in-law. No more Flying Starlings.”

  “That’s a shame. You’re paying a high price, Pen, one way and another.”

  “I can be me, with you, and Greta has Tim,” Pen said. “I’d pay far higher for that. I’d pay anything.”

  There was a knock at the door. Pen disengaged himself reluctantly, and called, “Come in.”

  “Beg pardon, Mr. Pen.” Pomona bobbed a curtsey. “But Mr. Tim says please come down. The police are here.”

  Chapter 15

  “Here you all are,” Greg said. “Now, let’s see, it was a pint of bitter for Mark and Nathaniel, half for Rowley, pale ale for Justin, and lemonade for Clem. How’s my memory?”

  “Impeccable,” Nathaniel said. “Unfortunately, what you seem to have brought us is a bottle of gin.”

  “Darling, we’re celebrating,” Greg informed him. “Half of ale indeed. It’s not every day we celebrate an aristocratic marriage, is it? When do you travel?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Clem said, as Nathaniel went to the bar to collect the lemonade Phyllis was waving at him. Apparently, the rest of them were indeed drinking gin. “It’s the first time I’ve ever looked forward to going to Crowmarsh. I do wish you could come,” he added to Rowley.

  The preserver’s expression made it quite clear he didn’t share that sentiment. “I’ll finish the diorama and see you when you’re back. I’m very happy not attending an earl’s wedding, honestly.”

  “That makes at least two of you,” Greg observed. “Mark doesn’t seem enormously enthusiastic either.”

  “Mark would be happier if he was there to guard the valuables,” Justin said. “He’d prefer to be useful than decorative, which is fortunate, considering.”

  Mark gave him a two-fingered salute. “Anyway, it’s not an earl’s wedding quite yet. The old man’s hanging on, though nobody thinks he’ll last till summer. It’s why they’re having the wedding now.”

  “Is he keen to attend?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I doubt it,” Clem said. “No, but Tim and Greta want a quiet wedding, without any fuss, and they do want Desmond’s…not blessing, what’s the word?”

  “Imprimatur. Seal of approval.”

  “Those. If they marry at Crowmarsh in Lord Moreton’s presence, it’ll show the family is in favour.”

  “There’ll be an almighty fuss anyway,” Greg predicted.

  “Greta doesn’t care,” Mark said. “So Tim doesn’t. Neither of ’em’s interested in London or society or making snooty friends.”

  If anything, he was surprised the pair had waited this long. There had been the coroner’s inquest to get through, of course, waiting to find out if charges would be brought against Greta, and all the fuss in the newspapers when she was decreed to be a courageous heroine rather than a killer. Nathaniel had done a sterling job there, leaning on other reporters and writing the whole thing up to concentrate on the bravery of a plucky music-hall artiste instead of the Taillefer family’s sins. As soon as the trouble had died down, the date had been set, and Mark, Pen, and Clem would be going down to Crowmarsh the next day to see Tim and Greta wed.

  Mark would as lief not have gone—he had this very afternoon tried on his smart new frock coat and white waistcoat, bought at Moreton’s expense, and felt sodding ridiculous—but Tim and Greta had asked, and mostly Pen wanted him there. Pen would be smart, suited, and entirely manly in appearance for the weekend, in order not to make waves. Desmond might be a shadow of his former self, but his former self had been grating enough for three, and in any case, Pen had no desire to upset an ailing old man. It was, he said cheerfully, only dressing up.

  Three months had passed since the events at Crowmarsh. The clutch of winter fog and foul air had finally loosened its grip on London, giving way to a bright and sunny spring, and every damn thing was different now. There was Nathaniel, brimming with life and enthusiastically talking over everyone as he told a story Mark had heard before while Justin interpolated offensive remarks. A scrappy, adversarial, tricky bugger, Justin was, never giving an inch, and that seemed to be suiting Nathaniel down to the ground.

  Rowley was listening with his usual quiet, inconspicuous interest, as ever making Mark think of what Pen had said about wonder on the inside. Clem eclipsed him—as, in fairness, he eclipsed everyone in the pub except Pen—with his bubbling, contagious happiness. Tim, on behalf of the slowly dying Lord Moreton, had made over the deeds of the lodging house as the inheritance Clem should have had, which secured his financial future; what mattered far more, he had come up to London and taken tea with Clem and Rowley. Nothing meaningful had been said, of course; probably it never would be, but Clem was blissfully content.

  He wasn’t the only one. Pen had found a talented and flexible young lady, and practice sessions were going well. He would be back in the air in front of audiences soon. It would be a different sort of act, naturally, with no attempt to replace Greta. A new beginning.

  He was currently talking to Phyllis and Evelyn at the bar, with his hair up, a few curling ringlets framing his face, black paint round his eyes. He wore a brightly printed calico scarf round his neck, a dashingly cut lounge suit in a light tweed, and boots with a good two inches of heel. He looked astonishing, and Mark wasn’t the only one in the room who couldn’t keep his eyes off him there, slipping between the cracks in people’s ideas.

  It was good to see the others, to laugh and swap stories and relax in Phyllis’s protective hospitality, but Mark wanted to be at home with Pen. The rooms above his premises in Robin Hood Yard had come vacant a little while back, and Mark had promptly taken them. He could handle twice as many clients these days, so the business could bear the expense, and Braglewicz & Lazarus needed more space.

  Not as much space as the extra floor provided, though, so Mark had informed his landlord he’d be letting one room to a lodger. His mate Pen Starling was moving in, he’d said, since his sister was leaving him to get married.

  Pen was making his new beginning with Mark, and the whole thing was too magnificent for a plain man to wrap his head around.

  “Good Lord, Mark.” Nathaniel
waved a hand in front of his face. “I’m attempting to speak to you, if you can drag your attention away from Pen for half a minute.”

  “Honestly, mate?” Mark said. “Not sure I can.”

  —

  They walked back to Robin Hood Yard in the dark together, a little flown with gin perhaps, mostly exuberant with pleasure, as Pen always was after a night in the Jack. The Jack, the music hall, their home in Robin Hood Yard—he’d given up an earldom for those shabby, smoky, tawdry places, and Mark was quite sure he didn’t regret it for a second.

  Not that he had need to regret; there would be a generous stipend for the Countess of Moreton’s beloved brother from the family coffers. Tim was imposing his quiet decency on the Moreton estate, backed by Greta’s practical force, and even Mr. Hapgood, reluctant conspirator, had been heard to predict that the future earl and countess were likely to be a credit to their forebears.

  So was Pen, in Mark’s opinion, and if nobody else could see it, that was their loss.

  “That was such fun,” Pen said as they lit the lamps at home. “Phyllis is hilarious. She was telling me all about you when you were twenty.”

  “Oh God. What parts?”

  Pen grinned wickedly. “All of them.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Can you revive the fire? I want to…” Pen gestured vaguely at the bedroom.

  “Course.” Mark knelt to blow the embers back into life. “You all right about tomorrow?”

  “What part?” Pen called back from the bedroom. “Seeing my sister married, going back to Crowmarsh, dressing like a butler?”

  “All of it.”

  “Well, I couldn’t be happier for Gret. And Crowmarsh is probably a perfectly pleasant house when nobody in it is trying to kill me. And as for the clothes…everyone dresses up for a wedding.”

  Mark had the flames leaping now. He sat back on his heels and fed them with a few more coals. “Course.”

  “Greta wouldn’t care if I painted, and I doubt Tim will be looking at anyone but her. But there’s no reason to upset the vicar.”

  “Suppose not,” Mark agreed, rising. “All right, what are you…” His voice died in his throat.

  Pen stood in the doorway of their bedroom. He was wearing his new silk robe, pale gold with an outrageously frivolous fur trim, tied provocatively low at the waist. His hair was still piled up, his darkened eyes intent on Mark.

  “Blimey,” Mark managed. “That suits you.”

  “It does,” Pen said, running his hands over his sides. “It’s lovely.”

  “You’re lovely.”

  “ ‘When lovely woman stoops to folly,’ ” Pen quoted. “Do you know what folly this lovely woman fancies tonight?”

  “Uh,” Mark said. “I reckon I’ve got a fair idea.”

  They’d talked about this a few times. Only talked, because Pen had been…call it skittish for a while after their return from Crowmarsh, when the reaction to the last miserable weeks had set in. They’d taken lovemaking slowly and carefully, till Pen felt settled in his skin again. The trapeze had done much for that, and time, and the Jack and Knave too, as a place he belonged. Pen had started looking at, rather than around, himself in the mirror again, and enjoying the touch of Mark’s mouth and hand, and now he was stroking the golden silk that lay over his skin, with a very clear hard-on under the frothy gown, and a look of nerves, excitement, and arousal in his eyes.

  “Tell me,” Pen said softly.

  Mark stood and walked up to him, right up, and put his hand to the cool, slippery silk over Pen’s warm skin. He could feel Pen’s heart thudding, and his own felt as though it pounded in time. “You can have anything you want,” he said, almost a whisper. “There’s not anything I could give you that you can’t have. But if you’re asking what I want—”

  “I am.”

  “Lovely hair and a hard-on,” Mark said. “Silk and frills and muscles.” He ran his fingers up to Pen’s face, felt them caught by warm lips. “That’s what I want. And I’d love a fuck if one’s going.”

  Pen’s lips curved gloriously against his fingers. “Of course. Naturally. Er, did you say fuck, or duck?”

  “My God, shut up,” Mark said, and kissed him. They kissed wild and fast, then long and slow, then frankly awkwardly with three hands trying to divest Mark of his clothes, until he was on his back, naked in front of the fire, and Pen knelt over him, robe open in a shimmering flow of golden silk and fluffy fur.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful,” Mark said. “Will you take your hair down? I want to touch it.”

  Pen pulled out hairpin after hairpin, tossing them away, letting the river of hair tumble loose over his shoulders and, as he leaned forward, over Mark. They kissed in a tangle of sensation, hair and silk and skin, Pen’s fingers tracing shapes on Mark’s arms, moving against each other until both were gasping.

  Pen lifted his mouth. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to,” Pen said. “Just a second. Shift your legs.” He dabbed a finger into the pot of petroleum jelly Mark had acquired on Phyllis’s advice, and Mark felt a gentle, probing finger. He breathed into the sensation, not unpleasant, a little strange.

  “All right?”

  “Mmm. You?”

  Pen nodded. His eyes were intent. “You’ve really never let a man do this?”

  “Never.” Would have if asked, he was pretty sure, but that was far from the point. “I’ve never had a bloke do this and I’m not planning to start. Whereas a lovely bit of stuff like you—”

  “ ‘Bit of stuff’?”

  “Bit of stuff.” Mark sucked in a breath as Pen added another finger. “My bit of stuff.”

  Pen ran his free hand over Mark’s skin. “Does that make you my bit of rough?”

  “Sounds fair.” Mark reached up to tangle his fingers in Pen’s hair, putting a deliberate rasp in his voice. “Look at you. The fanciest bit of stuff in the world. Are you fucking me or what?”

  “Oh, yes, I am. Move your legs. Wider. Is this all right?”

  Mark nodded, inhaling and exhaling, remembering how this went. He was smothered in sensation. Pen pushing into him, blunt and hard; the swish of silk and fur; the fall of long hair; the heat of the fire and rough surface of the rug under his back. “God. This is good.” He reached up to caress Pen’s pectoral muscle, cupping it like a breast. “Beautiful.”

  “Bit more.” Pen’s face was set with concentration, easing his way in. Mark had forgotten how full it felt, how tight, how odd. A bit of discomfort, a lot more anticipation, because Pen was leaning over him, starting to move, and the pressure inside was sending shivers all through him. “Oh, yes. Your face, Mark. Oh God, you do like it, don’t you?”

  “Love it. Love you. God, yes, like that. You beauty.” Whatever it was that felt bloody marvellous when pressed was being pressed, and felt bloody marvellous. Mark wanted to gasp, or laugh, or cry even at the sight of Pen over him, all silk and muscle. Hard and soft all at once, always changing, always Pen. “I love you. Come here.”

  Pen came down on his forearms, bracing them on either side of Mark’s head, and then they were kissing and fucking at once, Pen’s magnificently muscular arse shifting under Mark’s groping hand, tongues and lips wild. Mark could barely get enough air under the assault of Pen’s mouth, the driving power of his hips. He was fucking Mark hard now, care forgotten, sending sensation shooting through him at every stroke. He writhed against Pen, twisting his hips for friction, and felt fingers close around him, Pen’s thumb rubbing over the head of his prick, slippery and wet.

  Someone was whimpering, and Mark was pretty sure it was himself. Pen fucked him and kissed him and stroked him off all at once, and Mark felt as though he was laid out bare, inside and out. Helplessly owned, hopelessly lost, a mass of nerve endings with Pen thrusting into them all at once and setting them alight.

  He cried out, into Pen’s mouth. Pen’s grip tightened, working Mark as he thrashed; he thrust harder once, twice
, and threw back his head, sending the mane of hair flying up against the light, then slumped forward.

  “Jesus,” Mark said after a few minutes. “Jesus.”

  “I love you,” Pen mumbled into his chest.

  “Me too. That was bloody amazing.”

  “I bet you’re glad I’m not a bloke,” Pen said, somewhat smugly. “Wouldn’t it be awful if I cut my hair and you couldn’t possibly have a good seeing-to again?”

  “You’re never going to let this one go, are you?”

  “No.”

  Mark dropped his arm over Pen’s powerful back, sheathed in sweat-soaked silk. “I want you any way I can have you, exactly like you are. There’s only two things about you I’ve ever wanted to change.”

  Pen propped himself up to see Mark’s face. “Two? What two?”

  “The earldom, for one. I never wanted to shag a nobleman. Above my touch.”

  “Oh, I know,” Pen said. “We’d have had to do it in a velvet robe with ermine trim, it would be awful. What’s the other thing?”

  “The part where you weren’t with me,” Mark said. “That part was rubbish.”

  “Oh.” Pen pressed his lips together, eyes shining. “Oh, Mark. God, I love you. I could have sworn you were going to say something about ducks.”

  “Sweetheart, for you I’ll live with the duck business. I’m not fussy. Ow!”

  “Serves you right. I roll you cross-eyed and you tell me you’re not fussy?”

  “I’m not,” Mark said. “I told you from the start, mate. I like men, I like women, I like whoever, however they want to be—as long as it’s you. That’s the only thing in the world I’m picky about.” He smiled into Pen’s eyes, saw him smile back. “But I’m a bloody stickler for that.”

  For May, a star

  BY K. J. CHARLES

  Society of Gentlemen Series