Page 51 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“You know where to find me,” he said. “I should very much like you to do just that, find me. Tonight, if you’d like, or any time that you wish to be with me.”

“I have rooms of my own to return to,” Derrek mumbled, uncertain whether he said so as a statement of fact or as an excuse for why he wouldn’t arrive at the shop later.

Jeremy nodded, clearly disappointed. “Very well,” he said. “Goodbye until then.”

Derrek nodded, then watched as Jeremy walked on down the hall. He turned one last time at the far end and sent Derrek a sad smile, then he carried on and left.

“That was a pitiful display of temper,” Cecil said, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

“Whatever do you mean?” Derrek blinked, giving his full attention to his friend with a sharp frown. “I am perfectly calm. There is no temper involved at all.”

Cecil snorted. “Sulking, then,” he said. “You’re sulking because your lover has a mind of his own.”

“As well he should,” Derrek argued, though he felt the contradictory pull of those words in his gut.

Cecil laughed and clapped a hand on Derrek’s shoulder. “You will not be able to keep that one unless you let him go,” he said.

“I know,” Derrek mumbled.

“Have you even told him that you love him yet?” Cecil asked.

Derrek fought not to be affronted by the personal question. “I cannot see how that is any concern of yours.”

“No, then,” Cecil smirked. He let go of Derrek’s shoulder and took a step back. “You’d best tell him soon, though. A tiny sentiment like that would likely go a long way with a man as sensitive and caring as Wilkes.”

“Confessing love is not a tiny sentiment,” Derrek said. “It is an incredible risk, especially when your beloved likes to put himself in danger.”

Cecil nodded slowly, looking at Derrek with new eyes. “You had a lover who died, did you not?”

“I do not see what that has to do with the price of fish,” Derrek grumbled.

“I think it has everything to do with it,” Cecil said. “You need to resolve whatever has you in knots, be it with your former lover or with Wilkes. I’ve known you long enough to know you will not be truly happy until you have smoothed out whatever wrinkles you’ve made with your sweetheart.”

Derrek wanted to argue that he’d done nothing and there were no wrinkles, but that would have been blatantly false. Cecil was right. It was more than just the danger Jeremy faced because of Conroy’s and Lord Albert’s plot against him. Every man was in some sort of danger every day. It all came back to Joseph and the grief that still jaded his actions. But if he wanted to make a happy life with Jeremy, he would have to overcome his own fears of being left alone.

Eighteen

From the time he was a young lad learning to stitch at his mother’s feet, Jeremy had known what he wanted from his life. He’d longed to be just like his mother, to own a shop and manage it with gentle authority. He’d dreamed of a vast and diverse clientele who would see him, if not as a friend, then as a confidante.

Several days after leaving Derrek at The Chameleon Club to return to his premises on Jermyn Street, Jeremy was surrounded by everything he’d directed his ambition toward since those early days with his mother. Artie, Timothy, Jonty, and whichever members of The Brotherhood had come to their assistance when Jeremy fled had repaired the shop admirably and restored it to the highest functioning order. While the lads had taken no new orders in Jeremy’s absence, they had completed every stitch of work on the orders that had already been placed.

Everything was as it should be and more. Within hours of settling back into his rooms and sending the lads out to spread the word that he had returned to his shop, customers began arriving at his doorstep or sending their servants to make appointments for measurements and commissions. London was abuzz with what everyone knew would be an unusually busy beginning of the summer, and by nightfall, Jeremy was up to his eyes in work.

It should have made him happy. He should have been delighted at the commissions and well-wishes from old and new customers. He should have taken far more joy in the warm welcome his lads had given him and enjoyed regaling them with stories of the countryside far more than he did.

Everything that should have been wonderful seemed pale, though. Derrek did not arrive on his doorstep before the close of business that first day, nor did he come before Jeremy went to bed that night. He was not there in the morning either, and even though he spent far more time than he should have gazing out the front window of his shop, hoping to spot Derrek passing on the street, or even more longingly, making his way to the door to look out in all directions for him, Derrek was absent.

He told himself that Derrek, too, had only just returned to London after a months-long absence. He did not know for certain, but from Derrek’s sullen appearance when he returned earlier than expected to The Chameleon Club, Jeremy suspected that Derrek had had some sort of difficult conversation with Mr. Anderson at Scotland Yard. It was possible he’d been sacked, which might have meant Derrek was having difficulty with alternative employment, or maybe even with his landlord.

Jeremy came up with a dozen excuses as to why his lover hadn’t come to him, but none of them eased his mind in any way. He worried that he’d offended Derrek by leaving when he’d been told to stay put or that he’d put Derrek off of him entirely by asserting himself.

Not that he would change the way he’d asserted himself for anything. He stood by the things he’d said to Derrek in the halls of The Chameleon Club, he just wished the conversation hadn’t been necessary.

Four days had passed, and Jeremy tried to tell himself that everything was back to as it should have been as he worked to make adjustments to the jacket he was constructing for the Duke of Burville, who stood on a pedestal in the middle of the shop while Jeremy moved around him. Ordinarily, he enjoyed conversations with the duke, who was also a founding member of The Brotherhood. That morning, however, he could not bring himself to reply with more than grunts or short answers.

“I suppose it is morbid for so many of us to be increasing our wardrobes in anticipation of the death of our king,” Burville commented as Jeremy moved around him with pins, making certain the proportions of the jacket were perfect. “Word from Windsor is that King William is very ill indeed.”

“He has been for some time,” Jeremy said, not glancing up to meet the friendly duke’s eyes.

---