Page 19 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“If you want to leave, you’ll have to make me let you go.”
Lawrence wrested his hands free of Turner’s grip and rolled the other man onto his back. Turner lay on the floor, Lawrence crouching over him.
Only then did Lawrence realize that Turner hadn’t put up a fight at all. He was letting Lawrence manhandle him. Lawrence refused to let himself understand the meaning of this.
Turner licked his lips. Lawrence forced himself to stay perfectly still. But when Turner twisted one of his hands out of Lawrence’s grip, he didn’t try to stop him. And when Turner brought that hand around Lawrence’s neck and tugged him down, he didn’t stop that either. He only closed his eyes, because he didn’t think he was equal to watching whatever was about to happen. His other senses were already overwhelmed and overtaxed.
He felt Turner coming closer, felt the other man’s breath on his face, heard the rustle of limbs being rearranged. Almost, almost he could taste—but he wouldn’t let himself think of mouths and tasting and the slow pink flick of Turner’s tongue when he had licked his lips.
Then a warm hand rested on his cheek. He heard a sigh, and then the hand was gone. “Up you go, Radnor.”
Lawrence stood. Looking down, he saw Turner pass a hand over his mouth and heard him sigh again.
Lawrence hesitated at the door, resting one arm against the door frame. “You ought to get back to sleep.” Turner did not respond.
Instead of heading next door to his own room, Lawrence went downstairs to the kitchen. It had been months, perhaps longer, since he had traveled these corridors. The kitchen was silent and dark. “Sally?” he called. To think of Sally Ferris still at Penkellis. Why would she have stayed here? Hadn’t he offered to set her up somewhere else? Well, she had endured far worse than Lawrence, and this was the only home she had ever known, so perhaps she had simply chosen the devil she knew. Maybe that was why Lawrence was still here too. “Mrs. Ferris?” he amended, remembering the passage of years.
A figure in a dressing gown and cap appeared. “Good heavens, is that you, Master Laurie?” She looked startled and tired but not afraid. “My lord, I mean to say.”
“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” Lawrence said, attempting some semblance of courtesy despite the late hour. “But could you see to it that the blue bedchamber is aired and cleaned, and a fire lit there for Mr. Turner?”
“Now, my lord?” She looked so much older than the last time he had seen her. That was how time worked, he reminded himself. She was likely thinking the same about him.
“No, no. Tomorrow. And thank you.”
When he returned to his tower, he paused outside the dressing room door. Barnabus was fast asleep, but he heard rustling inside the room. Lawrence didn’t dare go next door to his own room. Instead he crossed to his study and lit a lamp.
Georgie rubbed his eyes and sat up. Only the faintest light was streaming through the window, but strange sounds were coming from the corridor outside the dressing room door. In any decent house, early morning rustling would be no cause for alarm, nothing more than servants going about the mundane business of lighting fires or carrying up trays of tea. In this house, it was more likely to be wild animals prowling for food.
He dressed in haste and opened the door, intensely conscious of his stubbly jaw and creased cravat, but if ever there was a place to let personal standards fall by the wayside, it was Penkellis. Down the length of the corridor ran a rope of twisted wires. At one end, Radnor knelt by one of the trestles of his communication device.
“Over there, Turner,” the earl said, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. “Take hold of the wires and keep them steady while I fasten the ends to this trestle.” His voice was rough, and he avoided looking at Georgie.
Georgie had already decided that he would proceed as usual, as if he hadn’t come within a hair’s breadth of kissing the man. As if he hadn’t lain awake for hours thinking of the way Radnor’s hard-muscled body had pressed him into the cold floor. Flushing, Georgie put that thought aside for the moment, something to be taken out and enjoyed later.
“I trust that I’m not to be shocked to death?” Georgie asked, but he held the wires without waiting for Radnor’s response. The earl might be eccentric, but nothing Georgie had seen suggested recklessness.
They proceeded in this manner for most of the morning, Radnor ensuring that each wire was properly connected to the trestles, and Georgie stealing furtive glances at the earl. Georgie watched how Radnor absently rubbed his beard when he was thinking, and how he pushed his hair off his face in such a way that pulled strands haphazardly out of his queue. With his hair at sixes and sevens and his beard covering the lower part of his face, only Radnor’s eyes and nose were really visible. His nose was nothing special, perfectly unobjectionable as far as noses went. But his eyes were an eerie, almost luminescent blue. Georgie couldn’t think of anything quite that shade, not even a gemstone or a pricey bit of Italian glasswork, but he knew that if he ever came across anything that precise hue, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from thinking of Radnor.
He didn’t like the idea that he wouldn’t be able to shake the memory of Radnor loose from his mind, even after he was miles away, years into a future that now seemed bleak and lonely. He had always appreciated being able to start fresh with each new job: a blank slate, his misdeeds wiped clean away. But this time he wouldn’t be able to do that; he’d carry the memory of Radnor with him, along with his knowledge of whatever harm he did the man.
Only when they heard footsteps coming up the tower stairs did they pause in their work. Or, rather, Radnor paused, going utterly still, as if the footsteps might belong to a marauder instead of a servant bearing the usual ham and apples. But Radnor was usually holed up in his study at this hour, and Janet simply left the tray outside his closed door. Today, he would have to actually encounter the girl.
Georgie stood and went to the top of the stairs, intending to act as ambassador between the girl and her master. Passing Radnor, he whispered, “Her name is Janet,” but he wasn’t sure if the earl heard, or if he even knew what he was supposed to do with that information.
“A fine morning, Janet.” Georgie reached for the tray. “Let me take that,” he offered. “It’s wires and whatnots all over the place, and I don’t want you to trip.”
She cast a wary glance at the wire cutters and bits of the broken glass tube they had dropped earlier. It likely looked very ominous to an outsider. Georgie felt a totally unexpected rush of pride that he was not an outsider—he and Radnor were two of a handful of people who knew that this device was even a possibility.
“Mrs. Ferris told me to ask you down for tea,” Janet said.
“No,” Radnor barked, appearing from around the corner. Both Georgie and Janet stared at him. “He’ll take his tea with me. Send up whatever is needed. Biscuits or . . . ” He gestured vaguely. “Muffins,” he said decisively, before turning to go back to his work. Then he paused, halting his step. “Thank you, Janet,” he said, without looking back.
“Well,” Janet said on her way downstairs. “I’ve been here three years and that was the first time he’s spoken to me, let alone thanked me.”
“He’s making an effort,” Georgie said, realizing it was true. Radnor was trying to be a good employer. A good man. The realization was like a blow to the gut. Georgie could hardly suck in his next breath.
“I think he’s fond of you,” Janet said. “Tea. Whoever would have thought?”
