Chapter 3

THREE

Casper feltsick for the rest of the day, and it wasn’t from the questionable crab dip that had been served at lunch. He’d overreacted to Sawyer dropping the book, and the heavy, guilty feeling stayed in his stomach as he spent the rest of the day watching filming. Sawyer executed his scenes with perfect grace and exactly the sort of humor that the real Percy Montague would have appreciated.

He watched it all, adding his opinion about the details of the scenes a few times when Rory asked for his expert opinion, and ate his heart out with the feeling that he’d missed a golden opportunity to make a friend. The supper at Kit’s had cracked open the door for him, and what had he done? He’d slammed that door in Sawyer’s face, and all because of a book.

He left the set for supper, accepting an invitation from Harry to dine with him at his favorite spot in Whitby. A big part of Casper felt like he was a coward for running away from Wodehouse Abbey instead of facing up to his earlier rudeness and apologizing to Sawyer. But Sawyer had more filming to do, and Harry needed someone to complain to about the fuss around his ancestral home.

And complain Harry did.

“I am quite happy to have my great-great-great-grandfather’s story told,” he insisted for the sixth time, as Casper glumly worked through the mediocre fish that Harry had ordered for him, nodding at everything the older man said. “I simply wish they would tell the story correctly. It’s bad enough that the historians recording the story of that summer mistakenly located Wodehouse Abbey near Hull instead of Whitby, but now I fear they will make the entire thing into some sort of all-male porn review in historical costume simply to gain viewers.”

Casper nearly choked on his fish. In the course of a single complaint, Harry had said half a dozen things that Casper never would have expected, and Casper wasn’t certain whether he should laugh or be offended.

“You’re right about the original transcribers of the sixth Duke of Malton’s diaries mistakenly setting the whole thing in Hull instead of Whitby,” he said, giving up on the fish and pushing his plate away. “The error came about because of?—”

“But you see, that is the point,” Harry said with unnecessarily tight frustration. “Historians should not make mistakes. Ever. The story of our nation depends upon them.”

Casper closed his mouth and sat back, like a schoolboy who had been sent to the headmaster’s office, for the rest of the meal, listening to Harry expound on his beliefs about king and country that were as old and dusty as the book Sawyer had dropped and cracked earlier.

By the time Harry returned him to Wodehouse Abbey, Casper was exhausted, defeated, and far too hungry for someone who had just been taken out to supper. He brushed his teeth and washed his face and got into bed, but spent a full hour tossing and turning as guilt refused to let him sleep. His growling stomach didn’t help the situation either.

Just after midnight, he gave up, climbed out of bed, and threw his robe on before leaving his room. He had to tip-toe carefully through the halls, glad of his bare feet, on his way down to the kitchen, as Harry had declared the kitchen off-limits to the cast and crew, save for the catering staff. After the evening he’d just had, Casper felt he was justified in breaking the sanctity of the kitchen to grab a snack.

His plan was to sneak in, check the fridge and maybe the pantry and make a sandwich, then hurry back to his room to eat it. That plan changed as soon as he noticed the light was on in the kitchen.

He hesitated just before the doorway, debating how much trouble he might get into if the person he could hear moving around in the kitchen was Harry or one of the regular Wodehouse Abbey staff. His stomach growled in the middle of his internal debate, deciding for him, and he stepped into the large, bright kitchen.

He immediately stopped short with a gasp when he saw Sawyer standing in front of the open refrigerator in nothing but an old T-shirt and a pair of striped, cotton pajama bottoms. As soon as Sawyer heard him, he jerked his head out of the refrigerator and turned to Casper with an equal amount of guilty shock.

“I just came down to get a snack,” Sawyer rushed to explain himself. “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I couldn’t sleep and filming went long, and even though catering offered supper, I didn’t eat much of it because I was in costume and I didn’t want to spill and mess anything else up, and now I’m just really hungry and want a sandwich. I’ll pay you all back for anything I eat, I swear.”

Casper stood where he was, his mouth working speechlessly for a moment. As soon as his wits sorted themselves out after Sawyer’s verbal barrage, he said, “I came down for the same reason.”

“Oh?” Sawyer’s posture relaxed a little.

Casper took a breath. Sawyer didn’t seem to be angry with him. His defensiveness had been more about being in the kitchen after midnight instead of because of the earlier book incident. The air between them was brittle with uncertainty, though.

Casper might have stuffed everything up that morning, but he could make things right now.

“Yeah,” he said, relaxing as well and walking over to Sawyer and the fridge. “Old Harry took me out to supper this evening, mostly so he could complain.” He reached Sawyer’s side and pulled open the fridge so they could both survey its contents. “He ordered this god-awful fish thing for me that he swore was his favorite, and it was basically inedible.”

“He…he wasn’t trying to, you know, butter you up for a dessert of aged sausage, was he?” Sawyer asked, genuine horror in his eyes.

Casper laughed. “God, no. Harry’s as straight as they come. He just happens to be an aristocrat who takes his heritage seriously, even though the family no longer has the money to back up their title and—” Casper stopped and blinked. “Actually, those are all reasons why he might very well have been trying to seduce me.”

It was Sawyer’s turn to laugh at that. “You’re the historian,” he said, standing shoulder to shoulder with Casper as they peered into the fridge. “You would know more about old British aristocrats being bent than I would.”

Casper chuckled and pulled a jar of mayonnaise and what he hoped was a packet of sandwich meat from one of the shelves. “No, Harry’s alright. And he really isn’t gay. He thinks of me as his faithful batman, protecting Wodehouse Abbey from the horde of film people that he’s certain are going to tear the whole thing down, brick by brick.”

It wasn’t until Casper saw the flush that came to Sawyer’s face as he retrieved a loaf of bread from the side and brought it to the island in the center of the kitchen that he realized how Sawyer must have heard that.

“I’m really sorry about breaking that book,” Sawyer said, going back to the counter to fetch knives from the drawer. “I’m not usually that clumsy.” He paused as he brought the knives back to the island while Casper fetched everything else they would need for sandwiches. “Well, no, that’s not true,” he said. “I’m ridiculously clumsy. Always have been.”

“I’m sorry I overreacted,” Casper said, his heart beating faster and his whole body warming with hope and happiness. There weren’t words for how happy he was to suddenly have the opportunity to make things right with Sawyer.

“No, you didn’t,” Sawyer said, slumping to sit on one of the stools along the side of the island and reaching for the bread and mayo. “I saw the publication date of that book. It makes me sick to think I’ve destroyed something that survived Queen Victoria and two world wars.”

Casper laughed warmly, despite the misery painting Sawyer’s face. “In all fairness, I don’t think Queen Victoria would care.”

Sawyer glanced up from the sandwich he was making and smiled. The look suited him so well and filled his expression with a boyish sort of happiness. That picture was even better because of the way Sawyer was dressed, and the fact that his hair was matted and stuck out at odd angles. Either he’d had a shower and washed his hair earlier or he hadn’t, he’d just combed through it, hair products and all.

Actually, Casper thought Sawyer looked even more beautiful in his state of dishabille than he had in Regency costume. Or the way he was dressed for the supper.

“What?” Sawyer asked. “Do I have something on my face? I haven’t even eaten anything yet.” He wiped his mouth as though he had mayonnaise all over it.

Casper swallowed hard, fighting off the teasing thought of what other mayonnaise-like things Sawyer might have on his mouth. He desperately wanted to kiss that mouth, too, but he felt too self-conscious at being caught staring.

“Nothing,” he said, drawing in a breath, shaking his head, and focusing on making his sandwich. “I was just lost in my thoughts about…Regency hairstyles.”

Sawyer laughed. The sound made Casper’s cock take notice. He was glad they were seated at the island and only visible to each other from above the waist.

“Regency hairstyles? Really?” Sawyer said. “Is that the sort of thing historians think about on a regular basis?”

“Well, no,” Casper said, feeling his face heat. “I was just surprised that they didn’t have you wearing a wig to get the style right. But then again, your hair is long enough that they could style it appropriately.”

Sawyer hummed around the first bite of his sandwich. When he swallowed it, he said, “I had a consultation with the production hairstylist months ago. They asked me to grow my hair out, then I had it cut the way gents did back in that time period so it could be styled authentically.”

Casper made a noise of approval as he bit into his sandwich.

He would have said something more about that, but Sawyer asked, “So how did you become a historian anyhow? That was never on the list of career options at my school. Then again, out where I grew up, pretty much the only jobs they told us we would be any good at were construction, transportation, or, if you were one of the really clever ones, accounting.”

Casper laughed, even though he had strong opinions on classism in education. “I just always loved history,” he said with a shrug. “We grew up dirt poor, and my parents liked to sneak into historical buildings on the weekend.”

“Sneak into them?” Sawyer asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Yes,” Casper laughed. “Their go-to move was to have me slip past whatever sort of ticket taker or entrance hall the castle, estate, or museum in question had, then they would come along and play distraught parents searching for their child. The deeper I made it into the building and the better I hid, the more the site’s staff would have sympathy for us once they found me.”

“Now that’s a grift,” Sawyer said with a smirk. “You wicked little scamp.”

A shiver of lust washed through Casper with those words, which was saying something, since he didn’t usually feel anything half as carnal when talking to someone he fancied. He’d always been more of the flowers and romance type instead of the down and dirty sort.

“Yes, well, as I got older, the game became more about me exploring the houses and less about helping my parents along. And then I learned that most of those places, these places,” he glanced around at the kitchen to indicate he counted Wodehouse Abbey in his explanation, “are staffed by volunteers anyhow, and as long as you’re discreet, they have better things to do than to notice someone being where they shouldn’t be.”

“So you’ve built your career on sneaking into other people’s houses,” Sawyer said with his mouth half full of sandwich. He swallowed, nodded, then said, “Percy would approve.”

Casper laughed. “Percy would absolutely approve. He was the houseguest that would never go home himself.”

The flow of conversation paused for a moment as they finished off their sandwiches and fetched some water from the tap to wash them down. After the miserable day Casper had had, sitting in the kitchen talking about simple things with Sawyer felt like wrapping up in a warm blanket with a cup of cocoa on a cold night. The same feeling that he’d had at Kit’s supper, that he and Sawyer somehow vibrated at the same frequency, had come back, and Casper intended to revel in it.

“What about you?” he asked Sawyer once it was obvious that neither of them was in a hurry to rush back up to their beds. “How did you get into acting?”

“Oh, you know, the usual way,” Sawyer said, glancing down at the countertop and flushing slightly. “School plays, summer programs, a love of telly and running away to the cinema with my friends.”

Casper’s face pinched a little at the tension that suddenly came over Sawyer. “I’ve seen some of your work,” he said. “You’ve got brilliant comedic timing.”

“That comes from being a cheeky little shit as a kid,” he said, glancing up at Casper. “Or so my dad used to say.” He looked away again.

Casper was about to ask another question when Sawyer beat him to it with, “What does one do as a historian? I mean, other than consulting on costume dramas like this.” He gestured vaguely to the room, similarly to how Casper had earlier.

Casper knew a deliberate change of subject when he heard one. Whether Sawyer wanted to avoid talking about himself because of his career and celebrity status, because of his childhood, or because of his family was anyone’s guess. Casper wanted to know more, but the two of them weren’t that close yet.

“Consulting for After the War is more of a side-gig,” he said, letting Sawyer’s caginess slide. “My full-time job is as the official historian for The Brotherhood.”

“What do you do all day, though?” Sawyer asked, leaning closer to Casper. They were close enough that Casper caught a whiff of Sawyer’s clean, soapy scent above the smells of the kitchen.

“It mostly means I sort through a lot of old papers and records to try to figure out the story of gay men in Britain from the Regency era to the present,” he said with a wry laugh. “As you might imagine, much of queer history has been deliberately obscured or omitted from the record in the last two centuries. There’s been a renewed interest in it, though, and I’m hoping to add to the discussion.”

“Fascinating,” Sawyer said, leaning his elbow on the counter and resting his head against his hand. “You should write a book.”

“I already have,” Casper said, blushing and feeling self-conscious. “I haven’t had any luck in publishing it, though.”

“Really?” Sawyer sat straighter. “That’s outrageous. The world needs that kind of knowledge.”

Casper huffed a laugh. “Tell that to the publishers. They want someone with serious academic credentials. All I have is a measly doctorate.”

“That’s not enough?”

“Not really,” Casper sighed. “Most academic publishers want you to be attached to a major university as a professor or scholar in residence.”

“Can’t you do that?” Sawyer asked.

Casper pinched his face. “That’s exactly what I want,” he admitted with a sigh. “I love working for The Brotherhood, but what I really want is a professorship at a university. But so far, I haven’t had any luck. I’ve been passed over nearly a dozen times now for people with publications under their belts, or for people who interview better than I do.”

Sawyer seemed surprised at that as well. “What do you mean who interview better than you? You’re lovely to talk to.”

The eager warmth that kept pulsing through Casper made another appearance. “Thanks for that,” he said, glancing down modestly, “but most of the time, people barely notice me. I’m not as outgoing or charismatic as you are.”

Sawyer laughed, but the sound wasn’t humorous. “Yes, well, making a big noise isn’t always a good thing,” he said. He looked suddenly anxious as he added, “I know it’s cliché, but being in the public eye all the time is a bit of a nightmare.”

“It has to be better than being completely invisible,” Casper countered before he could stop himself. The last thing he wanted was to sound whiney.

“I guess it’s all about the right level of visibility,” Sawyer said. He pulled himself tight for a fraction of a second, then seemed to make a decision. He slid his hand over to tap his fingers against the back of Casper’s hand as it rested on the countertop, then said, “If it makes you feel better, I’ve noticed you.”

Casper drew in a breath, his heart running riot in his chest. Those words were so simple and Sawyer’s touch was hardly anything. But the sunny sparkle in Sawyer’s eyes was so open and inviting that it made the moment magical. Men like them were supposed to get off on groping and fucking and heavy-handed sexuality. At least, that’s what the media said. But none of that held a candle to the brush of fingers and kind words.

Maybe he was just old-fashioned. Maybe he’d spent so long with his head stuck in Victorian letters and books that he’d absorbed the romance of a former age. Maybe if he leaned a little closer to Sawyer, their lips might meet and?—

A thump in the hall outside the kitchen and the creak of floorboard in the distance shocked both of them out of the moment.

“Shit,” Casper said, leaping off his stool with a loud scrape. “We’re not supposed to be here. Harry will kill us.”

“I think Rory’s already received a talking to about the cast and crew wandering the halls after hours,” Sawyer said. “Quick!”

Casper had no idea what that last word was supposed to mean until Sawyer grabbed his hand and yanked him away from the counter and toward the smaller door that led to the servants’ stairs.

“What are you doing?” Casper laughed as he let himself be dragged through the kitchen and into the narrow stairway.

“We can’t be discovered,” Sawyer said, mostly humorously, but with just enough genuine fear to concern Casper. “We have to hide before he finds us.”

Casper laughed as they clattered their way up the servants’ stairs to the butler’s pantry just outside the house’s formal dining room. Middle of the night capers were not what he thought he’d find himself doing after the day he’d had, but something within him told him that the residents of that long-ago house party would definitely approve. So he let Sawyer lead him on, giggling like a boy half his age, and hoped they didn’t get into more trouble than they were already in.