Chapter Eighteen

The next period was as busy as Daizell had been in a while.

Cassian's valet turned up. Waters, a very correct and elderly man about three times his master's age, was appalled to see the Duke looking so scruffy, more appalled to be informed that he would not be staying in the Star in Leamington with his master.

‘I told him to take my things down to Wotton House, open it up, and make all ready for the six of us,' Cassian said. ‘He came in the ducal coach, of course, so I told him to take it down and I would drive myself.' He sighed. ‘I feel rather unkind, and distinctly ungrateful.'

‘You should at least be grateful.' Cassian had been very thoroughly valeted before Waters' departure, and was admiring himself in the mirror. He deserved to. Fine clothes made the man, Daizell supposed, but Cassian's were extraordinarily fine: superb quality, superb cut, perfectly fitted. He might look like nobody in an old coat, but properly groomed and clad, to Daizell's eyes, he was every inch the duke.

Maybe that wasn't entirely Daizell's eyes. Cassian seemed a deal more natural in his ducal identity than Daizell might have expected, and a deal less unassuming while occupying it. Judging by the frequent raised eyebrows, looks of surprise, and occasional heated exchange with his cousins, this was new. Cassian had said he needed to be Cassian in order to be the Duke: maybe this was what he'd meant.

He moved behind his quiet nobleman, stroking the flanks of his coat. ‘This is marvellous. Why are you being unkind to your valet?'

‘Because Waters wants nothing more than to go home to Staplow. He's too old to be jaunting about the country, but I would break his heart if I simply told him so. He will do better if he reaches that conclusion himself. I will move him into some sort of sinecure position where he can retire in all but name, and keep his dignity. I owe him that. I owe him a great deal. But I also need a new valet.'

‘Is that urgent?'

‘Yes,' Cassian said, turning and slipping his arms around Daizell's waist. ‘Crucial. We'll have enough people to hide from; we need an ally in the house, someone whose duties involve letting me wake up with you, and ensuring nobody else sees.'

‘That sounds good if it's possible,' Daizell said slowly. ‘Do you have such a paragon in mind?'

‘I had an idea. I wondered what you'd think – though I don't know if paragon is the word I'd choose—'

‘Martin? Are you serious?'

‘I'm seriously asking,' Cassian said. ‘After all, he knows about us, which is a start. And you said he was ambitious. I am not a leader of fashion, of course, but then, he's unlikely to get another post at all.'

‘So he might settle for a duke. I see what you're saying, but, Cass, he robbed you.'

‘Yes, but I understand why. We had a frank conversation while you were sleeping. He was treated shockingly. I grant he has behaved very badly himself, but – well, if I wanted you to forgive me, and I want people to overlook anything you may have done, surely I should extend grace to others in my turn?' He gave a slanted smile. ‘I'm even called His Grace. That seems to suggest an obligation.'

‘I doubt it's one felt by many dukes. You realise he is a wanted man?'

‘For a theft that took place in Northumberland as Martin Nichols. I see no reason he shouldn't be John Martin in London and Staplow, in my service, and have a new start. I can offer him that, if he wants it.' His lovely lips curved. ‘I do owe him something, for bringing me to you.'

Daizell looked at him, so earnest, so determined to get it right, and wondered how happiness could make your heart hurt. ‘If you're willing to harbour a felon—'

‘I'd rather you didn't put it quite like that.'

‘It's wonderful. And I do think it could work. You, uh, don't mind – prior relations and all that?'

‘Not if you don't. He may, of course, in which case he can decline. But a valet on our side would make life a deal easier, and once I don't have to consider Waters, I can move around a great deal more.'

Daizell raised a brow. ‘Going somewhere?'

‘I'd like to travel. Not on the stage,' he added firmly as though Daizell was likely to argue. ‘Birmingham was fascinating, and I want to spend more time on my own lands without stewards all over me. I think I need to see things directly, without people mediating my view for me. I do realise you've been wandering a long time, and I don't want to drag you around—'

‘You can drag me around.'

‘Not to Staplow,' Cassian said with deep feeling. ‘Not yet. My aunts , Daize, you have no idea. I don't want to dislodge them, but I have one or two other properties that might become more of a home—'

‘One or two?'

‘Or so,' Cassian said with a look of ridiculous embarrassment. ‘And if things go well in London and you like Wotton House, I thought we could spend quite a lot of time there.'

Daizell pulled him closer, hanging on, and rubbed his face in Cassian's hair. ‘You are marvellous,' he said, a little muffled. ‘And I want this to go well, more than I can say, but what if it doesn't? All Vier has to do is not cheat, and then we're stuck.'

Cassian caught his hand. ‘Then I will pack Leo and Eliza off to Gretna in my own coach – I think things are going that way, don't you? – and face down anyone who bothers them or you.'

‘You'd hate that. Leo said his father would have a stroke.'

Leo had entirely forgotten his objections to Daizell once he'd come up with a scheme to help Eliza and scotch Vier. They were all on first-name terms now, except for Kentridge, who Daizell suspected didn't have a first name. Cassian had offered his new name to his cousins, who both said it sounded very well but they were used to ‘Sev'. He didn't seem to mind. To be Cassian for Daizell was all he needed, he said, and Daizell had no objection to having Cassian all to himself.

‘Uncle Hugo wouldn't be pleased,' Cassian agreed. ‘He fought at least one duel in his youth, and sowed plenty of wild oats, so why he is quite so insistent I ought to be respectable, I can't say.'

‘It sounds exactly right for your family,' Daizell pointed out. ‘The terribly respectable veneer cracks at the slightest opportunity. Look at Louisa suggesting we kidnap Vier. Thank the Lord Kentridge stepped in.'

‘That may be true, actually,' Cassian admitted. ‘But Uncle Hugo would hate more than anything to see Leo accused of mercenary motives if he and Eliza make a match of it: he worked so hard not to be accused of that himself with my fortune. And if he gets into his head that Leo is taking another man's leavings for money, it will go horribly. Whereas if we can present Eliza to him as a wronged woman who took her fate in her own hands, he will defend her to his last breath.'

‘The story of the woman who escaped from a villainous guardian and the gentleman who assisted her without thought of reward or reputation,' Daizell agreed. ‘For which we need to pull this off. And, in turn, that means you need to sharpen your skills.'

Cassian groaned. ‘I have already played three hours of whist today.'

‘And we have another two hours to go,' Daizell said implacably, or as implacably as he could, which wasn't very, since he didn't want to force the issue. Cassian loathed card games, with their competition and shouting, and his mind visibly drifted. ‘If it's any consolation, I don't like it either.'

Cassian stepped back to look at him. ‘I had wanted to ask. Is it difficult, doing this?'

Daizell had not played for years because the sight of cards made him see again the empty room, cards scattered over table and floor, the ten of spades sodden to pulp with a dying man's blood. Cassian wouldn't touch a card again if he blurted all that out. ‘It's . . . tainted, yes. But the truth is, I can't see the pleasure in gaming any more. It's nothing but patterns on pasteboard and a night's meaningless, manufactured excitement, and for that I lost my schooling, and my father lost everything else. We'd have been ruined even if he hadn't killed Haddon. Frankly, it all seems a very bad idea to me now.'

‘Yes, I suppose it would,' Cassian said slowly. ‘Although lots of people play deep and lose, and most of them don't kill the winners.'

Daizell blinked, unsure why he would rub that in. ‘Yes, I realise that. My father was peculiarly unwilling to accept his own failures.'

‘So he held the winners up with a loaded gun which he was prepared to fire. He planned it in advance, knowing what it would do to his wife and son, and he left Haddon to die. Doesn't that strike you as more than not accepting failure?'

Daizell had no desire to defend his father, and yet the words rose to his lips anyway, driven by hurt. ‘They'd ruined him!'

‘Yes. Haddon ruined him, playing with Vier .' He was looking at Daizell, his luminous eyes wide. ‘And Vier cheats. Did he cheat with Haddon, as he does with Plath? Did they cheat your father together? Daize, do you think your father guessed?'

Daizell stared at him. It hadn't even crossed his mind to link the two before; now he couldn't see how he'd failed to do so. ‘Oh sweet Jesus. You don't think—'

‘I don't know.' Cassian had gone pale. ‘I don't know, but for anyone to resort to such violence—'

‘He thought he was owed the world on a platter as it was. If he felt sure he'd been cheated, and could do nothing about it, he'd have been – oh, beyond enraged. And my mother always took his side. Oh God, you're right. They didn't just commit a robbery at gunpoint, did they? It was vengeance. And Vier—'

‘Lost his partner in crime at your father's hands,' Cassian said. ‘Would have had to find another man, and train him, with the risks and the loss of winnings that entailed. No wonder he wanted to punish you. No, wait – good Lord, Daize, he wanted to discredit you. That's what this was about, all of it, those endless spiteful attacks on your name. He wanted to make sure, if your father told you he and Haddon were cheats and you told the world, that you wouldn't be believed. Hey. Sit down.'

He had grabbed Daizell's arm, and now walked him stumbling backwards to the bed. Daizell sat heavily. His head felt peculiar, as though he'd drunk too much gin too fast.

His father was a murderer, that was beyond question. He'd left Daizell twisting in the wind, and nothing could change his feelings about that. But if his father had been provoked into that act by being cheated in a way it was so very hard to expose or prove . . .

It hadn't had to happen. None of the last miserable seven years had had to happen. His father might have spent his worthless life without doing significant harm to anyone. Daizell might have encountered Cassian – not on equal terms of course, but at least not kneeling in the wreckage of his name. He could have been spared seven years of cuts and insults, whispers and sneers and shame and the slow sucking away of hope.

But Vier had robbed his father, and put Daizell's destruction in motion, and then set out to ruin what was left of his name as a precaution, just in case he knew too much.

‘The shit,' he said dizzily. ‘The shit.'

‘If we're right,' Cassian said. He was kneeling by the bed, his hands hot on Daizell's unless Daizell's were cold.

‘We are. It fits.'

‘It does. Though how we might prove it, I don't know. Are you all right?'

‘No, I am not. Why would he do that – no, I know why, but Christ! I never threatened him. I never knew. I was sorry for the man, curse it. I apologised to him!'

‘But your father could have written to you at any time. Said, this is why I did it .'

‘I doubt I have crossed my father's mind from that day to this,' Daizell said. ‘The idea that he might write at all, let alone stoop to explain himself as though he'd done something wrong . . . ha. I suppose my mother might have written, but if she did, it never reached me. Vier wasted a great deal of unnecessary effort in ruining me.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Cassian whispered. ‘Or – no. I'm not sorry.' His hands tightened. ‘I'm furious . I am so angry. How dare they? How dare any of them? Your father, Vier, Haddon and Plath, Acaster, that swine who outraged Martin – they're all the same in their different ways, and none of it is right, and I am going to do something about it. About all of them and more. And we will start with Vier, but by God I will not be finishing there.'

His eyes were bright with wrath. Daizell looked at him, stiff and fierce in defence. ‘Swinging your duke around?'

‘ Hitting them with it.'

‘I'm looking forward to this.' Daizell took a brief moment to wonder what he might have let loose on the world in the person of an enraged duke, and decided the world deserved it. He pulled Cassian's hands up, kissed the knuckles. ‘Cass. I'm so glad I have you with me.'

‘Always,' Cassian said. ‘Always. Now teach me to play whist properly, because I'm going to do this.'

They played for another couple of hours, until Daizell's head was swimming. Cassian looked positively dizzy, and when he forgot what card he'd just played for the third time in a row, Daizell called a halt.

‘You look befogged.'

‘I am befogged. Where is the fun in this?' Cassian wailed. ‘It's more luck than skill, unless one can remember every card played in every hand and then forget it again when one starts the new hand, yet people bet money they can't afford on it. Ridiculous. Wagering is foolish enough – as I should know, but at least I had some chance of controlling the outcome.'

‘Gambling isn't about controlling the outcome, though, unless you're a professional, or Vier. It's about . . .' Daizell thought back on his own days of play. ‘Excitement. Recklessness. Staking more than you can afford on a matter of pure chance even if everyone says they've a system, or a lucky way to roll a die, or a good tip on a horse. The truth is, gambling is pitting yourself against the world, and winning confirms what everyone secretly believes: that they're Fortune's favourite.'

‘Unless they lose, and it turns out they're her fool.'

‘Yes, well, that's the other outcome. Don't you feel any appeal in it at all?'

‘No, honestly. I would feel dreadful if I lost the sums Leo did. I could afford it a dozen times over but how wasteful, how unappreciative of my own good luck it would be to throw that away.'

‘Yes, I suppose a duke doesn't need to prove he's Fortune's favourite, does he? You already know. On which subject . . .'

‘Mmm?'

Daizell sighed. ‘I know we've spoken about this. I know you're determined. But the truth is, it's going to be a challenge to have Vier play and cheat and be caught. It may not be manageable, and we both may end up looking ridiculous, and you may find yourself in the position of having people think you're a fool on a number of levels, including your association with me.'

‘I realise that,' Cassian said. ‘People might well think I'm a ridiculous gull. But, you know, if they think that, they will be wrong.'

‘That isn't much consolation.'

Cassian took his hand. ‘I expect it has not been, for you on your own with the world against you. But you aren't on your own now, and nor am I. And I'm right . If the world thinks badly of you, the world is mistaken. And perhaps the world will think badly of me for thinking well of you, and if so, that's something I will live with, because I know what matters, and it is not the opinion of people who aren't in possession of the facts.'

Daizell's experience had been that the opinions of those people mattered a great deal. Then again, he wasn't a duke. And Cassian wasn't without his own experience of being disregarded or mocked, in its way: he knew what it felt like, he was always in the public view, and he had a great deal of reputation to lose.

And yet here he was, putting himself at hazard for Daizell.

‘What is it?' Cassian asked. ‘You look struck.'

‘I'll tell you what it is,' Daizell said. ‘ You need to lie down and have a nap. I am going to have a word with Martin about valeting, and then I am going to come back up here and find you as close to asleep as may be.'

Cassian's lips parted and curved. ‘I am rather tired, now you mention it. All those cards.'

‘Good,' Daizell said. ‘I will see you in an hour or so. Sleep well.'

Martin heard the proposition out with a very wary look indeed. It took him a little time to understand that this was an offer of a position without strings or dangers; that he might have safety and prosperity and a secure occupation – not just secure but stellar – within his grasp. He then accepted the post in a very proper manner, expressed his fervent hope that he would give satisfaction, and spent ten minutes weeping uncontrollably on Daizell's shoulder.

Daizell didn't begrudge his damp coat. He knew exactly how it felt for a drifting man to be granted safe harbour, all the more when it came unexpectedly, and he loved Cassian for the thought and kindness. Not to mention that he was quite right: Martin would keep their privacy, guard the ducal bedroom like a mastiff, and revel in obstructing anyone who attempted to overrule him. Daizell suspected he'd have the time of his life fending off butlers or uncles.

This was a stroke of genius on Cassian's part. Daizell sent Martin off for a celebratory drink with his cronies in Leamington, and headed upstairs to show his appreciation.

He pushed open the bedroom door very gently, and locked it with the greatest of care. Cassian had pulled the curtains across and the only sound in the room was his quiet, steady breath. If he wasn't asleep he was doing a fine job of seeming so. He was also lying on the covers naked, which Daizell took as the hint it was.

He stripped himself with excruciating caution, to be sure, easing his boots off and barely allowing a rustle of cloth. Needing to be quiet, because he very much wanted Cassian to be asleep under his intruding hands. The sense of transgression tingled through his veins, and hardened his prick in a frankly disgraceful way. He ought to be ashamed, he thought with absolutely no sincerity, easing himself by inches onto the bed.

Cassian was sprawled half on his front, half his side, one leg bent. The curve of his neck was the most perfect thing Daizell had ever seen, except perhaps for his elegantly limp hand, adorned with its gnarled lump of gold.

He shifted closer, agonisingly slow, because if Cassian was asleep he needed to stay that way for now, and if he was awake he could enjoy the anticipation. Daizell intended to behave as if the former was the case, so he gave a moment's consideration to what a villain might do to a helplessly sleeping naked man. Then he knelt up, moving so he was straddling his duke's shoulders without touching, gripped the headboard, and gently rubbed the tip of his erection across Cassian's lips.

No reaction. Nothing but warm, deep breath. Daizell did it again with a touch more pressure and felt Cassian's lips part a fraction. Kneeling over him, gently pleasuring himself with Cassian's slack mouth: he could thrust it in if he cared to, and Cassian would know it, and Daizell chose not to glance at his prick. They had discovered that if he knew for sure Cassian was awake, that knowledge showed itself in his demeanour, in a way Cassian could identify if not define. It was better if he believed his lover to be deep in unconsciousness, which was not a thought he'd ever imagined himself having.

He pushed a little harder. Cassian's loose lips parted a little, perhaps by reflex or perhaps not, and Daizell worked the head of his prick between them, and only just stifled a moan. All those years telling himself he was truly not the rogue the world thought, and it turned out he was a colossal degenerate after all.

Cassian's lips were so soft, so yielding. Daizell indulged himself for a few moments that way, then got a hand to his prick, stroking himself in time with the gentle thrusts, feeling the momentum build, with Cassian quite untouched except for his mouth, but his breath unquestionably just a fraction faster.

God love him, Daizell's ordinary, extraordinary duke. Daizell made his cautious way back down the bed and the limp body, considered his approach, and decided subtlety was overrated. He nestled against Cassian's back, cupped the lightest hand over his groin, not quite touching but so close he could feel the heat and knew Cassian was painfully hard, and rubbed against his arse. Featherlight touches, and then a little firmer, a little faster, and then Cassian let out a strangled noise, and his prick was fully in Daizell's hand, and Daizell pushed and pulled to plaster them together, skin to skin, rubbing and gasping and frotting and finally, too soon, both bucking with pleasure, biting back the cries.

Cassian subsided, chest heaving. Daizell flopped over him, but didn't loosen his hand. He liked the fistful he had.

‘Lord,' Cassian said. ‘Lord.'

‘I love you,' Daizell remarked into his neck. ‘I love your kindness, and I love that you love me, and I particularly love that you want me to do that to you.'

Cassian considered before replying, in a way that might have seemed offputting if you didn't know him. ‘I love how you sparkle. Sparkle and shine. And I love that you make it so easy for me to be me. And I particularly love that you're happy to do those things to me.'

‘It's highly convenient we found each other, really.'

‘Sometimes one can believe in a well-ordered universe,' Cassian agreed, and snuggled back against him, sweaty, sticky, and entirely perfect.