Chapter 2

How in thehell did he ever get anything done before Vivaldi?

Kit was a maestro. Was that the right word? Thorne frowned down at the paper he was reading, realizing he was no longer focused on it, but rather the notes floating through his soul.

Maestromeant any master of music, right? Not just a conductor. He needed to figure that out.

Either way, Kit was a brilliant player of the violin, was what he meant.

And the last fortnight, with the lad playing for him in his study as he worked, Thorne felt as if he was finally flying through the responsibilities the dukedom had heaped upon his shoulders.

Since his cousin’s death and becoming his uncle’s heir, Thorne thought he’d understood what running a dukedom would entail…but he’d been woefully unprepared for the stress, the minutiae, the constant demands on his time. The letters, so many letters. For the last six months, he’d felt as if he were treading water, barely keeping Stroken afloat, and the responsibilities threatened to drown him.

But today… There was something about music which had always lifted him, balanced him. And having Kit play for him, right here in his study where he needed that balance the most…it was ideal.

He’d finished all the correspondence, read through last month’s reports from his stewards, and was finally able to tackle the social issues he’d been looking forward to. This article, written by the Duke of Effinghell and originally published in the reform paper The Daily Movement, was particularly interesting.

Or at least, he assumed it was.

Focus.

Aye, focus.

Sighing, he scrubbed his hand across his face. Perhaps he’d been focusing for too long, and that was the problem. He genuinely did care about Effinghell’s thoughts on child labor in the mines in Yorkshire, but the words seemed to blur together.

The music slowed, and when it reached the natural end of the movement, stopped.

When it didn’t begin again with a new piece, Thorne realized he was resting with his head against the back of his uncle’s leather chair, and peeked one eye open.

“Why’d ye stop?”

Kit froze in the instant he’d been lowering his instrument, those adorable pale eyes going wide. “I thought you were asleep.”

Thorne’s lips twitched. He liked this American of his. He liked the way the lad didn’t bow and scrape, but treated him as…well, not a friend, not yet, but as someone who deserved a truthful answer. His instinct was not to lie, even for politeness. He liked that.

With another sigh, he pushed himself upright.

“Nay, no’ asleep. Just…resting my eyes. That was Vivaldi, aye?”

The lad looked surprised. “Aye—I mean, yes. I…” He hesitated, then lowered his eyes.

Thorne was becoming used to the way his valet thought. “Aye, laddie?”

“I didn’t expect you to recognize it. Most people just hear pretty music.”

Thorne burst into laughter.

At Kit’s look of surprise, the older man waved away the explanation and pulled open one of the drawers to his side. Pulling out a folio, he beckoned Kit over before flipping it open.

His valet gasped at the sight of the sheet music stacked inside. He held his violin and bow in one hand and reached for the paper. “I didn’t know you played, my lord.”

Thorne snorted. “I don’t. I just appreciate music.”

Kit had found the Vivaldi—not La Primavera, which he’d just played, but another of Thorne’s favorites. “There are pencil notations on these.” Pale eyes turned his way as if he’d learned a daring secret. “I’ve never known someone to appreciate music this way who didn’t play! My lor—Your Grace.”

It was really quite charming, the way the lad couldn’t seem to remember the honorifics. After the first few days in Kit’s company, Thorne had given up correcting him, because honestly, he couldn’t care less what he was called. After a lifetime of my lord, it was difficult to remember he was suddenly a Your Grace. Neither title really mattered to him.

Being a sir to an American? Fine by him.

But truthfully, he would prefer Thorne.

The youth was still staring at him, so Thorne shrugged, not as gracefully as he would’ve liked, and stacked the papers back together.

“I learned to play the piano when I was a boy,” he admitted, fingers lingering over the clef and key signature and notes. “I had a little talent for it, but I found the sheet music…pleasing.”

“You read sheet music?” Kit blurted. When Thorne scowled, his valet merely shook his head, as though attempting to rid the confusion from his mind. “You read it for enjoyment—not for playing?”

That wasn’t really so remarkable, was it? It wasn’t as if he read them for fun. He had a shelf of naughty novels for that sort of thing. The Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts didn’t have a plot, but it was more fun to read than sheet music!

But aye, the neat arrangement of crotchet and quavers often helped calm his mind. Still...

Thorne pulled the folio from under the lad’s hand, closing it up. “I told ye, I dinnae play.”

“But I do.”

Hesitating, Thorne glanced up at the intense pale eyes.

His valet swallowed, then shrugged. “I’ve been playing the music I know from memory. If you’d like…” He took a deep breath, dropping his gaze to the folio, then back to Thorne. “If you’d like, I could play some of your favorites.”

Oh.

Thorne blinked up at the lad. “I think that’s the kindest gift anyone has ever offered me.”

Sometimes he suspected he said things just to make his valet blush, because the lad’s cheeks turned the same color as his hair and he began to stammer.

Taking pity, Thorne pushed the folio across the desk. “I would like vera much to hear these played, Kit. Thank ye.”

Still flushed in embarrassment, this American of his lifted those pale, uncertain eyes. Thorne offered him an encouraging smile and Kit exhaled, reaching for the folio.

And then he smiled, softly, shyly, and the sight reached into Thorne’s chest and squeezed. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll try to do them justice.”

“Ye will, lad,” Thorne managed to rasp, still stunned at his reaction to this lithe valet of his.

God Almighty. After nearly a fortnight of teasing, a reasonable person would think Thorne would’ve had enough. Enough of the lad’s blushes, embarrassment, awkwardness…but the absolute bitch of it was that there was also interest there! Thorne would wager his eyeteeth on it.

Actually, nay, scratch that. He didn’t need to wager anything; he was an expert when it came to attraction and arousal, and he knew Kit was at the very least curious about him.

It was why Thorne had done his best to parade around in a towel as often as possible, or ask the lad to scrub his back in the tub, a task he’d been able to manage for himself since graduating to long pants.

He’d done it because each time Kit touched him, a spark of awareness shot across Thorne’s skin, an addicting sensation. He hadn’t felt this way since the early days with his last mistress—and now that he thought of it, that excitement had only lasted a few weeks.

It was always like that, wasn’t it?

The thrill, the anticipation of a new partner…which waned after the initial itch was scratched.

Perhaps that’s why he continued tormenting himself with Kit.

This was an itch he couldn’t scratch. Not because Kit was a male—Thorne wasn’t so priggish he’d ignored his own sex in the past. Nay, it was because Kit was a lad; though he had to be at least Bull’s age, there was no hair on his chin, his voice was still the soft pitch of youth, although at least it was low enough Thorne could guess his ballocks had dropped.

So nay, Thorne couldn’t fook the lad, couldn’t introduce him to the pleasures to be found between two—or more!—willing partners. Which meant that this thrill, this anticipation, this breathless shiver of excitement…it was safe. Safely forbidden.

It wouldn’t wane, because there was no way to scratch the itch.

And that, he was afraid, was becoming addicting.

Perhaps ye ought to set the lad free.

Perhaps.

But Thorne was beginning to suspect Kit’s music was keeping him sane, juxtaposed to the intoxicating attraction which was slowly driving him mad.

A knock at the door, and Thorne’s attention jerked sideways as he realized he’d been staring at Kit. The lad was pulling out different sheets of music, and now lifted his own gaze to send a smile across the room.

God damn him, but Thorne’s stomach twisted in joy at the sight.

He cleared his throat. “Come in,” he called, knowing his voice was harsher than usual.

His butler, Titsworth, stepped into the study. “A thousand pardons, Your Grace, for disturbing your endeavors.”

Oh God, he was doing the Try to out-pompous someone pompous routine. Thorne, playing along, nodded regally. “I shall forgive the interruption this time, Titsworth, without ordering a flogging. What is the cause of such a sin?”

Titsworth was a middle-aged man whose black hair had refused to go gray. Since he had strong opinions about what a butler should look like—apparently he went to monthly butlering meetings of the butlering society or something—he used powder to give himself a distinguished salt-and-pepper appearance.

On more than one occasion, his deep bowing had sent Thorne into a fit of sneezing.

Titsworth bowed now, but luckily was on the opposite side of the room. “Your Grace, the Duchess of Peasgoode has requested an audience. Her family as well.”

Well hell, this was why Titsworth was acting so pompous? Thorne sprang to his feet. “Flick is here? Shite, Titsworth, ye ken the Calderbanks dinnae count when it comes to yer pomposity-meter,” he said as he yanked open the drawer beside him to pull out a handful of fivers. “They’re friends, man!”

Shoving the bills in various pockets, he stalked across the study. Thorne slapped the butler on the man’s back, causing a cloud of powder to rise into the air, and went to squeeze past him into the corridor.

At the last moment, Thorne remembered the conversation he’d been in the middle of, and turned back to Kit. “Go have fun, laddie. I’ll be busy for a few hours.” Hopefully.

The valet didn’t even look up from where he was studying the sheet music, his head bopping gently, humming under his breath.

Smiling—and holding his breath, what with the powder slowly settling everywhere—Thorne hurried into the front sitting room.

“Felicity!” he cried, throwing his arms wide.

The bespectacled redhead, who’d been bent over one of the ferns near the front window, straightened with a smile. “Thorne, you are looking well. And slightly speckled.”

He wrapped his arms around the prickly little scientist and was thrilled to feel her hugging him in return. “I do no’, I look exactly the same as I did last time I saw ye.”

“Yes, well, the last time I saw you, you were not a duke,” she corrected, straightening. “You have moved, though.”

Thorne waved to the sitting room dismissively. “Once I became my uncle’s heir, I took over the upkeep of his London house, since I kenned he wouldnae be traveling from Scotland. But I didnae move in until I was given the title.”

Even now, months later, the thought of Uncle’s death was a sharp poke of regret. Thorne hadn’t wanted to become Duke, had never planned on it. But now that he was, he was determined to be the best duke he could be. And, to his surprise, he missed his crotchety old uncle.

But now was not the time to dwell on regrets. He beamed at his friends. “How is Griffin? Has he settled into duking?”

Griffin Calderbank had been one of Blackrose’s agents, just like Thorne, and had faked his death to keep his family safe from the purge. When he’d returned to England, he’d fallen for the intriguing scientist—Felicity—who lived next door, and they’d all charmed the Duke of Peasgoode into making them his heirs.

Well, it was far more complex than that—likely enough to fill a novel!—but Thorne nodded along as Felicity spoke of the struggles of managing such a large piece of the Highlands.

“But at least we still have Duncan and Ian to help us,” she finished, speaking of the old duke and his long-time lover. “And now, since I know the children are vibrating with excitement to greet you, perhaps we should put our niceties on hold?”

Thorne, who’d sent a few winks toward the young ones spread around the room, affected surprise. “Really? Why bother? I have a dissertation on sheep in land management I could tell ye about—”

“Uncle Thorne!” interrupted Marcia, a pretty girl of about fifteen years, who was looking deeply irate. “We don’t care about sheep.”

“Ye do care about yer uncle, though?” he teased, holding out his arms to embrace the lassie. “Since when am I yer uncle, by the way?”

“Since she began a correspondence with Rourke’s niece,” Felicity offered dryly. “Gabby might be a few years younger, but I suspect those two will likely conquer the world one day.”

“It’s true,” Marcia agreed, nodding eagerly as she straightened from the hug. “Flick promised while we’re in London, I can attend a meeting of the National Society for Women”s Suffrage, and buy the back issues of The Daily Movement. Did you know that Ian’s nephew is married to the owner?”

Chuckling, Thorne nodded. There were quite a few connections, now that he considered it. So many, someone would have to write out an explanation before meeting any of them. “I ken Olivia will be more than pleased to give ye a tour of the printing house, and send all the back issues ye’d like to Scotland.”

“Great,” moaned the younger lad in the room. “We’re going to have to spend the next month listening to her talk about pockets and suffrage at each dinner, are we no’?”

As Marcia stuck out her tongue at her younger brother, Thorne made a show of gasping aloud. “Rupert, is that ye? I thought Bull had brought a friend! Ye’re four inches taller!”

The lad—who must be eleven now—flushed and rolled his eyes, yet wore a pleased smile as he embraced Thorne. “Not four inches, but perhaps two.”

Putting aside the teasing, Thorne placed his hands on the lad’s shoulders. “Ye’re just the man I wanted to see. Is a maestro a musician, or a conductor, or both, or neither?”

Rupert needed no explanation for the question, but launched into an answer. “Maestro is from the Italian Maestro di Cappella—or ‘master of the chapel,’ similar to German’s kapellmeister—which itself derives from the Latin magistrum. But unlike the Latin form, maestro doesn’t mean ‘master’ as most people assume. While it is most often used to describe a conductor of classical music, in actuality it denotes any person—presumably female or male—who shows an advanced aptitude in a creative field, beyond what is expected.”

As always, stunned silence followed one of Rupert’s dissertations. Thorne was never sure if it was stunned as in “amazed” or as in “hit over the head and rendered speechless.”

Finally, he cleared his throat. “So a violin player could be said to be a maestro?”

“Oh yes,” Rupert agreed. “I’ve heard several referenced as such. Joachim, Vieuxtemps, and de Sarasate, for instance.”

Thorne lit up, wondering if anyone here had ever seen those maestros perform, but Bull inserted himself into their conversation. “Since when do ye care about etymology, Thorne?”

Grinning at the young man, Thorne opened his arms one last time. “Since when do ye ken big words like etymology, eh?”

Hugging Bull was always an adventure. In the years Thorne had known the lad, he’d grown from a skilled sleight-of-hand artist to a young man determined to use his talents to make the world a better place. He had a big heart, a witty tongue, and a strong right hook.

Thorne held the embrace longer than was necessary, barely feeling the light touches as Bull’s fingers dipped into the pockets where he’d stashed the money earlier. Finally, he straightened, still grinning.

“My pocket watch, please,” he demanded without glancing down.

Bull was wearing that cocky grin which would either get him married or knocked unconscious in the next twelvemonth. “Why uncle, I’m hurt ye would think that of me.”

Thorne snorted but didn’t bother patting his pockets. “Stealing one pocket watch from me was cheeky. Two was a lark. Three was a game. But I happen to like this one.”

Shrugging, Bull stepped back and began to pull watches from his pocket. “This is—nay, that one’s mine.”

“That one’s also mine,” Thorne announced, pointing at the gold engraving of the watch the lad had liberated the year before. “It has my initials.” When the lad opened his mouth to protest, Thorne interrupted, “but I always thought it was too gaudy anyway. This is the one I want back,” he announced, pulling his most recent watch from the tangle.

“There’s nae such thing as too gaudy,” Bull announced, and Thorne, noting the lad wore a purple-and-teal-striped suit, which he likely designed and sewed himself, hummed noncommittedly.

Felicity, who was holding Rupert’s hand now, cleared her throat. “Since Bull has sworn to his father and I that he’s given up thieving, I have to assume he stuffed his pockets with his own watches merely for this effect, and not that he spent some time on the train practicing his old skills.”

As Bull nodded innocently, Marcia scoffed. “He still won’t teach me how to pick pockets.”

“Well, ye willnae teach me how to walk on my hands,” her stepbrother shot back.

The lass nodded smugly.

Thorne, meanwhile, grasped what their mother had said. “Flick, ye mean ye’ve just come from the station?” Now that he thought of it, she did look a little rumpled and rather tired. “Ye’ve only just arrived in London?”

She nodded, shoulders slumped. “Rupert needs new books, which we could have ordered, but he wanted to see the British Museum.”

“I’ve taught myself mummification,” the lad announced pompously, “and Flick said we might see some ancient examples of the art.”

“Art,” muttered his sister. “He insisted on embalming one of the stable dogs in February.”

“It was dead,” Rupert defended. “He wouldn’t mind.”

“I should hope he was dead already,” Thorne agreed. “Then what?”

The lad shrugged. “I learned ever so much about the process, and eventually we buried the poor thing.” His lips tugged into a frown. “The mummy began to smell, which shouldn’t have happened, so I suspect I don’t quite understand the process. Of course, the ancient Egyptians were known for mummifying their cats, so I suspect I need to practice—”

“I am not allowing you to mummify one of my darlings, darling,” Felicity interrupted.

“I’d wait until it died!” Rupert whined. “I’m not a monster, but I need to be accurate.”

Felicity turned a falsely bright smile Thorne’s way. “Anyhow, yes, we did just come off the train, thank you for asking. Tomorrow we begin Marcia’s fittings—”

“Oh, joy,” the girl muttered.

“And Rupert’s academic pursuits,” Felicity finished. “Griffin wants us back to Peasgoode by the end of the month.”

“Which leaves me no’ nearly enough time to help trap Blackrose,” Bull finished, surprising Thorne. “So I had Mother drop me off here to chat with ye. Ye didnae have plans this afternoon, did ye?”

“Actul—” Thorne began.

“Good,” Bull announced with a smile, throwing himself languidly into one of the chairs spread around the room. “Have that ancient butler of yers call for tea, and update me, Thorne.”

Thorne exchanged a look with the lad’s mother, who just shrugged good-naturedly. Apparently leaving it up to Thorne what to tell her son, she collected the younger children. “The first few days back in London are always hectic, but I do hope you will join us for dinner, Thorne?”

Hugging everyone again, Thorne accepted the invitation with delight. “I look forward to it. Please keep me updated how I can be of service.” He remembered Griffin’s plea to keep his family safe. “I’ll be around tomorrow, to offer my assistance.” Whether they needed it or not.

The redhead leaned in for another hug. With her arms around him, Felicity murmured, “You do not need to do it all yourself, Thorne.”

In surprise, he straightened, looking for an explanation behind her spectacles. She smiled sadly, keeping her voice low so the children wouldn’t overhear. “You plan to trap Blackrose by yourself. I know you. But you are not alone. You have a band of brothers, men determined to help you. And, although I shudder to say it, Bull is determined to help avenge the evils done to his brother and to Griffin, so heaven help us all.”

Frowning, Thorne shook his head, still holding the fierce little scientist. “I would never put him in danger.”

She pushed herself up on her toes to brush a kiss on his cheek. “He needs no help in that department, I am afraid. But do remember, you are not alone.”

There was a lump in his throat. “I am,” he rasped. “I cannae ask anyone else to put themselves in more danger. I was the one who got out from under Blackrose’s thumb successfully, Flick. The rest of them—Rourke, Demon, Griffin, hell even Fawkes—were tortured by the bastard.” He saw her lips tug down, presumably because of his language, and he winced. “Besides, ye’re all married now. I cannae allow any danger to come to them, now they’ve found their happiness.”

Her hands tightened on his upper arms once more. “You deserve to find that happiness as well, Thorne.” She didn’t give him time to respond, but nodded again. “Dinner tomorrow?”

“I wouldnae miss it.” He cherished his friends, and this family was special to him.

The tired smile Felicity sent his way as she herded Rupert and Marcia out told him that she’d heard the unspoken words and appreciated them.

“Thoooooorne!” Bull called from behind him.

Keeping his smile in place, Thorne escorted Felicity and the children to the hall, while sending a lewd gesture over his shoulder to his young friend, which caused the lad to snicker.

“Titsworth,” he announced, after the door had shut behind his guests, “Bull has demanded my ancient butler fetch tea.”

The not-at-all ancient man suddenly beamed. “Yes, Your Grace! Do you think I might try drawing in some faint lines on my forehead, around my eyes, that sort of thing?”

Fake wrinkles? Thorn nodded solemnly. “I dinnae see why no’. Perhaps ye might find a cane and fake a limp? Pretend yer deaf? Forget his name? Meanwhile, I’ll be updating my young guest on—oh, all sorts of things.”

From the sitting room, proving he was listening, Bull shouted, “Like what the hell Georgia’s sister managed with the encoded newspaper messages.”

Thorne pressed his lips together to keep from smiling, and regally shooed Titsworth away. “Important things.”

“And stuff some more fivers in yer pockets!” hollered Bull.

Giving up the struggle, Thorne grinned and turned to the sitting room. It was good to have Bull back again.