Chapter 4

Thorne woke slowly,which wasn’t uncommon after an evening of dedicated carousing.

He also woke with his arm around someone, which—while less common—wasn’t completely unheard of.

There were, however, several unheard-of things niggling at the back of his mind:

He was still wearing his smalls, rather than happily naked, as was his wont when it came to nightclothes. Especially after a night of…carousing.

The person in his arms, their arse tucked up against his stiffening cock, was still fully clothed, rather than being gloriously nude after a satisfying carouse with him.

That person was a male.

That person was his valet.

What in the ever-loving fook were ye thinking?

Thorne didn’t quite scramble away from Kit, but it was a close thing. Eyes wide open, feeling better than he ever had after too many glasses of whisky, he watched his valet, ensuring the lad stayed asleep.

When Kit didn’t move and his breathing didn’t change, Thorne slowly exhaled and rested his head back on the pillow.

Jesus fooking Christ. He’d slept with his valet?

Aye, it looks like it. But note the fact ye’re both dressed. It looks like that’s all ye did—slept. A bit of cuddling willnae harm anything.

Would it not?

A bit of cuddlingcould sure as shite harm the delicate employer-employee relationship.

Ah. The memories were returning.

Well actually, insisting the lad call ye Thorne and drink with ye was likely the first step down that path.

And allowing Kit to guide him through an incredibly satisfying self-loving session had been the next step.

Coming all over himself while the lad knelt at his feet had been the step after that.

And then, falling asleep as his valet scratched his back? That was absolutely the last step. The last step off a cliff.

It was safe to say the employer-employee relationship had been irrevocably changed.

Christ, what had happened last night? Aye, the whisky had lowered his inhibitions, that was a fine excuse. The promise he’d made not to debauch the lad had seemed less important in the face of Kit’s confident lie that he was twenty-three, and how knowledgeably he spoke of the world. Spoke of sensuality.

Spoke to Thorne.

Dear God in Heaven, the story he’d painted…Kit’s imagination was as talented as his fingers on the violin strings, and he’d reached into Thorne’s brain and said exactly what he’d always yearned to hear.

Last night…he’d given up control in the most satisfying way.

The most undukely way.

Thorne managed not to groan as he scrubbed his hand over his sleep-addled face, but it was close.

It was suddenly vital he not be here when Kit awoke. Vital he not have to face the lad until he figured out what this was all about.

Once, many years ago while working a mission with Rourke, his partner had hefted him atop a narrow brick wall, expecting him to scurry along it to the guardhouse and affect an entry. There’d been four-inch spikes set every six inches atop the bricks, so Thorne had no choice but to move along a wall the width of a single brick, placing his feet down in between the spikes, at a dead run.

If he could do that, he could damn well get out of this bed.

Exhaling softly, he rolled toward the edge of the mattress and dropped, catching himself on his fingers and toes, then popping his head over the top of the bed to confirm Kit still slept.

Excellent.

Still balancing on his fingers and toes, Thorne crept toward the dressing room, certain he was making no noise. Once there, he was able to close the door softly and breathe again.

Excellent. Now the simple matter of attiring himself.

But still, it was the quietest bloody dressing in the history of dukely dressing.

And he had to do all the little fiddly buttons himself.

Gathering his boots in his hand, Thorne tiptoed from his chambers, one eye on the door, one on the still-sleeping Kit.

Metaphorically of course. Otherwise he would’ve been cross-eyed.

Silently cursing himself, he padded lightly down the corridor, surprising an upstairs maid when he pressed his finger to his lips and ghosted by.

Food. Food would help. Food would make this whole strange situation…well, not less strange, perhaps, but at least it would make more sense.

Well, no, not that either. But at least it would help his headache and sour stomach.

Settling himself in the breakfast room, Thorne ignored the footmen and pulled on his own damned boots. By the time he straightened, he was faced with a plate of normalcy, and inhaled deeply.

Ah.

Eggs, kippers, toast, and a very strong cup of tea. This morning’s copy of The Daily Movement, and his upsettingly numerous correspondence.

Just what he needed to feel normal.

But as he delved into his breakfast, there was a part of himself still scowling at his idiocy.

He was the sort of man who enjoyed others’ company. All sorts of others. But those others were divided into very distinct categories:

Family

Friends

Lovers

There were very few of number one left, which was how he’d become the Duke of Stroken in the first place. His parents had died close together when he’d been young, although the memory of their affection for one another did much to mitigate that grief. He had no siblings, and until very recently, his only cousin had been his uncle’s legitimate son John, who’d died a few years before his father, leaving Thorne as the unwilling heir.

As for friends, well, that was different. He had plenty of friends—that was, after all, what had made him such an attractive recruit for Blackrose. He knew men and women from all walks of life—princesses to dockhands—and genuinely enjoyed their company. He flattered himself that they liked him.

He was good at being liked.

Which, of course, led to the third category: lovers. He found his pleasure where he could, as often as possible, and made certain to give it as well. Despite the carousing over the years, he’d been very careful when he chose his lovers, knew he was clean and healthy, and brought only pleasure—not worries—to the table.

Or the bed.

Or up against the wall.

Or behind the rosebushes in the garden.

His preferences ran toward the feminine, but he didn’t limit himself if the other party was interested and willing and delectable.

But he rarely spent the night with a woman, and never with another man.

Those categories? They were very, very separate. Servants had never even had their own category before.

It was only recently that he discovered one of his friends was actually a cousin, meaning someone from category two moved up to category one. Fawkes MacMillan, who’d been an unwilling poisoner for Blackrose for years, turned out to be the illegitimate son of the last Duke of Stroken, making him Thorne’s cousin.

That had been a…strange realization.

So while it was apparently possible for the lines between the categories to blur, Thorne had never had a lover turn into a friend, or vice-versa.

So what in the shite had last night been about?

He needed more tea to deal with this.

A full stomach was helping the confusion, and when the silent footman refilled his cup, Thorne nodded in thanks.

Kit had been that footman, only a fortnight ago.

Then he’d become Thorne’s valet.

And last night, his confidante.

Nay, more than that. He’d…he’d seen something missing in Thorne that Thorne himself had not seen, and offered it freely. He’d allowed a…shite, there was no other word for it: a release. Not just sexual, though Thorne had slept well for the first time in months. Kit had…taken care of him.

Cared for him.

Kit isnae yer friend.

But…

Thorne dropped two sugars into the fresh tea then sipped it, glad for the warmth it spread through him.

Kit wasn’t his friend. But last night…he’d needed a friend, and Kit had cared for him.

Not only had the lad listened, he’d shared his own struggles and hopes with Thorne.

What was that, if not friendship?

Fine, alright, yer friends with yer valet. Now explain the hand-frigging and the…the cuddling.

He couldn’t.

Thorne shuddered, remembering the pleasure rippling down his spine at the way the lad had scratched his scalp, his hair. Remembering the intense relief which had come as he’d spent across his hands, following Kit’s instructions.

He’s yer valet. No’ your friend. No’ yer lover.

Thorne’s friends did not become his lovers, and his lovers did not become his friends.

Aye, well, where do valets stand in yer hierarchy of relationships?

He’d never wanted to fook his valet before.

He’d never wanted to call his valet ‘friend’, either.

The last thing he needed, in the middle of this desperate attempt to bring Blackrose to justice, was a moral conundrum distraction.

Well, nay, the last thing he needed was a rampaging hippopotamus breaking through his front door. Or being forced at knifepoint to learn to play golf. Or an infected tooth leading to a brain spasm.

In fact, in the grand scheme of things, “moral conundrum” didn’t sound so bad after all.

Fook it.

Shaking his head, Thorne reached for the correspondence. He was already late, and today’s post was waiting. The bills were sent to his man of business, so these were…

Invitation. Invitation. Hmm, this one’s from the Highlands, likely one of the stewards complaining about something. What’s this?

A thick envelope with the royal seal. He didn’t recognize the looping writing, but if it really was from a member of the royal family—not completely unbelievable, with his connections—it might’ve been addressed by an underling. Thorne tapped the envelope against his pursed lips, considering what it might entail, as he sifted through the rest of the—

Familiar handwriting caught his eye, and he sucked in a breath of excitement in his hurry to tear open the new envelope.

Fawkes’s message was blunt and succinct, just like the man:

Ellie had a thought. Arrived in London too late to discuss, I’ll be over first thing Tuesday. I’m staying with you.

A thought?

Frowning, Thorne flipped the card over, wondering if there were any other clues.

Tuesday was today—he glanced at the clock. Hopefully Fawkes would arrive soon, because not only was his wife Danielle a genius, but she was Blackrose’s niece. If she’d had a thought important enough to send Fawkes from the estate he’d inherited from the last Duke of Stroken, leaving his wife, mother, and adored stepdaughter in Scotland…then it was a damned important thought.

One that couldn’t safely be written down.

Right on cue, there was a knock at the front door.

Thorne yanked the napkin from his lap but didn’t manage to beat Titsworth to the foyer. “The Duke is not accepting visitors this morning, sir,” the not-quite-elderly man intoned. “Who shall I say—”

“Fawkes! Damned good to see ye!” Thorne called out.

“Apologies,” Titsworth deadpanned, without blinking, opening the door wider. “It appears His Grace has managed to get himself out of bed after all. Huzzah. Do come in.”

As Fawkes stepped into the foyer, Thorne threw his arm around his shoulders and tugged him back toward the breakfast room. The move caused Fawkes to drop his valise as Thorne called over his shoulder, “Titsworth, more kippers!”

“Sounds like a threat,” mumbled Fawkes, shaking his head. “More kippers?”

“For breakfast.” Thorne finally released the other man, realizing the hug hadn’t been returned. “Are ye hungry?”

Fawkes was tall and lithe, with the nose and single dimple from his father’s side of the family. The father who hadn’t claimed him, but who’d left him well-provided for upon his death. Thorne had been the one to deliver the deed to the estate, only then realizing the man he’d called friend was in fact his cousin.

Now the other man was rolling his dark green eyes. “Breakfast? Good lord, ye are a layabed. I’ve been up for hours.”

“Och, well, we cannae all be fine, upstanding, morally productive citizens.” Thorne sank back into his chair and snatched up the note. “I only finished reading yer message when ye arrived. Why are ye staying with me again?”

Scowling, Fawkes slid into the opposite chair and accepted the tea the footman served him. “Because we gave up my apartment when we moved to Scotland, and because hotels are bloody expensive.”

Thorne didn’t bother hiding his pleased smile. He was always happy—eager—to help one of his friends, and Fawkes was special. He was family. He’d been special before he was family. “Och good, this’ll be fun. We can stay up late and do each other’s hair and gossip about our friends and talk about fond memories. In the morning I’ll make waffles.”

His cousin snorted at his bland delivery and clearly recognized Thorne’s lack of experience in the kitchen. “Ye and I dinnae have any fond memories.” Despite claiming he’d already breakfasted, Fawkes was calmly buttering a roll.

“Well, mediocre memories, then.”

“I used to kill people,” Fawkes muttered darkly, before biting.

Thorne really did adore teasing him. “Then we’ll make new memories. Remember that time ye got drunk and fell into one of the Italian fountains in Kensington and we made enough noise to wake the dead getting ye out of there before a Runner found us?”

Scowling, Fawkes shook his head. “Nay.”

Thorne’s grin grew. “What are ye doing tonight?”

Almost reluctantly, his cousin’s lips curled. “No’ allowing ye to plan our merriment, that’s for certain.”

“Fine. I’m likely no’ up for another night of…” He’d been about to say carousing, but the word had, at this moment, too many implications.

Fawkes’s slight smile was still in place as he shook his head. “Layabed.”

Waving the note, Thorne ignored the teasing. “So what’s this thought of Danielle’s? Should we call a meeting?”

“Of all yer friends—?”

“Yer friends.”

“Nay, Exingham and Lickwick are yer friends.”

A band of brothers. That’s what Flick had called them yesterday when she’d dropped off Bull. She’d called them his brothers, and reminded Thorne he wasn’t alone.

Aye, they were more than his friends. Somewhere along the line, had they moved categories as well? From friends to family?

And would Fawkes see them that way?

He tapped the edge of the card against the table. “Rourke and Demon are men who Blackrose trapped, the same as ye and me. Demon’s yer brother-in-law, for fook’s sake. Ye cannae say he isnae family.”

“Aye, and about as friendly as a rabid snake, ye cannae deny.” Fawkes calmly replaced the teacup in its saucer. “I want to get this done now so I can return home.”

It was good to hear his cousin speak of his home in the Highlands. “Ye came all the way to London? Ye have heard that, along with the rail system, the mail goes all the way to Scotland these days?”

Fawkes planted his elbows on the table and lowered his voice to a murmur. “What I had to tell ye, I didnae want to entrust to a telegram. Or a letter. Time is of the essence.”

Pulse already pounding in anticipation, Thorne waved the footmen away, leaving them alone in the sunny room. “This is about the code in the papers?”

“Aye. Remember how, after Ellie broke the code at Christmas, we posted an innocuous message, just to keep Blackrose on his toes?”

The plan had been to make it seem as if Blackrose’s brother—Danielle’s father—had entrusted the code to someone else. “Blackrose didnae react.”

“We didnae expect him to react.” Fawkes’s finger stabbed at the tablecloth. “It was only done to buy time. But Ellie’s idea is that we make use of that assumption. That her father had an agent of his own who knows the code.”

Thorne frowned thoughtfully as he considered the ramifications. “If George Stoughton had an agent of his own, someone who knew all of his secrets…that person could threaten Blackrose now that the man’s taken his brother’s title as Earl of Bonkinbone.”

Fawkes slowly nodded, green gaze blazing with determination. “Now that Blackrose is back in Britain, vulnerable to prosecution.”

“He doesnae realize the evidence against him still exists.”

“He’s an earl now,” Fawkes pointed out, “and powerful. I cannae accuse him; I’m a nobody, married to his niece—”

“Who stands as a possible heir,” Thorne reminded him.

His cousin shook his head. “The Bonkinbone estate can be inherited by a female, but we doubt Blackrose would let it go to Ellie. She’s always kenned that. Georgia might have inherited from her father—as the eldest, if she hadn’t been shunned—but both sisters knew their second cousin was far more likely to be the next Earl.”

Thorne was frowning. “As direct descendants—”

“Blackrose is now the Earl, and they’re no’ his direct descendants. If we’re talking non-direct descendants, then the male cousin is going to take precedence.”

“Fook,” Thorne sighed, slumping back in his chair. “Ye’re right.”

His cousin’s lips twitched wryly. “Thank ye for that gracious admission. As I was saying, I cannae accuse an Earl like Bonkinbone, and even ye and Exingham and Lickwick and Peasgoode and Effinghell—Christ, that’s a lot of dukes. How the hell do ye ken so many dukes? How are there that many dukes in the country at all? What was I saying?”

Thorne hid his smirk. “Ye cannae accuse him?”

“Aye, and even with a shite-ton of dukes on our side, ye cannae accuse him. We need to force his hand, to make him do something foolish. Something the Crown cannae ignore.”

Damnation, but it was intoxicating when a mission finally began! That heady mix of danger and possibility. Thorne could feel his pulse vibrating through his veins as the anticipation made each thought sharper, more focused. “What does Danielle have in mind?”

“We place another coded message in the paper, or a series of them. We claim they’re from an agent of Ellie’s father. Blackrose will surely be on edge, certain his dead brother had a confidante.”

“And we use that to lure Blackrose to a place of our choosing. To set a trap. We cannae arrest him, but our contacts can.”

“Exactly.” As he sat back, Fawkes’s grin looked sharp and bloody, promising retribution.

Of all the agents Blackrose had fooked over, Thorne thought Fawkes had the most reason to hate the man.

Thorne himself had quit when he’d become his uncle’s heir, still thinking Blackrose’s service was an honorable one. He’d taken his future responsibility seriously, inadvertently saving himself from retribution. Demon and Rourke and even Griffin Calderbank had been victims of the purge, where they realized the horrible things they’d done not to serve their country but to line another man’s pockets. They’d barely escaped with their lives.

But Fawkes?

Fawkes had known all along what an evil bastard Blackrose was. And because of the hold the man had over Fawkes’s mother, the man had no choice but to follow the malicious orders. Known as the Duke of Death, for years Fawkes had poisoned men on Blackrose’s orders, dying himself a little each time.

Only Danielle’s love had managed to save him.

Thorne slowly inhaled, finding his center, his focus. “So what kind of trap should we set?”

“Ye see, cousin?” Fawkes reached for his teacup again. “That’s why I came to ye.”

Cousin.

Thinking of his early categorizing, Thorne’s lips curled. Aye, here was the friend who became family. Was it so unbelievable a friend could become…more?

Even now, despite the embarrassment of the morning, he found himself wondering what Kit would think if Thorne were to lay out all the details of this situation. He had no doubt the lad—being clever—would grasp the ramifications immediately, and share his thoughts—

What the shite are ye thinking? Ye cannae spill yer secrets to yer valet. Nae matter if ye are trying to find an excuse to fook him.

His secrets weren’t his to tell.

The lad told ye his secrets.

Aye, and Thorne knew, deep-down, in a way he couldn’t explain, that Kit was trustworthy. The way Demon or Rourke…or Fawkes was trustworthy.

Ye cannae afford to lose yer head. Or yer heart.

Last night, Kit had cared for him. He had become a friend.

Thorne couldn’t afford the lad to be more, to be a lover.

Could he?