The Highwayman Page 7

  Sighing, wishing that he had gotten more out of the past hour than three new afternoon jackets, Bart waited until the tailor had departed and then put his clothes back on, taking his time as he let his thoughts wander where they chose—except when they wandered to Perry, at which point he firmly took hold. There was no point in dwelling upon Perry, who had made it clear that he did not want romantic attentions from Bart. Then again, it had been selfish of him to press such a thing when Perry was still struggling with his father's rejection. Perry would hardly be capable of handling romantic professions on top of that, especially when they must have seemed to come so abruptly from such an unexpected source.

  Sighing, Bart pulled on his afternoon jacket and buttoned it, then smoothed it into place, rolling his shoulders to settle it just so. Checking his neck cloth in the mirror, he left the dressing room and wandered down the hall toward the entrance.

  "Unhand me at once!"

  The voice was sharp, but held a sliver of fear—and was also familiar. Bart stopped before the partially ajar door from which the voice had come, reaching out to push it completely open. He did not know Burr that well, but it was obvious Weaver held him dear and Bart would not tolerate mistreatment toward any person so valued by his friends.

  The next voice, however, stopped him short.

  "I will do as I like," William Crane said, voice colder than Bart had known it could be. "You can hardly argue with me, can you? It's not as though I expect you to do anything that you've not done a thousand times before."

  He heard the hard, cracking sound of skin striking skin. "I already do more than enough for you," Burr hissed furiously.

  "Not very well," William replied. "You did a poor job of it, indeed. And unless I am mistaken, you failed completely at the task before that. Let us hope you do better tonight. I cannot promise to protect you if another failure crops up."

  "Protect me," Burr repeated scathingly. "Spare me such empty words. As to the other night, it was hardly my fault the damned horse took a fright and threw me. You cannot expect—"

  "I can expect you do to exactly what I want or your precious Baron will find out exactly what he's welcomed into his home. Is that what you want? For the good, upstanding, highly respected baron to discover that he's taken in a filthy little—"

  "Shut up!" Burr snarled the words, fear and desperation in his voice. "I've said that I'll go along with what you want—but that does not extend to this. Get the hells away from me."

  "Just make certain you're at the ruins tonight. We'll finish this discussion later, but I suggest you not strike me ever again, Burr."

  "I'll be at the ruins," Burr replied.

  Bart backed away, retreating to his own dressing room. He hovered just inside as down the hall a door flew open and Burr strode out, pale-faced and tense. William appeared a moment later, cheek a livid scarlet.

  Bart stepped into the hall as they walked away, injecting every last bit of cheer his body could muster into his words as he spoke. "Burr! You are here!" He smiled brightly as both men turned, noting the relief on Burr's face and the annoyance on William's, before both men controlled their expressions.

  "My lord," Burr greeted. "It is good to see you again. Thad still speaks of dinner; he had a wonderful time. I see more and more why everyone speaks so highly of you."

  Bart was thrown briefly by the praise. "Thank you," he managed at last. "I had a fine time with you both. I was hoping to run across at least one of you while I was in town, with the idea of asking you both to dinner at my house. I could use another cheerful evening after the past few days of unsuccessful highwayman hunting."

  "That would be splendid, my lord," Burr replied, cutting off William, who had been about to speak. "I will confirm it with Thad, but I cannot imagine him refusing. What day and time were you thinking?"

  "If you are not busy, by all means come tonight. Perry will likely be joining us; he is staying with me for the foreseeable future."

  Burr smiled. "That makes good hearing. I saw him the day before and he looked even unhappier than usual. He seems a good man, no matter the problems between him and the good Father. Perhaps living with you will give them both some breathing space."

  He was liking Burr more and more, Bart realized. His initial impressions of Burr as a hopeless rake seemed farther and farther away, and he wondered if it really was merely something at which Burr played. No trace of that rake was before him now.

  Next to Burr, William looked furious, and Bart could see that he was dying to contrive some reason Burr would not be able to go to dinner. Even William, however, knew that it was pointless to argue when a Ford wanted something. Bart rarely exercised the weight of his position, but he was more than happy to make use of it now.

  That he was not politely extending the invitation to William was, Bart hoped, well-noted. He had never particularly cared for William—no one did, really, but as the son of the constable, he was politely endured—but he was rather beginning to truly dislike the bastard. What he'd overheard sounded remarkably like blackmail. And what in the hells Burr had been up to that night he'd injured his ankle? Perhaps this was a hint to that second problem in Greendale.

  "Send a note if you will be unable to make it," Bart said, smiling. "Otherwise, I shall depend upon your presence at my table this night."

  "Yes, my lord," Burr said with an answering smile.

  William shifted impatiently. "I suppose, then," he said sourly, "that we shall postpone our own plans until tomorrow night."

  "That is kind of you," Bart replied, doing his best impression of an arrogant noble who took it as a matter of course that his own wants superseded those of everyone else. He managed not to smirk at the way William bristled. Honestly, William should know him better than that. Then again, he had thought William just a spoiled, ungrateful brat—he had not realized that he was the sort of bastard to use threats and blackmail.

  Returning his attention to Burr, Bart asked, "The same hour as before?" After Burr had agreed, Bart bid them a good day and departed.

  Outside, evening was beginning to fall. Being summer, dark was still well off, but the peak of the day was past and the temperature had cooled considerably. Bart had wanted to do some further prodding, but now that he had dinner plans, it was best to return home and see that all was suitably arranged. Hopefully Perry was about and could be coaxed into joining them.

  What if his advances resulted in Perry avoiding him? He was used to it from everyone else, but coming from Perry it might well break him.

  Well, Bart at least knew better than to raise the subject again. At least, not until the problem between Perry and Father Thomas was resolved. Dare he try it again after that, though? What if the matter of Father Thomas had nothing to do with rejecting Bart's advances? Yet that kiss he'd almost given at the beach had not been rejected. Surely it must have been obvious that he'd been about to kiss Perry?

  Bart rubbed his forehead and mounted his horse as a footman finally brought it round. He barely remembered the journey from village to home, and it was only a polite cough from Rogers which finally drew him from his thoughts.

  Bart attempted to put his thoughts in order. "Baron Weaver and his ward will be joining us for dinner tonight."

  "Very good, my lord."

  "Thank you. Have you seen Perry?"

  "I believe he is in the library."

  Murmuring another thanks, Bart strode through the manor to the library, slowly pushing the door open. He did not immediately see Perry, but a slower perusal of the library revealed him to be on the balcony level, comfortably ensconced in a chair near the window. Moving quietly, half-afraid that he might send Perry running, Bart made his way across the library and up the spiral staircase to the second level. Reaching Perry, he stopped a few steps away from his chair.

  Normally, finding something to say would have been easy; he and Perry had never been at a loss of words where the other was concerned. Right now, though, the rejection was still fresh upon his mind. Of course i
t had been stupid to say something, but realizing his feeling so suddenly had shaken him. Not so badly, however, that he hadn't been willing to go along with it and take whatever came of it.

  He had failed to consider that perhaps Perry would not feel the same way, but it might simply be because Perry had so much else on his mind.

  Well, Bart would just have to accept it and move on. It wasn't as though he was unused to being alone—if it suddenly seemed worse than ever, well, maybe that would finally teach him to keep his mouth shut.

  Shoving all the unhappiness away, refusing to burden Perry further with his wants, Bart mustered an easy, friendly smile. "Well rested? Was your room adequate?"

  Perry jumped, head jerking up from the book in his lap. "Bart. Yes, I'm quite rested." He smiled, but there was a reserve in it that Bart hated. "My room is lovely, of course. Did you finish your errands?"

  "Yes," Bart replied, fighting a deep sigh. "I've invited the Baron and Burr to come for dinner, and told them you might be joining us. You need not feel obligated, of course, but Burr seemed excited by the idea of your attendance."

  "Burr?" Perry asked, something like displeasure filling his face for a moment. "I am amazed that you got Burr away from William. Those two seem inseparable."

  Bart considered telling Perry about the conversation he had overheard, but at the last moment did not—Perry had enough troubles; he did not need to be dragged further into matters that were Bart's responsibility. That aside, he doubted Burr would want the fact that he was being blackmailed shared with anyone. "I am not certain why he spends time with William, especially since my general impression is that he likes the brat about as much as the rest of us."

  Perry shrugged. "I still wonder what Weaver sees in a rake like that."

  "Perhaps we'll figure it out over dinner, although when last I dined with them, they seemed quite close. They should be here in about three hours. Did you want to join us?"

  "Of course," Perry said. "I would never miss so fine a meal, and it is the least I can do since you've been kind enough to put me up, Bart." He hesitated, and then looked away. "I…I am sorry for earlier today. I handled that with ill grace."

  The words were a slap to the face. Handled with ill grace—that sounded horribly like the rejection, if poorly executed, was genuine. Which meant that family troubles or not, Perry did not and likely never would return his affections.

  "I might as well tell you now," Perry continued, "that once the problem of the highwayman is resolved and I am assured Father will be safe, I am leaving again and do not plan to return."

  "Perry—" Bart stopped and tried again. "Why? You can't leave, not—" Not when Bart had only just realized how he felt. "Is that really what you think is best? Come live with me in the city. You don't have to run awaya. Please."

  "It's for the best," Perry said quietly. "Did everyone in the village talk about me?"

  The abrupt question threw him and Bart answered it without thinking. "Yes."

  "Two years," Perry laughed bitterly. "My father has refused to do more than tolerate me for two years and still it is a popular source of gossip. That I call him 'Father' now, that I never attend his sermons, that he will not speak of me or say my name if he can help it. That he might as well have disowned me." Perry laughed again, the bitterness worse than ever. "I wonder, though, if they bothered to mention that the rest of them barely talk to me. Everyone has taken my father's side, except for Weaver and a couple of others. No one is rude to me…but who can blame them for avoiding me when even my father will not tolerate my presence? No, I'm sorry; it will be better for everyone if I leave. I'm not the preacher's adorable adopted son anymore. I'm just a burden."

  "You're not a burden to me," Bart replied, dropping to his knees and taking Perry's hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs over the knuckles. "Forget that I said anything earlier today, I can see my words were unwelcome. So be it. I do not want to lose my best friend and I'm sorry that I have not kept in touch all of these years. If I had, perhaps that might have helped. I do not care what you did or that everyone else reviles you. I know it's selfish, but please—I do not want you to vanish again. Come and live with me in the city."

  Perry stared at their clasped hands, silent for several long, agonizing minutes. "We shall see," he said at last. "I do not want to leave until the highwayman is captured, anyway."

  Willing to accept that for now, although he had no intention of letting the fool run away, Bart squeezed his hands and finally stood. "Good. I am off to get some work done, and then to dress for dinner. I will no doubt see you in a few hours. Thank you, Perry."

  "Oh, Bart, only you would thank me." Perry laughed—a genuine laugh, which eased some of the ache in Bart's chest upon hearing it. "It is I who owes you more gratitude than I could possibly express or repay."

  "We're friends," Bart replied. "There is nothing to repay. I will see you at dinner." He walked away before something stupid could find its way out of his mouth.

  A bath and change of clothes did much to restore him, and when he joined his guests in his parlor, Bart almost felt like his old self. "I'm glad you could come," he greeted, shaking hands with Burr and Weaver.

  "I could hardly refuse," Weaver smiled. "Good company is hard to find around here, and yours was always splendid, my lord."

  They all turned as the door opened again, admitting Perry. Bart briefly forgot how to breathe. Growing up, he and Perry had loathed formal clothing, spending their evenings doing their best to sneak away and dispose of the stiff, stuffy attire. He had never been around Perry when they were of an age to appreciate such things.

  Perry was dressed much like Weaver, eschewing color and keeping to simple black and white. Where Weaver had touches of silver and diamonds, however, Perry's clothing had accents of gold and emeralds which brought out his hair and eyes.

  It was utterly confounding that not once had Bart ever noticed his beauty and desirability. Perhaps he hadn't needed to see it before. Now, all it did was reaffirm his decision that Perry was not allowed to vanish once the highwayman was caught. Hells, Bart would let the bloody bastard keep stealing if that was what it took to convince Perry to remain. Hopefully the matter would not be forced by more deaths, for that he would not tolerate.

  Bart forced his attention back to his guests, very carefully not thinking about how much he would like to take Perry upstairs and divest him of the handsome clothing. "Do you know, I never got around at our last dinner to asking how precisely the two of you met? Burr said that you met on a ship, but I have never known you to leave Greendale for more than a day or two."

  "I was paying my respects to a recently deceased friend," Weaver replied.

  Bart winced. "My apologies. Careless of me to bring up such an unhappy subject."

  "You could not have known, Lord Bartholomew," Weaver said. "Please, you have done no harm. As it turns out, the return trip was quite pleasant. I was still feeling out of sorts when I bumped into Alfred."

  Burr gave an inelegant snort. "The bald truth is that I quite literally bowled him over. I was not paying attention and ran him down."

  Weaver chuckled. "It certainly brought me out of my unhappy state. Alfred insisted upon buying me a drink after that and refused to lose sight of me lest I attempt to slip away. We spent the rest of the journey talking, and at the end of it, I invited him to come home with me."

  If there was one thing that Bart knew about Weaver, it was that he did not simply invite people home. Nor had he ever known anyone to call Weaver by his first name, never mind shorten it to 'Thad.'

  And Bart had a wealth of experience in watching people pine. He had endured Lane's pining over his lady, then had barely resisted the urge to shake sense into Crispin, and suffered through the very same with at least half a dozen friends. Weaver might be claiming that Burr was his ward, and there must be at least twenty years between them, but Bart doubted that either man regarded the other in a filial sense.

  So why did they keep to those roles?
>
  Bart was starting to get a headache from all of the problems surrounding him. His father was disappointed, his mother worried, his brothers angry… the damned highwayman was a slippery eel…and it seemed increasingly there was far more serious afoot. Burr was being blackmailed, the Greers might very well lose their livelihood, a man had been murdered… there was still the matter of Perry and Father Thomas, and now this little romantic riddle. It was enough to make a man want to drown himself in brandy.

  "You seem to be good for one another," Bart remarked. "I have never seen Weaver leave his home so willingly, so often. I am certain that you do not have the affection of the village women, however," he added teasingly to Burr. "They have been trying all of their lives to win his affections—or at least his estates."

  Weaver rolled his eyes, but Burr only grinned. "I have been both gently and none too gently prodded on the matter, and on how available I might be to certain attentions."

  "Perhaps that is why I was so quick to be told that you are a bit of a rake," Bart replied. "Jealousy."

  Weaver's face clouded briefly, and then he schooled it into a calmer expression. "Alfred is no rake."

  Burr said nothing, merely smiled at Weaver in a way that only reaffirmed that there was nothing in his feelings that could be likened to what a son felt for his father. Perhaps the gap in their ages kept Weaver from making Burr offers. As for Burr…well, the conversation he had overheard had made it clear that Burr feared that something in his past would cause Weaver to hate him. Bart supposed that forced a man to keep his distance.

  Bart tried to turn the matter away, for it was none of his business—but Weaver was a friend and Burr was fast becoming one, and Bart did not like to see friends unhappy.

  He stifled a sigh as he realized that he'd just added the problem to his list.

  The dinner bell abruptly rang, breaking into his thoughts, which Bart shoved gratefully aside to focus only on being a good host. Although he had a good deal of problems he had to solve, they could wait until morning.