Crane had had a thoroughly unrewarding day. The messages he’d sent for Stephen had gone unanswered, as usual, and since he had no desire to be within fifty miles of Esther Gold when she learned that his manservant had deflowered her charge, he had not felt able to take Saint’s alibi elsewhere. Not that he was much looking forward to putting the matter to Stephen.
He had visited Leonora, gone to the gymnasium, and done several hours’ desultory work in the office to kill the time before he might expect Stephen to return, and he was striding along the Strand towards home, considering precisely how he would word his explanation, when he heard the call.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Crane stopped under a gas lamp and turned as a young man hurried up with something white in his hand. “I think you dropped your handkerchief.”
Crane glanced at the little square of linen. It was definitely one of the vast stocks of handkerchiefs they’d brought from Piper, with a small magpie embroidered in the corner. He couldn’t imagine how he’d dropped the thing. “Yes, that’s mine. Thank you.” He took it, except that the other man didn’t release his grip, and Crane looked at the fellow’s face in surprise.
He was worth looking at. Midtwenties, perhaps, with slightly shaggy, windswept black hair, shot through with a streak of early grey on one side. It was a lopsided but rather attractive feature. Not tall, but substantially larger than Stephen—who wasn’t?—with an athletic build. And he had a face made for misbehaviour, with deep blue laughing eyes, and a wide mouth curving into an irrepressible grin.
Good God, Crane thought appreciatively. This country’s breeding them better these days.
He tugged again at the handkerchief. The other man pulled back, a look of mischief sparkling under dark lashes, and then released it.
“Thank you.” Crane pocketed the handkerchief with a smile.
“Oh, it was no trouble.” The young lovely returned the smile, along with a lingering glance. “In return, could I beg you for a match?”
“None on me, I’m afraid. I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, but you should. It’s the only way to protect the lungs against this cursed fog. And it’s a pleasant vice.” His grin widened. “Perhaps not the most pleasant.”
“Indeed not,” Crane batted back. “Not while there’s drink.”
A wicked smile glinted in the gaslight. “Of course. And would you care to come and take a glass with me, sir? Perhaps at my lodgings?”
“Ah…no,” Crane said, with a little regret. “I think not.”
“Really?” The lovely’s deep blue eyes met Crane’s in a darting look before his long lashes swept down again. “I’m very entertaining company.”
“I’m sure you are. I’ve other commitments.”
“None you can’t break, I dare say, sir.” The young man put a light hand on his forearm. “Perhaps you could spare five minutes to discuss the matter, somewhere close by?” His gaze flicked over to one of the many little alleys that ran off the Strand. Indiscreet, undoubtedly, but it was dark, and probably safe enough for a quick suck…
In another life. Crane shrugged the hand off, feeling a pulse of annoyance at the blatant approach that he doubtless wouldn’t have experienced if he’d been able to take advantage of it. As it was, there seemed to be far too many people on the Strand to play silly buggers. Policemen, flower sellers, even the street artist who seemed to be constantly around these days, sketching under the gas lamp’s circle of light not six feet from him.
“No, but good hunting.” Crane gave the young man a smile and a nod of farewell, and walked off without waiting for a response, stuffing the handkerchief into the pocket.
Fidelity had never been part of his life before. Not that he’d rejected it as an idea; it simply hadn’t come up. Very few of his previous lovers would have batted an eye at his taking up the young man’s offer, nor would Crane have expected any of them to refrain. He wouldn’t, truly, have cared.
Stephen would care. Stephen would care so much it hurt. Crane hadn’t ever discussed the matter with him, because—he realised with incredulity—this was the first time it had crossed his mind in eight months that he might bed anyone else, but he knew, without question, the flinching pain he would inflict if Stephen saw him with some bit of stuff.
Good God, does he expect me never to fuck anyone else for the rest of my life? Crane thought, and then, No. Of course he expects me to fuck other people. He’ll be waiting for me to do exactly that. Waiting and dreading.
One more obligation that came with Stephen, Crane thought as he entered his building and headed up the four flights of stairs. One more restriction, along with the secrecy and the life in England, and the demands of the bloody justiciary. Another set of chains.
Admittedly, Crane had had all the lovers a reasonable man could ask for, and he was old enough to appreciate a pretty mouth without feeling compelled to put his cock in it. There was nothing the blue-eyed smiler could give him that Stephen could not, except, probably, the clap. Most of all, he could not imagine taking pleasure in an act that would cause Stephen pain. Nothing was worth that. But the realisation took him one more step away from China and home; bound him one notch tighter to England and duty and all the things that tied Stephen down, and Crane with him.
If I’d wanted a life trammelled by obligation, I could have stayed in this bloody country in the first place.
Then again, if I wanted a life without Stephen I’d be back in Shanghai already.
Crane reached his front door and heard rapid footsteps behind him, hurrying up the stairs. He turned and saw Stephen sprinting up to catch him, face set.
“Who the devil was that?” Stephen demanded.
“Good evening to you too. I’ve no idea. He was returning my handkerchief.”
“Really. Was that all?”
Crane arched a brow at the expression on Stephen’s face. “As you saw.”
“He didn’t look like he was returning a handkerchief.”
Crane opened the front door, waved Stephen in, and shut it safely behind them. “Well, he also wanted to suck me off, but I just accepted the handkerchief. Are you jealous?”
Stephen went scarlet. “No.”
“You are.” Crane grinned at him, waiting for him to see the absurdity, for the familiar light of amusement in his eyes and the irresistible snag-toothed smile.
It didn’t come. Instead, Stephen threw his coat onto a hook. “It’s scarcely jealousy if I expect you to be a little more courteous than to be fondling other men right in front of me.”
“Oh, come. I did nothing of the kind. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Stephen repeated angrily, and then flopped back against the wall. “Oh God, Lucien, what isn’t?”
“Here.” Crane pulled him through to the sitting room, shoved him onto the sofa and poured them both a generous whisky. “Talk to me.”
Stephen gulped half the drink in a single swallow, put the glass down and slumped forward, face in his hands. “Saint’s stolen my ring. A practitioner has murdered two retired police officers. We ought to have everyone on this, because the police will be angry beyond belief, but do you know how many people are working on it? Me. I’m the only justiciar dealing with this case, because there should be at least eight justiciars in London and there are currently five without Esther or Saint, and they won’t pay for any replacements or take on anyone new, so there is no way I will be able to go to Paris or anywhere else with you, and I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go find that chap with the handkerchief, he’d be more use to you than I am.” He took a gasping breath after that rush of speech, and went on, more quietly but no less desperately, “If I stopped sleeping altogether, I still wouldn’t have enough time in the day. I don’t know what to do any more.”
Of course he had lied about Paris. Crane wasn’t precisely surprised, but the realisation was still a scrape against his self-esteem. “I see. Things must be bad if you’re voluntarily telling me the truth.”
“Don’t. Please. And don’t tell me I have to work less, either. We’ve been on a shoestring for eighteen months. Seven justiciars weren’t enough. What it’ll be like with five—”
“I can tell you that, actually,” Crane said. “It’ll be like a slow attrition as you all work harder and harder on less and less until one by one you give up, walk away, break, or in your case, get yourself killed. Then your superiors will close down the justiciary altogether, and the survivors will realise that was what they had planned to do all along and everything you did was just pissing in a hole.”
Stephen was looking up, eyes wide, angry and appalled. “Rubbish. Utter rubbish. They need the justiciary.”
“Christ, you’re naive. If they needed you, or wanted you, they’d pay for you. Conversely, as they’re not paying, how important do you really think you are?”
“It’s not like that.” Stephen looked sick. “The Council is short of funds—there’s internal disagreement—”
“A hundred to a quid says you’re being shut down. If you walk away now, it will at least be over faster.”
“Ah.” Stephen’s face was tight. “I see. Tell me, was all that simply wishful thinking, or is this a new line of persuasion to make me leave?”
Crane bit off an angry response. “Believe it or don’t. One of us can say I told you so in a year’s time when we’ll see if you still have a job, or your skin. Meanwhile, if you could stop picking fights with me for just a moment, there’s something you need to know.”
“What is it?”
This was, Crane knew, not going to go well. He had hoped to have this conversation with Stephen sated and pliant in his bed, not prickling with this raw, angry mood. But there was no way he could dodge it.
“I was wrong about Saint. It wasn’t her, last night.”
“What?”
Crane put both hands up as the astonished fury dawned on Stephen’s face. “Listen. I saw exactly what I told you, except that I didn’t actually see it. I was fluenced.” He rapidly explained, but Stephen was shaking his head, finally interrupting.
“No. Stop. I found her last night—this morning, rather. She came in about four o’clock looking guilty as sin. If she’d had an alibi she’d have told me so, for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing to suggest you were wrong, except that you’re not sure of your memory now—”
“And the fact that I saw moonlight on a moonless night.”
Stephen paused, frowning. “Yes, except you didn’t say anything about moonlight at the time. Memories change. Look, be reasonable. The idea that someone fluenced you to incriminate her and steal my ring from your flat—you’re suggesting some kind of plot against me, or us, don’t you see that? Do you really think that’s more likely than that you were right the first time?”
“Yes, I do. She has an alibi, Stephen. She was with someone.”
“At two in the morning? Who?” Stephen demanded, and then, “Just a moment, how the devil do you know where she was?” and then, with explosive fury, “Mr. Merrick?”
“Don’t overreact,” Crane said, without much hope.
“Don’t overreact? He’s three times her age!”
“Two and a half.”
“This isn’t funny!” Stephen shouted. He was scarlet with anger in a way that Crane had never seen and didn’t like, his eyes snapping. “I told you about this—you assured me—”
“I had no idea till this morning. Stephen, listen—”
“No, I will not!” Stephen jumped to his feet. “For God’s sake, she’s alone in the world, she’s so blasted young. This is exploitation.”
“The hell it is. He’s offered her marriage.”
“Marriage? And has she accepted?”
Damn the man. “Well, not yet—”
“In other words, she doesn’t want to marry him, but the offer makes it all right, does it? Oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot. Everything Mr. Merrick does is all right in your eyes.”
“Yes. It is.” Crane was standing now too, matching Stephen glare for glare. “The only reason Miss Saint will have been in his bed is that she wanted to be there. She’s of age, he is neither fool nor rogue, and mostly, Stephen, as with so very many things, you are taking responsibility for something that is not up to you. It’s none of your business who she chooses to fuck.”
Stephen spluttered. “What if she finds herself in a—a difficult situation?”
“If he knocks her up? Then she’ll be well advised to take up his offer.”
“And suppose she doesn’t want to be tied for life, at the age of eighteen, to a killer?”
Crane set his jaw. “That is not—”
“Accurate? Really? How much blood does Mr. Merrick have on his hands, precisely? How many men has he killed?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Crane said. “Do you think it’s more or fewer than you?”
Stephen gasped, as if punched. “That’s my job!”
“And his. Merrick works for me, Stephen. His acts are mine. If he’s not good enough for Miss Saint, I struggle to see how I’m good enough for you.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me.” Stephen’s breath came fast. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not,” Crane said. “Or perhaps I am. I don’t know. I know this: he’s never given a damn for a woman since his wife died, and that was more than a decade ago. I know he wouldn’t have touched Miss Saint with a ten-foot pole if it wasn’t serious, for him at least. And I know that he’s not the first man to put his heart in a damn fool, ill-judged, unfortunate, bloody awkward place.” He forced a crooked grin, praying Stephen would listen. “I did. So did you.”
Stephen shut his eyes, breathing deeply. At last, more levelly, he said, “I am angry about this.”
“I know.”
“I can’t see it’s right. He’s so much older—”
“She’s a shaman. She can fly.”
“Windwalk, and I can assure you that being a practitioner is absolutely no help in organising one’s personal life.”
“Leonora Hart isn’t even a practitioner and she managed,” Crane pointed out. “Tom was forty-two when he married her, she was eighteen—”
“And we spent several days in summer mopping up the trail of blood they left.”
“That’s not fair,” Crane objected, although it wasn’t entirely unfair. “Anyway, love him though I did, Tom was a rascal.”
“Whereas Mr. Merrick is an upstanding citizen?”
“And Miss Saint lives up to her name,” Crane retorted. “If you ask me, they’re two of a kind.”
“That’s the worst thing you’ve said yet.” Stephen retreated to a chair, pulling his legs to his chest. Crane moved closer, not touching. “I suppose you’re right. I can’t stop her, if it’s her choice. That didn’t imply anything,” he went on at Crane’s angry intake of breath. “I didn’t mean that as it sounded, really. Look, I don’t like it, obviously, but… I’ll speak to her. If I can find her.”
“Merrick has her stashed somewhere. She ran to him in trouble, Stephen.”
“After I accused her unjustly. Yes. Perhaps he could convey my apologies. Tell her to come and talk to me. If she will.” Stephen had always taken a certain quiet pride in his work as a teacher and mentor, Crane knew, and he could feel his lover’s humiliation. “Meanwhile, I had better try and find out who this other windwalker was, I suppose. Oh God.” He sounded despairing.
Crane pulled the opposite chair closer, since Stephen didn’t look as though he planned to move from his miserable huddle. “Let’s just try to think, shall we? Who actually knows about the ring—that it’s worth stealing, or that they should come here to steal it?”
“I can’t think of anyone. I honestly don’t see how anyone could know. It’s not as though I use it lightly or wave it around. The only practitioners who’ve ever seen me use it are Saint, Joss and the Golds.”
“Well, and Lady Bruton.”
Stephen’s entire body went still. “What did you say?”
“Lady Bruton,” Crane repeated. “She saw you use the ring all right, when you raised the magpies and wiped out her coven. And you never got her, did you?”
Lady Bruton had fled, leaving her husband dead, when Stephen had defeated her scheme to strip the Magpie Lord’s power. Stephen hadn’t tracked her down, but he had assured Crane that action would be taken if she returned: that she was no longer a threat. It had been in the early days of their relationship, when Crane had not been quite so conscious of how habitually Stephen resorted to falsehood, and he had simply taken the man’s word for it. It occurred to him now, as something he didn’t like prickled up his spine, that he might have made more of a fuss about that.
“She knows about the ring. She saw you use it to call on an incredible amount of power.” Crane kept his eyes on Stephen’s face. “She’s well aware we’re lovers. It’s fair to say she has a grudge against you, for scotching her plans and killing her friend, that madman—”
“Underhill,” Stephen supplied.
“And of course we widowed her. She’s not the windwalker, but I suppose she could be working with him.”
“Yes.” Stephen’s voice was thin.
“But there’s a warrant out for her, or your equivalent, isn’t there? Is it not too dangerous for her to turn up in London?”
“I don’t know. I, ah…”
“What is it? What, Stephen?”
There was guilt on Stephen’s features. He was staring intently at his hands, wrapped round his knees. “I didn’t tell the Council the whole truth, about what happened at Piper in spring. If I’d told them everything, I’d have had to say that you’re a source, and I thought it would be safer for you if I kept that quiet. And since there weren’t any other witnesses, because everyone was dead, I, well…”
“Lied till you could have used your tongue as a corkscrew,” Crane completed for him.
“Well. More or less. Yes.”
“And? What aren’t you telling me?” Crane’s instincts, honed by years of trading and more of smuggling, were flaring now. He felt the sense of cold calm that came on him, often before he could consciously say why, in the awareness of impending trouble. The expectation of a double-cross.
Stephen shifted awkwardly. “Do you remember that Esther and I had something of a long-running feud with the Brutons?”
“I have a vague recollection of that, yes.” Sir Peter Bruton and his lady had planned a particularly unpleasant and drawn-out death for both Crane and Stephen because of that mutual hatred.
“Well, that, our enmity, was common knowledge. So when I made my report, not everyone accepted it. Even on the Council. Some people never believed the Brutons were part of Underhill’s madness in the first place. You remember, it was my word and Esther’s, we had no conclusive proof. And they were well born, well connected, and nobody knows what really happened at Piper, and…” He took a deep breath. “Some quite senior people—Fairley, John Slee, a few others—don’t believe she’s a warlock, even now. So, uh, no. There’s no warrant.”
“One moment,” Crane’s jaw was stiff with anger as he spoke. “I distinctly recall you telling me back in spring that if she showed her face again she’d be killed. You told me that. You said I had no need to worry my pretty little head about her, and now you’re telling me that she’d be welcomed with open arms?”
“I’m sure I didn’t say that—”
“You might as well have. God damn you, Stephen.” Crane pushed himself to his feet so hard the chair toppled backwards. “When are you going to stop lying to me?”
“That was months ago,” Stephen protested. “I thought I’d get her. I put the word out among the justiciary—”
“Which has done precisely how much good?”
“Well, what should I have done?” Stephen demanded, jumping up in turn. “You know blasted well I can’t let the Council know you’re a source. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust practitioners, and nor should you.”
“Not on the evidence of this conversation, certainly.”
Stephen’s cheeks flamed. “That’s not fair. I was trying to protect you.”
“By lying to me. Again.”
“What good would it have done to tell you?” Stephen’s voice was rising. “Make you sick with worry, for what? I was going to go after her—”
“But you didn’t,” Crane said icily. “Because you were busy. With your job.”
Stephen apparently couldn’t find anything to say to that. Crane felt the anger pulsing savagely through him and made no effort at all to hold it back. He had been so fucking patient, he had put up with so much, let the twisting little bastard rule him in every way imaginable, but this was one more kick in the teeth than any man could stand. “I quite understand that you can barely spare the time for us, to see each other, or wake up together, or take a few days at Christmas. I understand that you’re too preoccupied with your daily agenda to deal with a murderer who wants me dead. However, I struggle to see how you were too busy to even mention a significant threat to my continued existence instead of letting me believe it was under control!”
“Well, what would you have done if I’d said anything?” Stephen demanded. “What do you imagine you can do? Do you really think your money, or your personal killer, would be any use against a practitioner who wanted you dead?”
“We’ll never know. Because I haven’t had the chance. Is this what being short is like?”
“What?”
“Having your loved ones treat you like a fucking child.”
“Don’t give me that,” Stephen said savagely. “I am trying my best to do everything I have to do—”
“And it’s not good enough. You’re not doing all these things, and nor is anyone else.”
“That’s not—”
“You haven’t got the ring back,” Crane said over him. “You’ve done nothing to help Miss Saint. There’s this murderer you’re supposed to be catching, Lady Bruton to deal with, let alone fitting me into your demanding schedule—”
“Stop it!”
“No, you stop it. Stop lying to me, and stop clutching on to every job that comes your way as if you’re the only man in the bloody world who can do anything.”
“Well, I’m quite sure you can find someone else to suck you off,” Stephen snarled. His face was patched red and white with angry misery. “You seemed to be doing a damned good job of that earlier.”
“What? Oh, go to the devil. I turned him down.”
“Your restraint is amazing. Congratulations. What a pity Mr. Merrick doesn’t have the same self-control.”
That transparent effort to change the subject made Crane angrier than anything yet, far too angry to prevent himself rising to the bait. “Don’t even start. We talked about that.”
“No, you talked about it. You told me that it was perfectly reasonable for your manservant to prey on my student, and I listened to you—”
“Prey?” Crane repeated furiously.
“Oh, whatever you choose to call it. The fact is, she’s miserable, inexperienced and lonely. It’s amazingly easy to be seduced when you feel that way.”
“What did that mean?” Crane demanded, startled by how much it hurt. “Are you talking about us? What the fuck did that mean?”
Stephen looked slightly shocked by his own words. He hesitated for a second, then shook his head violently, taking refuge in anger. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have time for us?”
“I don’t have time to argue about what Mr. Merrick could possibly do that you wouldn’t defend, or who I’m supposed to let down out of the wide range of people who want something from me. I’m going.” He marched to the door, pushing past Crane. “Going to do some of those things that I haven’t done yet because I don’t work hard enough.”
“Oh, for— That is the precise opposite of what I was trying to point out to you.”
“Thank you for the insight.” Stephen stalked out of the room, into the hallway.
Crane thumped a furious fist against the wall. He had rarely wanted to hit anyone so much, the bloody stupid obstinate lying little shit, and the unhappiness boiling off Stephen’s set shoulders made everything ten times worse.
Stephen was shoving his feet into his boots. Crane stalked into the hall after him. “Stop this, for Christ’s sake. Have some sense.”
“Stop telling me what to do, blast you!” Stephen wrenched the front door open.
“Fine!” Crane shouted, exasperated beyond bearing. “Fine. Fuck off, then, fuck you, and fuck your ancestors.”
“And yours!” Stephen shouted back, and slammed the door behind him.