Trent returned an hour after sunset when the shop door was locked, and Mrs. Laird had gone for the evening. Alec put on his overcoat and scarf and gloves, ignoring the way his mouth went dry and his pulse stammered. It was just a walk, and he was determined not to let his imagination run away with him.
They strolled down Pall Mall to the King’s Mews, then past Northumberland House and on down toward the Embankment. Lanterns hung outside houses, offices, and shops to illuminate the night. London was magical in their softening glow, its dirt and imperfections lost to the shadows. Snow descended in large fat flakes that looked nearly edible. They dissolved into gray wet on the cobblestones, alas, but if they were lucky, a bit of it might stick by morning.
This late in December there were bows and greenery on doors and window sashes. There were still plenty of people out and about this time of night, lending the streets a festive air. A group of carolers strolled up ahead, arm in arm, their voices echoing in the unusually clear night. Trent and Alec followed the group down Northumberland Street. One tall woman, visible only from behind in a red coat and wide-brimmed hat, had such a lovely high soprano on “While Shepherds Watched” that Alec was half tempted to follow her around all evening.
It could hardly be more perfect. Even the temperature was ideal, cold and crisp enough to feel like winter, but not so cold as to send one running indoors. And there was a friend at his side, the very handsome Mr. Trent, who was full of good cheer, even singing along to one of the carols.
For the first time that year, Alec felt the stirring of true Christmas feeling. He worked so hard during the season, he often missed it entirely.
“May I take your arm?” Trent asked.
Alec hesitated only a moment. “If you like.” He held out his elbow. It was not unusual for men to go arm in arm, but their acquaintance was not especially deep. He didn’t care. He was in too pleasant a mood to refuse and the extra warmth would be welcome.
Instead of linking his arm through, Trent grasped his elbow with a large hand, and on they walked down to the river.
Trent’s hand was firm and confident. Alec’s knees went ever so slightly weak at the unexpected jolt of the touch. He did his best to ignore it, acting as though this was the way he perambulated about in the city every day.
They reached the river and the carolers turned left whilst Trent steered them right, heading west, towards Westminster Abbey and Palace. It was less crowded here and darker. The river was a black, gurgling band to their left.
“Tell me more about your work,” Alec said, to have something to say. “You mentioned it before—the Bow Street Runners. And you mentioned something alarming about bruises.”
Trent chuckled. “Bruises, yes, more often than not. But it’s worth it. You should read Judge Fielding’s treatise on the subject. The long and short of it is, leaving justice in the hands of enterprising thief-takers is a system rife with corruption. They’ve been known to accuse people they personally disliked, take bribes for protection, or get a cut of robberies for looking the other way. Our force, on the other hand, is employed by the Bow Street Magistrate, and our only cause is justice. Judge Fielding makes sure of that. There are six of us currently. Good men to the last.”
Alec knew Sir Henry Fielding’s reputation as an enlightened man above reproach. That he chose Trent to be part of his new regiment spoke highly of his character.
“What led you to apply for such a position?” Alec asked.
Trent hesitated, looking straight ahead with a worried frown.
“Pardon me. That was—”
“No. No, it’s a fair question. It was a specific case of injustice that made me aware of the sorry state of things. That eventually led me to the writings of Judge Fielding, and then the man himself.”
“Oh?”
Trent’s jaw tightened. “There was a young girl, about five years ago, fair as sunshine, sweet as a newborn lamb, heart of gold. Sounds like a novel, but it’s true.”
He glanced at Alec as they walked, as if to see if he doubted.
“Go on,” Alec said. He squeezed Trent’s fingers with his free hand, encouraging him to talk.
“Well one night an arrogant prick of a dandy saw her face and decided he had to have her. The miscreant waylaid her in an alley and took what he wanted. Only he covered her mouth to silence her screams, and he stopped her breath as well. She didn’t survive.”
Trent’s voice was tight, and Alec felt a wave of sympathy—for the girl and for him.
“A reward was offered by the family for the apprehension of the vile villain. They even knew his name. Only the man was the son of an earl, and the two thief-takers they hired both said there were doubts, witnesses were unreliable, there was no case.”
“They were paid off,” Alec said.
“Or threatened.”
Alec sighed. “Such stories are not uncommon in London.” Nor, he doubted, the world over. The rich could get away with murder, and frequently did. It was a hostile world outside his shop door, and well he knew it.
“True. But that case was personal. You see, that sweet thing was my sister.” Trent turned his head and smiled at Alec then. The smile was a shark’s grin, dark enough to send chills down Alec’s spine.
“How tragic for you and your family. You have my deepest sympathies,” Alec said with true feeling.
Trent squeezed his elbow in silent thanks. “The Bow Street Runners, they stand for real justice. Or they will as long as I’m a part of it. And Judge Fielding. He’s the best man I know. If someday I can give a brother, mother, or father the kind of resolution we were denied, or save some sweet girl a similar fate, I’ll consider my time more than well spent.”
He’s a good man, Alec thought. Not that he’d ever had reason to assume otherwise. But there was something about Trent that made him seem worldly and perhaps even a little wicked. Alec wouldn’t have pegged him as a hero, an advocate for the weak, or even a particularly moral man. Yet he appeared to be all those things.
Alec’s emotions, which had already been softened by a weeks’ worth of friendly smiles and thoughtful gifts, and then by this magical outing, now threatened to become the consistency of the slush beneath their feet. He’d been tempted by Trent when he’d thought he might be a rogue. Now he feared he was truly in trouble.
A sharp wind blew across the river, making Alec shiver. Trent pulled him closer so that their sides were nearly touching as they walked. “It’s cold here. Shall we head north, away from the Thames?”
“That would suit me.”
They took the next street, heading away from the Embankment and were soon strolling the Birdcage Walk toward Green Park. There were fewer buildings here and thus fewer lanterns. Trent was obviously more comfortable in the dark than Alec was, and he moved confidently, subtly steering them away from puddles and ruts. Alec found he did not mind being steered. It allowed him to focus on other things, like the smell of wood smoke from a bonfire they passed, the chamber music drifting from a distant grand house, and the solid feel of Trent’s arm, which was practically pressed up against his own.
The dark lent a feeling of cloaked intimacy that was delicious. The evening was delicious. To stroll arm in arm with a man like John Trent, a man who had sought out his company. To be abroad at night like this with a beaming moon that was visible for once in a clear London sky, to be abroad in a city filled with holiday cheer. Alec drank it in like a starved man.
I have been alone too much, he thought. That this should feel like such a treat to me. I have been half living for too long.
They reached Green Park and paused at its southern end to take it in. It was surprisingly well attended. The broad lawn, with its distant view of St. James, was dotted with couples and families who strolled the park’s broad paths in their coats and muffs, furs and tricorne hats, enjoying the unseasonal weather. Many carried lanterns so that dozens of flames danced here and there in the park in spectral fashion.
“Would you care to take a turn around the park?” Trent asked. “Or would you rather head back? You must be tired after a long day.”
“No. No, please. How could we resist a scene like that? It looks like a fairy kingdom. We must walk it,” Alec said with feeling.
Trent gave a low chuckle. He half turned so that he could gaze at Alec’s face. “I’ve noticed you’ve a fondness for the fairy kingdom. Your sculptures have a hint of it.”
“They may do,” Alec admitted. “But—”
The words evaporated when Trent pulled the glove off his right hand and raised the backs of his fingers to Alec’s cheek. “Not too cold?”
How his hand could be so hot was a mystery. Or perhaps Alec’s cheek was just that cold. But the touch seared him. His eyes watered, and his insides swooped as though his heart were a bird diving into the sea. He had a strong urge to lean into that touch. He swallowed, his voice gone.
Trent’s smile faded, and he gazed at Alec so seriously for a moment. Then he dropped his hand. “You’re not too cold to go on?”
“No,” Alec said quietly.
“Then let’s promenade, my fairy prince.”
That was so patently absurd it made Alec laugh and the spell was broken. Trent switched to Alec’s other side, and this time he took Alec’s arm without asking. Instead of clasping him above the elbow, he threaded his arm through and wrapped it around Alec’s bicep. It was a more secure hold, and it brought them together hip to shoulder, almost huddled against the chill.
They moved onto a path, Alec’s heart once again thudding heavily, his mind a whirlwind.
He can’t truly be interested in me that way, a voice whispered in his head. Only it was getting harder to believe. Honestly, Alec was less interested in believing it.
Trent couldn’t be interested in him professionally. Alec had never witnessed a murder or committed any crime. And while sodomy was illegal, Alec had never done the act. Surely a Bow Street Runner would not set out to entrap a lonely sculptor who was minding his own business.
No, Trent had found the shop because of the angel. The question was: why had he kept coming back?
He decided to broach the subject because his heart couldn’t take much more of this. And it was awfully hard to stand on one’s principles and reject a thing if one wasn’t even sure the thing was on offer.
“You said you are not married,” he began.
“No. Nor do I ever intend to be.”
“Because your profession is dangerous?” Alec asked, then cursed himself. He was so used to skirting around the subject he found it difficult to get even close without shying away in the opposite direction.
“No,” Trent said, squeezing his arm. “No, Mr. Allston. I will never marry because there will never be a woman I want in that way, and to force one to live with half my affection would be wrong.”
“Ah.”
It was like a dash of cold water in the face, one meant to wake the sleeper. Trent couldn’t be more clear. A trill of fear went through Alec at his boldness, at what he was very nearly saying out loud. He remained silent.
They continued down the path. Trent’s hand was firmer now because Alec’s legs had gotten weaker and he was barely going on. They passed two older gentlemen in black tricorne hats with gold trim, both smoking cigars. They all nodded to one another.
“Pardon me if I’ve offended you,” Trent said after the two men had passed. He sounded worried, and Alec realized he was not as brazen as he appeared.
“No. No... I.” He kicked himself for his hesitancy. He wouldn’t be a coward now, not when Trent had put his neck on the line. “What I mean to say is, I am also far from a Lothario when it comes to the female sex. I’m not made that way. That’s why I... why I have decided to remain unwed. And to dedicate myself solely to my work.”
“You’re talking about a life of celibacy.”
Alec swallowed. As usual Trent’s bluntness was a little shocking. “Yes. It’s not so rare. Those in certain professions—priests, for example—have abstained for centuries.”
“That’s bollocks,” Trent said strongly. “And from what I’ve heard about priests, they’re not as celibate as all that.”
“But.... If you can keep your mind pure, surely that’s a state to be wished for. To live for art and higher ideas. Particularly if one’s predispositions are not... are not in the natural way of things. I think—”
“Let me ask you something,” Trent interrupted with a hint of impatience. “Would you find it admirable if a man never ate? So that he became skin and bones and got ill and abandoned his duties? And all the while he looked to the heavens with pious eyes and insisted God wanted him to starve to death because gluttony is a sin. Is that something to be admired? Or would you think he had a bat in the belfry?”
Alec pressed his lips together. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Or what about a man who refused to shit? Just kept it all bottled up inside because he felt it was beneath him?”
“Mr. Trent!” Alec gasped.
“We are physical beings, Mr. Allston. We must eat and shit and drink and move and make love. If you ask me, denying any part of our physical nature is not only a tragic folly, but it’s bound to lead to misery in the end. If you want to be happy in life, honor your physical nature, in moderation, with an eye to not harm anyone else, and, indeed, to do good where you can. Art and the church and politics and the law, they enrich a man’s life, to be sure. But the physical self is the base of well-being.”
Trent talked passionately, and Alec had to admit, he made a good argument. He thought of the way William had spoken about denial of the body’s longings as the highest aim, that purity was the only possible state for a man of elevated consciousness.
Yet now a very unhappy thread of doubt crept in. Did William espouse that course merely to avoid intimacy with Alec? Was it his way of holding Alec at arm’s length? Surely, he wasn’t planning to be celibate with his wife. There were the heirs to secure, if nothing else.
Damnation, he didn’t want to think about William and his bride. Tonight, of all nights, he didn’t want to think about William at all.
“But what if... what if one’s physical self, one’s innate appetites, would lead one to acts which are immoral and illegal? In that case surely it’s better to abstain entirely?”
Trent stopped walking. He turned to grasp both of Alec’s arms, as though he wanted to shake him. But he only held him firmly and stared intently into his eyes.
“Do no harm. Does it harm anyone if two people come together who want each other? If they give one another pleasure and warmth and smiles?”
He made it sound so innocent. “But they arrest men for it. Men have been executed!”
Trent’s expression grew pained. “Well I know it. A fellow I board with, Stockbridge, was caught up in that witch hunt in ’26, poor sod. Before that nobody much cared, then the Reformation societies got it in their heads that London was a pit of wickedness and God would destroy it like Sodom if they didn’t ensure that no one ever had a lick of fun again.”
“I’m familiar with the type,” Alec said dryly. He saw them often on the street corners passing out their pamphlets and raging about sin. “They’re terrifying.”
“They are,” Trent agreed. He sighed and took Alec’s arm again and they began walking. “I don’t know if you’ve heard much about their tactics, but back in ’26 they sent agents provocateurs into the molly houses in Holborn and Moorfields and entrapped men, spied on them. They threatened the younger boys with trial and execution if they didn’t testify against their regulars. It was a bloody rout.”
Trent sounded disgusted. Alec said nothing, but his heart was heavy. This was precisely what he feared.
“But,” Trent said firmly. “They’ve found other bushes to beat, and men have gotten shrewder and more secretive, and there hasn’t been a fuss made in some time. One must be careful, but, for God’s sake, we can’t stop living.”
Alec thought about that. “You see no conflict in breaking the law given your profession?” He asked not as an admonishment, but because he truly wanted to understand this complicated man.
“I’m a great respecter of the law. And there are cases which should be pursued. Children despoiled or forced into prostitution, people injured for the sake of another’s pleasure, rape. But not every law is reasonable or fair. Some things are simply misunderstood, minds blindered by tradition. And I return to my earlier point, do no harm.” He sighed. “I suppose you think me a bloody hypocrite.”
“I don’t think so. Not unless you arrested men for doing what you do yourself.”
“That has never come up, and if it did, I would refuse. Fortunately, Judge Fielding is a practical man. He doesn’t apply himself to the cause of London’s morality. We have work enough with real crimes.”
A family with a pretty, round-faced wife in a bonnet, a pleasant-looking husband, and a boy and girl of around ten approached. They greeted the family and received cheerful salutations in return.
What a strange world it was, Alec thought, with so many configurations. Young and old, large families and small, elderly couples, newlyweds, gentlemen who perhaps were bosom friends but would be horrified at the idea of more. And those who got up to things behind closed doors of which no one was the wiser. He supposed it must be so. He and William had carried on their dalliance, mostly in letters, true, but no one had guessed. And who knew but that the butcher’s wife had been secretly in love with the baker for decades? It reminded him of his shop where shepherdesses lounged on tables next to African beasts and King George in his coronation robes was arranged across from a humble field mouse.
Alec had thought himself a solitary figure, set up upon some high shelf, removed from it all. But here he was.
“As far as I’m concerned, other people with their opinions can bugger right off!” Trent said, from out of the blue and after many minutes of silence.
Alec should have been shocked. But instead he laughed out loud.
Trent gave him a wary smile. “Do I amuse you?”
“You’re astonishing, Mr. Trent. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
“Oh, trust me. I’m a dime a dozen. You’re the one with a special talent, Mr. Allston.”
“I trained for my work, like any man,” Alec said humbly, though he was secretly pleased.
The snow grew thicker, and Trent changed the topic to the weather for which Alec was grateful. He had enough to think about already.
The snow drove them back to the shop. When they got to the front door, Alec turned to say goodnight and found Trent close so that they stood face-to-face. Trent leaned in. Alec was scandalized. Surely, he wouldn’t.... But Trent only whispered in Alec’s ear. “Good night, my friend. Pleasant dreams. And if you dream of me, dream of me kindly.”
He leaned back and looked into Alec’s eyes. If he’d smirked or acted arrogant in that moment, Alec might have been able to shake him off, to finally dismiss him as a seducer, a rogue. But Trent did not. His expression was gently amused, and his eyes held a depth of affection that settled into Alec’s heart with an ache and caused longing to wash through him. Not just physical longing, though there was that, but longing for something he didn’t even dare dream of.
“Good night,” Alec said, blinking rapidly. He turned and let himself into the shop.