Convincing Leopold Page 8

  Ten years he had waited for a chance with Arthur, and the long wait had been in vain. When the man had finally given him that chance, Leopold had proved a spectacular failure to the point where he wasn’t even good enough to fuck anymore.

  Hurt flared anew, radiating across his chest. He let out a groan, low and weak and even more pathetic than himself.

  He had tried so hard to be everything Arthur needed. Had given the man his heart, his love, his very self. Vowed his loyalty and fidelity and held true to every promise, not that it had done a bit of good.

  He rolled back onto his stomach and stared into the flames flickering in the hearth.

  Arthur had made a promise to him in return, hadn’t he?

  Well, yes. More than one, in fact.

  Had Arthur kept them?

  No.

  No, he had not.

  That morning in his study back at Ramsey House crystallized in his mind.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you. Can you forgive me?” Arthur had asked.

  “Just don’t do it again.”

  “Never. I promise.”

  And Arthur had given him his word that he would tear himself away from his work for Leopold “without a second thought.”

  Yet every excuse Arthur had used to push him off had involved, or been a direct by-product of, his office. His hours there growing longer and longer, the damn place occupying his mind when they were together and making Leopold feel like an unwanted chore in the process.

  Leopold scowled as those excuses tumbled about in his head. “I had a long day at the office… There are other matters that require my attention in the morning… I have an early appointment… I can’t afford to be gone from the office… I’ve had a long day…”

  Arthur had not truly given him that chance, had he? No wonder Arthur did not love him. How could he have ever reached that point when he had, in essence, relegated Leopold to merely a distant second behind a pile of papers? The man had broken his promises, and what had Leopold done? Not much besides suck off Arthur at every available opportunity and feel sorry for himself.

  Well, not anymore.

  His eyes narrowed as determination and anger began to pound through his veins. If Arthur thought Leopold would let him so easily get away with breaking his promises—not just one, but plural—then the man was fit for Bedlam. True, Leopold had let him off easy that morning in the study, essentially handing the man his forgiveness with nary a fight. But not this time.

  He had once fought for Arthur, and he would fight to keep him. Force the man to keep his word and give Leopold the chance he deserved. The chance they deserved.

  Flinging the coverlet aside, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head swam from the abrupt movement, the shadowed outline of the armchair and the glow from the fireplace doubling for a moment.

  Food first and then… He took a deep breath and cringed, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Good Lord, he stank. How could he smell so bad when he had done absolutely nothing for days? He definitely needed to wash up.

  He went to the window beside his bed and tugged one of the drapes halfway but not all the way open—he needed to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the crisp, bright daylight. As he dug into the eggs and sausages, he picked up the Times nestled next to the plate on the tray and checked the date. Tuesday, February 12. He’d call it two days in bed, given Sunday had likely come by the time he had flopped onto the mattress. All in all, it could have been much worse.

  He skimmed down the front page of the Times, pausing on the advertisement at the bottom. A smile curved his lips as a plan formed to get Arthur to keep at least one of his promises.

  But as he shaved the dark stubble from his jaw a few minutes later, the possibility Arthur would refuse to cooperate, that his appetite had indeed been quenched of him and not merely doused under an ever-growing stack of papers, threatened to pull Leopold back under the thick blanket of despair.

  What if Arthur believed him unworthy? What if—

  No.

  With a forcible mental shove, he pushed back the darkness. Leaning down, he splashed water over his face to rinse off the remnants of the shaving soap—focused on the sting of the cold water, the way it snapped his senses to attention. He would not allow the doubts to chew away at him again. Not yet. Jones had said Arthur had called yesterday. For all Leopold knew, Arthur had not intended to ask if he could still call him friend.

  After he finished washing up, he went into his dressing room, got dressed, and then grabbed the leather saddlebag off the floor next to the neat row of shoes and boots. The last thing he needed at the moment was to sit in a carriage with nothing but his thoughts. He shoved a couple of shirts, drawers, cravats and a spare pair of breeches into the saddlebag. Then he was out the door of his bedchamber and striding down the corridor toward the back servants’ stairs, taking the quickest route to the stables.

  Chapter Seven

  Arthur took a sip of tea and turned to the next page of the contract on his desk. “Mr. Thornton is not at home.” The butler’s words echoed in his head yet again. Where had Thorn been yesterday? What had been so important that he had been gone at five in the evening?

  The butler had given the same response yesterday as he had two days ago when Arthur had inquired into Thorn’s whereabouts. Damn servants. Absolutely no help whatsoever.

  Arthur let out a short grunt of frustration. Nothing to be done for it, though, but to try again today. He pulled out his pocket watch. Not yet ten. The files and papers covering his desk screamed that he needed to remain exactly where he sat for many hours to come. But damn if he would allow another day to pass without speaking to Thorn. Brow furrowed, he assessed the state of his desk. At the very least, he couldn’t leave the office before luncheon. He needed to finish the contract.

  He pulled his mind back to the paper before him but could not remember what he had just read. With a shake of his head, he started back at the top of the page.

  Four days had passed without a visit or even a note from Thorn. They had not gone that long without seeing each other since their return from Yorkshire three months ago. Was Thorn intentionally avoiding him? Had he already moved on from Arthur?

  No, no. Arthur forced his grip to unclench from his pen. They had only had an argument…where he had acted like a complete arse. But he had left his card both times he had called. Thorn would know he had attempted, twice, to speak to him. Surely Thorn would take it as a sign that Arthur did not want to end matters between them. And he had told Thorn he had not meant to push him from the bed, had even tried to apologize that night.

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and willed his pulse to calm. It would be all right. Thorn loved him. Why Thorn loved him, how exactly someone like himself had earned such a man’s devotion…he hadn’t a clue. But surely Arthur had not single-handedly destroyed all traces of that devotion.

  He had finally reached the end of the contract when a knock sounded on his door. He had shut his office door when he had arrived that morning in an effort to keep Fenton from asking so many inane questions. The secretary would never learn to use his own brain if Arthur made it too easy for him. Ah well. The closed door had worked for a few hours.

  “Yes,” he called.

  Wilson, not Fenton, stepped into his office. “You have a visitor, Mr. Barrington,” he said, stopping before Arthur’s desk. “Mr. Amherst, a former client of yours. Are you available, or shall I have him schedule an appointment?”

  Randolph was here? Good God. It was on the tip of his tongue to have Wilson tell Randolph he was unavailable, but instead he said, “I can see him now.” No use prolonging the inevitable, and he certainly did not want Randolph knocking on the door of his apartments.

  He slipped his pen into the silver penholder, quickly tidied the papers on his desk, and then pulled his shoulders straight.

  The man
entered his office, his gaze scanning the room before shutting the door behind him. “Good afternoon, Barrington. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He took a seat in one of the chairs opposite Arthur’s desk.

  To his relief, his ex-lover’s appearance prompted no other emotion than a determination to express his disinterest in no uncertain terms and send the man on his way. Arthur opened his mouth, intent on conveying said disinterest, when Randolph held up a hand.

  “Please. I intend to make this visit short, and I intend to make it my last. I always planned to take a wife. It’s an expected thing for a man to do, and marriage can have its benefits if one is wise in their choice of a wife. The wedded state need not necessarily prevent a man from seeking his pleasures elsewhere, but I can understand if you feel differently. I can even respect it. I…” Letting out a breath, Randolph shook his head. The arrogance slipped from his features, replaced with what looked almost like regret. “I thought we understood each other, you and I. That we wanted the same thing from each other. Please know I never meant to cause you pain. I would be most thankful if you could find it within yourself to accept my apology.”

  Arthur briefly closed his eyes, then opened them again. Yes, that was indeed Randolph sitting across from him, his muscular frame nearly overpowering the chair. He could not conceive of a reason that would have possibly prompted Randolph to feel the need to apologize.

  Wooden joints creaked as Randolph shifted in the chair. “Please, Arthur,” he said, his tone dangerously close to approaching a plea.

  “Apology accepted.” He could give no other answer. His relationship with Randolph was firmly behind him, and it would do no good to be so churlish as to not accept the man’s apology.

  “Thank you.” Randolph stood. “If I could ask another favor, please do not mention this visit to Thornton. I do not wish to incur his wrath.” A distinct wariness briefly pulled his brows before he lifted his chin. “Yet I felt the need to speak to you one last time. Certainly you can understand and keep this visit between us.”

  “Why would I mention it to him?” Had he done something at the ball to tip his hand regarding his relationship with Thorn? Thorn certainly had not when he had pulled Arthur from his conversation with Randolph. The man had been all distant politeness. And it wasn’t as if he had been plastered to Thorn’s side the entire night. Had mere association been enough to rouse suspicion? But Arthur had seen Thorn speak to many other men that night. Surely Randolph did not believe all of them were buggering Thorn.

  “Because he is my replacement.” Randolph let out an indignant huff. “Come now, Arthur. A man does not lurk outside the necessary and threaten another with the loss of everything he holds dear for no reason. He made the consequences of coming anywhere near you again very clear.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “At Mr. Dunmore’s supper party. I would have never guessed it of someone like Thornton, but the man has quite the protective streak, at least when it comes to you. I can understand the appeal of him, but do be careful. He is the farthest thing from a model of discretion.”

  “A man can change.”

  Other than those four words in defense of Thorn, who had indeed proved the truth in them, Arthur held his tongue. He was not about to explain or justify his relationship with Thorn to anyone, and definitely not to Randolph. Though now he had the answer behind Randolph’s visit. During the tirade Arthur could only imagine Thorn had unleashed on him, Thorn must have said something to make Randolph suspect just how hard it had been for Arthur when he had ended their ten-year relationship.

  However much he did not approve of Thorn’s threats, he could not help but want to thank him. It warmed his heart that Thorn had gone to such lengths to protect him, and he did not doubt for a moment that Thorn would see the threats through if necessary. Frankly, he was amazed Randolph had taken the risk in calling on him today. Maybe he wasn’t as cold and selfish as Arthur had come to believe.

  “And you needn’t fear Thornton’s wrath,” he said, resisting the urge to leave Randolph in suspense. “Even if word were to ever reach his ears that you called today, I will make certain he understands there is no cause at all to follow through on his threats.”

  Eager to be done with this particular visitor, he bid Randolph good day. Yet this time when he watched the man walk away from him, he did not feel even a twinge of that old echo of pain.

  He made to reach for the next document that needed his attention, but paused, his fingers hovering above the pile on his left. Thorn’s uncle’s supper party had been the night before their argument. Had Thorn overheard Randolph’s proposition? Arthur had not confessed how uncomfortable conversing with him had been until after they’d left the ball. Randolph had earned Thorn’s hatred over how the man had treated Arthur during their relationship, but had more than hate and a need to protect prompted his threats? Had Thorn feared he would go back to Randolph? But he had told Thorn in the carriage that Randolph meant nothing to him…yet less than twenty-four hours later he had shoved Thorn away.

  A tight fist of worry grabbed his gut. He pushed from his desk. The hell with his office. He needed to see Thorn now.

  “What do you mean? Then where is he? And do not tell me again that Mr. Thornton is not at home.”

  One hand on the knob, poised to close the door, Thorn’s butler stared back at Arthur, lips pursed as though fighting the urge to inform him once more that Thorn was not at home. “Would you care to leave your card?”

  “I would care to know Mr. Thornton’s whereabouts. It’s not even noon. Has he instructed you to turn me away?”

  “If you would care to leave your card, you are welcome to do so. Otherwise, good day to you, Mr. Barrington.”

  With that, the servant made to close the door. Arthur lurched forward, about to flatten his hand against the door and demand an answer yet again, when the butler paused. He tilted his head, as if listening to someone. Beneath the rumble of a passing carriage, Arthur heard a murmured voice. Not Thorn’s. Then the butler stepped back, relinquishing his place to Jones.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the footman said, opening the door fully. “May I take your coat?”

  The abrupt change in hospitality caught him off-guard. He gathered his wits and stepped inside. As he shrugged his greatcoat from his shoulders, he scanned the entrance hall, but it held only himself and Jones, with the dour, tight-lipped butler lurking along the corridor leading to the back of the town house. “Where is he?”

  Jones took his coat and folded it over his arm. With his free hand, he motioned toward the left. “If you would come to the drawing room, sir.”

  Thorn preferred his study. Arthur always went straight up the stairs to the first door on the right, never to the drawing room. He studied the servant’s face but could detect nothing from his expression.

  That fist of worry gave a fierce wrench. He tipped his head, and with his heart slamming against his ribs, he followed Jones into the drawing room.

  He knew before he glanced about the elegantly appointed room with its black and gold Egyptian chairs and white marble fireplace that he would not find Thorn waiting for him. He turned to face the footman, prepared to start bellowing for Thorn, if that was what it would take to make the man appear.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea?” Jones asked as he closed the door.

  “Where is he?” Arthur repeated through clenched teeth, his nerves near shot. “And if you tell me he is not at home, you will sorely regret it.”

  “Mr. Thornton left yesterday morning,” Jones replied, ever the composed servant, not at all cowed by Arthur’s threat.

  That took Arthur aback. He had expected Jones to politely inform him that Thorn refused to see him and to please not call again, not that the man was in fact not somewhere in the house. “When will he return? What prompted him to leave? Was he called away on business?” he asked, grabbi
ng hold of a possible explanation, but to his knowledge, Thorn did not have any business interests outside of London except for his country estate in Yorkshire.

  “I do not know where he went or why, nor how long he will be gone. He did not receive a note or a visitor that morning. The only caller who has been by in the past few days has been yourself, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Then where was he two days ago? The butler informed me he was not at home, but you are telling me he did not leave until yesterday.”

  With a glance toward the closed door behind him, Jones stepped farther into the room, coming to a stop a pace from Arthur. The calm composure vanished, giving way to a concern that practically radiated from him. “Mr. Thornton was abed.”

  “At half past seven in the evening?” Thorn had a dislike of rising early, but seven was considerably beyond any definition of early.

  Brows lowered and mouth grim, Jones nodded. “He returned home late Saturday. I readied his room, then left him for the night. He remained abed until yesterday morning. I checked on him several times a day, brought him trays, which he barely touched. At first I thought he was ill, but he did not want me to summon a doctor. That ‘no’ was the only word I heard from him for two days. And he wasn’t foxed. He never asked for a bottle of whisky, nor did I find anything in his bedchamber to indicate he had sought one out on his own. And then abruptly he left. One of the kitchen maids saw him go out the back door carrying a saddlebag. The grooms reported he saddled a horse and left. No mention from him as to his direction.”

  Arthur’s mind reeled, unable to make sense of what Jones had told him. “He did not leave his bed for two days?” he heard himself ask, as if from a great distance.

  “Unfortunately yes, though I suspect he got up at some point during that time. The trays weren’t always untouched. A piece of toast gone, the pile of potatoes disturbed, a half-empty teacup. But he was so silent and still whenever I checked on him.”