Brook Street: Fortune Hunter (10 page)

Once he had a moment to catch his breath, he gathered Oscar in his arms and rolled onto his back, taking the man with him. The muffled tap of the rain against the windows mixed with the sounds of Oscar’s panting breaths.

Julian tucked him closer to his side and kissed the top of his head, his tousled hair tickling his nose. “I did not mean to ignore you tonight.”

A pause. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not all right.” He knew what it felt like to be ignored. It was a horrible feeling. Empty yet ugly. Made one want to fold in on oneself. To just disappear.

“Do you prefer men, or are you the type who prefers men and women?”

Oscar’s question took him aback, so much so that the truth fell from his lips before he could give it thought. “Just men. I’ve been with women but I don’t prefer them.” He wouldn’t go so far as to classify women a chore, more a necessity. Then it hit him, why Oscar would ask such a question. “I dance with women because…”
I need one to marry me.
He caught the words before they left his mouth. “…it’s expected.”

Did Oscar suspect he was looking for a wife? The truth would eventually make itself known—it wasn’t as if he could hide an engagement, though he was hiding the real reason why he was in London from Oscar. Had dodged the man’s questions without giving any thought to his reasons. Had done it instinctively. Continued to do it. But when Oscar
did
discover why Julian had returned to London…

A chill swept through him. The muscles in his arms tensed, poised to pull Oscar even closer.

Yet he forced himself to remain motionless. He needed a fortune, and for that he needed to marry. Perhaps Oscar would understand. He knew Julian hadn’t a shilling to his name. Perhaps he wouldn’t lose Oscar’s friendship. And until then, they could remain exactly as they were. Or at least he hoped they could.

As he lay there and waited for a response from Oscar, he tried not to think about how his throat had gone tight, how every second felt like a damn hour.

Oscar nodded, a slow bob of his head, as if coming to a conclusion. “I sometimes dance, too. Not often, but for the same reason.”

Satisfied he’d placated at least one of Oscar’s concerns, he pressed another kiss to the top of his head. “I should not have ignored you. I’m sorry I was an arse tonight.”

Chin tipped down, Oscar toyed with the smattering of hair on Julian’s chest, fingers drifting over his skin. Surely the man could feel Julian’s heart slamming against his ribs. Oscar’s fingers went still. He shrugged. “At least you have a handsome arse.”

Relief whooshed through Julian. He pulled Oscar fully on top of him, their legs tangling together, and captured Oscar’s lips. Poured his thanks into the kiss. “But your arse is downright delectable.”

Oscar chuckled, an absolutely delightful sound. “Delectable?”

“Indeed.”

Oscar leaned back to allow the footman to refill his wine glass. Dinners at Benjamin Parker’s town house were a nice respite from the whirl of the social season. While he enjoyed attending functions, sometimes a quiet dinner among a handful of friends exactly matched his mood.

It was their second dinner at Parker’s. Not
his
second, of course, but
their
second—his and Julian’s.

He glanced down the table to Julian, who was seated beside Radcliffe. As if sensing Oscar’s gaze, Julian pulled his attention from Radcliffe, met Oscar’s gaze then turned back to his conversation.

Bringing his glass to his lips, Oscar took a sip of wine to hide the smile spreading across his mouth.

Julian was a right fine friend.

More than a friend, in fact, if Oscar was honest with himself. He truly enjoyed Julian’s company. He truly enjoyed just
being
with him. Having Julian sit with him at the breakfast table, taking a ride about Hyde Park together, sharing a drink in the study before departing for the evening’s function. And it was immensely nice to have someone to call his own. He had never had that before. Radcliffe was Radcliffe, a good friend who had been an occasional bed partner. The groom from Yorkshire had tupped half the maids and buggered at least one footman while dallying with him. Julian, though…

He could call Julian his own, couldn’t he? Even though their nights ended in Julian’s bed—nights that left Oscar gasping for breath and in a lovely haze of sated pleasure—they had not had a direct conversation about the bedchamber portion of their relationship. Julian was definitely his friend, and he Julian’s. They supported each other, were there for each other, understood each other. A fortnight had passed since the incident at the Hunts’ ball, and not once since then had Oscar felt forgotten. And it wasn’t as if they spent every moment together at functions. Like any good gentleman, Julian stood up with a few ladies, and he sometimes played cards with other men, some of whom had become his friends. But that feeling was always there—that Julian was there with him and would leave with him. They had become almost inseparable, rather like Radcliffe and Anderson, and Bennett and Norton.

As Oscar sliced into a piece of roasted duck, he turned their relationship over again in his head, looking for any cause for doubt. But found none.

Yes, he did believe he could truly call Julian his own.

A wonderful warmth filled his chest, and with it a calming sense of security. Tonight, he and Julian would go home together. Before the sun rose, Oscar would slip from the man’s bed, go back to his own. In the morning, Julian would walk into the breakfast room, dark hair neatly combed and jaw freshly shaven, the faint stubble that had tickled Oscar’s lips, brushed across his shoulder, teased his lower belly but hours ago now gone. Over coffee and eggs, they’d discuss plans for the day, occasionally going their separate ways, though more often than not their plans aligned. Then it would be off to a ball or the theatre or a card party. And at the end of the evening, he and Julian would go home together.

“You’re rather quiet tonight, Woodhaven.” Parker’s voice cut through Oscar’s thoughts, jolting his attention to the man seated at his left at the head of the table. A bit of concern lurked in Parker’s hazel eyes. “Something on your mind?”

Yes, he did have something—or someone, to be more specific—on his mind. Someone who filled his thoughts even when they weren’t together.

Oscar was able to resist the impulse to glance down to Julian again, though he could not keep the smile from spreading across his mouth. “Just enjoying the fare.”

“The duck is brilliant, Parker.” Bennett popped a piece into his mouth. “Even better than the lamb cutlets from our last dinner. Far surpasses anything that comes out of my hotel’s kitchen. Finding a decent cook in London…” Shaking his head, he let out a heavy sigh. “Harder than I would have imagined. Is there any way I could persuade you to lend yours out to me?”

A furrow touched Parker’s brow. “You want me to lend my cook to you?”

“I wouldn’t be so rude as to actually steal him. So lend, yes, if you would be so kind. The hotel is only a few streets away. He could still cook for you, just from the hotel’s kitchen.”

“I will most assuredly pass along your compliments on the fare, but he is content in my kitchen.”

“Are you certain you couldn’t part with him for a short time?” Bennett asked. “I’d be indebted to you.”

“I’m certain.” All traces of Parker’s genial smile were gone, his eyes hard and determined. “He’s not available.”

The other conversations around the table ceased. Tension hung heavy in the air. Oscar shifted in his chair. Norton was giving Bennett a look which clearly said
enough.
Mercer’s fork was suspended halfway to his mouth, Anderson appeared mildly amused, while Julian was clearly as taken aback as Oscar.

Dear Lord. He’d never seen Parker get upset about…well, anything before.

“My apologies. I understand completely.” Bennett smiled, affable and good-natured, in an attempt to appease Parker’s ire. “If he was mine, I wouldn’t risk letting him out of my kitchen either. You’re very fortunate to have secured one of the few cooks in London who can make a decent duck roast.”

Parker tipped his head. “I do consider myself very fortunate.”

“I heard Lady Whitley has been snatched from the marriage mart already,” Oscar said, hoping to turn the conversation on to a new, less volatile topic. “She’s to become Mrs. Hollobrook.”

“Trading her title for a wealthy old man, is she?” Radcliffe gave his head a condescending shake. “If she has aspirations to become a widow again soon, she’ll be disappointed. The Hollobrooks are known for their longevity.”

Greed was a powerful motivator. Oscar knew that well enough. But the thought that a lady would marry under the hopes her husband would soon perish? A little chill swept up Oscar’s spine. “Perhaps she cares for him,” he offered.

“That is a possibility, however remote.” Radcliffe turned to Julian. “What do you think? Does the lady truly care for Hollobrook? Or has she merely convinced Hollobrook she cares for him?”

The emphasis Radcliffe placed on
convinced
brought a frown to Oscar’s lips. What the hell was Radcliffe implying with that comment? Was he attempting to make a roundabout reference to Julian’s father or grandfather?

Julian smiled, but Oscar could detect the tension bracketing his mouth.

Goddamn Radcliffe.

“You should ask Anderson that question. He’s a better judge than I,” Julian said. “My acquaintance with lady is confined to guiding her about the dance floor.”

Oscar opened his mouth, but before he could call Radcliffe an arse, Anderson spoke up.

“The lady does have a reputation for lavishing a gentleman with
care.
So yes, Woodhaven could have it right.”

A chuckle rumbled around the table.

That had not at all been the sort of care Oscar had been referring to, and he was certain Anderson was well aware of it. Rather than press his point, Oscar closed his mouth. Anderson had effectively turned the table’s attention off Julian, and for that Oscar was thankful. He’d pull Radcliffe aside at the next available opportunity and remind him again that Julian was not at all like his father or his grandfather.

The door to the kitchen swung open. A footman entered the dining room to clear the table. Over port and delicious almond cakes, the conversation turned to Tattersalls and the races at Newmarket, the recent Second Spring meeting and which jockeys were rumored to have been bribed.

As Stoddart and Mercer argued over who had actually been responsible for a favorite going lame, Parker leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the white linen tablecloth.

Taking the cue, Oscar checked his pocket watch. Knowing his host’s preferences, it wouldn’t be polite to linger overlong at the table. He finished the last splash of port in his glass and pushed to his feet. “We should be on our way. Thank you for supper, Parker.”

The other guests followed his lead, extending their thanks and bidding Parker good evening.

Oscar’s carriage awaited them outside Parker’s front door to take them the short distance up Brook Street to Oscar’s town house. The early May evening air held no hints of the day’s rain, the sky a swath of deepest midnight marred only by the crescent moon. He entered the carriage, taking a place on the forward-facing bench and leaving room for Julian to sit beside him. He would have much preferred to have sat beside Julian rather than Mercer during the meal, but Parker followed custom and broke up his guests to encourage conversation.

Julian settled beside him, his upper arm just grazing Oscar’s shoulder. Once the footman shut the door, Oscar scooted closer, drawn as always by the strength of the man.

“It’s early yet. Care to stop by White’s for a game of cards?” Oscar asked. Speaking of White’s, while he was there, he should make a few discreet inquiries. The club did not allow indefinite guests. Soon, the club would frown upon Julian’s presence. But if Oscar’s inquiries yielded no hints of resistance—aside from the possibility of Radcliffe, but Oscar would have a separate conversation with him—then he would suggest to Julian to apply for membership.

“No, I’d rather not stop by White’s tonight.”

Julian did not want to go to White’s?

Before Oscar could wonder further on the topic, Julian added, “I would much rather follow Benjamin’s example. Retire early tonight.”

The large hand drifting up Oscar’s thigh indicated Julian did not want to fully follow his cousin’s example.

The hell with White’s. He could make his inquiries tomorrow.

Oscar grabbed Julian’s hand, pressed it over the placket of his trousers, over his rapidly hardening cock. “Sounds like a capital plan.”

* * *

Julian pulled the curricle to a stop. The tiger perched on the boot hopped off and scurried around to grab the team’s heads. Leaving the curricle in the boy’s capable hands, Julian crossed the street.

“You are aware that gentlemen are expected to make good on their vowels?”
Radcliffe’s question from last night echoed in Julian’s head.

A scowl flickered across Julian’s face. Of course he damn well knew gentlemen were expected to make good on their vowels.

“Good to hear, because Miss Katherine Wright holds her brother’s opinion in the highest regards.”

Another thing Julian was already well aware of.

The tinkle of a bell announced his arrival as he opened the shop’s door. Shelves covered with trinkets and baubles and the occasional serving bowl lined one wall. Various paintings, some done in watercolors and others in oils, along with a few etchings hung on another wall. The goods appeared to be of decent quality; nothing tattered or broken but nothing that screamed
treasure
either. The sort an average man would possess. Exactly what Julian expected to find in the shop.

Reassured, he wound around four matching dining chairs, passed a curio cabinet filled with silver cutlery—each piece marked with a neat little white tag—and stopped at the counter near the back of the shop.

An elderly man, his clothing tidy but not fashionable, closed a ledger and tucked it behind the counter. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Julian pulled the cravat pin from his pocket and dropped it into the man’s wrinkled palm. “What would you give me for this?”

“Are you looking to pawn or to sell?”

“Sell.” He doubted the shopkeeper would offer him a large enough loan for it, so no use even going down that path.

“What do you want for it?”

“I need one hundred and fifty pounds.”

The shopkeeper let out a harrumph. Not a very encouraging sound. “Looks to be real gold.” He brought the pin to his mouth and tested the metal between his teeth.

Julian suppressed a wince of disgust. Regardless of the verdict, he could not wear the pin again now.

“Real gold.” The man lifted a jeweler’s monocle to his eye, held the pin up close to examine it. “But the stone… Not so sure about it.”

Julian’s gut tightened. The stone was an excellent imitation, so much so that he’d never had anyone doubt its credibility…until today. This was the third pawn shop he had visited in a matter of hours, and he had deliberately chosen it for its distance from Bond Street, in the hopes he would find a shopkeeper who was not as astute as the other two.

That pin was the only thing of any value that he’d brought with him from Philadelphia. Two old coats, a few shirts and trousers, and the pin to grace the new cravats he had planned to purchase once he reached London. If this man claimed the diamond was actually paste, he didn’t know what he would do.

While Oscar’s generosity had saved him the expense of a hotel, one could not save more than one had. He didn’t have the money to make good on his vowels, at least not until he married. He knew his position in society was still rather precarious. Knew Society was fickle. Knew it could turn against him in the blink of an eye. Yet still, he had gambled against his future and signed his name to those scraps of paper.

Why had he even written those damn things? Why had he continued to write them? And why in the name of all that was holy had he thought he could repay them in his own time? If he couldn’t make good on those damn vowels, then Radcliffe would brand him a dishonorable man. His reputation, the reputation he had worked so hard to cultivate and foster, to the point of writing those goddamn vowels, would be tattered.

Worse than that.

Shredded beyond repair.

It would begin with hushed whispers. That’s how all reputations turned to shreds. Those whom he called friend would say they knew all along that he was just like his father. A reprobate. A degenerate gambler. A man whose word wasn’t worth a scrap of paper.

An icy-cold prickly rush of sensation swept up his chest, shortening his breaths.

He wouldn’t be able to beg a woman to notice him, let alone marry him. London had been his only chance. No one in Philadelphia society would notice him. Not Julian Parker, son of Matthew Parker, who had gambled his way across the city before tumbling from his horse in a drunken stupor. Not Julian Parker, whose greedy mother had barely waited until his father had been put in the ground before marrying a wealthy old merchant. But he had family connections in London. Had known Benjamin, kind soul that he was, would at the very least take him around Town.