Page 12 of The Demons of Wychwood

“I could ask you the same thing,” Havelock said, adding one lump to his cup.

I didn’t have all day for these shenanigans!

“Okay then, one question each for starters. You first,” I suggested boldly.

Havelock took a sip of his coffee and after moments of silence said, “Very well. What is your particular job here for the parties?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Maids come in before me and clean the place up—they dust, set the fires, change the linens and get rid of any evidence the gents leave behind, if you know what I mean!” Havelock’s face twisted sourly, so yes, he did know what I meant.

“I add the flourishes…the finishing touches if you like. I set up the rooms; arrange the food, drinks, and flowers. I deal with the particulars of bedroom preparations too. The employer didn’t want to leave that in the hands of the maids!” I explained and saw how his eyes widened, and his cheeks coloured when I mentioned the bedrooms.

“But, I don’t recall ever seeing you here before, I would remember you—” He paused to let his eyes roam over me in a way that made my bollocks twitch. The blush of colour in his cheeks rose and mine burned. We both looked away and an uncomfortable impasse fell between us. Lord Penhelligan was a comely man, and I’d wondered what he thought of me. Hearing him say he would remember me was surprising and I wish I knew what he meant by that.

“So, how do you recognize me from my number? Where have you seen me and connected the face to the number?” It sounded to me like his lordship was getting himself in quite a pickle, worrying about what I knew of him and if his secret was safe.

“Nope, milord that’s not what we agreed,” I reminded.

“I didn’t agree to anything!” he whined.

I gave him a withering look and he couldn’t hold in his grin. “You’ve had your turn, milord. Now it’s my question.”

“You’re rather insolent, aren’t you Mr. Lazarus?” Havelock glared at me, annoyed that he hadn’t set the rules of this strange little game we were playing. As this was my one and only opportunity to have a chat with Havelock I decided not to beat around the bush—Fortune favours the brave, and all that!

“Answer me this, milord. What the bleedin’ hell is going on between you and Mr. 45, cos it sure ain’t friendship? You coves don’t even like each other.”

“I…I beg your pardon!” Havelock said in haughty outrage. He sat up in his chair his back as straight as an iron bar. His hands were shaking as he placed his coffee cup back on the saucer.

“Come now, milord. Let’s not mince our words. You understand that I know things I shouldn’t oughta know about a lot of gents, and I’m paid well for my silence. I have no plans on blackmailing you or any of the other fine gentlemen who frequent Wychwood – Life is short and lonesome, and what you do with your body is up to you and your maker. But I do have a problem with finding that one of my gents has got himself so upset that he decided that sliting his wrist is a good idea.”

I couldn’t help the anger in my tone. I knew that this wasn’t any of my business, but he did try to kill himself at my place of work, so I’d made it my business. Talking to him in such a bold manner was dangerous though—like juggling shards of glass. He was my better and so I knew I was taking my life into my own hands. This man was born into a wealthy family and was given an easy ride in life, and yet, he’d wanted to die. For my sanity, I needed to understand what was so bad about his lot that death was the better choice. I pinned my gaze on Lord Penhelligan. His face appeared bloodless and pale, and he stared into his coffee cup. When I saw how beaten down, he looked I regretted the roughness of my tone. He was a strapping, handsome man, but there was something very fragile about him too.

“Don’t worry, milord. I won’t hurt you and I won’t tell no one your secret. You’re not in any trouble and—“His eyes darted up to meet mine, and the look I saw was of pleading terror. I’d seen wounded men in pain, crying out for good reason cos they’d taken a bullet or a sword blade in the gut, but this cove had no wound that I could see, still, he looked at me with the same desperate pain. In exasperation I exclaimed,

“For crying out loud, why would I hurt you after I saved your bleedin’ life?”

I knew I’d said too much as soon as the words fell from my stupid mouth. What was it about Christopher Havelock that made my sense flicker out like a candle in a breeze and words tumble out of me?

In the eyes of the Church, suicide’s a sin. It’s something that’s drummed into us all from nipper to adult. Those that succeed at the act are denied their place in heaven and don’t even get a proper burial. Those who live to tell the tale are shamed for the rest of their days. The way I sees it, you’d have to be in a dark-dark place in your head to even think that toppin’ yourself’s a good idea. I ain’t never had a bad injury nor been in such pain that I wanted to be dead, but I can think of circumstances where looking for a quick way out would suit me just fine, thank you very much. I never saw my Ma when she was sick, but from what Elowen tells me, she suffered something awful, and with my old man in gaol there was little money for Laudanum to ease the pain. I swear though, if I’d been in England instead of in India I would have helped find her a quick exit as a kindness.

“YOU!” Havelock breathed out that word as if it was an accusation. “Y…you were the one who…not him?” He spoke to the cup of coffee as if he couldn’t bear to look at me. I could see shame flood into his expression just like the tide rolling in. I felt a little tug in my gut, and my fingers ached to reach out to comfort him, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate coddling.

“Yeah. I was the one who found you and tended to your wound,” I admitted. “I swear, it was a blessing your knife wouldn’t cut butter,” I added, trying to make light of the horrible topic. Then I remembered I still had his knife. I thrust my hand into my trouser pocket and retrieved the small-bladed flick knife.

“Here, you might as well have it back to use as a letter opener, cos that’s all it’s good for,” I sneered as I pushed the Mother of Pearl handled knife across the table. Now you might think me foolish to give this desperate man a weapon, but I didn’t want him to consider me a thief. Maybe you think ‘Felix, he might try again,’ but I didn’t believe Christopher Havelock wanted to die. What I saw was a man who was out of his depth; he was drowning in whatever secrets made him so afraid. He grabbed the knife and held it between both hands. He looked so full of sorrow that I didn’t think he had it in him to cut a nail with that blade, let alone stab me or himself.

“I thought…I thought that finally he cared…that Edward had come back to save me. “ He shook his head and slipped the knife into a pocket. He fisted his hands into his dark curls and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Edward?” I prodded.

“General Edward Napier… you called him Mr. 45.”

Well, blow me down. A Duke getting plowed by a General. What a scandal that would make if it got out! We sat in silence for a minute sipping our scalding coffee before Havelock raised his eyes giving me the most genuine look I’d seen from him yet.

“Um…thank you, Mr. Lazarus. I drank far too much that night and got myself into quite a state,” he admitted. Havelock didn’t have a clue that I’d seen the whole fiasco from start to finish—the fighting, the submission, and then the fucking between him and his Edward—and I hoped he wouldn’t ever find out.

“I woke up when Joshua banged on the door. I saw all of that blood on the sheets, and over me. I was horrified. I noticed how neatly my wrist was bandaged.” Havelock paused and then, almost conversationally he said ”It was a good bandage and in spite of the circumstance I was rather impressed.”

“I fought in India and sometimes assisted a battlefield surgeon with the wounded.”