Page 13 of The Demons of Wychwood

Lord Penhelligan’s cheeks pinked. “Well, I’m grateful. I guess it was wishful thinking to believe that Edward had come back to save me from myself.” He sighed again and that pitiful wish made me heartsick for him. He wanted this Edward to give a shit about whether he lived or died, and the bastard didn’t.

“You want him to care for you, don’t you?”

Havelock was back staring into the depths of his coffee cup. He started to speak in a dreamy sort of way,

“He does his duty…and that’s all a man like me can ask for. I’ve not been at my best these past six years.”

Gods, had they been at this back-and-forth for six years? I’d never had a special someone, and from watching my Ma and Pa I knew that relationships could be messy and some folks were less a blessing and more a curse, but this…whatever this was, it was beyond my understanding.

“Why do you keep it going? Surely there’s another more agreeable man in the club who could give you what you needed and wouldn’t drive you to drink, and worse?” I ventured.

“I don’t want this…I don’t want to be… this… an invert!” Havelock spat, whispering as if the kitchen mice were listening in. “My nature is an abomination in the eyes of the Church. Edward deals with my sickness. I don’t have any say in how he does it,” Havelock said dismissively.

I’d already had a feeling that Havelock hated being a queer, but the talk of him having a sickness, and all of the talk of demons I recalled from their last liaison made me shudder with revulsion. His nature didn’t bring him any happiness, not like the other men I saw loving in the rooms upstairs, men who snatched precious moments together before going back to their lives, duties, and probably their wives. I’d say that even a few hours of happiness is better than denying yourself for life. Havelock’s desires were a torture for him, and this Edward fellow was his jailer, a cunning brute who pretended he was trying to relieve Kit from his ‘sickness’. The whole sordid business was starting to make me feel queasy.

“Look, something ain’t right here…” I began, but Lord Penhelligan stopped me with a raised hand.

“I…I’ve said too much, Mr. Lazarus, forgive me.” Havelock looked stricken. “I don’t know what came over me. Why am I telling you this?” He questioned himself then said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t know you Mr. Lazarus and this is my private business. I’d be grateful if you would keep it to yourself. I will of course pay you for your silence.”

There was that lordly tone I knew so well. He’d just put me back in my place, beneath him.

“My employer has ensured everything that happens at Wychwood does not leave the house. I’m a trustworthy man, milord.” I gritted out the words. My old man would have slapped me around the head for saying that cos I’d just lost myself a nice bit of bribe money. But damn the man, I wasn’t in the extortion business. Silence settled between us again, and Havelock appeared conflicted.

“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr. Lazarus. I didn’t mean to sound so ungrateful. I am grateful for your help—for saving my life.”

“I was glad to be there when you needed help,” I admitted. “And if you need help again you know where I’ll be. You can find me at the GPO most days and here early on party days.” I said calmly. I meant every word. Maybe he wouldn’t lower himself to ever seek help from me, but I was adamant that he wasn’t suffering from any sickness, and I would not share his secret.

Our eyes met again, and Havelock considered me. “You are a curious fellow, Mr. Lazarus.”

The fraught atmosphere lifted, and I found I wanted Havelock to trust me more than anything.

“I know were of different classes, but I wouldn’t mind at all if you called me Felix, milord.”

“Felix,” Havelock said my name slowly as if he was tasting it. Then he gave me the first genuine smile I’d seen today, and it was like the sun had burned its way through the fog. That smile lit up his whole face and made him appear younger. I could see myself looking at a smile like that in the morning and being happy for the rest of my days.

“My friends call me Kit. If you want…you can call me Kit.” There was a halting, childlike quality to what he said, and I must admit my heart swelled like a sea sponge. Had I ever met such a lonesome, troubled man in all my days?

“Thank you, Kit,” I returned his smile. I saw how his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip in consideration of me, and my bollocks burned at the lewdness of such a simple act. We both stared at one another and squirmed in our seats as if painfully embarrassed by our strange new friendship. Kit’s choice of words made me feel warm inside, but I didn’t know if I could trust that feeling. I didn’t quite know what kind of friend I could be to Kit Havelock, Duke of Penhelligan. Could nobs and servants be friends? Could I believe his swift change of manner—from roughly pushing me against the alley wall with a hand to my mouth and a knife in my side, to this nervous fumbling surrender? It felt like I was dealing with two different people. I knew I liked the brooding, sensitive man I saw when he was awaiting his Edward. I felt for that man, and if I had the chance to give in to my nature, I wanted that man even for just one night to show him how good it could be without the angry threats, God bothering, and bindings. Kit Havelock was as powerful and haughty as you’d expect of a man from the upper classes, but he was not unkind. The fact he, an aristocrat, permitted me to use his moniker was a small victory. I hoped that we would meet again one day in other circumstances and maybe, he might learn to trust me more.

I was pulled from the orbit of Kit’s gaze by the gurgling of the range. I looked away and absently checked the time. “Crikey, milord…Kit, much as I’ve enjoyed our little chat, I’ve got work to do. You’re welcome to finish your coffee or find a comfortable spot upstairs but I’m afraid I can’t dally any longer.”

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