Convincing Leopold (13 page)

At a complete loss for what to do, Arthur stared out the
bowfront
window. He had never felt so powerless in all his life. God only knew where Thorn had gone and why. But Arthur knew one thing with absolute certainty—he had been the cause. His actions, and lack thereof, had driven Thorn to his bed for days, and for a reason known only to Thorn, his call had prompted his hasty departure.

Why in the name of all that was holy had he allowed Thorn to leave his apartments? Why ever had he thought it wise to wait two days before calling on him? He was well aware Thorn did not deal with rejection well. Hell, he had been the one to pry that bottle of gin from Thorn’s shaking hand, his pale cheeks wet from more than the rain.

“I do not mean to cause you undue worry, Mr. Barrington, but I thought that since you are Mr. Thornton’s friend, you would want to be apprised of the situation.” The man spoke the word friend without a telling pause. Amazing, considering Arthur was now convinced Jones more than suspected the true nature of their relationship. Even more amazing, he had the impression it did not matter one whit to Jones.

“Thank you,” Arthur said with a nod. “Please inform me the moment he returns home or if you receive word from him.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Barrington.”

The woman took a step closer, her violet silk skirts brushing his legs, and slid her small hand up Arthur’s chest. “So strong.” She practically purred, the sound soft and slow as honey and designed to curl a man’s toes.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, carefully removing her hand from his chest. He looked over her blonde head and scanned the receiving room of Madame Delacroix’s for a third time. Damnation. No sign of Thorn. He had not wanted to spot the man on one of the velvet settees with a tart sprawled on his lap, but he damn well needed to find him.

“You needn’t look for another. I will gladly do
anything
you desire. And I cannot wait to wrap my lips around this.”

A hand palmed his prick through the placket of his trousers. Arthur could not stop the instinctive flinch. Must they always touch? He cleared his throat and removed her hand from his person yet again. “Thank you for the offer, but I am looking for an acquaintance. A Mr. Leopold Thornton. Do you know him?”

A smile curved her rouged lips. He did not care at all for the spark that lit her light blue eyes. “Yes, I have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

“Would you happen to know if he is here tonight or if he has been by of late?” Breath held, he waited for her response.

“I have not seen him for months. Pity that.” She gave a little shrug of a slim shoulder. “But I would like to see more of you.” Tracing one of the fabric-covered buttons on his waistcoat, she leaned closer and gazed up at him from under the fan of her lashes. “Come upstairs,” she implored, toying with that button as though impatient to tug it free. “Let me give you a night of pleasure you will never forget.”

Taking a step back, he reached into his coat pocket. “I regret I must decline.” He took her hand before she could reach for him again and pressed his last couple of pound notes into her palm. A tip of his head and he turned on his heel.

A burly footman shut the front door of Delacroix’s behind him. Arthur took a deep breath of cool night air, trying to rid the combined scents of sex, sweat, and sticky sweet perfume from his nose. After not getting a wink of sleep last night, he had decided to go search for Thorn himself. If he had to drag the man’s foxed
arse
from a whore’s bed, then so be it. But three brothels and two gambling hells later and his pocket fifteen pounds lighter, no one had seen Thorn for months.

He looked up the street and heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the worry and exhaustion that had been his constant companions of late. No way could he make it back to his apartments on foot. He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around the few remaining coins. Should be enough for a hackney to see him home.

* * *

As he hung his greatcoat on the rack in the corner of his parlor, Arthur took solace in the knowledge that he had not found proof Thorn had slipped back into his old habits. That, at least, was something. But the city held countless hells and houses of ill repute. For all he knew, Thorn could have taken up at some molly house in the stews. He cringed at the thought of walking into one of those places.

“Can’t possibly check them all,” he mumbled to himself as he trudged across his parlor and into his bedchamber, the feeble moonlight seeping through the windows providing just enough light to keep the rooms from pitch darkness. He knew of the existence of such houses but did not know where to find them all. Just as he did not know where to find Thorn.

Desperate for some warmth to chase away the chill of the lonely room, he lit the fire in the hearth and poked at the flames until they roared to full life. Thorn had taken a saddlebag when he’d left the house. Perhaps he had left London altogether in his effort to avoid Arthur. The man could truly be anywhere. Arthur could search the countryside for days, weeks, even months in vain. Not that he had the luxury of leaving his office unattended for weeks or months. The afternoon appointment with His Grace had solidified that. But the news that he had indeed succeeded and could now include the Duke of
Menteith
in the ranks of his clients had not brought a bit of happiness to disturb the ever-mounting worry that clung to his every thought.

After resting the iron poker against the brick surround, he pushed to his feet and began to unbutton his coat. Perhaps it was best to remain in Town and wait for Thorn to return of his own volition. Even if Thorn did not intend to present himself at Arthur’s door again, Arthur felt confident Jones would send word the moment his master arrived home. Thorn had family and a town house in London. He could not be gone indefinitely.

Yes, he should remain in London and wait. It was the most prudent course of action. He draped his coat and waistcoat over the back of the wooden chair at his writing desk, then tugged on the knot of his cravat. And searching thus far had yielded no results. He needed to use what hours were left before dawn to get some rest, not spend them plaguing himself with questions only Thorn held the answers to.

But logic and reason could not wipe that image from his head of Thorn, soaking wet and on his knees before the liquor cabinet at Ramsey House. Bottles strewn about him, shoulders hunched and head bowed in utter misery.

A lance of searing pain sank into his chest, twisting deep, then flaring to encompass his entire being.

Knees threatening to buckle, he sat on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, the long length of his cravat hanging loose and forgotten about his neck. The thought that Thorn could be out there somewhere alone, his heart beyond broken, and convinced Arthur did not want him…

Pain sliced into his chest again. What he would not give to go back to that night. To grab Thorn before he could reach the door and tell him he more than wanted him. That he needed him. Loved him.

Arthur let out a groan, low and hoarse and filled with wretched despair.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, eyes closed tightly against the hot sting of tears as the realization smacked into him. “You’re a goddamn fucking bastard.”

All Thorn had wanted was to be with him. What had been so wrong in that?

Nothing at all.

But Arthur had pushed him away. Had pushed away a man who would have loved him until the end of his days. He had been so afraid of repeating the mistakes he had made with Randolph. So scared of being left alone with a broken heart. Yet here he sat, alone, his heart howling in misery, and it was all his own doing.

He hadn’t loved Thorn as he deserved. Hadn’t treasured him or cherished him. He had been too busy looking for faults, bracing for Thorn to fail.

But in the end,
he
had failed Thorn. Absolutely and completely and in every way that counted.

* * *

Stilling his hand, Arthur lifted his head and looked to the closed door of his office. His heart lurched against his ribs. Had that
been
—

No. Merely wishful thinking and a too-tired mind playing tricks on him. A damn cruel trick, though.

With a shake of the head, he turned his attention back to the list on his desk. He added Dennett’s to the column of names. As that particular hell was located but a few blocks from his apartments, he had checked there on his walk into the office. Tapping the end of his pen against his desk, he racked his brain for any other hells or brothels he could add to the list to check this evening after his stop at No. 4 Bow Street. Runners were known to take on private assignments, and while there was no outstanding warrant for Thorn’s arrest, hopefully a thick enough fold of pound notes would entice one to search the stews. And if that search turned up empty, well, he would simply hire someone to search beyond London.

The door clicked open.

Frustration surged within. He looked up, intent on sending Fenton back to the man’s desk, but the words stopped in his throat.

“Afternoon, Barrington,” Thorn said, striding into the room, the length of his long dark greatcoat flapping about his calves. “If you would put the pen down, I need you to come with me.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. He blinked. Thorn was here, in his office? Had he conjured the man by will alone?

“Where have you been?” The question that had filled his head for the past two days popped out as he greedily soaked up the sight of Thorn. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, a chunk of his black forelock grazed his lashes, and his gray eyes were pinned on Arthur. A sight he had truly feared he might never see again.

Thorn stopped before his desk. “The pen, please. Put it down.”

“But—”

“I’ve already informed your secretaries that you are needed out of town and will return on Monday. Whatever you are working on can wait. Come with me.” Thorn turned on his heel with a curt, “Now.”

Unwilling to let Thorn out of his sight, Arthur scrambled to push from his chair. He made to round the desk, then reached back to grab the list and shove it into his pocket. Without a backward glance, Thorn strode through the anteroom of the office and out the door. Grabbing his greatcoat from the rack in the corner, Arthur hurried after him.

Thorn’s team of four stood waiting along Clifford Street, mere steps from the building that held Arthur’s office. Jones opened the door of the traveling carriage as Thorn approached. Arthur shoved his arms through the sleeves of his coat before following Thorn inside and taking up a place opposite him on the black leather bench.

The door snapped shut; then the carriage lurched forward.

For a long moment, he could do nothing but stare at Thorn. The man’s attention was fixed out the window in the narrow door, jaw set and arms crossed over his chest.

Arthur cast a quick glance about the carriage, noting the two valises on the floorboards. He did not recognize the black leather one with the polished silver buckles. Must belong to Thorn. The other one with the scuffs marring the brown leather he recognized as his own.

Thorn had stopped at his apartments and packed his bag while Arthur had been sitting at his desk, worried nearly out of his mind?

His gaze snapped back to Thorn, who continued to stare out the window as though he were the only occupant in the carriage. The man had not once glanced to him since they had left his office, let alone spoken another word. Nothing. No offer of an explanation for his abrupt appearance. No answer to Arthur’s question about where he had been or a hint as to where he was taking him.

His breaths quickened, hitching in his chest. The last week, with all its worry and fear and indecision and heartache. The calls to Thorn’s home, the visits to the brothels and the hells, and the sleepless nights. The ever-growing stacks of papers on his desk that he had barely made a dent in of late and the devastating realization that he had failed Thorn. It all blended together, forming a noxious riot that built stronger and stronger with each passing second. With each rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves against the street. Until his muscles fairly vibrated under the force of it. Until he could not contain it another instant.

“Where have you been?” The question cracked across the distance separating them.

Without a change in his expression, Thorn turned his head to finally look at him.