Trapped

Chapter 2-2

Tristan hurried away from the club, his head ringing. The thought of not seeing Henri…Samuel, regularly made him feel queasy. Samuel. It suited him. His head spun as he walked the pavements, dodged a flower seller, made way for a large, drunken party squabbling over who should sit where in a ridiculously large coach. He held a handkerchief to his nose as he skirted past a sewer and then struck out towards Mayfair. When he reached his townhouse and the door opened he wondered anew whether the footman watched out for him, day and night, waiting specifically to open the door for him when he came home. As usual the huge mausoleum of a house was silent. His boot heels rang on the marble floor and the footman stood by his side ready to take his greatcoat, hat, and gloves. He straightened his coat, smoothed his hair, and made for the study where he dismissed the servants and poured himself a generous brandy. He tossed it to the back of this throat and poured another one and sat down behind his desk. It still felt wrong to sit behind his father’s desk, in his father’s study, in his father’s house. He ran a hand over the glossy surface. In the weeks since his father’s passing he didn’t know what he would have done were it not for Samuel. He’d never spoken of it, but the man seemed to know he needed more than just satisfaction. Tristan closed his eyes and let his head flop back onto the chair, trying not to think what his father would have said about the thing he was about to do. He sighed and took another, smaller sip of the brandy and, brushing away maudlin thoughts, applied himself to the problem at hand. He was good at problems. Better at problems than people most of the time, but this time, this time he had someone else to consider. Samuel. Samuel. Samuel. He kept saying the name in his head.

The money was no problem at all. The problem was constructing some kind of identity for Samuel so that they could spend time together without arousing suspicion. There was no doubt that he could find rooms for him, somewhere he could visit regularly. God, if he could have his way he would spend every night with Samuel in his bed. He didn’t even know what he was offering the man, or what the man wanted in return, but Samuel had said he loved him. He loved him. Him. Tristan. Tristan put his head in his hands as his heart started thundering again.

“What ho, old chap!”

Tristan almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard the door and the footman hadn’t made an announcement of a guest. His cousin from his mother’s side, Lord Alfred, better known to him as Alfie, stood in the door with his customary supercilious smile on his irritating face; the footman scurried behind him.

“Alfie,” he said, holding one hand to his chest. “You scared the life from me.” He only saw his cousin in fits and starts because he appeared to lead some sort of dual life. One as a gentleman of the ton, whose sole purpose in life was to irritate him, and another doing God only knew what for the Prince Regent.

“You look like you have the weight of the world on those small shoulders. What’s to do, dear one?”

Tristan tried to smile as Alfie walked very carefully across the room, in a manner that suggested he might have overindulged, and slid into a chair in front of the desk. Alfie was ten years older than him. Straight dark hair, dark eyes, dark soul. Even cast away he looked like he had stepped out of a fashion plate.

“Bit of a conundrum I’m trying to work out.”

“Glad to be of help. Women problems?”

If only his life could be so simple. “No, not women problems.”

“Ahhh,” Alfie said and wagged a finger. “Problems of the heart then.”

Tristan paused, uncertain of what he meant, and afraid to ask. “You’re foxed,” he said softly, kindly.

“I am.” He looked up, those dark eyes suddenly quite clear. “Don’t end up like me, old chap,” he said. “Find someone to love even if it is someone you can’t be with. Everyone needs someone to love them.”

Tristan stared and Alfie dropped his chin onto his chest and laughed. “Have your balls even dropped yet? You don’t look a day over eighteen.”

Thankful for the change in subject Tristan laughed. “My balls are just fine, thank you.” He bowed his head. “Is there someone that you love?”

Alfie stared at the ceiling for a moment then levelled that dark gaze at him. “Yes. Yes, there is. And I can’t have them so take heed.”

Tristan was taken aback. Alfie had never previously vouchsafed any personal information, so this was a surprise. He noted the fact that he didn’t say she, but kept quiet and wondered. He’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own needs, and his own shame that he had really not considered anyone else. He knew he wasn’t the only man to find an attraction to his own kind stronger than any attraction to women. Half of the chaps at school had experimented with each other. Most went on to marry, but he somehow couldn’t imagine it, and had certainly never found a woman that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, or even one that he could imagine bedding. He spent most of his time avoiding them, particularly in London during the season where it seemed that every young woman and every mama was hell bent on matrimony. As he was young, not ugly, wealthy, and came from a titled family, he was unfortunately considered a catch and he had discovered, almost to his cost, that young women could be incredibly devious when it came to securing a husband. His mourning black didn’t appear to deter, so he kept himself to the clubs and avoided mixed company where he could. He was lucky in that he did not have a huge family with expectations as to his appearance, but since his father’s death he knew that it was only a matter of time before the issue of his marriage and succession raised its ugly head again. He had tentatively decided that he would happily leave the estate to his cousin and his offspring, but looking at Alfie’s miserable face now he began to wonder.