Maxim remembered his shame of the previous night. How he had left Christopher’s bedchamber and retired to his study, where he had proceeded to imbibe too much brandy. He had later staggered up the stairs to his own bedchamber. Once there, he had needed to unfasten his evening trousers and release his cock, unable to wait a second longer for his release as he stroked and pumped until he spilled his seed over his hand and waistcoat.
He vaguely remembered throwing off his soiled clothing after that, and then falling into bed naked.
Only to be woken this morning with the unwanted news that Christopher was no longer in the house.
Maxim had no choice but to accept his departure for what it was, a rejection of any more assistance—or intimacy—from Maxim.
Hopefully, he would be able to see and apologize to Christopher when the other man returned to the club to work this evening. If Christopher’s injuries hadn’t completely manifested themselves into immeasurable pain or become infected by then and he was unable to rise from his bed.
He was well enough to rise from the bed in my guest bedchamber sometime during the night before disappearing without so much as a word as to his leaving or where he was going.
Maxim decided he was more hurt than angry by Christopher’s actions, worried too, because he had no idea where Christopher lived, so he could not check on his safe return home. Mayhap one of the other boys, the cheerful and outspoken Billy, perhaps, would be able to tell him that when they came in to work at the club later this evening?
In the meantime, Maxim decided he would eat his breakfast and deal with correspondence for the rest of the morning before meeting Wulferston or Stonyhurst, or both, for luncheon at their gentleman’s club. In the early evening, he would go to the Apollo to wait for Christopher to arrive. If he failed to make an appearance, Maxim would then question Billy as to where Christopher currently resided.
It was a plan of sorts, even if Maxim would far rather do none of those things because Christopher was still in his house and allowing Maxim to care for hm.
So that I might also pet and caress him.
Maxim’s breathing became ragged at the memory of Christopher’s silky skin beneath his fingertips.
His anger rose again at the thought of how that skin would have been totally unblemished before that fucking monster of a chef had taken his fists and belt to Christopher because he had consistently refused the chef’s sexual demands.
That anger dissipated again at the thought of Christopher having become aroused by Maxim’s stroking fingers. Christopher’s climax had been quiet but powerful.
Maxim wished it had been his fingers about the boy’s cock, or those same fingers penetrating and then stroking into Christopher’s arse that had resulted in that delicious and intoxicating release, rather than from only caressing between Christopher’s buttocks.
The renewed throbbing of Maxim’s cock, and his determination not to indulge himself again, caused his morning to drag by. It brought with it a return of his temper, which he still felt when he met up with Wulferston and Stonyhurst for luncheon.
He had sent a note to each of those two gentleman during the morning, asking for the meeting. He was pleased they had both accepted the invitation, as it meant he need explain the situation at the club only once.
At seven and thirty, Wulferston was a year older than Maxim. The other man was of a similar height, several inches over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and lean and muscular thighs shown to advantage in his usual expertly tailored black clothing, with only the white of his shirt to alleviate the austereness of that impeccable appearance. He kept his black hair overlong, his eyes a very dark and piercing brown and set in a handsome and yet coldly aristocratic face.
Stonyhurst was the same age as Maxim, and as tall and muscular. His dark blue superfine was a perfect match for the color of his eyes. Pale gray pantaloons fitted perfectly to his slender hips and muscular thighs. His hair was golden—although not as rich in color as Christopher’s—with those eyes of clear blue above high cheekbones, chiseled lips, and a stubborn jawline Maxim knew from experience none would be wise to overlook in what otherwise appeared to be an affable demeanor.
“What has you in such a taciturn mood?” Wulferston taunted after Maxim had barked a greeting at the two men once the three friends were seated at a table in the dining room of the club.
“Do you mean apart from having to look at your habitually scowling face?” Maxim snapped back.
Wulferston nodded, completely unperturbed by the insult. “Apart from that, yes.”
Maxim turned to the so far silent Stonyhurst. “Do you also have something to say on the subject of my mood?”
The other man shrugged broad shoulders. “I am more than happy to sit back and watch the two of you snipe at each other.”
Maxim’s scowl deepened. “I have no intention of doing that when we have a far more serious subject to discuss.” He drew in a calming breath. “Last night, I discovered we have a serious problem with the behavior of the chef at the Apollo.”
“Did he overcook the beef?” the cynical Wulferston taunted.
Maxim narrowed his gaze at the other man. “It is something far more serious than that.” He went on to describe the events of the previous evening.
But with the deliberate omission of having taken Christopher to his home and that young man having chosen to leave Lancaster House in the middle of the night. After Maxim had caressed him in such a way he was unable to prevent himself from climaxing. That would remain Maxim’s private shame.
“Where is the chef now?” Wulferston demanded, the dark glitter of his gaze telling of his own anger over the matter.
“More importantly,” Stonyhurst said, shooting the other man an impatient glance, “where is the boy?”
“The chef is still locked in the storeroom under Henry’s guard. I believe Christopher—Mr. Brooks,” Maxim corrected uncomfortably, “to have returned to his lodgings for the night.” He saw no reason to tell his two friends that Christopher had returned there via Lancaster House.
Wulferston frowned. “Is Christopher the red-haired one?”
“That’s Billy.” Just thinking of that likeable young man eased some of Maxim’s tension.
“Why are you smiling?” Wulferston eyed him suspiciously. “I trust you have not become involved with that impudent young whippersnapper?” he added harshly.
Maxim scowled at the question, which sounded suspiciously like an accusation. “No, of course I haven’t.”
“What of the other one?” the quieter Stonyhurst prompted shrewdly. “I believe you said his name is Christopher?”
Maxim bristled. “What of him?”
“I sense in the things you have not said that you are not being completely open in regard to the events of last night,” the other man stated.
Maxim glared at him. “In what way?”
Stonyhurst gave a rueful smile. “I have known you for fifteen years or more, Maxim, and because of that, I do not believe for a moment that you simply cast an injured young man out into the night to fend for himself.”
He scowled. “I told you he is now safely at his home.” At least, Maxim had to assume he was. He could not bear to think of any other outcome for that fragile young man.
“So you did.” Stonyhurst continued to look at him with a calm blue gaze.
“Oh, to hell with it.” Maxim snapped under that steadfast scrutiny. “No, of course I didn’t cast Christopher out into the night. The chef is employed by all of us, and we have a responsibility to right the wrongs he’s done to others in our employ.”
“Your righteous indignation on behalf of us all is laudable, Lancaster,” Wulferston drawled. “Unfortunately, it did not answer Stonyhurst’s question.”
Maxim knew that. He’d been trying to preserve Christopher’s dignity—
I am lying to myself again, he acknowledged heavily. Because Maxim knew it was his own dignity he was attempting to salvage, along with the disappointment he felt at Christopher having left soon after Maxim had caressed him to a release he would obviously, in retrospect, rather not have had. Not with Maxim, at least. Which meant he had been feigning sleep afterward in order to ensure Maxim left the bedchamber and so allow Christopher to make good his escape once he felt able.
His own feelings of rejection aside, it still troubled Maxim greatly that Christopher had left and attempted to walk anywhere in his condition.
“What was that?” Wulferston mocked after Maxim had given a mumbled reply to his question.
“I initially took him home with me.” His nostrils flared as he glared at the other man. “Satisfied?”
Dark brows rose over those devil-dark eyes. “Not in the slightest. You told us he had returned to his home.”
“He has now done so, yes.” Maxim was becoming more and more agitated with the other man’s probing questions.
Wulferston and Stonyhurst had both been interrogators of captured French soldiers during the years of war against Napoleon, and sometimes they had carried out those interrogations together. It was easy to guess which of them had been the browbeater and which the sympathizer in order to extract the necessary information from those French prisoners.
Maxim knew he had to inform the other two gentlemen of the unpleasant development at the Apollo. It was the reason he’d asked to meet them for luncheon after all. Still, he was loath to share all of last night’s events with his two friends.
“Initially, I took Christopher back with me to Lancaster House,” he stated clearly. “He left shortly after I had doctored his wounds.”
“Alone?” Wulferston asked.
“Yes.”
“In your carriage?” Stonyhurst pressed.
“No.”
“In a hackney cab?” Wulferston snapped.
“No.”
“On foot?” Stonyhurst suggested.
As might be expected, their roles as interrogators now meant the two men were asking their questions so quickly, Maxim barely had time to think. Questions he would prefer not to answer, but felt duty bound to do so.
“Yes,” he confirmed through gritted teeth.
“But you said he could barely walk.” Wulferston.
A nerve pulsed in the tautness of Maxim’s cheek. “He could not.”
“But he chose to walk home rather than remain the rest of the night at Lancaster House or ask for the use of your carriage to take him there?” Wulferston persisted.
“Yes.” Maxim’s jaw was so tight, his teeth so clenched, he was in danger of breaking his jaw or a tooth.
“What did you do, Maxim?” Stonyhurst prompted gently.
He closed his eyes briefly, no longer able to look at those empathetic blue eyes or the accusing dark ones.
What had he done?