Chapter 2

To the east of Avery Manor was a large parcel of land known as Bird’s Marsh. Though it wasn’t technically a marsh, the ground was often incredibly boggy, and that had kept Andrew’s ancestors from building tenant houses on it. As a boy, Andrew loved to go walking in the fields, watching the birds for which the marsh was named. Now, it was a refuge he rode to as the manor grew silent with grief.

Nearing the marsh, Andrew pushed his mount, Hermes, faster until they reached the border. Pulling at the reins, he forced the stallion to slow, Hermes’s breath coming in harsh pants. White foam coated the horse’s black back.

“Good boy.”

He scraped some of the sweat away with a gloved hand, leading Hermes through the bare trees. A quick scan of his surroundings revealed the marsh was empty. Good. The last thing Andrew needed was to talk to yet another person about his uncle.

As he swung his leg across the saddle to dismount, Andrew’s body seized. A deep, searing pain coursed diagonally from shoulder to hip, and Andrew hit the ground. His breath left him in a huff, and blood pounded in his ears.

Bodies surrounded him, some wearing the scarlet coats of the British, others the blue of the French. All dead, their eyes glassed-over. Something rammed into his shoulder, hard. Once, twice, three times. Andrew looked around wildly, his chest aching as though his heart were being squeezed.

“Lord Cardwell.” A voice came from the left of him, though it sounded miles away. “Lord Cardwell, are you all right?”

He blinked quickly, trying to find the speaker. A lithe form stood over him, and Andrew sighed, forcing his muscles to relax.

“I’m fine, Mr. Leighton.”

He shivered against the cold ground, though his face burned. The attacks weren’t uncommon. They had started not long after the Battle of Barrosa, where he had been wounded. Percy and Oliver had witnessed them in those first few months after his return, while he had fought off the infection that had settled into the wound on his back.

Normally, such visions happened during his sleep. Nightmares. Not where others could see and judge. Rolling onto his stomach, Andrew tried and failed to push off the ground, the muscles in his back spasming again. He set his teeth against the pain, resolving to get up one way or another. Carefully, he rolled onto his side, managing to push himself into a half-sitting position. His muscles burned as they were forced into a new position.

Jeremy frowned and extended a hand. “You certainly don’t look fine. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Andrew snapped. After surviving the horrors of battle, the carnage of Spain, he would be damned if he was at the mercy of a young cub barely out of university. He looked around at the layer of leaves, mostly bogged down by mud now. “I’m simply enjoying the comfort of the ground.”

Jeremy let out a snort, folding his arms across his chest. “Right. Enjoy the ‘comfort of the ground,’ then. Since the damp, cold ground is something to be enjoyed.”

“No worse than lying in your own blood on foreign soil.” Andrew regretted the words instantly as Jeremy drew in a sharp breath. The boy’s eyebrows worked their way toward his hairline. “Forget I said anything.”

Andrew wished he could. Instead the memories replayed over and over, even two years after the battle that had left him wounded and Sarah Brimbly a widow. He’d done so well not thinking about Ned.

“I knew you were invalided. We all did. Everyone here talked about you like you were some kind of hero after B—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it. I’m not a hero, and I wasn’t then, either.”

“That isn’t what everyone else said. They said you killed over a hundred French before you were injured.”

“They don’t know what they speak of.”

This was the worst kind of situation, and why he avoided talking to most of the residents of Chippenham. Andrew didn’t have a problem talking about his military career. It had been a productive one. His commanding officers, with their set of rigid expectations, had turned him from a wastrel of a boy into a man.

Talking about Barrosa was different. Nearly four thousand Brits, Spaniards, Portuguese, and French dead or wounded on Spanish soil. Ned was gone, Andrew’s promise to keep him safe buried along with the man. So much death and destruction, along with the injury to his back, had left Andrew with a permanent distaste for any type of violence.

“So you didn’t shoot all those people?” Jeremy’s expression was one of confusion and curiosity. There was no judgement, though, and that was his saving grace.

“Yes.” The word came through clenched teeth. “I murdered over a hundred Frenchmen who had lives and families and causes they believed in. They were no different from you or me. Do you think they had any less right to live? Should I be praised for taking that right away from them?”

Jeremy blushed, his pink skin clashing with his hair, and he shifted from foot to foot. “Forgive me. I did not think of it in that way.”

The anger in Andrew unravelled like a ball of string. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t remain upset at this boy who had seen so little of the world. He could see where the appeal lay in thinking of him as some kind of war hero.

No one wanted to think of the horrors of war. It was much better to remember the victories. The honour. Andrew had found many in London, and even more in Chippenham with such romantic notions of war. They didn’t come anywhere close to the truth.

“Of course,” he said at last. “Most people fail to understand that war is more than men in uniform, marching in time and smiling and waving in a parade. War is destructive. It’s another man’s blood in your mouth and eyes and hair. It’s dying men screaming for water. Nothing good comes of it, Jeremy. It destroys men. No one should ever be praised for the number of lives he’s taken.”

Andrew let the silence fall between them for a moment, then looked up at Jeremy. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “The ground is far too soft and cold. Would you mind assisting an old invalid?”

Jeremy laughed, dimples forming at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not an invalid, and you’re certainly not old. Now how do you need me?”

A shiver coursed through Andrew’s veins that had nothing to do with the cold, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from answering. If he had his way, then he would need Jeremy lying underneath him, stark naked in the open meadow. It was too cold, however, and Jeremy was just a boy—at least, that was what Andrew told himself. A boy whose father happened to be one of Uncle Richard’s oldest friends and was, therefore, off limits.

“Grab my hand.” His words were slightly rougher than he intended.

Andrew stared up at Jeremy, taking in the young man’s form as he knelt beside him. He wore a white linen shirt with a plain waistcoat and an open tailcoat, his trousers were a deep fawn. Not the most fashionable Andrew had ever seen, but well dressed, nonetheless.

“You’re staring at me.”

Andrew blinked, then cleared his throat. “A hand, if you don’t mind.”

The fall had shaken him in ways Andrew wasn’t used to. Most days, he didn’t feel old. After all, he was only thirty-two. When these attacks happened, though, he felt as if he’d lived a hundred years. He took the hand Jeremy extended, gripping his forearm as Jeremy pulled. Though his back threatened to lock up yet again, he managed to stay upright, only partially bent-over.

“If I might ask, what are you doing out here?”

“I was sketching.”

Andrew didn’t miss the defensive note in Jeremy’s voice as he picked the book up from the ground. “May I see?”

Jeremy’s grip on the book tightened. “I was just practicing.”

“Practice or no, I would like to see. I remember you being quite the artist when we were younger. You gave me a sketch almost every time I saw you. I admire you for studying art at university.”

“Classical art,” he corrected, never once looking Andrew in the eye.

“Is there a problem with studying Classical art?” Andrew’s brow furrowed.

“No, my lord. Some people would say that it isn’t a proper thing to study, is all. I have my future to think of. Forgive me for saying, but not all of us are peers.”

Andrew knew exactly who ‘some people’ were. “I take no offense. A close friend of mine owns a music shop. I’m not of the opinion that working for a living should be shamed.” Oliver would call him out as soon as he considered that opinion.

“As to your situation, what are you planning to do? Find a patron to take you under his wing? You’d have to find a rather wealthy one. London’s the place for that, though I can tell you the cost of living is much steeper than in Chippenham.”

“You speak as though you believe I am not aware of this—as though my father has not impressed the same message upon me.” Jeremy’s grey eyes flashed, defiant, and his hands clenched at his sides. “Were it up to him, I would train as a curate before taking his place as vicar when he became too old to continue, but I cannot bear the thought of that.  I will make it to London, one way or another. I will.” He raised his chin, defiant.

“I have no doubt you will. Truly, I don’t.” Andrew held his hand out. “Now let me see your sketches.”

***

Jeremy let out a slow breath and held out the book. He knew exactly what Andrew would find. The first few were perfectly ordinary. Landscapes, mostly; a few sheep, a detailed rendering of his father’s church, St. Andrew’s.

Then Andrew would reach the middle section. Page after page filled with the male form. Several basic sketches, of form and lines, where it was clear he was trying to hone his skills. But then there were the others. His lines were less precise there, and more sensual.

Until at last, Andrew would find the single sketch—a muscular man with Cherubin curls, sprawled out on the sofa and completely nude. The model’s eyes were closed. He could have been sleeping, but Jeremy knew better. It had been a fantasy, nothing more. An old schoolmate who would never see the sketch.

His only saving grace was that the sketches weren’t inherently sinful. Nothing could be implied by them, at least not from the ordinary person. Jeremy knew that, too. It was his failsafe. Should the sketchbook ever be found, he would more than likely be able to cover it up as a detailing of the human body. But there was something in the way Andrew looked at him. God forbid he ever find the sketch Jeremy had done of him.

“There’s nothing shameful in it, you know.” Andrew’s voice was casual as he flipped through the pages.

Jeremy’s mouth went dry, ice chilling his veins. His heart beat so loudly in his ears that even Andrew could probably hear it. “My artwork? My lord, I would hope that there’s no shame in my artwork. It is my passion, after all.”

His voice was strained to his own ears. The son of a vicar, Jeremy had never been a convincing liar. His father had always guilted the truth out of him.

“I’m not talking about your artwork, as much as I’m addressing the, ah, subject matter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeremy whispered.

He wanted nothing more than to run, but his legs seemed rooted to the spot. His clammy hands shook as he brushed them against his pantaloons, and his heart beat loudly in his ears. No one had ever guessed what he was until now. He had barely admitted as much to himself, and certainly never in the light of day.

Andrew took a step forward, handing Jeremy the sketchbook. A gloved finger tilted his chin up, and Jeremy shivered at the touch. “I believe you do. And I want you to know there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Jeremy stayed silent, trying desperately to look anywhere but Andrew’s face. He knew exactly what Andrew would see—guilt, shame, disgust. A wordless admission of his sins.

Eventually, he ran out of places to look. His eyes met Andrew’s and he saw a spark in the blue depths that ignited a flame low in his belly. No. He couldn’t feel these things. Couldn’t want them. He pulled free from Andrew’s gentle touch.

“’Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind; it is an abomination.’” Jeremy’s voice shook as he spoke. The social repercussions were bad enough, but he had to answer to his father, and worse, God. His father had preached enough sermons on the evils of Sodom and Gomorrah for him to know that no good came from his perversion.

“You’ll also find that slavery and incest were acceptable in the Bible.”

Jeremy opened and closed his mouth. This was a dangerous conversation for him to be having, especially with a peer. If he were to admit anything, Andrew could go to his father, or worse, publicly accuse him of sodomy. Though he had never engaged in the act, it would be Andrew’s word against his, and Jeremy couldn’t let that happen.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I must go. My father will be expecting me.” He turned on his heel and started over to his satchel and blanket.

Andrew simply followed him. “Our conversation is not finished,” he said.

“Yes it is. I will not have such a discussion with you. It would be wrong.”

“Why?” Andrew leaned up against the tree. “Because you do not wish to feel as you do? I assure you, there is no way to change your feelings. Running will not make them go away.”

“Stop, please.” Jeremy’s voice cracked.

“I cannot. Not in good conscience.”

That was it. Andrew would tell his father, who would be horrified and disgusted. Jeremy’s life would be over. Every muscle in his body screamed to run as far and as fast as he could.

“I cannot let you leave while you are so upset,” Andrew continued. “I understand your fear, Jeremy.”

Jeremy slung his satchel over his shoulder, balling up the blanket in his hands. “No, my lord, you do not.”

“As I also understand your inclinations, believe me, I do.”

Half-turned away from Andrew, he paused. There was no way he had heard correctly. No one could understand his inclinations, especially not a peer. “I must go,” he whispered.

Andrew placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “You should stay. Allow me to help you—to reassure you. You are hardly the first man to be attracted to other men.”

Jeremy’s mouth went dry. How could Andrew say that out loud, even in the woods, where no one could hear them? His heart raced and his stomach turned as he tried to figure out how to respond to the statement. A cold sweat formed on his upper lip as he tried and failed to take a breath.

“I—” he croaked.

The next thing he knew, Andrew wrapped his arms around Jeremy, pulling him against his chest. “Breathe.” He grabbed Jeremy’s hand and placed it against his own chest. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

It was difficult, but Jeremy managed to do as Andrew instructed. His vision stabilised, and he felt his muscles start to relax. Andrew whispered soft encouragements in his ear as he slowly calmed himself. After a few moments, his breathing was back to normal.

“There you go,” Andrew said gently. “You’re going to be okay. It is quite a lot to take in, I admit. Not every day you find out something this shocking about someone you’ve known your whole life.”

He eased them down against the trunk of the tree, and Jeremy found himself cradled in Andrew’s embrace. Perhaps he was speaking the truth, after all.

“Did you mean it? Are you…”

“A sodomite?” Andrew provided. “The term is a rather harsh one, but yes. I am.”

Jeremy nodded slowly, then looked up at Andrew’s face, searching for a lie. There was none. And yet, this was Andrew—the same Andrew he had known since birth. The same Andrew who had played with him even though he was younger, and who had admired all of his drawings, even if they were terrible.

Andrew understood. Relief washed over him, and Jeremy found himself on the edge of both tears and laughter. Finally, someone understood what he felt. He was not alone.

“Could I ask you something personal?”

Andrew smiled softly. “Given our current topic of conversation, of course.”

“When did you realise you were different?” he asked.

Silence settled between them, and Jeremy worried he had offended the older man. But then Andrew spoke. “You remember my brother Nathaniel?”

Jeremy nodded.

“When we were little, he would tell me about the girls he was interested in. As I grew older, I realised I looked at other boys the same way he looked at the girls in town. I had a…a relationship with one, when we were younger, but we were only children, and it ended when I left for Oxford. At Oxford, I found others like me, and in London, we’ve learned to seek out each other’s company.”

“As…bed partners?”

Andrew laughed, and Jeremy’s cheeks grew hot. “No, not as bed partners. Although I was with one of our group for a time. We’re friends. Men who prefer other men, and who wish to be who we are with each other, since we cannot be that in society. And yourself? How did you know you were, as you put it, different?”

There was no way that Jeremy could tell Andrew the truth—that he had been attracted to Andrew before he knew what he was feeling. At the time, all he had known was that every time Andrew came home on leave, he wanted to be both as close to and as far away from Andrew as possible.

Every time he had seen the man, he had felt as though he were going to cast up his accounts. His hands shook and he tripped over his words. Instead of speaking, he had turned to drawing, which always seemed to help express himself better. Andrew had taken every drawing and treated it as though it were the most precious gift.

“Art.” It wasn’t quite a lie. “I loved art from an early age, and there are plenty of nude forms. The women were pretty, but they were simply paintings. The men were different. I thought about them for days. Eventually I started noticing those feelings when I saw certain men I was attracted to.”

“I understand.”

Those two words meant more to Jeremy than anything he had ever heard. Finally, someone who could actually relate to the feelings he struggled with. Although for Andrew, it hardly seemed to be a struggle.

“How do you do it, then?” Jeremy cocked his head to the side and nestled his jaw in his hand. “How do you be someone you aren’t?”

“There’s a pretence that must be maintained. A front that hides my true self. Perhaps if you find your patron in London, you’ll understand. In some ways, being in the city is easier. There are places where men like us can meet—coffee houses in the West End, molly houses, assignation houses. You can find someone who shares in your proclivities.”

“And until then?”

“Why the sudden need to find anyone at all? I can assure you, you’ll not find anyone in Chippenham who shares our inclination.”

That was a bigger blow than Jeremy had expected. He didn’t want to admit his reasoning—that for the first time, he wanted someone so badly that he would be willing to take the risk.

“Anyone in Chippenham, my lord?”

Andrew froze as he ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t ask me that.” He dropped his hand. “There are things I want from you that would terrify you. When I saw you the other day, I immediately wanted you. Jeremy…”

“Did it never occur to you that I wanted you too?”

Even though it was wrong, even though he would be damned to hell, Jeremy couldn’t stand the prospect of hiding this part of himself for the rest of his life. Especially when it seemed Andrew wanted him in return.

“I didn’t let myself hope,” Andrew said. He pursed his lips, as though considering what to say next. “I want to propose an arrangement that could be beneficial for both of us. You need a patron. Someone to take you under their wing. And you also desire companionship. I can provide both, for the time being. Every Cardwell has a portrait made when they become viscount. I would like you to do mine.”

Jeremy’s stomach rolled. Andrew had to be jesting. After all, he’d only just left school. An artist had to have experience and connections before being commissioned for a portrait, especially one for a viscount. His portfolio was proficient, and his professors had praised his talent, but that hardly meant he was qualified to complete the portrait of a lord.

“My lord, I couldn’t. I have no experience.” In more ways than one, but Jeremy was hardly ready to discuss his lack of a sexual history with the man who employed his father.

“I disagree. Three years of Classical art at Oxford shows a theoretical background, which you’ve applied—”

“Through sketches. Not portraits.”

“Have you completed any portraits in the past?”

“Yes. A few assignments, and some that I painted for friends. I must refuse, though. Believe me when I say I am not skilled enough.”

“I have seen your sketches,” Andrew said. “You have talent, and I would like to help you realise that talent. I would pay you a substantial sum if you did this for me. At least consider it. You would prove to your father that you can earn a living as an artist.”

Jeremy wanted to refuse. He didn’t have the skills or the training. Not to mention, the addition of companionship, as welcome as it was, seemed wrong in some way. His biggest objection, though, was that it was Andrew who offered.

Had it been any other peer, he could have accepted, but Jeremy had spent his entire life living in the shadow of the powerful Cardwells.  Even if he did care for Andrew, he couldn’t look past that—until Andrew mentioned his father.

“What sort of ‘substantial sum’ do you mean?” he asked.

“Something around £200 should suffice.”

“£200?” he mouthed. “That’s nearly half as much as my father makes in a year.”

And more than enough to show his father that his passion wasn’t useless.

“Say yes, Jeremy. I’ll bring it up with your father, if you wish.”

He thought for a few more moments, still trying to refuse, before eventually giving in. “All right. I’ll do it, if you can convince my father to allow it.”

Andrew grinned broadly, extending his hand for Jeremy to shake. “I’ll discuss it with your father first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You’re very welcome. However, I wish you would call me Andrew, when it’s just the two of us.”

Jeremy nodded, a tentative smile flickering across his face. He could get used to that. “All right, Andrew.”