Alchemy

by Calista Echo

katotomato@mn.rr.com

Fandom: Sentinel

Pairing: Jim/Blair

Summary:An AU set inn England in the late 1800's in which Blair is brought to a castle
to do the terrifying and dangerous work of being a climbing boy.

Alchemy
by Calista Echo
katotomato@mn.rr.com

The day was drear, with gray clouds so pregnant with snow that they almost seemed to touch the roofs of the buildings that lined the village streets. The wind had picked up during the night and the cold penetrated their thin-soled shoes. The woman hurried her son along. It was important they not be late.

She looked at Blair, his short legs pumping to keep up with her longer strides. He had fallen silent after a telling her about a man named Darwin and his bizarre and astonishing theories. That her young son would have read about such a thing and found it of interest did not surprise her.

Blair seemed to absorb information through his pores and there always some new bit that caught his imagination and had to be shared. Sometimes she feared her head would explode with all the information he sought to impart to her.

She was taking him to live in a castle. He would be warm and dry and fed. Lord knew, she couldn't give him these things. Blair deserved all that and much more. He'd learned to read before he wad five, and ferreted out every scrap of paper with printing on it that he could find. For a while she had worked at a lending library and Blair had been rarely seen or heard as he made his way through the stacks.

Born in a different way, he would have gone to Cambridge and been a scholar.

But Naomi had made a mistake that both of them would pay for the rest of their lives. She caressed the top of his head, her hands finding comfort in his thick curls. She had lost a great deal when she made her impulsive decision to marry Aidan O'Malley.

A decision made, but never realized. Aidan had disappeared, leaving Naomi pregnant. Her impulsiveness had cost her everything. Fine clothes, glittering balls, a beautiful home, her family. Of all the things that she had lost in that foolish gamble, Blair's future was the one she regretted the most.

The people she was taking to him thought him five; she hoped that bit of flim-flam would hold. He looked cold, but then, once August passed, he always looked cold. His huge blue eyes looked up at her with such trust she almost turned back. But no. Blair might not see it this way but it was for the best, and she would see it through. It was the day before Christmas. This was the very best present she could hope to give him.

The best she could hope for Blair was a kindly master and enough food to eat. He was so thin that the gauntness of his face magnified his eyes, until they looked like two huge sapphires. If he'd been born female, his beauty and birth status would have condemned him to a brothel. As it was, the sooner he was off the streets the better.

They soon left the confines of the village and began the long walk through the countryside to Saybrooke Castle. Blair was unusually quiet, as if he understood the day would change his life. Normally she couldn't hear herself think for all his chatter. She wished right now that he would tell one of his stories about the Incas and the gold that paved their streets. He'd read a book at the library on them last week and it was all he talked about, until they had begun this journey.

His enthusiasm for sharing all that he read sometimes caused problems. Like the time he felt compelled to educate her on the mating rituals of hedgehogs. In the middle of Covent Gardens. Remembering the glares of the matrons still made Naomi's cheek burn.

His stories always made the time go faster, and would give her something to think about on the long way back. At that thought, she almost broke down and cried. No longer would she have Blair as her companion. She held it all in, the journey home was time enough for tears. It wouldn't do to let Blair see her weepy. He needed to remember her happy.

At last Saybrooke came into view. It was an impressive estate, regal in bearing, with a graceful symmetry often lacking in old homes. They passed through ornate gates and entered into the formal park that led to the house. About half a mile in, the lane curved and the house dropped out of view. Naomi knelt down. Blair looked at her with solemn eyes and simply waited to hear what she had to say.

"Blair, sweetie, you know I love you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I've found a position, but they won't let me bring you with me. So I found you a place here, at this lovely house we're going to. You'll be a big help here. And you'll be warm and fed and I'll write you every week."

"You're leaving me here?" Blair's eyes filled with tears.

"Yes, sweet, but just for a little while. I'm sure the fine people at Wentworth Manor will let me bring you there once they see I'm a good worker. So just for a short time, Blair baby."

"Don't call me baby. I'm not a baby."

Naomi smiled at the scowl on Blair's cherubic face.

"No, Blair, you're not a baby, but you'll always be *my* baby."

"I hate that." He stuck his bottom lip out in a mock pout.

"Yes, I know," Naomi said, absent-mindedly. This made her remember something else she needed to tell Blair.

"The people here think you are only five. They wanted someone that young to train. Think you can pretend you're five?"

"I'm not going to act like a baby."

"No, no, I'm not asking you to, just don't tell them you're eight. All right? It's our secret."

Blair regarded his mother with gravity. He loved her with all the passion and affection in his young soul. The last few years had gotten harder and harder, and in some ways Blair was glad she was going to be safe in a, what? Position.

Blair had had a devil of a time keeping his beautiful mother safe from the men who would prey upon a vulnerable woman alone in the world. He'd used every trick in the book. Making good use of his ability to read, he'd learned just what herbs would make someone sick, and which insects were the most venomous.

When that didn't work he followed the men sniffing around his mother. He never failed to find something to threaten them with if they didn't leave his mother alone. His anonymous letters always managed to fend them off. He wished he were bigger. Not bigger, really big. So big he would be able to pummel the leering faces into a bloody pulp. His small stature was a real drawback sometimes.

Now they were parting with Naomi's assurances that it wouldn't be for long.

Blair drew in a long breath and centered himself, the way the book on India had taught him to. He would be a big boy and brave and kiss his mother on the cheek and say good bye. And not cry. He wouldn't cry.

"All right, mama, our secret."

She smiled at him and as always, he marveled at what a wondrous mother he had. No matter how dark or cold the day, her smile made everything bright and fun. He would miss her terribly.

Be brave, be brave, be brave, he chanted to himself.

She left him at the back door with Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper. He would have liked to watch her walk away, but Mrs. Martin hurried to close the door on the blustery day. She looked down at him, her hands on her generous hips.

"You're not going to start pumping water now, are ya? I don't take to cryin'. Can't abide it."

Blair bit his lip. Truth be told, he had wanted to cry, even though he'd told himself not to.

He shook his head no and only one lone tear ran down his face.

"That's a good lad. Would you like a bit of cake before I hand you over to Perkins?"

Blair looked up at Mrs. Martin. She was nothing like his delicate, lovely mother. She loomed tall and wide. Her hands rested on her ample hips. Blair found that he liked her, he liked the way she looked as if no man could pinch *her* bottom and get a way with it. And she was offering him a piece of cake, an almost unheard of treat.

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Martin beamed at him. She had a soft spot for curly headed boys. And straight- haired boys. And redheaded ones and devilishly dark ones. And grown up ones, too.

Perkins shepherded his young charge past the room with the huge 12-foot tree in it. Blair had stopped to stare, his mouth open. He'd never seen anything like it. The room smelled of pine and he could almost feel the cold dark places of the tree. It was bedecked with carved figures, and strands of beads that caught the light.. Oranges dotted the tree and little presents, gaily wrapped, were tucked into the boughs. Larger presents were piled around the base of the tree.

Blair's eyes roamed over the pile speculating on the contents. He felt no envy until he spotted the parcels that could only be books. He wondered whom they were for and what they held. Fairy tales? Histories? Shakespeare? Or his favorite, books with maps and tales of some far off land?

His contemplation came to an end when Perkins returned, realizing the new boy had ceased to follow him. Perkins grabbed him by the ear. Blair knew better than to protest.

"We do not gawk in this house. You are to do the tasks assigned to you and keep your head down. Do you understand me, O'Malley?"

Blair's eyes were watering in pain. He feared his ear was being twisted all out of shape. He tried to nod, but couldn't.

"Ye-yes, sir, I-I understand. So sorry."

Perkins released his ear. "Good. You're quite young and new here but you won't be here for long if you fail you obey me and fail to do your chores in a timely and competent fashion. Is that understood?"

Blair looked up at the tallest man he'd ever seen. "Yes, sir."

"Good, come along."

Blair settled into the routine of the house, finding the repetitive nature of his tasks more difficult than the work itself. As long as he got his work done, he seemed to be invisible. At night Mrs. Martin seemed to make a point of seeing how he was, but for the most part, no one bothered to talk to the small boy in their midst.

After he had been at Saybrooke a week, Ambrose surprised him by taking him by the hand and leading him to one of the far bedrooms, seldom used.

The room had white material spread over all the furniture and floor. "O'Malley, you have the very important task of keeping the chimneys cleaned. I'm going to teach you how to do it. "

Ambrose fitted a leather harness around Blair's small body, cinching it tight. Then he handed Blair a stiff brush attached to a long pole.

"It's very easy. You just scrub at the soot on the walls with this brush. I'll pull you to the top and then you'll make your way down by releasing this buckle." Ambrose pointed out the pulley system and demonstrated how to work it.

Blair studied it and saw immediately the effectiveness of the pulley and the catch and release mechanism. He nodded his understanding and Ambrose gave him a little smile.

"That's fine. I'll go to the top and throw down a rope. You pull it through this ring and this one and then loop it through the one in front. "

Perkins came in and knelt beside Blair. "I'll check that he does it right and show him the knots. You go on up, Ambrose."

Nodding, Ambrose rose and left Blair with Perkins.

"Now O'Malley, this is a very important job. A dirty chimney can catch on fire, so you have to be very thorough in the cleaning. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

There was the sound of a rope falling and as it landed on the hearth, a cloud of sooty dust drifted into the room. Perkins waited until the dirt settled and then he pulled the rope out, handing it to Blair.

"Remember what Ambrose told you?"

Blair nodded and quickly moved the rope through each ring. Perkins took up the end.

"Watch carefully, this is something you need to get right or you could fall." His serious tone scared Blair a little and made Blair pay close attention.

Perkins demonstrated how to knot the rope and how to undo it, handing it to Blair to try.

Blair's small fingers fumbled as he tried to make the thick rope form the knot he'd been shown. It took some time but Blair managed to make himself secure in his harness.

Perkins stepped in close to the opening, positioning Blair inside, and yelled up, "Ready! Give it a pull."

Blair found himself being slowly drawn upwards. It was an odd sensation and once Blair got used to it, rather fun. The trip to the top took a long time and novelty of being moved like this wore off long before he saw the faint light increase, indicating he was nearing the end of the journey. He had clutched the pole to his chest, afraid of dropping it and being made to go back down and retrieve it. There was a jerk and then the upward movement stopped. Blair looked up and saw Ambrose, framed by a rectangle of light.

"You doing okay, kid?"

"Ye-yes, sir."

"Good. Now you take your brush and scrub away on each side, then lower yourself the way I showed you and do the next bit. Think you can do that?"

"Yes, sir." Blair's voice was stronger. He could do this.

"Get started and I'll check up on you in a little while."

"Yes, sir."

Blair commenced to clean the walls of the chimney, gratified to see the creosote and soot come off with his efforts. All the particles in the small space caused Blair to cough and he had to pause more than once to try and clear his lungs. When he was done with the top, he hooked the brush to his belt and unlatched the buckle, holding the rope at the angle Perkins had shown him. The line gave out faster than he expected and he tried to halt his descent. By the time he'd managed that, he was a good six feet further down than he should have been.

"Sir?" Blair yelled, hoping that Ambrose would hear him. Silence. He unhooked the brush and started in on the area he was in. It was darker here and harder to tell how much dirt he was actually loosening. The coughing fits seemed to confirm he was getting a great deal of the sooty matter off the chimney and into the air. Each time he finished an area and moved down, it got darker. Soon Blair couldn't make out the outline of his hand and did everything by touch. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, though the pain in his stomach seemed to tell him it was after lunchtime.

"O'Malley!" Ambrose was calling from below.

"Yes, sir!" Blair hoped he would be allowed out now.

"You've got about eight more feet to go. At that point I can take over. Hurry up and then you can have your supper."

"Yes, sir!"

Blair tackled the rest of the chimney with vigor, knowing he was soon to be out in the light and the air. He couldn't quite tell when he'd come to the end but Ambrose must have been watching because he called up,

"That's it for this one, unlatch yourself all the way."

Blair did as he was told and landed at Ambrose's feet in the filthy heap of soot and creosote he had created. Ambrose bent down and helped him stand.

"You're a sight, young O'Malley."

Blair looked down and saw that he was covered in black, oily residue.

Ambrose picked up a clean cloth and wrapped it around Blair, carrying him outside. The bright sunshine hurt his eyes and he squinted up at Ambrose. He was a scrawny man with a wild thatch of red hair making him look a bit like a rooster.

It was a beautiful day and Blair looked around with new appreciation. The sky was filled with gentle clouds, a slight breeze stirred the air, birds sang to one another and Blair's heart expanded with delight at being outside. Ambrose had a bucket and a sponge. Squeezing out the water, he said.

"Close your eyes, little chum. You can't very well eat with all that dirt on your face and hands."

Blair did as he was told and Ambrose carefully wiped his face. The water in the bucket was black by the time Ambrose seemed satisfied. He sat Blair down on a rock and handed him a chicken drumstick.

"That was fine work for your first chimney. At this rate, we'll be done in a month."

Blair didn't understand.

"I have to do more?"

Ambrose laughed. "We've only just begun. There are forty-seven fireplaces in this castle and once a year they all get cleaned. Didn't anyone tell you this, boy? That's why you were given a place here."

Ambrose looked down at Blair with a knowing eye.

"Eleven months o' the year, you'll 'ave other tasks, but for one month, you're mine. You'll sleep wit me in the stable. Hard to get clean nough to sleep indoors, pointless, too. You'll get used to it. I did."

"You did this when you were a boy?"

"Aye. And I did it all year long, too. So you see, you have it good here, it's a good place."

The chicken in Blair's mouth didn't taste so good any more and he set it down.

" 'Er now, you need to eat. Don't get all mopey on me because you have a bit of work to do." Ambrose picked up the chicken leg and handed it back.

Sighing, Blair took it, finishing his meal. All too soon, Ambrose wrapped him in the cloth and carried him to a different room. Perkins came in and helped with the harness and once again Blair ascended to the top of the chimney and set to work.

That night, instead of dinner in the kitchen by the fire with Mrs. Martin, Blair ate with Ambrose in the tack room. They didn't bother to wash more than their hands and face and slept on the straw in an uninhabited stall. The sounds were all new to Blair. The horses quiet movements and their occasional snorts, the men gambling before they called it a night, the mournful howl of a dog, far in the distance.

Blair tried to breathe like the book he'd read had taught him. He took slow, deliberate breaths, and released them slowly. He chanted the words and he breathed and he prayed and finally, he slept.

The month seemed to last a year. Each day Blair got dirtier. The soot crept into every crease of his skin, under his fingernails, between his toes. No matter how hard he tried to clean his mouth out, food tasted like soot and Blair, who had been small to begin with, got smaller. The other members of the staff avoided the chimney sweeps, giving them a wide berth and Blair missed the casual camaraderie he'd known and the moments of tenderness Mrs. Martin had shown him.

Ambrose wasn't without sympathy, even going so far as to tell the child stories before bed. He tried to make it as easy as possible but there wasn't much he could do to change the nature of the job.

Each day Blair practiced what the book had called meditating. It was all that kept the demons at bay when he was in the dark and there was no end to the dark.

Finally, the last chimney was cleaned. Ambrose and Blair were sent to the servant's bathing room and there they scrubbed for hours. It took three tubs of water and still dirt lingered, intractable to the fierce brushing and harsh soap.

"Stop, before you start to bleed, O'Malley. It won't all come off but believe me, you're clean enough."

Blair felt clean, and it was heaven to be able to scratch his head and not have soot fall to the ground; heaven to have clean clothes on and clean hair. He was welcomed back into the kitchen and he sat on his usual chair, watching the bustling routine with a happiness he never thought to feel again. The stew tasted like stew and Mrs. Martin let him have seconds to celebrate the end of his time as a climbing boy. That night, he slept on his cot with all the other young boys and he didn't need to do the special breathing to fall asleep.

One year passed. Ambrose stood in the kitchen with the harness in his hands and Blair bolted. He didn't stop to think, he didn't plan where to go. There was nowhere for him to hide and yet he couldn't stop himself from running. The other men joined in the chase, yelling to each other as they ran after the terrified boy. It didn't take them long to corral Blair and haul him back to Ambrose.

"No, no, I can't do it. Please don't make me do it." Blair pleaded but Ambrose merely began to strap the harness on him, ignoring the tears and the small fists hitting his shoulder.

"There you go, O'Malley. I thought you were better than this. You should be ashamed. You 'ave a job to do and by God, you'll do it. You'll do it or you'll feel my hand on your backside. You understand, boy?" Blair bit his lip and nodded, trying to be brave, trying not to let any more tears fall.

When he felt his body being pulled to the top, he shut his eyes and clamped down on the dread, making his mind a blank. He cleaned the chimney and came down into the light of day to see himself once more transformed into a black thing. He ate his lunch, but when Ambrose approached him, he once again could not stop himself from running. This time Ambrose caught him, as no one wanted to get dirty catching a climbing boy.

Ambrose held him by the arm. He was breathing hard and his face was nearly as red as the hair that stuck straight up on his head.

"Goddammit, boy, I ain't got time for these games of yours. Now let's get the job done."

That night Ambrose took one of Blair's wrists and tied a length of leather to it, attaching the other end to a post next to Blair. There was no story that night.

In the morning, Blair ate his porridge under Ambrose's baleful gaze. When Ambrose moved to put Blair in the cloth, Blair pulled away. He only made it to the door before Ambrose's hand latched on to his hair and he was yanked back.

"I really don wanna be doing this to you, O'Malley. I know how hard it is to go up in the chimney, believe me, I do. But you'll do the job expected of ya. And you won't be making my life any harder."

With that, Ambrose one handedly removed his belt and swung Blair around and began hitting him. He aimed for the back but at the first bite of the leather, Blair began twisting and the blows fell randomly. One smacked him across the face, another on the back of his legs, a third across his small, heaving chest.

When Ambrose finished, he released Blair's arm. Standing there, one eye already swelling shut, his shirt torn, Blair maintained his defiance for a beat and then crumpled to the ground.

Waking to the dark, Blair looked around. It came to him slowly that it was not night and he was not in the stable, but back in the harness.

"You awake?' Blair looked up to see Ambrose at the top, looking down. When the sweep saw that Blair had come to, he said, "Now I hope that's the last of that bit 'o nonsense. Get to work or you'll stay there all night."

That threat galvanized Blair and his hand sought the brush. He didn't want to be stuck in this place for one more minute and the idea that he might spend the night here made him pant in panic. Ambrose wouldn't leave him here all night, would he?

It wasn't exactly fear that Blair felt. He'd spent enough hours inside chimneys to know there was no danger. It was something else, something he didn't understand. It was heavy and dull and it made his chest feel like it might be crushed. It was the whisper you couldn't make sense of, the voice that droned in your ear, the hands that held you down.

The feeling made his throat close so tight he feared no air could pass between his nose and lungs. His breathing was coming in ragged gasps now and he fought to slow it down, he needed to calm down. Breathing, chanting, breathing, Blair tried to push the feeling away. Slowly it ebbed, slowly his breathing became normal. He tilted his head back and hung limply, adjusting in mind, body and soul to what he needed to do. And then he did it, holding on to the tiny center inside that kept him safe and sane.

The next year he was prepared when Ambrose entered the kitchen. He put down the silver he'd been polishing and followed the man to the first room, standing quietly as Ambrose cinched him in.

He'd held on to some hope that it was all his imagination and now that he was older, he could handle it. It didn't take much time being in the chimney for Blair to realize it was his imagination and he might just die of it. Once again his couldn't get breathe into his lungs, and his heart was beating so hard it felt like it was bruising the inside of his chest. He pressed his hands against the rough stone and chanted, forcing himself to control his breathing and after awhile he was able to unhook the brush and get to work.

When Ambrose released him, he took one look at Blair and grabbed him by his neck.

"Now don't go starting anything this year. I'm getting older and I've no desire to chase you 'round the countryside."

Ambrose pulled out the leather tie and lashed it around Blair's hand, then attached it to his belt. For the next two weeks, every waking moment that wasn't spent in the chimneys was spent at Ambrose's side or tied to the post in the stable. Blair shuffled through each day, a silent and dark little shadow at Ambrose's heels. Mrs. Martin protested his treatment but no one paid her any mind, everyone glad not to have to expend energy chasing the runt, nor suffer through watching him be beaten again.

Then one afternoon Blair's world changed once again. Ambrose had released him from one confinement and put him in the other. He was halfway up the chimney when the ever present creaking sound of leather under stress grew louder. Blair had just a moment's awareness of something giving way and then he was plunging to the ground below.

His leg was on fire and they were trying to pull it off so it wouldn't set the stable aflame and kill the horses. It hurt but he wanted it off too, he didn't want the horses to die. "Take it off," he screamed, but it didn't happen. The pain stayed, the leg stayed and he was surrounded by the heat of the fire. He sobbed in frustration. "Please don't let the horses die." Hands held him down and he was given something cool to drink. More cooling on his body, water, maybe it was raining and maybe the fire was going away because of the water, maybe it would be all right....fire back again and he yelled, yelled, tried to tell them but all they did was make him drink bad water and then it was dark.

He came to in the kitchen and couldn't understand how he had come to there. His leg hurt and felt hot and heavy and everyone seemed to float.

Mrs. Martin noticed he was awake and hurried to his side.

"Blair, darlin', how do you feel?" Her face had more lines than he remembered and her hair was all messy. Her hair was never messy.

"Leg hurts. Thirsty." Speaking took all the energy he had to give.

Mrs. Martin turned away but was back in a moment with a mug of water and Blair drank it all down, grimacing at the odd taste.

Noticing the face he made, she explained. "That's the laudanum, dear. I made that doctor leave some with us, though that dratted man seemed to think you shouldn't have any."

"Wha' 'appened?"

"You fell from the almost the top of the chimney a week ago. It's a wonder you didn't smash both legs. As it is, the one is broken in two places and you'll be hopping around for quite awhile."

"How're the horses?" Blair had to know, though already he could feel himself falling asleep.

"Horses? Oh, your dream. No fire, Blair, no horses. Everyone but you is fine."

"Good." Blair drawled and slept.

Mr. Nathaniel Manning fumed. He had tuned into the guttersnipe’s machinations just a little too late. By the time he’d realized that the boy lingered to listen in and not out of conscientiousness for the fire, Master James had already taken a shine to the fire-boy. It seemed to amuse James to have the small, dirty thing underfoot, the boy pretending he had the capacity to understand and learn. Manning knew Ellison did it as a deliberate insult to him.

Manning had been both young masters’ tutor from the beginning. Stephen had been a model pupil; attentive, polite, respectful and quiet. James had joined the schoolroom when he was six and from the very beginning he’d asked the most inane questions. "Why do bees always fly crooked?" " How deep is the ocean?" ",,………His only real interests seemed to be the historical accounts of war and chess. He had no ear for language, no grasp of science, no flair for art or music.

He was what Manning despised the most. A well-bred dolt. Impossible to educate except in the most fundamental way. A boy who reveled in physicality, often coming to the schoolroom reeking of horse and worse. Thank goodness Lord Saybrooke believed in education, believed in his boys becoming men of gentility and refinement. With Lord William Saybrooke’s authority backing him, he’d delivered many a thrashing to James.

Now, at thirteen, the boy lounged in his chair, doodled on his paper, stared out the window. He’d gotten a tad too large to discipline, much to Manning's regret. In three years, Ellison would go to University. Manning both anticipated and dreaded that. He would be leaving a very comfortable room and a prestigious family. Still, Master James’s maturity was a bit intimidating. There was something unnerving about the natural grace and power he exuded, the way he seemed to assess everything with a cynicism oddly out of keeping with his youth.

Manning watched Ellison as Ellison watched the boy taking in his lecture on the Americas. A small smile quirked in the corner of his mouth. He had never given Manning that kind of attentive interest and that realization fueled the anger that had been building for years.

"Master James, if you please," Manning rapped out in senatorial tones. James lazily took his eyes away from the boy by the fire and looked at Manning.

"Yes...sir?"

"Repeat the name of the ships that carried Columbus to America."

James knitted his eyebrows together. "Why? What possible importance does that have to anything?" He swept his hair back in a familiar gesture that irritated manning to no end.

"You are in no position to judge the importance of historical facts, young man. Since you don’t seem to have any memory of this part of my lecture, you will write a thousand word essay on the ships that Columbus sailed upon."

James grimaced at the assignment but made no protest. While Manning had not lifted a finger against him in the last six months, he remembered well the beatings he had received from Manning through the years. What hurt more than the blows was the knowledge that his father approved and even encouraged this form of education. They both seemed to share a low opinion of James as well as high regard for Stephen. James had been an exuberant boy, boundless in energy and curiosity.

His father had not been blessed with much of a physique. He hid that easily with the fine tailoring he could afford. He had not been given much stamina. With the abundance of help surrounding him, that lack was rarely apparent. He had no real natural grace and took pains to avoid dancing and other physical displays. Lacking in these qualities, he had come to believe that they revealed a regressive nature and so despised them. Seeing these qualities in his second born son, he had inwardly shuddered and reassured himself that they could be eradicated with the right kind of training. He had chosen Manning knowing the man believed religiously in corporal punishment. Lord Saybrooke had been deeply disappointed when Manning's approach was unable to quash his son's proclivity towards such base endeavors as riding, swordplay and boxing.

James sighed. He knew he'd be up late tonight trying to stretch his meager knowledge of Columbus into a thousand words. He looked back to the fire, but the boy had completed his meticulous re-building and had left.

He had become aware of this young servant a few months ago when he realized it was always damnably hot in the schoolroom. The boy in charge of the fire seemed to take the job much too seriously, bringing in wood faithfully. He was painstakingly slow in the way he placed each log.

One day, utterly bored with his tutor’s rambling lecture on the origin of the Nile, he paid closer attention to the boy and realized he was much more interested in what Nathaniel Manning had to say than James was. He watched as the boy lingered over each stick, his effort to concentrate on all Mr. Manning was saying transparent.

This was a novelty, a servant interested in geography. As the winter months wore on and he watched the boy, he realized that the servant was interested in geography, history, French, mathematics, Latin, and literature. In fact, there wasn’t one thing Mr. Manning taught that the boy didn't seem fascinated by.

James started to take a greater interest in his studies as a result. At Christmas he made sure O'Malley received The History of the Dark Continent. James had watched from the backstairs as Blair discovered the wrapped package with his name on it. O'Malley's eyes had done the impossible and had gotten even bigger as he turned the present over and over in his hands.

"Who’s it from, love?" Mrs. Martin stood behind him, peering with wonder at the unexpected gift.

"I don’t know, it’s not mama’s hand on the card. Who could it be from? How did they know I was here?" Blair continued to fondle the package, making no move to open it.

"Do you think it could be a mistake?" Blair asked anxiously.

"And how many Blairs do you think there be around these parts? There’s your name on it, bold as the nose on Mannings' face. No mistake."

In spite of Mrs. Martin reassurances, Blair didn’t open the present.

"You’ll wear the paper off that thing, the way you’re handling it. Open it, lad."

Blair looked at her, anticipation making his eyes shine, and began to unwrap the precious bundle. He carefully unfolded the plain brown paper, making sure not to cause a tear. At last it lay before him; revealed. Blair could only stare. It was a history and it was about a far off land. His heart nearly burst with joy.

It was his very own book. He was rich. He slowly opened the cover and ran his hand down the fine print that was pressed into the white pages. He barely breathed as he read the chapter titles. Soon he forgot his awe, as he became absorbed in the fantastic tales he was reading.

James sat on the backstairs all morning, watching. He’d expected Blair to be surprised. He’d also expected Blair to ask someone to tell him the title and explain what the book was about. Instead he had been amazed that a boy like Blair could read at all, let alone have little trouble with the kinds of words found in this academic tome.

Each Christmas James bought another book for Blair. It was by far his favorite ritual and one he took great pleasure in. Each year he watched from the stairs and Blair never failed to make that, the best Christmas moment of the season.

Christmas Eve:1872

Blair straightened up from building the last fire. He groaned, his back still raw from the whipping Warbeck had given him yesterday. He smiled; not even the pain of his back could spoil the delight of this day. Master James was coming back home. James had been away at University but would be home this very afternoon for Christmas.

The months Blair had anticipated being away from his mother had turned into years. The weekly letters had always been sporadic, and now only a few a year made it into his hands

In his tenth year, he’d fallen from the top of the chimney and had spent most of that winter on crutches, his leg broken in two places. Despite the pain, it had been a wonderful winter. Because he could no longer stand, he was put to work in the kitchen. He peeled potatoes and mixed cakes, scrubbed pots and mended socks. Once Mrs. Martin had discovered he was literate, he spent a great deal of time reading the newspapers out loud. At night, he was brought into the cozy little room that served as a parlor for the upper house servants. There he spent the evenings reading all manner of books and articles. Even after his leg healed, Perkins had insisted he spend his evenings reading to them.

Blair gave a little prayer for Perkins’ soul. Since his passing and Warbeck’s tenure as butler had begun, Blair had not been allowed back into the snug haven. Now he spent his evenings in the room he shared with eight other lowly servants. The candle was snuffed as soon as they all undressed. There were no books, no fireplace, no discreet glasses of sherry, no crumbcakes passed around in there.

The other men regarded Blair as the worst kind of servant there was. Accepted by the upstairs servants in a free and easy manner, able to read and figure, he was not one of them.

They felt he had pretensions of being a better and they knew he had started out as a climbing boy; you didn't get any lower than that.

In fact, it was because of their hostility that he had met James.

Blair had been thirteen and had given up pretending to be three years younger that summer, when his voice broke. He was working in the stables, mucking out the stalls because Freddy was down with the measles, when Ted had come in. Ted had worked in the stables for two years and had his eye on becoming head stable lad. The appearance of Blair, the House pet, worried him. He didn't want any challenges to his ambitions.

"Er there, yer doin' it all wrong, there." Ted wrenched the fork away from Blair. As he did that he elbowed Blair in the ribs with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Blair bent over, trying to get air back into his body when Ted plowed the handle of the fork into Blair's face. Blair dropped to the ground, stunned by both the hostility and the aggression. Blood poured from his nose and he could feel that his front teeth had been loosened. He was on his hands and knees when Ted kicked him again and again in the ribs, sending him crashing into the wall of the stalls. Ted followed, intent on inflicting more pain.

A fist in Ted’s hair stopped his attack. A cultured voice asked, "What's going on here?"

Ted looked into the enraged face of Master James Ellison. He was a well-built youth, broad of shoulder and at sixteen, almost fully-grown. Ted was stupefied into silence.

"I asked you what is the meaning of this?"

Blair pulled himself up and stood swaying in front of the young master. "It was a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" The look on James Ellison's face expressed his disbelief.

Blair started to nod his head when the world tilted and went black.

*******************

Blair opened his eyes and tried to bring the room into focus. When it came into focus, he tried to make sense of it. Instead of being in his narrow bed at the top of the house, he was in a spacious, sunlit room. The dark, heavy wood declared it to be a man's room, the fine workmanship and opulence proclaimed it one of the family's. This made no sense. Blair threw the covers off and began to get out of bed. Groaning at the pain that lanced through his side, he wondered how he'd ended up here, but being found here could not be good. He was naked except for the white bandages that circled his ribs.

Before he got very far from the bed, he knew it was folly. He grabbed on to the wing chair and steadied himself. As he stood there, his eyes searched for his clothes. The only possible hiding place for them was the massive wardrobe that stood at the other end of the room. Blair knew that if he were in trouble for being in this room, he'd be in ten times the trouble if he were found going through the master's closet. Blair was torn. His naked state bothered him but he didn't want to risk the master's ire by invading his privacy, Blair shuffled back to the bed, resigned to someone coming in and offering him information and clothing. He laid his head back, the pain in it almost obliterating his fears.

He heard the door open and he turned his head. It was Master James, looking impeccable in his snowy white shirt and cravat.

"How are you feeling, boy?"

"I'm fine, sir. Except…"

"Yes? "

"I don't seem to have any clothes, m'lord."

"Oh, yes, your clothes. Your misunderstanding wreaked havoc on your clothing. Mrs. Martin has been busy all afternoon affecting the repairs. I'm afraid you're stuck in bed for a little while longer."

Master James looked at the young boy lying in his bed. His face was pale, accentuating the bruises around his eyes. Eyes that were blue like his own but darker, containing intelligence, and if James were correct, mischief. His hair was dark and unruly against the pristine, starched white pillow. All in all, he looked like a fallen angel, kicked out of heaven for brawling.

Right now the young angel looked decidedly chastised. Though he said not a word, pain was evident in the tightness around his eyes and the pinched look of his swollen mouth. He took the news of his confinement well and stared frankly at James.

"May I ask a question, sir?"

"Yes."

"Why did you bring me here and not to my own bed?"

James had not been expecting that question and he found he didn’t want to examine the answer to that too closely. "Haul you up four flights of stairs? I think not."

"But, sir, you could have left me in the stable. It’s not right that I should take up your bed."

"You looked deuced uncomfortable lying in the straw." James didn’t know how to explain the way he’d felt when he saw the boy, beaten and bloody, stand and try to smooth over the fracas, only to keel over in a faint.

Now Blair was in his bed, unknowing of the bond that lay between them. James would have liked to ask him about the books and which was his favorite, but he didn’t want to let on it was he who was Blair’s benefactor. He didn’t want to lose his precious Christmas moments and have them replaced with a formal bestowing of Christmas largesse. So he kept mum.

In any case, he had another surprise for Blair. He wasn’t having Blair’s clothes mended but remade. Blair must have hit a growth spurt, for his pants were two inches short and the shirt was threadbare and patched. James didn’t understand that. His father insisted the servants be dressed well in keeping with their being in the employ of a lord.

Already as James watched, Blair’s eyes had closed and he slept. James approached the bed and arranged the blankets. He had a brother, Stephen. He was six years older than James and they had never been close. James could remember begging his mother for a brother. She had pointed out he might end up with a baby sister. It was an ugly thought but he was willing to risk it if it might bring him a baby brother.

James thought that perhaps Blair could use a big brother. He would keep Blair here for a few days, get to know him a little.

Blair had stayed a week, transferring to a cot in James room. At the end of the week, James found the idea of Blair leaving to perform his usual duties caused him to delay the announcement of his recovery. He delayed until finally Blair became James’ unofficial valet.

For two years the boys spent most of their waking hours in each other’s company. James taught Blair to ride a horse and fence; Blair finally made Latin decipherable for James.

At age eighteen it was time for James to attend Cambridge. He would miss Blair, but Miss Sally Danton had caught his attention that summer and he was distracted from the pain of leaving Blair by the anticipation of the social whirl that was opening to him.

Blair took his absence philosophically, grateful for the time he had had with James. The first year James was away wasn’t so bad, Perkins still was with them and he enjoyed the company of all his old friends. The next summer Perkins passed and Warbeck came into power.

Warbeck didn’t like Irishmen. He especially didn’t like Irishmen who took an Englishmen’s rightful position. One of his first acts was to banish Blair to the lowliest, dirtiest and hardest jobs. He accomplished this by the expediency of accusing Blair of stealing food. Warbeck seemed to have felt personally affronted by Blair’s easy rapport with the upper staff and his cultured speech. He made it his mission to teach Blair his rightful place.

Finding Blair reading when he should have been working had precipitated the beating Blair had endured yesterday. There was no excuse, Blair knew, for his neglecting the polishing. A whipping was an excessive punishment for such an infraction but this last year had been full of an excess of punishment for Blair. And in truth, he preferred the beating to other punishments Warbeck delighted in.

None of that mattered a whit, as Blair finished the work in James’ room. He was too excited to see the young master again and hear all about the wondrous things James was learning.

Blair exited the room and immediately heard the commotion that heralded the Master’s return. He started to race down the backstairs and then brought himself to a halt, preceding at a slower rate that Warbeck insisted everyone adhere to at all times. When he got to the kitchen, it was empty, all having spilled out to greet the returning young gentleman. Blair moved to join them when he was stopped by a hand on his chest. He looked up to see Warbeck glaring at him.

"Just where do you think you are going, O’Malley?"

"To welcome Master James back, sir."

"In those clothes?" Warbeck shook his head and made a tsking noise. " I hardly think so."

Blair looked down at his clothes, smudged with ash and dirt. He hadn’t given his appearance a thought, but now he realized he looked like a lout, and a filthy lout at that. He couldn’t greet James looking like this after so many months apart.

"I’ll go clean up, sir."

"No you won’t, your work’s not half done."

"But sir, I’m Master Ellison’s valet at home."

"Not anymore you’re not. He’s of age now and requires a suitable manservant. Andrews will be filling that position. And remember, you’re on half portions for the week."

Blair was stunned. He should have anticipated this, but he had thought that just maybe James would insist he stay on. That was a foolish hope, and one doomed from the start. Blair’s internal chastisements ended when Warbeck slapped him on the back. Blair couldn’t contain the yelp of pain.

"Still smarting from your last lesson? Keep it in mind, O’Malley. Know your place." With that Warbeck stalked off.

Blair watched Warbeck's retreating back, blinking away the tears of disappointment that freely mixed with tears of pain.

*******************************

Christmas day dawned and everyone donned their finest apparel. Blair wore a new suit. He was seventeen now and free to leave the Manor and seek work elsewhere. In spite of Warbeck’s oppression, Blair had no intention of leaving the only home he’d ever known. He still held memories of his mother’s dear face, but in the last eight years, he had only seen her three times. Mrs. Martin had filled her role and then some with her maternal fussing.

The servants lined up to receive their Christmas gifts, each position in line an indication of their place in the household. Blair was nearly at the end of the line. Lord Ellison started the Procession. William was followed by his second wife, Georgiana, his sons, first born Stephen, the second, James. They greeted each servant and bestowed a token of their appreciation. When James stood in front of Blair, he smiled and brought out the cherished book. Blair received it with a look of shocked dismay.

"You’re wearing colors; you’ve joined a regiment."

James looked down at his uniform. "Very perceptive, young scholar," James teased.

Blair searched for something to say and settled for a weak, "Master James, that’s wondrous news."

"I leave for India on Boxing Day."

"So soon? What about University?"

"I’ve lost interest in my studies without you there to make it interesting. Fighting is in my blood and I can’t tell you how I anticipate this next year." James' look of rapture made it clear this was the right decision.

"Will you need a man, sir?" Blair knew that even if James needed a valet, he would not be the one chosen, as it was not his status, but he asked anyway.

"I’m afraid I’m too junior an officer to be allowed those kinds of privileges." James’ happiness was so apparent that Blair felt like a dog for wishing it away.

Blair looked down at the package in his hands and realized belatedly that he had not given proper thanks. "Thank you, Master James. ‘Tis a most thoughtful gift."

"You are most exceedingly welcome, Blair, Perhaps tomorrow there will be time for me to tell you about my last semester as a student." James laid a friendly hand on Blair’s shoulder, never noticing the grimace of pain that passed across Blair’s face. And then he was gone, into the sitting parlor, with its beautiful tree, and it’s dark, cold branches, to spend Christmas with his family.

James was as good as his word. The next day he sought Blair out, finally finding him in the cellar, stocking and cataloging the wines. He worked in his shirtsleeves and the repetitious motion of stacking the boxes had sorely aggravated his back. He looked up in surprise as James came down the stairs.

"Master Ellison, er, Lieutenant Ellison." Blair was discomfited by James’ new uniform and all the change it symbolized.

"It’s still James when we’re alone." James looked Blair over. He’d grown this past year, though still of a smaller stature than James. James frowned at Blair’s ragged appearance. His hair needed cutting and once again his clothes were too snug. James made a note to check in with Mrs. Martin and have new clothes made for Blair. Although the cellar was cool, Blair was sweating.

"I know you’re disappointed in my decision to join the Regiment but you know it was always you who were the scholar. I merely turned the pages."

"That’s not true!" Blair was fierce in his protest. "You have a fine mind." Blair looked at the smile that played on James’s face. "When you take an interest," he amended.

"And this is what interests me. I can’t tell you how I’ve longed for this. You know as second born, there is little for me here. I will make my own way and as soon I have the clout, I’ll send for you." He paused in his headlong recitation. "That is, if you’ll come."

"If I’ll come? Of course I’ll come!" Blair’s delight at the suggestion warmed James' heart.

He clapped Blair on the back and was shocked when Blair gasped and fell forward.

"What is it, Blair? Are you all right?" James straightened Blair up and looked at him more closely. Pain filled eyes looked back at him. James quickly turned Blair around and swore at the faint, red lines that had seeped through the fabric of his shirt.

"What happened? Who did this?" James' tone of outrage eased some of Blair’s pain. His careful breathing helped him to regain enough composure to answer.

"’Twas my own fault."

"Your fault? Have you joined the Catholics then and begun to whip yourself?"

Blair actually smiled at the jest. "No, m’lord. I simply meant, I know better than to read when there are chores to be done."

"For neglecting your chores you received a beating?" Like most of those of his class, James had little understanding of the power wielded in their name.

"It was a second offense."

"Perkins would never have done this, not for a second, nor for a tenth."

Blair smiled at the memory of the first time Perkins found him behind the curtains in the library reading a book. Perkins had removed the book from Blair’s hands and studied the title. "An Enumeration of the Virtues of Falconry." He had looked sternly down his nose at the quaking nine-year-old and harrumphed.

"I believe your time would be better spent in the kitchen, Blair." And with that he had whisked Blair back into the warm enclave of Mrs. Martin and her staff.

"True, Perkins never did punish me for that infraction, but perhaps he should have."

"Nonsense. Reading’s not a sin."

"It is to Warbeck, James, at least when done in place of work."

Blair shook his head. If James protested his punishment, the next one would be worse. He had to make James understand.

"I win no favors, nor friends by my stubborn habit. 'Tis time I learned, James. And you know what a fast learner I am when I put me mind to it. And believe me, I’ve put me mind to it now."

James frowned at those words, and Blair realized he’d slipped into the speech of the lower servants. Blair blushed. It seemed no matter where he was or who he was with, he couldn’t quite fit in.

"Please leave it lay, m’lord. It’s not so bad."

Lieutenant Ellison knew an obfuscation when he heard one. "Remove your shirt."

"Sir, this is not necessary, really, I’m fine."

"Indulge me, I’m only just learning to issue orders."

Blair glared at him; how could he refuse that? It had been humiliating to be whipped, it was doubly humiliating to have to show his back to James.

"Very well, m’lord." Blair took his shirt off, surprised when it stuck in places to his back. James studied it, the raw welts oozed a mixture of blood and pus. The flesh around the welts was red with infection and blue with bruising.

"Have you put anything on this? Cleaned it at least?"

"No sir, can’t really do much, since I can’t reach."

"Damn fool pride, you know Mrs. Martin would’ve taken care of this for you."

"She and Warbeck already circle each other like two pack dogs. I didn’t want to make it worse."

James uncorked a bottle of his father’s finest Chardonnay. "This is going to sting like the dickens but it will disinfect your back. I’m sorry to cause you more pain, Blair."

"It needs doing. Go ahead."

James gently poured the wine down Blair's back but even so, Blair cried out and fell to his knees. James followed him down and held his shoulders as Blair shuddered as his body protested the brutal disinfection. After a long few minutes, Blair’s breathing came back under control and he lifted his head. James was stunned by the gratitude he saw in Blair’s eyes.

"Thank you." Blair said., simply.

"For being the cause of even more pain?"

Blair shook his head. "For staying with me through the pain."

James looked away, wondering for the first time what Blair’s life had really been like this past year. James was afraid he had not been blessed with an imagination. He knew and understood what he saw and experienced. For perhaps the first time in his life, he forced himself to go beyond the limits of his experience and contemplate Blair’s.

When he had first reached out to Blair, it had been a whim. Then the whim became something stronger and more compelling. The day he pulled the covers up on Blair’s sleeping form, was the day he had taken Blair as his brother. Yet he had no real understanding of the responsibilities in that bond. Certainly his relationship with Stephen had done little to acquaint James with the complexities of the role.

As the time came for James to depart for University, he dwelled in the calm complacence of an ordered life, never foreseeing how Blair’s life would change with him gone. Looking at Blair and seeing a common laborer instead of the man of letters he had envisioned, he recognized how he had failed his brother.

James considered the possibilities. It should have been obvious with Blair’s skills that he be put to work in the counting house or perhaps trained to clerk. Only Warbeck could have thwarted that natural promotion and then only by impugning Blair’s reputation in some way. His step-mother had been the one to hire Warbeck, on the reference of her sister, and seemed inordinately taken with him. And his father was inordinately taken with Georgiana. Warbeck’s position was secure. James didn’t know much about the inner workings among the servants but he knew enough to understand that if he protested Blair’s treatment, it would go badly for Blair.

"Very well. I’ll keep mum, but I’m going to recommend you to my father that you be promoted to clerk. I should have done that when I went away to University." James felt a little better knowing Blair would be doing what he loved while James was gone.

Smiling and nodding his approval of the plan, Blair breathed a sigh of relief. He had no illusions that James’ recommendation would secure him the position. He could not imagine Warbeck allowing that to come to pass. But he was happy that James had relinquished his plan to confront Warbeck. He needed only to hold on until James moved up in rank and then he would be allowed to join his lord.

***************************

The next year was the hardest of Blair’s life, harder even than the years as climbing boy. The clerking position did not come to pass. Warbeck’s hatred had grown and he seemed to get satisfaction in finding inventive ways to make Blair’s days a misery. Blair was sure Warbeck would have had him turned out, except for the favor he held in Master James’s eyes.

Christmas time of that year brought a missive in place of James. A missive declaring Captain James Ellison missing in action, presumed dead. The household wept in their collective grief, for James Ellison had been a fine lad who had grown into a true gentleman.

All wept except Blair, who felt the tears frozen inside him, so deep was his pain. That night Blair placed his few belongings in a small cloth sack and left Saybrooke. Leaving behind his small treasure of books given him by James and a note for Mrs. Martin telling her he loved her and was grateful for all the care she had given him. He walked into the night, away from the house full of sleeping people that had made up the only life he could remember. Putting his face into the cold winter wind, he welcomed the numbing qualities of it.

He planned to see his mother and then, from there, he would make a decision.

**********

Captain James Ellison held his hands to ears, willing the godawful noise to stop. For five months he had endured the erratic magnification of his senses.

James had been back on his feet for a year, trying to get his life in to order. Sally had found herself a first-born son and married the next Earl of Bellingham. Her defection had been a blow, but surprisingly easy to overcome. It was O'Malley’s desertion that still hurt, and woke him in the middle of the night.

When he was in an honest frame of a mind he acknowledged that Blair had thought him dead and so had little reason to stay on at Saybrooke.

James had spent a small fortune with the Peelers in an effort to locate Blair, with no tangible results. One man without means could be anywhere. Or nowhere. James ruthlessly shoved that ugly thought away.

Taking another swig of the opium, James wondered if Doctor Lawry was right and only surgery would alleviate the agony of noise. If he submitted to the knife, he would be deaf, but at times like these that seemed a small price to pay. If noise had been his only complaint he might have done it already, but he was plagued with such a sensitivity to texture that he could hardly bear to have a sheet upon his body and spent an inordinate amount of time in his locked room, naked. Food also challenged him, the blandest foods so sharp in taste that they burned his tongue.

Between that and his time in alone in the mountains, he had dropped more than a stone and it was clear to all that beheld him that something was seriously amiss. And his sight…that was where his true madness lay. He could watch a flea hatch eggs, make out individual snowflakes, spot a deer a mile away. It was hallucinations, he knew. He didn’t know how much longer he had until complete madness claimed him. His only goal now was to find Blair and make sure he was safe. Perhaps arrange for him to go to school. Blair would make a most excellent teacher. Once he had accomplished that, he would surrender to the madness and kill himself. Until that time, James hung on by sheer will and discipline, each day bringing a new level of torture.

*******************

Blair straightened his cravat in the mirror. He had a deep distrust of valets and saw to his own ablutions. He found the idea that he might need help dressing ludicrous. He ran a comb through his dark curls and studied his reflection. Yes, the effect he was striving for had been achieved. He looked the very picture of a debauched, spoiled gentleman, with too many groats and not enough sense. When he entered White’s tonight as Beminton’s guest, he hoped his luck and his skills stayed steady. He was close to his goal now, and didn’t want any set-backs.

Blair walked, delighting as always in the way the dark made the ugly mysterious. He cherished the night; with its deep-pocketed shadows, its dangers, its well-kept secrets. He smiled ruefully to himself. He loved how the night made it so easy to lighten the heavy purses of the Lords who strolled about, snug in their ideas of superiority.

Blair had left Saybrooke Castle with ideals, holding faith with the system that had denied him everything on the lack of a marriage contract. When he had found his mother, the mortar of all his beliefs were washed away.

Naomi had lived at Wentworth House for these last twelve years. In the first year, due to some clever paperwork that made her the widow of Aidan O’Malley, she had served as governess to the three small Wentworth children. Lady Ebury was young and fragile, rarely seen. In the second year, she had assumed a more intimate position, that of mistress to Lord Ebury. When Blair realized this was why he had never been allowed to join his mother, his heart fluttered and froze.

Naomi pleaded for his understanding, his forgiveness. Nothing she said penetrated the numbness of Blair’s being. He looked at her and could no longer see the young, gay mother who had read to him at bedtime. That woman, though attired in plain, serviceable dresses made of drab, brown homespun, had been beautiful. The woman before him, dressed in blue silk, hair swept up, jewels at her ears and neck, was a stranger. He turned his back on her and fled the ashes of his shattered ideals.

**********

Now he made his way through the glorified districts of London that were filled with elegance on foot and in carriage. No one glanced his way and smirked, no one looked him up and down with a cold look of contempt, no one shouted at him to leave. He carried himself with the assurance and arrogance of the wealthy. All around him there was laughter, snatches of song, women’s voices purring. The dark concealed Blair’s boredom with it all, his deep weariness at the pretension and vapidity of the upper class. When he entered White’s, his mask would move smoothly into place and none would guess at the loathing he felt in their presence.

Entering White's, Blair surveyed the place. It was a genteel haven for men. The air was thick with smoke and the murmur of low voices making bets, sealing deals and exchanging gossip. Blair searched for Beminton among the crowded tables. He moved through the rooms, watching the play, assessing the players. Men risked their fortunes on the intangibles of luck.. Blair shook his head at the whimsy inherent in that religion. Blair never depended on luck. That was a fool's game. He simply kept track of everyone's cards and calculated the possibilities. He bet carefully but aggressively, and on the not so rare occasion when he knew with certainty he had the winning hand, he bet all he had. Soon he would quit the gaming table for good. That day couldn't come too soon.

Blair had been shocked to hear what the aristocracy talked about. A enormous amount of time seemed to be spent discussing tailors and fashion. An entire night was often spent comparing the merits one tailor's technique over another's. When they tired of fashion, they switched the talk to their cattle. Blair had waited in vain for a mention of parliament or land management.

Blair left White's early the next day, his pockets heavy with coin. A few more nights like this and he would be ready. Blair yawned. As hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to make his body adjust to the life of a gentleman. These late nights had taken their toll. Even before he took up the life of the idle wealthy he had not been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Now that he arrived home as the sun rose, he found it more difficult to put a lifetime of industry aside and sleep while there was light available.

Although the tidy house on the square that Blair rented looked the very picture of propriety, it was in truth, a most eccentric household. Blair had collected a small motley crew of two to attend him and convey an aura of respectability.

Only Daniel and Alice lived in the house. Daniel providing a look of Episcopalian aestheticism as he answered the door, belying his rather nasty past as a footpad.

Alice ruled in the kitchen, disguised by a dusting of a flour and an apron snug around her tiny waist. There was no hint of the doxy’s life she had led and had only quit when she encountered Blair. Each had come into contact with Blair believing he was an easy mark.

Daniel had been desperate. He had had an appalling run of bad luck and was now close to starvation. He assaulted the first likely looking cove that came by his hidey-hole and had been dismayed when the gentleman had turned out to be as dirty a street fighter as he was. He had ended up being hauled back to Gramercy Park and allowed to recuperate in the dingy room that made up Blair’s home at that time.

Alice had managed to run away from the brothel that she had lived in since her mum had sold her at age twelve. She was barely sixteen and while her knowledge of men and their appetites was immense, her understanding of London and its backstreet rules and systems was a complete mystery to her. As a result she had simply left one life of prostitution for another and in the new version of her old life, she was far colder and hungrier.

When she saw Blair, alone, walking home in the deep, dark hours of early morning, she had decided she needed whatever lined his pockets more than he. She had done her most popular role, young waif in dire need and had her hand in his pockets before her lips left his. She had been stunned when the gentleman had grabbed her wrist in an iron hold and stopped her plans for a warm meal. Even more amazing to her was the rest of the night, the dinner he bought and the room he rented for her.

So had begun their collaboration in the fleecing of the almighty Ladies and Gents.

Daniel and Alice had both been surprised at how easily they settled into domestic service. Of course Blair was exceedingly easy to work for, as he spent most of his hours reading. The house was full of books and journals. Papers were piled high, filled with Blair’s neat penmanship. There was little furniture on the main floor; a desk and chair, several bookcases and a sideboard that had been there when Blair moved in. Upstairs one would not be able to pick out the master’s bedroom from the servants. They were all furnished with simple beds and wardrobes.

Blair had a goal and to its end he pledged all his resources. In truth, he saw no value in a big bed, nor a sofa to lounge on. He realized that this was one aspect of his impersonation of a man of leisure that he failed at. He was also quite poor at flirtation and everyday conversation. He made a point of studying the components of casual conversation and went so far as to practice with Daniel, who was as mystified as Blair by what seemed to interest the gentry. He had tried to practice flirting with Alice but they quickly realized she had no better understanding of the art of seduction than Blair did. In her world, she had been a sure thing, with no need to elicit a flowery phrase.

Still, society seemed to accept that Blair was simply a little odd and in a world where wealth made odd attractive, he managed just fine. He had come to London in a daze, reeling from the knowledge of his mother’s desertion. He felt haunted by loss and dreamed nightly of James dying. Each nightmare was worse than the last as Blair’s fertile brain filled in the details he didn’t know of James’ last moments.

Coming to London, he had to find work as a clerk but soon found his lack of credentials made that an impossibility. He came close to starving before he pulled himself out of his cocoon of grief and despair.

When he did, he took a good look at the world around him; the people who had declared he had no value, nothing to offer that they wanted. By accident of birth he had been consigned to a life of labor. Once he had borne that as being the way of things, but now a dark anger pushed aside that acceptance. He took a hard look at the all that had held power over him and felt rage building.

He would always hold Perkins and Mrs. Martin dear to his heart. James dwelt there as well, but James had infiltrated more than his heart. At times Blair felt like his very soul had been drained by James’ death. His heart and his soul. The hole that had been left was filled with bitterness and a restless need to find a place for himself.

With the small comfort of having known and loved good people, Blair searched for a purpose. In the end the only meaning he could find was in what had always filled his head; discovering the mysterious ways that knitted the world together and the underlying reasons that kept people apart.

His quest for a reason to go on had taken him to Cambridge, where James had gone and should have stayed. There he found that his lack of legitimacy was a far greater obstacle than his lack of funds. The old Blair would have taken that as his due, and shifted his sights. This Blair refused to let go, and left Cambridge determined to find a way in.

Money was his first need. Money would buy him the identity and position necessary to be admitted. Blair pursued money the way he pursued knowledge, methodically, using research and observation to determine the fastest and safest way to his goal.

The first thing he discovered was the need to let go of safety as a priority. There was no way to earn the kind of money he needed. Not legally. Blair watched the streets for two days until he saw just the right person.

Quick, silent, nearly invisible, the man worked the Mayfair crowd with verve and industry. Blair saw him divest six large gentlemen of their money without inspiring a second glance. Blair followed him, his own disreputable attire and gaunt face easily blending him into the street scene. Once he had the man cornered, he set about finding the price for this particular education. For the payment of writing four love letters, he was taught the fine art of pickpocketing. It wasn’t long before Willie declared him a right cove at it. Blair put his new skill to work immediately, filching enough money to buy a lovely meat pie. After that, Blair systematically worked the crowds, never staying too long in any one place.

Morally he felt nothing, knowing no one was suffering much from their loss. His first impulse had been to buy himself some warm, decent clothes and find a room where he could have access to a bath. Living in a perpetual state of filth was nearly unbearable to Blair. He held that impulse off and instead used his blunt to bankroll a chocolatier.

It was only after he had acquired his first five pounds that he allowed himself the luxury of sleeping indoors. He stayed in the small dingy room he first rented until Daniel convinced him to expand his money making schemes.

Daniel taught Blair everything he needed to know about whist. Unlike casual conversation and flirtation, Blair found he had a true knack for it. There was a mathematical rightness to the game that Blair grasped instinctively. To play the game required the right crowd, which required the right clothes and then the right address. He was indifferent to his change in status but found he liked being warm and clean. He also found he was far more comfortable lightening the money clips of the wealthy in a game they entered into voluntarily. His indifference to the act of stealing seemed to have shifted as his circumstances improved. Blair discovered that what he was willing to do to survive was not what he was willing to do when there was an alternative.

He would be glad enough to put the gaming behind him as well. Although he had no love for these men, with their vanities, their inane chatter, their wantonness with money, he still felt a stab of guilt when he used their stupidity against them.

Tonight he had been invited to LaSalle's. It was a new club, in a slightly disreputable part of town. As usual, Blair walked the four miles to his night's work. He hated being confined in dark spaces and avoided carriages at all costs. His mind, as usual, wandered far and wide, as he made his way through the better neighborhoods. The large houses on neat squares gradually gave way to narrow byways, clustered shops, shuttered businesses.

He was surprised he'd been issued an invitation. His winning ways had started to make him less and less welcomed at the tables. It was only the aristocracy's arrogance that kept him in business, each one sure they could beat the young whelp.

The night unfolded with predictability but it was still quite early when Blair started to feel ill. He fought it until he could no longer hold the cards steady, and then folded, making his excuses.

He hoped the night air would steady him and ease the pounding in his head but it was no help at all. Blair set off for home, hoping he wouldn't actually be sick along the way. He had just reached Threadneedle Street, when he heard the rush of bodies coming at him.

**********************************

James waited impatiently for Cordelia to finish her conversation with her cousin, Richard. His impatience was not with a desire to have her company once more but with a longing to leave this drawing room. He needed the sanctuary of his own house. He’d been persuaded to leave his rooms for this soiree on the promise that Cousin Richard might hold the answer to his problem. Richard had listened and then begun to ask the kind of questions that James had come to recognize. The questions were based upon an assumption of insanity, and James could just imagine what Richard was saying to Cordelia. "Run from this madman, and never look back. Considering marriage? But my darling girl, consider your children."

James was not considering marriage but he was well aware that Cordelia had it on her mind. If Cousin Richard succeeded in turning Cordelia’s ambitions away from him, he’d be grateful. The headache that ever lurked was edging out of its box, threatening his head with the kind of pain polite society abhorred. He needed to leave and leave fast. James watched as Cordelia detached from Richard’s grip and came his way.

Before she could say anything, James stood and launched into his apologies. "Cordelia, I’m so sorry, but I must take my leave."

"Another one of your headaches, James?" Cordelia asked this in her sweetly, sympathetic voice that held pity now and added another shard of pain to his head.

"Yes. I really must go. Will Richard be able to accompany you home?"

Richard came up just then, placing a proprietary hand under Cordelia's elbow and answered, "Of course. Don't concern yourself with Cordelia, James. She's in good hands."

Richard looked down at Cordelia with something quite beyond fondness and James sighed in relief.

"Thank you, and goodnight."

James stumbled down the steps, hoping no one was looking out the window. He quickly set off for home. The quiet of the streets soothed his head and after a few blocks he was able to open his eyes more than a slit. Voices and sounds came to him in waves, and the smells of the city nearly made him lose what little supper he'd managed to eat. The darkness of the night was one small blessing and James held it close to him.

All of his energy went towards suppressing sound and so he was surprised when he turned a corner and saw men brawling. As he sorted through the scene, he soon realized they weren't brawling. Two large men were attacking a third, smaller man.

The one being attacked had managed to cause a considerable amount of damage, but it was clear that he didn't have much left with which to put up a fight. As James watched, the man being attacked swayed and the two moved in. One grabbed the fellow from behind by the arms, while the other started to pound away.

With a shouted curse, James ran to join the fight. The attackers looked up in alarm and fled, dropping the beaten man to the ground with a sickening thud.

James hurried to his side, looking around for anyone who might go for help. The street was deserted. James rolled the man over and gasped.

Damn.

What a time for his hallucinations to kick in. The man lying bleeding on the filthy street was the very picture of O'Malley and yet he was clearly a gentleman. It had to be his mind, playing tricks on him once again, this time in the cruelest way imaginable. James pushed aside his concerns with his sanity and looked the man over. His face was scraped and bruised, his lip split and bleeding. His ribs had taken quite a pounding and James listened for the telltale wheezing that would indicate a punctured lung. He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't hear it. James looked around again and spotted an urchin lurking in the shadows.

"You there! Come here!" The boy would have bolted, but the voice of command made him think better of it.

"Y-yess, me lord?"

"Go fetch a cab from Mercer Street. Give the driver this." James gave the boy a half crown.

"Tell him to hurry. And they'll be one of these for you, if you're quick about it."

"Yes sir!" The boy took off at high speed and James turned his attention back to the man in front of him. He had expected the man's features to have changed into someone else's, perhaps Stephen's, but the man still looked like O'Malley.

James pulled him onto his lap, worried about the chill of the ground. He moaned and his eyes opened. James' heart constricted as he looked into the very eyes of Blair, their dark blue unmistakable. The phantom looked up at James with love that quickly turned to bewilderment.

"James?"

Oh God, it was O'Malley. It was Blair's voice, his eyes, and his hand reaching for James. James caught it with a sob.

"Blair? Is it really you?"

"Me? Of course it's me. Is it you? You're the one who is dead. Am I speaking to your ghost now? Or am I dead, too?"

"No." James pulled Blair closer to him. "You're very much alive, as am I. It was a mistake. I was in prison. I've searched everywhere for you, I'd just about given up…"

The rattle of the hansom interrupted the reunion. James carefully stood, pulling Blair up with him, trying to avoid inflicting more pain. Blair stood, supported by James and tried to stem the blood flowing from his mouth. When he saw the cab, he tried to back away, but James held him fast.

"No, no, I'll walk." Blair pleaded and tried to step away from James' embrace. He only managed to get one foot in front of the other when both knees buckled and he crumpled. James had waited, knowing Blair was in no shape to walk and was there to pick him up as he went down. He swung his unconscious friend into the dark interior and gave his address.

**********************************

The doctor had come and gone. James sat at Blair's bedside, idly rubbing his thumb across the square hand he held in his own, larger one. Blair had endured a painful bout of retching that had left him limp, sweat-drenched and nearly speechless with pain. All James could offer was his hand on Blair's back and his words that it would soon be over.

It had not been the right time to exchange stories and James wondered how O'Malley had come to have over twenty pounds in his pocket. His curly hair was still long but carefully cut in the current style. The clothes were elegantly tailored, though now sullied, and cut to enhance his the lines of his body. His shoes were made of fine, soft leather. Blair's hands were clean and well manicured, not the hands of a laborer. All in all, Blair presented the picture of wealth and position.

James was relieved to see that Blair had flourished in his absence, though a small, petty part of him regretted that he would not be the one to give Blair a better life. Blair clearly already had found his own better life.

Another part of him acknowledged that Blair having a good life already meant his own life was shortened. He wouldn't be needed to see Blair ensconced at school or outfitted to become a teacher. His reasons for living and enduring the pain and madness were evaporating and soon it would be time to put an end to it.

He leaned back and rubbed his temples. The headache, his constant companion for the last year, had eased up. It looked as if Blair would be sleeping for the rest of the night, but James found himself curiously reluctant to find his own bed. He'd sit a little while longer.

He must have dozed because he awoke to Blair's ragged breathing. James leaned over and smoothed the sweat-dampened hair off Blair's forehead. A fever had begun and that made no sense. The doctor had assured James there were no internal injuries. Blair moved restlessly under James' hand as if needing the touch and James obliged. He stroked Blair's hair and murmured words of comfort. The heat increased, as did James' alarm.

He hurried through the darkened hallways and entered the kitchen. Gathering up a basin, water, and soft rags, he made his way back to his room. On the stairway he could hear Blair moaning and he ran the rest of the way. Blair had tossed the blanket off and was curled on his side, making a feeble attempt to vomit again. James got behind Blair and supported his shoulders, putting the basin on Blair's lap. Blair's stomach was cramping, James felt the muscles rippling in his abdomen, but nothing was coming out.

Blair groaned, "Make it stop." James wanted nothing more than to ease the pain ravaging his friend.

Putting his hands on Blair's stomach, he hoped the warmth and pressure would be of comfort. He could feel the heat of surface bruising but nothing more. Blair must have been poisoned. If that were the case, the attack had not been random. What deep game had Blair gotten himself into?

James rang for a servant, and sent his man flying to fetch the doctor back. Then he took his shoes off and climbed onto the bed, pulling Blair into his arms. The feel of James' arms around him seemed to calm Blair, and he leaned his head back.

"Better?"

"Yes." The familiar voice was raspy from the toll of ridding his body of the toxin.

"I believe you were poisoned."

"Me? Poisoned?" Blair's surprise was unfeigned. He seemed unaware of any nefarious forces lined against him. James' year in the military, and most especially his time in India, had perhaps made him see plots where there were only coincidence. On the other hand, James had a bad feeling about this, a feeling that wasn't being banished with logic.

Blair had fallen back asleep and James settled down to wait. He had learned the art of patience in the last few years.

The doctor returned, muttering about young men and the debaucheries that caused hard working physicians to be forced from their warm beds. The Ellison family was not one to be refused, no matter how warm the bed and the woman in it.

Doctor Phillips re-examined his patient. In the few hours he's been away, the bruises had begun their spectacular emergence and it was easy to mark the path of fists on the man's torso. Bruised, but not broken, and he had not missed any internal injuries.

"Poison, you say?"

James nodded. "Why else would he be vomiting?"

"Let's see, there's the fact he'd been drinking, and no doubt, quite drunk."

"No, Blair may have been drinking but he was not drunk."

"Well then, he may have eaten tainted food."

"Possibly," James acknowledged reluctantly.

"Or he may simply have been coming down with something before the beating. Lord knows London is a hotbed of infections."

"That would account for the fever." James placed his hand on Blair's forehead, noting the rise in temp.

"Yes, that would be the most likely explanation. He looks a undernourished. Odd, in a man of his class. Has he been ill before? He's certainly had his share of misfortune in this lifetime."

"Not that I know of." James wondered, again, what Blair's life had been like since he'd left for the Regiment. He had been appalled at the signs of abuse he'd seen on Blair's body. The scars were faded, but James' sensitive hands had traced each one, sickened by the violence inflicted on his friend.

"Well, I have no doubt he'll recover from this…beating and whatever else he's contracted. He looks frail, but he has a strong body. He'll be fine."

"Thank you, doctor. I'll call you if there's any change."

"Yes, I'm sure you will." The doctor gathered his things and let himself out, anxious to capture some of the night for his own use.

Blair moved restlessly in his sleep and James pulled his chair up and took Blair's hand in his. It seemed to give Blair what he needed, his body stilled.

James woke as the first light of the morning crept into the room. His first thought was to reassure himself that he did, indeed, have Blair with him. Catching sight of Blair, he smiled. The man was fast asleep, one arm flung towards James. James frowned. The madness was telling him the fever had eased. There was no way he could know that without touch. He placed his hand on Blair's forehead and had his first impression confirmed. The fever was down.

Blair's eyes slowly opened. They were filled with a mixture of pain, confusion and hope. He looked up at James, searching his face, seeming to reassure himself that last night had not been a dream.

"It really is you."

"Yes. I'm sorry you believed me dead. Another letter was sent informing the family that I was alive, but Mrs. Martin said you'd left already."

Blair blinked at James, taking that all in. "You've been ill."

James nodded, knowing there was no hiding the ravages of the madness. "Yes."

"But you're better now." Blair asked, not as a question, seeking reassurance.

"We'll speak of that later, first, what of you? You've done well for yourself and I want to hear the story."

Blair looked away. He didn't know how he could tell James…he would never have left Saybrooke if he'd known James were alive. Now he had to confess what he had become.

"I thought you were dead." Blair stopped, holding back a reaction he knew would only embarrass James. "You were dead and I…I…" Blair stopped. There was no way James would understand the things he had done. In the face of James alive, there was no way he understood the things he had done.

"Go on," James prodded.

Blair pushed the covers off and started to sit up. He needed to get dressed. He'd be leaving here soon and it would be better if he were clothed.

"What do you think you are doing?" James put his hand on Blair's chest, unaccountably feeling the pounding of Blair's heart. It was racing. James snatched his hand away, frightened by his awareness.

Blair took the removal of his and as permission to continue getting out of bed. He stood, welcoming the physical pain. He understood that pain and deserved it.

"My clothes?"

James looked startled and surprised to see Blair standing.

"What in damnation do you think you are doing? You're in no shape to get out of bed."

"M' lord, please. I need to get dressed." Blair's agitation seemed to get conveyed to James and he walked over to the wardrobe and retrieved Blair's ruined clothing.

Blair took them from his hands and slowly got dressed, biting his lip to keep from making any sound. James watched, dazed by the pounding he could still hear in his head and baffled by Blair's need to be clothed.

Blair sighed in relief as he got his shirt buttoned. The clothes were beyond repair but would serve. He looked up at James, who had stood patiently, waiting for Blair to finish. To finish getting dressed, to finish telling his story.

"I came to London." Blair stopped again. He didn't think he could do this.

"Yes, I see that. How did you do it? Mrs. Martin said you took no money. Did your mother help you?"

Blair looked at James sharply. He would not tell of Naomi's shame or his abandonment.

"No," was all he said and then continued. "I walked. I thought to use my reading and writing to gain employment, but with no references and looking the way I did…"

These had been James' very fears.

"So, what did you do?"

Blair's misery at telling the tale filled the room. "I—I'm sorry James. I'm not who I was. I'm not who you think I am. I'm a thief and a gambler and a liar."

James stood stock still at those words. Blair a thief? A liar? His shocked silence spoke volumes and Blair stood a little straighter.

"I'll leave your house, now. Thank you for coming to my rescue and seeing to my care. Please send the bill here." Blair took a card out from his vest pocket and placed it on the table.

James stood there, saying nothing. The look on his face said it all to Blair.

Blair brushed by James and stiffly made his way down the stairs and out of the house, never looking back.

He was only a mile or so from home but he wanted nothing more than to lie down. That wasn't an option and neither was summoning a cab and so Blair began to walk. If he lived another twenty years, he'd never forget the look of blank shock on James' face. He had known that life was cruel and capricious but he had not known the depth of that cruelty until today.

Before yesterday it hadn't mattered what he was or what he did. But that was yesterday. Today, James was alive and it mattered, but it was too late to go back and change the choices he had made.

Blair trudged home, his progress slow. He walked in a haze of fever, shivering, but making no attempt to close his coat or find warmth. There was no warmth to be found, he understood that.

When he finally stumbled up his front steps, he leaned against the door, unsure he wanted to go in, to see what his thievery had gotten him. As he hesitated, the door swung open and he fell inside. Daniel was quick to catch him.

"Blair! My God, wha' 'appened 'ere? Alice! Come quick!" Blair heard all the noise and commotion on his behalf and struggled to free himself of the help. He managed to stand and push away from Daniel.

"Just let me be, Dan. I'm fine." He held up his hand as Daniel shook his head in disagreement.

"No, I am, I just need to lie down." Blair took a step in the direction of his room and collapsed back into Daniel's waiting arms.

**************

Awareness returned abruptly as James heard pots crashing to the floor in the kitchen. He instinctively covered his ears, cursing the madness that caused these alarming fugue states. He looked around, bewildered. Where was Blair? He noted the light and realized close to an hour had passed. The last thing he remembered was listening to the sound of Blair's heart beating at triple speed.

And then the nothingness that came. What had Blair thought when he saw him incapacitated in such a bizarre way? He was injured and sick and he had fled, that certainly told James what he thought. James sat down on the side of the bed that had so recently held Blair. He could still sense Blair's warmth, and the tang of his scent. Had anyone ever encountered such a cunning and creative madness?

James noted that his headache, which had been absent in the excitement of finding Blair, was now back with a vengeance. He rubbed at his temples but knew there was no relief to be found. When the pain was this bad, it was hard to think, sometimes, even hard to breathe. Perhaps it was time to end it. He'd found Blair, he was obviously well off and in no need of James' assistance.

He'd find his revolver. He'd find some peace.

******************

Blair awoke to another dim room, this time to the night. The light came from the dying embers in the fireplace. He remembered getting home and Daniel and Alice fussing with him, getting him undressed and into bed, making him eat soup and tell them what had happened. Blair kept it simple and said nothing about James. Finally they had left him alone with admonishments to call if he needed anything.

The bed he was in was considerably less comfortable than the one he'd left. His ribs ached and his throat was dry and sore. A glass of water had been placed on the table next to the bed and Blair painstakingly worked himself to a sitting position so he could drink it. He managed that and set it back down, putting his head back and closing his eyes.

He'd told James what he was and James had listened and never said a word, never asked a question. He had found James, only to lose him again, and there would be no more miracles.

It was hot in the room, and Blair shoved the covers off. Still too warm, he got out of bed, making a shaky way to the window and opening it. The brisk, cold air felt wonderful against his overheated skin and Blair unbuttoned the nightshirt he wore. Better. He stood there for as long as he legs could hold him, letting the cold seep into his bones, and then he sank to the floor.

**************************

"M'lord? Sir? Are you all right?" James startled and looked up into the worried eyes of his housekeeper. Damn, he'd done it again, it was getting worse. He sat at his desk, the revolver half loaded. He'd spent the afternoon getting his papers in order and remaking his will. His study was dark, with only the banked fire and Mrs. Duncan's candle giving off illumination.

"Yes, Mrs. Duncan? You wanted something?"

Mrs. Duncan handed him a card. "Sir, one of the maids found this in your room when she was cleaning. She thought it might be important, so I brought it to you."

James studied the card. It was Blair's and now he understood why no one had discovered the whereabouts of Blair O'Malley. The card read: Blair James, with an address only a mile away. Blair had left his card! It must mean he would be willing to see him.

James got up and came around the desk, capturing a surprised Mrs. Duncan in a hug.

"It is indeed important! Thank you, Mrs. Duncan, for bringing this to my attention. What time is it?"

"Why it's nine o'clock, Mr. Ellison." The staff was used to the master's strange hours and even stranger ways. They felt protective of him and did their best to look out for him and keep the world at bay. The appearance of the master with that young hooligan had worried them. No telling what kind of trouble he meant.

"Nine O'clock. That's not too late. I'm going out, Mrs. Duncan. Don't wait up."

The master almost never went out at night and now here it was two nights in a row. Oh, something was afoot all right. Mrs. Duncan silently pledged to keep her eyes open.

James strode up to the quietly elegant home on Belgrave Square. He admired the lines of the house and the way it nestled in among the shrubbery and trees. A good place for Blair to live. The late autumn night was chilly but the walk had left James feeling warm and alive and grateful that he would have another chance.

He rapped on the door and waited. And waited. The house was dark, but surely there were servants about. In fact he could hear them, chattering and laughing in the back. After knocking several more times, he walked to the back entrance and knocked there. Immediately the talk and laughter stopped. Moments passed and James was considering breaking the door down, when a pale, thin man answered the door. His shirt was grey with grime.

"Yes? May I help you?"

"I'm a friend of Blair O'Mal—James and I'd like to see him."

The servant assessed him and frowned, making him look a little too much like his old tutor, Manning.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible. Mr. James is indisposed."

"Look here, my good man, tell your master that James is here."

"No."

Now the puny fellow looked worried and that in turn worried James. What was going on? Why was he blocking the way and trying to keep the room from sight? James' anxiety rose and he decided he needed to see Blair and he needed to see him right now. He stepped into the kitchen, pushing the butler aside. A woman stood by the stove, looking frightened and a bit tipsy. Her hair was a wild tangle and she had smudges of dirt on her face.

"'Ere now, whatcha think yer doin' bargin' into me kitchen like that?" James strode by him, wondering what had happened to the proper manservant who had answered the door.

"Is he up here?" James inquired as he maintained his momentum. He passed rooms decorated in a decidedly odd fashion, but took no time to investigate. The need to see Blair consumed him. The upstairs was cold and James stalked down the hall, glancing into each room. Most were empty, but at the end of the hall he opened a room to see that a fire had been burning recently and the bed unmade. The window was open, making the room frigid and under the window James saw Blair. He was unconscious, huddled in a ball and shivering violently. James threw a contemptuous look at the little man who had followed him.

"Blair!" James rushed to his side, quickly lifting Blair into his arms and putting him back into bed. Piling the blankets back on, he turned to the man and barked, "Warm some bricks and make tea. Are there any more blankets you can fetch? What's your name?"

"Yes, m'lord, and the name's Daniel."

He hurried off to collect the supplies and put Alice to work on the tea.

James rubbed Blair's body through the blankets, trying to generate heat.

"I never should have let you go. What kind of a household is this, anyway?" Blair, in his unconsciousness, had no answer and refused to debate.

Blair looked wild, his shirt undone, his hair a mass of curls, his face, dark with bruises, fatigue and beard. James was struck by how different Blair was from the boy he had been. The last few years had brutalized each of them. Changed them. Were they still friends? Could they still be friends?

The woman came in, carrying a battered teapot and two mugs. There was cream and sugar and a slab of bread. All in all, a very poor showing for a house such as this. James scowled at the meager spread and the woman blushed. She executed a clumsy curtsy.

"Me-my name is Alice, sir, m'lord—er, Your Highness. We wasn't expecting no-I mean, any, company tonight. Blair—I mean, Master James—well, he's not one wot likes too much at night."

"I see." James didn't see, but it would have to wait.

"Is he very sick? He won't be buying the farm now, will he?" Alice asked, peering over James' shoulder to check on Blair.

"No, I believe he will put off making any purchases for now. Do you have anything warm? Soup?" He wasn't hopeful.

"Nooo, but I could make some up, quicker than you can say Bob's your uncle."

James frowned at the unexpected chatter and waved at her to go.

"Uh, I'll just be off and take care of the soup, Sir m'lord."

James swung his attention back to Blair. There wasn't much a doctor could do for a fever but James had seen too many of his fellow soldiers convulse and die when the fever reached too high a peak and James wasn't about to let that happen to Blair.

*********************

James lifted Blair's arm and ran the alcohol soaked cloth up and down with a methodical intent and then moved back to wiping Blair's chest. The fever was giving off enough heat to warm the rag almost immediately and James re-soaked it and started on the other arm. He'd been doing this for hours and been able to bring Blair's fever down a few degrees.

As James held Blair's wrist, Blair bolted upright, his eyes dazed, crying out, "Noooo, please, pleeeaase, no more."

James immediately released his wrist and murmured, "It's all right. I'll stop."

The reassurances didn't seem to penetrate as Blair continued to make inarticulate sounds of pain, attempting to get out of bed. James tried to keep Blair from hurting himself but all his efforts seemed to make Blair's panic even worse.

"I-I…didn't mean to…please, oh, don't make me…don't make me…" Blair was pushed up against the headboard.

"Come on, Blair, it's me, it's James." He took Blair's hand and tugged him back to the center of bed.

"Perkins? You came back?"

James decided to go with what worked. "Yes, it's me, now settle down." He tried to imitate Perkins' authoritative tone.

Blair obliged James and warily scooted back into bed. Pulling the covers back up, James watched as Blair closed his eyes, quieting at last. The night was the longest of Jim's life, and he had had some damn long nights in the last few years. One moment Blair was thrashing about, completely out of his mind. The next, so pale and limp and still that Jim thought he must be dying. Towards dawn, he fell into an exhausted sleep, his hand on Blair's wrist, assuring him that Blair still lived.

***********************

Blair awoke feeling pummeled. His throat felt dry and raw and he lifted a hand to his face. He had a full beard. How long had he been sick? He tried to call out, but only a croak emerged. Nevertheless, that was enough of a sound to bring someone to the door. It swung open, and James stood there. When he saw that Blair was awake, his haggard face was lit by a smile.

"You're awake!" James looked back into the hallway and yelled, "Dan! Alice! Mrs. Duncan! Blair's awake!"

James brought his attention back to the man in the bed. "I expect you're thirsty, hungry, too."

Blair watched as James poured water into a glass and brought it to him. He reached with a trembling hand, desperate to get the water. James kept hold of the glass and said, "Here you go, you need to take it slow," and helped Blair sit up and drink.

When he was done, James looked at him critically. "How are you feeling?"

"Rotten."

"Yes, well, that's to be expected."

"How long?" Blair croaked.

"Six days you've been out."

"Six days! When did you come?"

"I've been here from the first night. What a nightmare that was. "

"You came, even though you knew?"

"Knew what?"

"I told you—I told you what I had done, what I was." Blair wondered how James could have forgotten.

"You did? What were you? I don't recall."

James seemed truly baffled and Blair flirted with the idea of lying and not telling any of it. He didn't think he had the courage to tell James again, to see the look of blank shock on his friend's face again. But of course he had to. There simply was no way to explain his life otherwise.

"I told you. I was a pickpocket, a common thief. And now I gamble, lying to the world about who I am."

"Oh. Yes, well, we'll talk about that when you're feeling better."

How could James take this so casually? What had brought him to Blair's house? What had made him stay? Blair's head hurt with all the unanswered questions.

An older woman appeared in the doorway with a food laden tray. There was savory soup and fresh baked bread, making Blair's mouth water.

"How's the boy this morning?" Mrs. Duncan asked, completely ignoring the glaring evidence that the boy was a man.

"Much better, Mrs. Duncan." James took the tray from her hands and set it in the dresser. She wiped her hands on her crisp, starched, white apron.

"Yes, he looks alive at least. I'll call for a bath and a barber."

"Who—who was that? And where is Alice and Daniel?" Blair was alarmed. He worried that somehow Alice might have been replaced and he hated the idea of her out on the street.

At the mention of their names, Alice and Daniel poked their heads in the door. Blair stared at them in shock. Alice was wearing a demure blue dress and her hair had been styled into a tidy bun. She looked the very picture of respectability. Daniel wore a suit worthy of a butler. He straightened his tie.

"Wotcha think, Bla-Master Blair? Don't we look the very picture of domestic elegance?"

Blair nodded, words failing him. He looked to James, who was staring at his two servants with affection and pride. If James had been here six days, he'd certainly tumbled to the fact that neither Alice nor Daniel knew what they were doing. And yet he was gazing upon them benignly.

That was it, the final straw, the concluding evidence. He'd died and this was some sort of strange and heathen afterlife, filled with all the people he loved and a few extras, all getting along happily. Real life was never like that; ergo, he was dead. He sighed and closed his eyes, resigned to this surreal dream world.

"Here now, Blair, you can't fall back asleep, you need to eat something. We've had a devil of a time getting food and water into you this past week." James brought the bowl of soup to the bed and arranged a towel on Blair's lap.

Blair reached for the spoon and dipped it into the soup. The path from the bowl to his lips was a shaky one. James took the spoon away after close to nothing reached Blair's mouth. Much to Blair's embarrassment, he fed Blair, spoonful after spoonful, until the bowl was empty. Since it was just a dream, Blair made no protest. He was very hungry after all and this way he got fed.

When it was all gone, James took the bowl away and pulled the covers up. "You rest a bit. Soon we'll get you in a bath and clean those whiskers off your chin."

Blair obliged, liking this dream very much. Soon he slept.

*******************************

James padded through the now silent house. He checked the first floor windows, locked the front door and made his way back up the stairs to Blair's room. He'd been here a week and it had been a week of hell. Long nights and days filled with worry and hope, little sleep and gnawing fear. But tonight Blair was coherent, clean, and in a peaceful slumber.

In this quiet moment before he sought his own bed, James became aware of something strange and wondrous. His madness had receded. He had spent a week in this haphazard house with little sleep and yet not once had he heard or seen one of his hallucinations. True, the food the first two days had been close to inedible, but that had changed when Mrs. Duncan had tracked him down. Once she saw the lay of the land, she had sent for Nancy and George. They had soon put the house to right.

James climbed the stairs. He passed the room that Mrs. Duncan had had scrubbed and polished and declared fit for him to inhabit and instead went to Blair's room.

Blair was sleeping, his breathing quiet and even. James pulled up the chair he'd lived in the past week and studied his friend. So Blair was a pickpocket. A gambler. Two years ago, James would have had a very different reaction to those words. Now he simply regretted the need that had forced Blair to make those choices. He had never understood need before. His time in the Bastille had educated him, his madness had humbled him.

Blair's eyes opened, and James rejoiced to see clarity and intelligence where for a week had been only pain and fear.

"Evening, Blair. Thirsty?" James didn't wait for a reply, moving to the dresser and pouring Blair a glass of water.

He handed the water to Blair, who took it with a small smile. Both vanished in a thrice and Blair handed the glass back to James.

"James," Blair started and stopped, clearing his throat. "Now that you know…what I've done—what I've become, you must realize that I am not the person you thought me and I understand, I mean, I will understand, after all, our friendship was unlikely from the first and now, well now there is no—" Blair was cut off from his rambling speech by James' hand on his mouth.

"Shall I call the doctor back? Are you delirious again? What nonsense are you babbling?" James worked hard to keep from laughing, knowing Blair was in no shape to understand that response.

"James, be serious. I will always cherish our friendship and be enormously grateful for the care you've given me, but I am altogether an unsuitable companion now." Blair looked the picture of misery.

"Now that's where you and I disagree, Professor. I think you've created a perfect companion for me."

James did laugh now, Blair's expression of shocked outrage was really too good.

"James, listen here. You are the son of a lord, you come from a good and honorable family, and a man who is a thief and gambler is not suitable!"

Blair had gone pale and now a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He was getting worked up and would make himself sick again, James feared.

"Shhh, we'll explore the suitability of our friendship at length once you're feeling better. For now, just get it through that thick Irish head of yours that I found you and I'm not about to lose you."

Blair sighed and sank back against the pillows, his meager strength spent. This wasn't an argument he wanted to win, but when he felt better, he'd make James understand.

"Are you going home now?" Blair asked, as he felt sleep overtaking him.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

"If you don't mind me saying, you need your rest James, you look positively hagged. You've been ill, haven't you?"

"Daniel has prepared a room for me and believe me, I plan to sleep, perhaps for days. And I feel just fine, better than I have in over a year."

Blair yawned, his eyes closing and James pulled the covers up, once again tucking his friend in. Blair forced his eyes opened and said, "Tha's good. Y' go an sleep…" his mumblings trailed off into a tiny snore.

James found his own bed and fell asleep anticipating, rather than dreading, the day to come. Miracles could happen.

*****************

 As Blair grew stronger, his determination to make James understand the impossibility of their friendship grew stronger as well. He respected James too much to bring him down with his sordid past.

James, for his part, seemed unfazed by all of Blair's revelations. Blair had taken to detailing each crime, waiting for James to comprehend the enormity of his transgressions. James seemed incapable of comprehension and Blair wondered whether the deprivations of wandering in the mountains had fundamentally altered his friend's moral code. For James had believed in things, things this cynical time scoffed at, but that James had held dear and unassailable. And now he listened to Blair's crimes without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"Look, O'Malley, what do you want me to do? Turn you in? Turn you away? Call the authorities on you? It ain't happening, not in this lifetime."

James walked over to the mantelpiece and idly rearranged the candlesticks. Then he moved to the chair closest to him and began to straighten the journals

Blair watched from his well-worn chair where he spent a good deal of his day now that he had been released from bed. There was something mesmerizing about watching James as he moved around the room with inborn animal grace. Blair drank in the sight of his friend hungrily, starved for the continued visual confirmation that, yes indeed, James was alive.

A cough wracked Blair, breaking his concentration on Jim's lithe form. When his lungs cleared, he left his hand on his heart, telling it to calm down. It felt heavy in his chest, full of the love he felt for the man who stood before him casually handing him his tea.

Blair looked up at James as he took the offering. It was deucedly odd to have James wait on him like this and not a little uncomfortable. It seemed to be one more thing that James was oblivious to.

A tall pile of books were stacked haphazardly next to his chair, on top of which sat a plate with a wedge of yellow cheddar and a warm loaf of fresh baked bread. Blair had been too distracted to eat, all his attention going toward doing what he thought was the honorable thing: getting James to disavow their friendship.

When James realized that Blair had yet to take a bite, he took the plate and started to cut up the cheese. Tearing off a piece of bread, he added the cheese to it, placing it in Blair's gesturing hand. Blair didn't even pause, simply continued his argument.

"Jamie, consider the ramifications should my true identity be discovered. No, wait, perhaps that would be for the best. I shall go back to being Blair O'Malley." Blair took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "I could become your man. No one ever looks at a valet." And he would be able to stay by James' side, night and day.

"Hmm, somehow I doubt you'd be overlooked." James put up a hand before Blair could protest. "And it doesn't matter, because you are not going to be my servant. Put it out of your mind."

Blair sighed. It was inevitable that they part. James would return to his regiment and Blair would enter Cambridge. Right now, Blair would gladly give up his chance to study if it meant seeing James every day.

"Were you always this stubborn and I, in my hero worship, never noticed before?" Blair finished the last bite and James collected the plate.

"I'm your hero?" James quirked an eyebrow, grinning with the news.

Realizing he'd revealed more than he'd meant to, Blair blushed.

"Well, you're older, so it's only natural." Antagonize him and perhaps he wouldn't look at that too closely.

"First I'm your hero and now I'm merely old?" James frowned as Blair smiled, the man was so predictable.

"We were speaking of your stubbornness, Jamie, do try to keep your ancient mind from wandering."

"Now I'm ancient? How did I go from hero to decrepitly obstinate? And just what do you call your refusal to gracefully accept my authority on this, if not mulish to the extreme?"

"I call it preternatural wisdom." Blair yelped when James' hand delivered a playful blow to the back of his head.

"Well, save your energy, bantling. You're up against an older AND wiser member of the gentry."

Blair slumped against the back of his chair, grinning. James could see the morning of study and conversation had sapped what little energy Blair had. When Blair put his book down, James noticed that his hand trembled with fatigue.

"Come on, you're past due to be back in bed." James put his hand out; Blair ignored it.

"James, I'm fine. All I've done is sit. I can do that for a bit longer." Blair reached over and picked up the tome he had just put back. Opening it, he resumed his study.

James backed off and continued to move through the room, gathering errant papers and journals. Every once in awhile he would glance at Blair, who kept his face buried in the book. Eventually he was rewarded for his patience with the thud of the book dropping. Fast asleep, Blair listed to one side, head down on his chest.

Reaching down, James took Blair's hand this time, pulling him up. Hand under his elbow, he steered a sleepy Blair to the stairs.

Blair attempted to dislodge the hand and regain his chair. "I just shut my eyes for a moment. I don't need to take to my bed."

"Egads, who's the stubborn one now? Indulge me." James enjoyed the resistance, but had no intention of losing this round.

"I suppose I must, you being my ancient elder and all."

James gently nudged Blair along, keeping the momentum going until they reached Blair's room. It had changed in the last few weeks. The cot that had served as Blair's bed had been replaced by a four-poster bed, heaped with blankets and pillows. The windows were swathed in a rich green velvet. Bookcases now held Blair's stash of reading material. Grumbling all the way into bed, Blair maintained his protests, but once his head hit the pillow, all sound ceased.

It had been much too close. Jim shuddered involuntarily as he relived the awful moments of wondering if Blair would make it through the night. And once through that first night, the next day, and then the night again. James had slept in snatches, unwilling to leave Blair's side, hoping his presence would give his friend strength. Afraid that these might be the last moments he'd get with Blair.

Staring down at Blair sleeping, James was touched once again by the changes that had occurred in his young friend. There was still something of the boy there, particularly when he talked about the things that fascinated him. But for the most part, the boy had been absorbed into the man.

Blair had a lean, dark beauty and even asleep, projected a surprising aura of danger. There was new strength, a hard edge that hadn't been there before. What had transpired in the years that James had been gone to bring about such a transformation? His hand hovered over Blair's face. He missed touching Blair as he had done all through his illness. The excuse was gone but the need wasn't. Snatching his hand back, James held it to his chest, as if to keep it in check.

Wandering to the window, he smiled, he marveling that he hadn't left this house in over two weeks and yet hadn't felt so free in two years. His headache was gone, his senses, manageable. The hallucinations had all but disappeared, with only the occasional awareness that he was tuning into things impossible for him to note. Conversations three floors down, Blair quietly mumbling in his sleep, the cat purring in the kitchen. He knew it was past time for him to leave and resume life in his own household, but instead he'd slowly had what he needed moved here.

As soon as he'd entered the narrow house, he'd known it was decidedly odd. The servants, all two of them, seemed to make up their duties and then perform them with haphazard enthusiasm. The house was so sparsely furnished it would have suited a religious order. There was no understanding of the underpinnings of running a house this size, no sense of order. That alone should have driven James insane, his need for order at Saybrooke had been legendary.

Instead, James had found the disarray comforting. Each pile of clothes discarded without thought, the pages of notes that were scattered liberally throughout the house, the random placement of vases with flowers, mostly dead... spoke to the way Blair's mind worked and what he valued.

Mrs. Duncan had been stationed in the front of the house, taking Alice in hand. Her natural disdain for the slovenly and ill-trained girl had changed to grudging admiration as she realized Alice had never had any proper instruction. Once taught the ropes of housekeeping, Alice had shown a natural zeal for the domestic arts.

Danyon shadowed Baines. Being a natural mimic, he picked up every nuance and inflection. Blair had taught Danyon the few phrases he might need for the random personage at the door, never expecting to actually have anyone enter. Subsequently, Danyon had never gone beyond, "May I help you?" with arched eyebrow and icy tone and "Master James is unavailable," accompanied by the door swinging shut. Now Danyon was learning the seemingly endless variations on just how one said, "May I help you?" depending entirely on whom one was addressing. He was learning the fine art of the aggressive denial masquerading as subservience and enjoyed it very much.

James had had Baines order new beds, fine linens, plush rugs, snug draperies, and a roomful of bookcases. Alice and Danyon were outfitted in a wardrobe of understated elegance. Throwing open Blair's wardrobe, James had shaken his head at the scantiness of its contents.

Blair had spent money only on what he needed to project the image necessary to gain him the entry to the gaming tables. James removed a white shirt made of fine lawn and studied it. Next, he studied the coat and recognized the tailor by the way it was cut. Knowing that he would have all Blair's measurement's on hand, he had Baines send a footman to Tolbert's. The tailor arrived the next day in a carriage loaded with fabric samples, leaving with an order for a complete new wardrobe, from riding apparel to formal attire. Blair would have all he needed to move through English society with panache. James had delighted in choosing a wide range of fabrics and colors, mostly gray, with hints of blues and greens, aware of how they would suit Blair.

For the first time in two years he had an appetite. Even Alice's underdone potatoes had tasted delicious and so James hired a chef, much to everyone's delight. All in all he had shaped Blair's house into one he had no intention of leaving. He paused in his self-congratulations.

The truth was, that even if Blair had lived in a hovel, he would have stayed. He didn't understand it, but as soon as he'd come in contact with Blair again, he'd felt whole. The sensation of being shattered into a hundred pieces had ebbed. The agonized pain he'd endured had left. He could draw breath without gasping at the horrifying smells, could eat without the sensation of his mouth being on fire.

James didn't understand it, but he knew it, knew it as well as he knew his own name. Blair made him sane. Blair's presence kept the demons at bay. Within Blair's enclave, James was safe.

Safety had never been a high value for James. He had been a man of reckless courage, and when he was hurt, and that was often, took the pain in stride. He had faith in his body, it would heal. He had confidence in his abilities, he could handle any horse, any pistol, any threat that came his way.

But the madness, oh God, the madness terrified him. It was like a whirlpool with malicious energy, ready to suck his soul into the maelstrom. He had no defense against it, and nothing he'd tried controlled it. It was beyond all reason, beyond all effort to contain it, suppress it, eradicate it. And yet... and yet, here in this eccentric house, James had found relief.

***********************

Blair woke a few hours later. He hated the weakness that still plagued him. He knew he'd been very sick and that it took time to get entirely well, but still, it irked him. // It's not being as weak as a newborn cat that's bothering you, it's being weak as a newborn cat in front of James. Aye. There it was.// James had left him when he was on the cusp of becoming a man and now he *was* a man, full-grown, yet still a boy in James' eyes.

He pushed the heavy quilt aside and got to his feet. At least James had stopped making him undress for these impromptu naps. It had made him feel even more the child in James' eyes. He couldn't deny the sweet comfort of James' hands on him, however, as he undressed him for bed.

Even when his hands were more than capable of the task, he allowed James to peel off his clothes, breath held, waiting for the touch of James' fingers across his bare skin. James was very careful, but it almost always happened at some point in the undressing.

Blair took a deep breath. The pain still stabbed through his lungs, but not quite as fiercely. He took a few more, forcing his lungs to accept a volume of air they wanted no part of. He folded gracefully to a sitting position on the floor and went through the exercises he'd learned in one of the first books he'd ever read. It had been called The Life of A Yogi and Blair had read it when he was seven years old.

Oh, much of it had been incomprehensible to a child, but Blair had intuitively understood that he'd found something important, something he could use. So he had studied the words about meditation and breathing, about positions and stretching and he'd begun to use them.

When he first had funds, he'd scoured the booksellers and stalls until he found The Life of a Yogi. Holding the closed book in his hands for a long time, he'd traced the words embossed in the leather cover with his fingers. He was afraid he'd made it all up; that the world of the yogi would not hold the magic it had for him as a child. As soon as he saw the first illustration, he was drawn back in, back into the mysterious world of India and its holy men who could control the uncontrollable.

The little he had understood as a child had served him well, enabling him to contain his fear in the dark, high places he'd been forced to go as a climbing boy. It had made pain endurable. It had even been able to put a small dent in his loneliness, for he found when he mediated that he had a hidden place inside him, protected from all that happened outside.

Now he sat, cross-legged, breathing, centering, trying to find the place where understanding lay. The confusion he felt threatened to overwhelm him. James had moved in and showed no signs of leaving. Blair simply could not understand it. He had been a servant. He was a bastard. He was Irish. He had picked pockets. Fine clothes and a house on Belgrave Square did not make him a gentleman. It only added fraud to the long list of things that made him quite unsuitable as a companion to James. And yet...James would not go. Wouldn't even discuss going.

He was stuck with him. The center spoke. It said, learn to cope with it. Blair smiled. Fine, he'd cope with it. He was delighted to cope with it. He was astonished that he was going to be allowed to cope with it. Blair rose, ready to cope with it.

**********************

"Jamie, you've been in this house for a month. I have it on very good authority that you have not so much as stepped one foot outside the front door."

"Have you set spies on me now?" James scowled, crossing his arms.

Blair looked at James more closely. The tone had not been not playful.

"Well, no, of course not, you know what servants are like, this is just common knowledge."

James looked slightly mollified and Blair decided to continue.

"Come on, walk with me. I want to see the sky and feel the sun on my face."

"You go, cub. It'll do you good. I have some... some correspondence I need to catch up on. Perhaps tomorrow."

Blair knew it to be a lie, but James' rigid posture communicated his resolve.

"Just come outside with me for a short walk. I promise not to take up too much of your time." Blair placed his hand on James' arm and looked at him, willing James to capitulate. James held firm for two more heartbeats and then the tension ebbed away.

Shaking his head at his persistent friend, he said, "You win. We'll go for a short walk."

As he went to get his jacket, James wondered about his reluctance to step outside. When Blair had been sick, he'd told himself it was because he didn't want to leave him, but that didn't explain his disinclination now. The world outside seemed impossibly large and loud, and James dreaded the assault on his ears and mind. So far, he had managed to keep this...change in him from Blair. The thought of simply telling Blair crossed his mind and was rejected. Some part of him knew that was wrong, but he didn't try to push past it. He just knew he was deeply unwilling to have Blair look at him differently.

Watching James' retreating back, Blair pondered James stubborn resistance to going outside. It was so very unlike him, but then, there were many things that were so unlike him, so many ways he'd changed since his ordeal in India.

It wasn't enough that James' regiment had been betrayed and sacrificed in some unfathomable game of military strategy. James, the only man to live through the massacre had been stranded in the Himalayas. He had spent a year there, until finally he'd found someone willing to guide him though the treacherous mountain pass.

From what Blair could piece together, James had been found by the mountain tribe of Van Gujars. He was sick with the infection from the saber wound he'd taken in his side. The tribe had thought him holy, as he had been the only one of ninety-seven men to live. It was a marginal territory, barely sustaining the people who dwelled there and James had spent a great deal of time foraging for food to contribute. His hunting had taken him deep into the mountain wilderness where he had often spent weeks on his own.

Had he simply grown used to so much silence that the bustle of London overwhelmed him? That was possible. They'd walk to Kensington Park. It wasn't as fashionable as some of the other parks and would be peaceful this early in the day.

The walk to the park started out well enough, the sun having finally burned away the clouds that had stubbornly settled in for a week's stay. It was unfashionably early and the only people out were nannies with their charges, merchants sweeping the night's debris from their doorways, and clerks hurrying by with stacks of important papers clutched in their hands. Wagons delivering goods clogged the streets and everywhere there was a sense of purpose and industry.

There had not been a day like this for James since India and he soaked it up, wondering if perhaps whatever had been wrong had now gone away.

Kensington Park was quiet and they wandered the walking paths for over an hour. As they came to the middle of the green enclave, they were intercepted by Cordelia and her cousin Richard.

"James!" Cordelia's voice cut through the companionable haze James had been in with Blair.

Latching onto James' sleeve, Cordelia pulled him towards Richard. "You must meet my dear friend, James Ellison. James, my cousin, Richard Treebly."

Blair hung back, watching the beautiful woman claim James as her own.

"Of course I remember James, Cordelia. It wasn't that long ago we met."

"Oh, yes, how stupid of me to forget." Cordelia's little laugh at herself was an octave too high for James' comfort and he winced. Cordelia noticed and pouting said, "James are you still in a foul mood? I expected to hear from you much sooner than this. Just where have your manners gone?"

"Forgive me, Cordelia," James began, then stopped, as a sharp pain shot through his head. Involuntarily, he put his hand to his temple, trying to press the pain back. Cordelia leaned in, asking, "What's wrong, James? Is it one of your headaches?"

Her scent, perfume mixed with lax hygiene, hit him hard and James reeled back, gasping, "Yes, headache."

"Oh, you poor dear. Richard, have the carriage brought around. We need to get James home." Richard lifted his hand, signaling his desires to the driver that followed them.

James looked at Blair, panic in his eyes and Blair stepped forward, saying, "That won't be necessary. The walk home in the fresh air will help, I'm sure."

Cordelia looked at him, irritation evident on her lovely face. "And who are you? I don't believe we've been introduced."

James moved to Blair's side. "My manners are remiss. May I introduce Mr. Blair James of Belgrave Square? Blair, this is Miss Cordelia Vanblond and her cousin, Richard Treebly."

"How do you do?" Blair made a small bow over her hand and then turned to Richard, saying, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Mr. James," Cordelia said, speculation in her tone, "I don't believe I'm familiar with that name."

Before Cordelia could begin her inquisition, James interrupted.

"I'm sorry to beg off like this, but I'm afraid I must get home and--"

"Of course, you must. Here's the carriage. " Cordelia gently pushed him forward. The pain in his head had grown worse and James had a difficult time finding the words to refuse.

"Blair-" James tried to turn aside, but Richard had the carriage door open and was guiding him in.

"It's okay, James, I'll meet you back at the house." Blair kept his distance from the trio entering the coach. A look came across James' face, and Blair started forward. James had that peculiar look of concentration and distraction that he'd worn the morning Blair had informed him of his past. James seemed suddenly very far away and Blair felt an urgent need to make contact. Before he could make it to James' side, Richard had maneuvered him into the coach.

In short order, the carriage was on its way. Blair watched until he could no longer see it, and then turned back to take the shortcut through the park. Racing along the paths he and James had so peacefully meandered a short time ago, he was oblivious to the outrage he caused by his unseemly haste.

He burst through the front doors, looking around for any sign of James. It was quiet in a way that made it clear James had not yet made it home. He should have. Where could he be?

For the next hour, Blair paced the house, unable to stop worrying, but having no way to track down where Cordelia and Richard might have taken James. He berated himself for not going along and trusting those two with James' safety.

At last there was the sound of a carriage pulling up and Blair raced to the door ahead of Danyon. Yanking it open, he watched as James was supported by a footman and escorted to the door.

"James!" Blair grabbed hold as the servant released him and James leaned into Blair, his eyes unfocused.

"Blair?" James inhaled sharply and Blair put his shoulder under his arm, taking on more of James' weight and moved to get him inside. Surprised by how easily James accepted his help, Blair urged him towards the stairs.

"How's your head?" Their progress was halting, watched by the entire household.

"God, it hurt. Better now." James inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, letting himself be guided by Blair's strong hands up the last of the stairs.

"Where in the blazes did those people take you?" Blair's sharp tone made James stiffen.

Blair ran his hand up and down his arm in silent contrition.

"They took me to a doctor they think highly of. Thank God he was in surgery and I was spared another examination."

"Another? James? What is it, what's wrong?" Blair had been strung tight as a top ever since James had been put in the carriage and now all his fears took flight.

"Not now, Blair, too tired to talk." James mumbled and indeed, his eyes were still closed as he shuffled to his bed.

Blair sat him on the edge and Danyon hurried in, kneeling to take James' boots off. Blair shook his head, saying, "I'll do it," oblivious to the shock on Danyon's face.

Removing each boot with practiced ease, Blair then helped James' undress the rest of the way, both falling back into accustomed roles they thought they'd left behind.

James had just gotten settled in bed when Alice came in with tea, Mrs. Duncan right behind her with a tray of pastries.

"You're hungry, I'm sure and perhaps this will put a dent in that growling beast I can hear from here." And it was true, James stomach was making it clear that it needed food.

James cracked open an eye and almost laughed, but didn't, knowing they would never understand and not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. The room was crowded with George, Baines and Danyon hovering at the door, Alice and Mrs. Duncan at the foot of his bed and Blair, perched on the side of it. He'd seen men less well attended on their death bed and here, he'd merely suffered one of his blasted headaches.

"I'm fine, or I will be, once I devour one of Cook's glorious confections." Blair handed one to him and James bit in, his mouth exploding with the sweetness of cream and sugar, the tang of lemon and the dense moistness of the cake.

There was a collective sigh in the room as James looked up and smiled, the pain lines almost banished.

The staff left, murmuring to themselves and heading to the kitchen for their own tea.

"All right, now I want some answers. What is going on?"

"It's nothing. Sometimes, I get headaches."

Blair stood up and began to pace. "This was more than a simple headache, James. There was the way you looked just before you entered the carriage. Like your mind was far away."

James swung his legs off the bed, and sat at the edge of it. The day he had tried to keep from coming was here. Blair was demanding an explanation.

"I-sometimes-there's too much...too much of everything, sound, taste-oh, it was the stench of Cordelia that nearly undid me."

"The stench? She smelled like Madame Nanciose's best perfume. Granted, she wore a bit much, but stench?"

Putting his head in his hands, James leaned forward and tried to think how to explain. Blair sat down next to him and waited.

"I could smell beyond her perfume, to...the point of gagging. I am glad you believe in regular bathing."

"So she smelled bad. I know there is more to this."

James could see that Blair was determined to unravel the protective cloak he had so carefully worn for this last month. There was no telling how Blair would accept what he had to say, but James prayed Blair would not immediately begin to treat him like a cracked invalid.

"The doctors don't know what it is. No one's said it out loud yet, but they all think I'm going insane. I hear voices when no one is near, conversations that I can't possibly be hearing...I see things that I can't possibly see...sometimes the most innocuous food tastes vile and sharp...and..." James hesitated and looked to see how Blair was receiving the information. Blair was hunched over, mimicking James posture, a small frown on his face.

"Yes? Go on, tell me all of it, James."

James stifled a groan, wishing he'd never allowed himself to be coaxed outside.

"Sometimes I lose myself. Time goes by and I...I'm just not here. And then something "wakes" me up."

"How long?"

"They last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours."

"No, I mean, how long have you been experiencing these things?"

James sat back. "Since I was in India."

"So it is connected to India. You were in the Himalayas, yes?"

James nodded.

"India is a most mysterious land. There's no telling what brought this on. I need to study, I'm sure someone has written about this."

"About what, Blair? Men going mad after being in India?"

Blair looked at James, shocked. He stood up.

"Mad? No, James, not madness. Coming back from India with heightened senses. There are many people with acute eyesight or hearing, it's just that they usually possess these abilities from birth. We just need to find out about the sudden onset of your acuity."

"What, you believe I actually can hear voices, blocks away, see things a mile distant?"

"Yes."

That simple declaration made James weak with surprise and relief. He didn't believe it himself and yet that Blair would prefer some farfetched theory rather than entertain the idea of madness was further testimony to the kind of friend he had in Blair O'Malley.

"You do that, Blair. If anyone can find the answers you can." James swung back into the bed and laid his head back.

"You look positively done in, James. Rest." Blair pulled the covers up, glad to be the one on this side of the bed for a change.

*****************

During the next few months, Blair hunted for information. He tried to coax James into doing some tests, but he refused, saying he didn't want to be an experiment. In truth, he feared Blair learning that he was closer to a madman than a savant. James stayed close to home, venturing out on rare occasions and having no more incidents.

On a clear, cold, beautiful fall day, Blair set out for his daily walk. All morning there had been an electricity in the air, and James had struggled to keep his mind on the book work. It was one of those days when his madness crept around the edges of his mind, darting forward and then retreating. James said nothing to Blair about these days. He said nothing to anyone, trying desperately to keep it all contained and invisible.

James looked from the entry he'd just made and watched as Blair descended the stairs. Blair looked back at the house, and seeing James in the window, waved. He could hear Blair humming a tune. Smiling, James was inordinately pleased to see Blair in the sunshine, the wind ruffling the curls into a riot about his face.

He listened to the humming for a long time and as he listened, a frown replaced the smile. Blair had to be a good two blocks away now and yet he swore he could hear the humming. The madness dwelling within him wanted out. James turned away from the window and got up, determined to find a place where he could hear only silence.

Going to the third floor, James surveyed the rooms up under the eaves. They were small and tidy and oddly comforting with their irregular corners and nooks. He found a room that served as storage and in there, an old rocking chair, banished from a nursery long ago.

Sitting down gingerly, he was unsure it could still bear weight and surprised to find it sturdy and comfortable. He rocked, the only sound, the soothing rhythm of the chair gliding back and forth on the well-worn floor. When he felt sure he had a measure of control he got up and took in the view from the tiny window set in the alcove. The window faced the park, which was lightly green from the smattering of tender shoots braving the unpredictable March weather. He could see all the way to the clearing by the pond.

What? Was that Blair? His distinctive red scarf made him stand out and James leaned in closer. He could see Blair speaking with a tiny woman. Flowers exchanged hands and as Blair inhaled the bouquet, he turned back toward the house. James could see him smiling, saying something to the tiny woman and the next thing he knew, he could hear Blair. Oh God. He stumbled away from the window, Blair's voice following him, saying, "All women love roses. It's one of the few things in life you can count on."

He couldn't be hearing that, my God, he couldn't be seeing it either. His first instinct was to flee to the cellar, where there were no windows, but he stopped himself. He had to face this, quell it, or he would never be able to leave this house again.

He turned back just in time to see two ruffians come up behind Blair. Each one seized an arm. At this point James was halfway down the stairs. As he reached the first floor, he yelled for Danyon and Baines, but didn't stop to see if they'd heard him, leaving the house at a dead run. It wasn't far to the park, but James knew what damage could be done in a very short amount of time. James ran at a speed that had the world around him a blur. His eyes were focused ahead, searching for the red scarf, the dark curls, his friend.

There, by the pond, a coach had pulled up and the two hooligans were trying to force Blair into the dark interior. Blair was fighting like a man possessed. As James ran up he saw Blair slip out of his jacket, eluding once again the men bent on his capture. One of them realized that Blair was getting away and latched onto Blair's hair with brutal efficiency, pulling him to his chest. James came to an abrupt halt when the man who had Blair, showed his knife, flashing it at the throat already red with wool.

"Hold up, guv, not a step closer or I'll have to slice 'im. Jeb, keep an eye on the fancy man there." The rogue showed his teeth in a feral grin. They were black and rotted, making the man look like he had a hole instead of a mouth.

"Don't worry, Harry, I'm watchin'."

Blair stood very still, his chest heaving as he tried to get oxygen into lungs that still seemed compromised by his illness. He was white and drenched in sweat, the effort to win his freedom taxing every muscle and all his stamina.

James stood very still, knowing how quickly the man could end Blair's life, how quickly Blair's blood could soak through the red scarf. Blair looked at him, his blue eyes dazed, unafraid. The frozen tableau lasted for several heartbeats and then Harry began to shuffle backward, dragging Blair toward the carriage. James hesitated, unwilling to risk Blair's life.

When Blair realized he was going to be forced into the carriage, his eyes finally showed fear. His hands came up to the arm at his throat, which tightened, cutting off Blair's air and galvanizing him into action. He threw himself backwards with enough force to take the thug down, Blair on top of him. The knife sawed across his throat and James cried out, already moving. Jeb was also moving, attempting to get his friend up and Blair into the carriage. James kicked Jeb's knee, dropping him, allowing him to turn his attention back to Blair. The knife had fallen to the side, just out of reach. Blair and Harry were wrestling on the ground, arms flailing as they each sought to gain the knife.

A crowd had gathered, watching with interest, the women giving out little cries, the men talking to each other, discrete bets being placed. James waited until Harry was on top and then grabbed him by his neck and pulled him up. As he did that, he punched Harry in the face and gut, enjoying the sound of ribs breaking.

As soon as Harry was down, James moved to where Blair still lay, who blinked up at him, dazed.

"Is it gone?"

James looked around.

"Is what gone, Blair?"

"The carriage?"

"Yes, as soon as you toppled Harry, it left." When Blair showed no signs of getting to his feet, James knelt down.

"Where are you hurt?"

Blair absently patted himself. "Just bruised."

Blair looked up, noticing the gawkers for the first time. "I want to go home."

With James' help, he made it to his feet and stood for a moment, trying to keep his balance. Danyon ran up, cudgel in hand, looking for someone to bash. As his fierce gaze swept the onlookers, they backed up and began to disperse.

"You al'right, m'lord?" Danyon stooped to retrieve Blair's coat from the ground.

"I'm fine, Danyon. I just want to go home." Blair's voice was shaking along with the hand he extended to James, who captured it in his bigger one, pulling Blair in close to his body. They walked slowly, each lost in their own private hells.

Danyon walked behind, his eyes alert for any new threat to the man he had come to love as a brother. The thought that he might have lost the quirky gent who had changed his life scared him. The fear surprised him. It had been a long time since he had felt attached to another human being. Not since Mick...he clamped down on the wash of loss engulfing him.

James held tight to Blair. He pushed his fear to the side to try and sort out the two problems that were clamoring for attention. One was the confirmation that the original attack that had happened months ago had not been random. His initial instinct had been right and as he realized that, he tightened his hold on Blair.

"Ow." Blair protested the new bruise.

"Sorry." James eased his grip. He thought back to that night he'd found Blair shivering on the floor. The nausea and vomiting had seemed wrong, inconsistent with the inflammation of the lungs. James had feared poisoning and now he was sure. He looked down at the man at his side. Blair walked with his head lowered, hands tucked in his pockets. He needed this man, needed this friendship. It made him feel....human, grounded, sane.

Which brought him to the other problem. His sanity. It would seem he had some. He had seen Blair, had indeed been able to hear Blair. They were not hallucinations. He didn't understand how that could be, but he was grateful. The madness had proved good for something.

*********************

They'd almost succeeded. They'd almost gotten him into that carriage. Blair's mind was unable to go further than that. Why they might want to and what the purpose they might have, were mysteries he'd think about later. Right now his mind tried to cope with the terror still coursing through his body.

He'd been a climbing boy, placed in Saybrooke's dark, filthy chimneys to scrub at the soot. He spent hours alone, in the dark, battling the feeling of being squeezed to death by the four walls, shivering in the cold damp of the unlit chimneys, coughing up the dirt that clogged his lungs. At times he felt sure he would suffocate from the soot particles in the air.

Finally one day, his lungs had been so congested he'd been unable to stop coughing. The harness he wore was old and uncared for and the continual jerking on it when Blair coughed had caused a strap to break. He'd fallen two stories to the ground, breaking his leg. It had healed and Blair had finally grown too large to fit in the cramped spaces. He'd been released from that job. Released into the light, into spacious rooms with plenty of air to breathe, where he could see the birds soar through the windows and feel the sun on his face.

Warbeck had learned of Blair's original position in the house. He'd learned that beatings and whippings could hurt O'Malley, but not break him. Being placed in the dark, and especially small, dark places, caused the boy to beg to be released, crying out with hysterical fear. It took a lot to find a reason to punish the boy. He was smart and conscientious. But he had his weaknesses and Warbeck learned to exploit those weaknesses. He made sure to punish the younger staff when O'Malley was near, knowing it would cause the kind of insubordination that justified serious reprisals. Any who tried to intercede soon found themselves without a position or reference.

Blair's isolation had increased, the remaining staff somehow blaming him for Warbeck's ruthless actions. Only Mrs. Martin had remained his ally, though she took great care to hide it. Not out of fear for herself, though she was afraid, but out of concern for what would happen to Blair if she were forced out. As it was, she made sure he got enough to eat and patched him up. She looked after him as best she could and perhaps most importantly to Blair; she kept his books safe in her room.

Nothing Warbeck did made Blair leave, which secretly pleased Warbeck to no end. Only the certainty of James never coming back again had made Blair abandon the only home he'd ever known.

**********************

Blair looked up at James, drawing strength from his presence. He took in a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he tried to push the fear away. The stubborn fear held tight, refusing to budge. Blair tried to reason with it. All the old arguments were trotted out....the dark can't hurt you, there will be enough air, the walls don't really move. As true as he knew all of that to be, it had no effect on his mind, which persisted in it's belief that dark, cramped spaces would squeeze his soul out.

Blair shut his eyes and allowed himself to be guided home by James.

*************************

At the door, Ms. Duncan and Alice waited, holding hands. When they saw their men through the trees, Alice said, "Bloody 'ell, Blair looks right knackered."

Mrs. Duncan gave her a sharp look and nudge, saying, "Thank the good Lord they're all safe."

Alice failed to look contrite. "Aye, thank the good Lord and Master Ellison's swift feet they're safe."

"Yes, child, that's how the Lord works."

James heard this conversation as they drew near and it gave him pause. Was this madness God's gift? Did it have purpose? These thoughts gave James some hope while the cynical part of his brain dismissed it out of hand. He could neither contain 'this gift' nor control it. Perhaps it was God's gift, but he was simply a poor vessel for it.

His father and Manning had gone to great lengths to make him aware of his faults and failings. They would share a hearty laugh if they knew James had entertained the idea that he'd been gifted. No, his mind was not the instrument to deal with this. Now if he had Blair's brain...He could feel that Blair had used up the last of his energy. As they entered the house, Blair stumbled and James swung him into his arms. It was ridiculously easy, he couldn't weigh more than eight stone. That would have to change. Climbing the stairs with Blair tucked in, close to his chest, James felt awash with sensations. Tenderness mixed with something a great deal fiercer. His face grew hot as he realized he'd grown hard carrying his friend.

He hurried to Blair's room and quickly placed him on the bed, backing off and letting Alice finish taking care of getting Blair settled.

The mood was somber that night. James had gathered the staff together in the cozy room Blair used as his study. The fire in the grate cast warm shadows, but did little to chase away the chill that had descended on the group. Blair was upstairs, asleep. It was time to pool their resources and information and develop a plan to keep the man they all felt keen loyalty to, safe.

"Danyon, can you think of anyone who might wish harm to Master Blair? Did he ever say anything to you about the men he gambled with?"

"Ah, well now, Master Blair wasn't one to say much 'bout people. Not 'bout individual people, anyways. 'e liked to talk an awful lot 'bout peoples if you know wot I mean. Like them pygmies over there on the Dark Continent. We 'eard a lot about those people, wot they ate, ugh, and wot they wore. Nothing much! And how good they were to their children...." Danyon's voice trailed off in a wistful sigh.

"Aye, 'e loved to tell us 'is tales. But I don't think I ever 'eard 'im say a mean word 'bout nobody." Alice twisted the apron in her hands. Her face was scrunched in concentration as she tried to remember anything that would help Master Blair.

"Were there any letters delivered to the house, any messages?"

Danyon shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "no one came 'ere 'til you."

James sighed. He hadn't expected this to be easy and Blair would be the real source of information when he woke. The group strategized ways to protect Blair, but no one was able to shed light on what a possible motive could be.

Closing down the house later that night, James checked each door and window. He made his way up the stairs, needing to check on Blair, needing to reassure himself that Blair was safe and asleep. The room was lit by one candle, as always. James pulled a chair close and sat down, not ready to face sleep just yet.

The bruises, while were not quite as spectacular as the first time, were still ugly reminders of someone's deadly vendetta against his friend. There was a cut on Blair's neck, where Harry's knife had managed to connect, despite the scarf. It wasn't all that deep and perhaps would heal without a scar. James traced it lightly, running his finger along Blair's adam apple, continuing up the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek, ending at his temple, which James stroked lovingly. Blair's sleep was deep and he didn't stir.

James was grateful as he didn't know how to explain his need to touch. Blair shifted in his sleep, a small moan sighed out and James snatched his hand back, afraid to see Blair open his eyes accusingly.

When that didn't happen James leaned back in the chair, and stretched his feet out in front of him. Tomorrow he would contact Rafe, the Bow Street Runner who'd been in charge of the search for Blair. He could be counted on to be discreet. The first order of business when confronted with a puzzle was information. Rafe would be able to gather it.

It was hard to believe the man lying in bed had made an enemy. James was well aware that there was much about Blair he didn't know and years of Blair's life he had missed. He needed to fill in those blanks and would, starting tomorrow.

Watching Blair sleep relaxed James and he felt his eyes starting to close, nudging him to his own warm, soft bed. He got up, whispering, "Goodnight, cub," and trudged down the hall.

***************

Waking in the middle of the dark night, James kept his eyes shut and held himself still. Something had awakened him. He heard it again and this time recognized it. It was Blair and he was-moaning? No, crying. James didn't know what to make of that. He was deuced uncomfortable when a woman cried, let alone a man.

What did one do when a man cried?

One left them alone, allowed them their moment of weakness. If he went in, Blair might feel embarrassed. No, he'd let Blair work it out. Out of consideration, James tried to tune the sound out, burying his head under his pillows. It didn't work; Blair's soft sobs still reached his ears.

"pleease..." Blair was pleading. His voice cracking with need. Who could he be talking to? "pleeaasse." It was said quietly, but was desperate for all of that. James got up, leaving his dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the chilly hall to Blair's room. There was no other voice. Just Blair's mumblings.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry...i won't...not ever... please-- just let me out." The sobbing resumed and it was heartbreaking in its quiet intensity.

The room was black, the candle snuffed, curtains drawn, no moonlight penetrating the darkness. James found that his eyes adjusted quickly and he could see that Blair was in bed, the covers wrapped around him in such a way as to bind his arms to his sides. James approached the bed.

"Shh, shhh. It's James." He whispered it, afraid to startle Blair. He pulled Blair up and unwrapped the sweat-drenched sheet from Blair's body. Holding Blair to his chest, he pushed the damp hair away from Blair's brow. "Shhh....it's all right." James continued to free Blair from the confines of the bedclothes.

Once Blair's arms were free, the sobbing slowly came to a halt, leaving only an occasional hiccup.

It was a quandary. On the one hand, James wanted to wake Blair and learn what had caused such night terrors. On the other, he didn't want to disturb Blair's peace. When he was sure that Blair was well and truly asleep, James reluctantly settled him back down on his bed.

Blair had gone to sleep so early his candle had burned out and James went in search of a replacement as well as fresh linen. He didn't want to wake Alice, but he really wasn't sure where such things were kept. After a few false starts he found the cupboard he was looking for. Blair still slept, but now on his stomach, arms out flung, as if to ensure the sheets could not imprison him.

After James set the room to rights, he paused. Blair looked peaceful enough now. James considered the old, worn chair with a baleful eye. It was not a chair to induce sleep and James should know, he'd spent a many night in it when Blair was so sick.

Why hadn't I thought to have that replaced when I was busy installing new furniture? Because once Blair recovered, you never thought another night would be spend bedside, James silently argued with himself.

James moved toward the door. Blair was fast asleep. He was fine. James flopped down in the chair and put his head in his hands.

He'd been begging. Someone had been hurting him and Blair had been asking for mercy, for a mercy that never came. Rage swept through James. He wanted to know who that someone was. He wanted to know what that someone had done to Blair, Blair who was so self-contained, so strong. Whatever the someone had done, James wanted to do it to him and make him beg. He got up and went to the window, pulling back the heavy drape. The fog was deep, wrapping the house in its humid embrace. No stars could penetrate this atmosphere. Inside, the one candle did an admirable job of warming the darkness.

Blair moved restlessly, kicking at the covering. He made inarticulate sounds, his legs pushing at the mattress. James returned to the bed and laid his hand on Blair's back. It was once again damp with sweat. James rolled Blair over and felt his forehead, but could detect no elevation of temperature. What was going on here?

Blair's eyes opened and he immediately looked at the candle and then up at James.

"James, is everything all right?" Blair threw off the blanket and started to get up.

"Are you all right?"

James stepped closer and stopped Blair from getting out of bed.

"I'm fine. You were having a nightmare and I just came in." James decided to leave out the details.

"A nightmare?" Blair looked confused and then his eyes shut. Just before they closed, James caught a flash of pain that instinctively brought his hand to his heart. He put his hand on Blair's forehead.

"Yes, a nightmare, a bad one. Care to tell me about it?"

Blair opened his eyes. In the candlelight, they were blue as the sea and utterly shuttered, revealing nothing.

"I don't remember. Something about an animal." Blair sat up, dislodging James' hand. "I need to, you know...and some water..." Blair stood up, his damp sleep shirt sticking to him, the hair on his chest peeking through the unbuttoned front. James swallowed hard.

"I'll fetch you a glass." James retreated, unsure of how to handle his reactions to Blair or Blair's obfuscating. It was clear Blair did not want to talk about it. Well, want to or not, he would. James would make him.

Morning came; the fog departed with the sun's arrival, and Blair awoke in a mood no one had ever seen. He yanked his clothes out of Danyon's hands, snarling that he was perfectly capable. He ate his breakfast in silence and without his appreciation, a first. He closed the door to his study emphatically and stated he wanted no interruptions. After breakfast, the entire staff sat in the kitchen. They didn't look at each other and each sat his own little misery of Blair's making.

James entered into the usually sunny room and recognized the gloom immediately.

"You all look like kicked dogs this morning." He paused in his tease, the color draining from his face. "Has something happened to Blair?"

Danyon shook himself and answered. "No m'lord. Master Blair's in 'is study." Danyon returned to sitting with his head propped in both hands.

"Then what? Honestly, I've never seen such glumness."

James took the cup of chocolate from Mrs. Duncan's hand. She sighed and said, "He blames us, he does, for not protecting him."

"Nonsense. I'm sure he doesn't." James inhaled the heavenly scent of cocoa. Blair certainly had a nose for business. Hot chocolate was the rage in London and Blair was part owner of one of the most bustling shops in all of London.

"Then explain this mornin'. 'E refuses me help with 'is dressin', comes down ta breakfast with nary a word ta dear Alice or Mrs. Duncan, eats wit' a frown on 'is face and locks 'imself in 'is study without so much as a Bob's your uncle, 'e does." Danyon nodded and looked around the room. They all confirmed his recollection of the mornings doings.

James frowned. The damn nightmare must have set something off. If there was one thing he knew it was that Blair would never blame his staff for the attack.

"You're not the cause of his foul mood. He had a nightmare last night, a bad one, and I think it's got him shook."

Alice and Danyon exchanged quick looks which James couldn't help but see.

"He's had them before, then?"

"Yes, it's one o' the reasons 'is room is far from anyone else's. 'E 'ated to disturb anyone's sleep."

"So is he regularly such a bear the morning after?"

Alice shook her head. "Maybe more quiet-like. But then if 'e was in the middle of writin' something, 'e got all quiet, so you never really knew. 'E never was all growly like this."

"Hmmm, well, I think it's best if we allow him time to himself today." James moved to the stove, but before he could help himself, he was intercepted by Mrs. Duncan.

"Here now, sit down and eat a proper breakfast." She relented when he used the look he'd learned from Blair, and served him another half cup of the warm chocolate.

***********************

Blair sat in his chair, books scattered at his feet, the journal open on his lap and stared at nothing. The dream had been more vivid than ever before. It had brought back details that he'd fought so hard to forget. Now he was awash in memories. He tried to shut them out, they ate away at the walls he'd thrown up.

Blair remained sequestered until mid-afternoon, when he finally wandered out of his study. James had just come in from the blustery spring day and looked the picture of health, his cheeks red and wind-chapped, his eyes bright with morning energy. Blair felt the contrast keenly. Catching sight of himself in the mirror in the hallway, he looked more than pale and the bruises used the white of his face to good effect. One eye was black, the other, nearly so with the deep shadows underneath it. The cut on his neck added a macabre touch.

Of all his injuries, the one that bothered him was his hand. He'd punched the man called Harry in the fray and the impact had bruised and bloodied his right hand, the one he wrote with. It was most inconvenient.

James saw Blair flexing it as he walked in.

"Blair, let me take a look at your hand." James took in his and studied it, then looked up and studied Blair's face.

"Hurts, I know. I think one of your fingers is jammed." James took hold of the index finger and slowly pulled. Blair bit his lip

"James," Blair hissed, "I don't think this is helping." Just then James jerked it and a popping sound was audible.

"There. Better?" Blair looked down at his hand. It still ached, but it was better.

"Yes, thank you, although I think the cure was probably worse than the bite."

James shrugged, "It got the job done. Hungry? You missed mid-day. I'm sure it would please Mrs. Duncan to make up for it."

"No, I had a big breakfast. I'm looking for that journal on the excavation

going on in Egypt. You haven't seen it, have you?"

"It's in the breakfast room where you were reading it this morning."

"Oh."

James decided to plunge ahead and he asked, "About last night..."

Blair's head jerked up, a mix of shame and fear written on his face. "I really must get my hands on that journal." He abruptly turned away from James and went toward the sunny room they broke bread in.

James shook his head. Getting Blair to confide in him was going to be a harder task than he'd thought, but it was going to happen. James stalked after Blair, determined to get to the bottom of all this. Blair was standing at the window looking out as he entered, but whirled when he heard James approach.

"James..." He held his hand out, silently begging James to give him some peace.

"Blair..."

Each mirrored the other's stubborn stance. James had the advantage of his military training and he ruthlessly used it, invading Blair's space.

"You will tell me about what went on last night." James wanted answers, his fear demanded answers, and it hardly mattered to him that he was using the tone one would use with a servant, a servant far beneath him.

Blair blanched, backing up. Shaking his head in denial, Blair said, "No, James, this doesn't concern you."

James felt unexpected anger that Blair was going to keep something so vital from him. "Not concern me?" He bellowed. "You're my friend, of course it concerns me."

Blair was sliding along the wall, trying to get by James. "Drop it, please. I don't wish to discuss it."

James cut off Blair's retreat, grabbing Blair's arm. "Oh, no you don't. You aren't leaving this room until you tell me what's going on."

Blair's face paled and he looked at James in shock. "Let me go!" Twisting in James' hold, Blair tried to win his freedom.

Blair's shout was unexpectedly loud and James instinctively let go and covered his ears. Blair used that opportunity to bolt from the room. James stood there, shaking his head, recognizing that he'd handled that very badly and waiting for the ringing in his ears to stop.

There had to be a way to get Blair to confide in him, but trying to force him had to rank right up there as one of the stupidest ideas he'd ever had.

"Blair!" James called, as he entered the study, but he wasn't there.

"Blair!" James yelled, charging up the stairs. He was afraid. Afraid because he realized, as mad as it seemed, that he couldn't "hear" Blair. He could always hear Blair. He heard Blair muttering as he argued with the books he read. Heard Blair's pen scratching across the paper as he wrote, and for a long time he'd been able to discern Blair's breathing because of the distinctive wheeze in his lungs, leftover from his illness. He could distinguish Blair's footsteps from any others, and sometimes imagined he could recognize Blair's heartbeat.

Until yesterday, despite Blair's belief in him, he'd known it for madness. Now there wasn't a doubt in his mind that Blair was no longer in the house. Not a doubt that he knew this because he could not hear Blair's footstep, his breathing nor his heartbeat. There was no time to ponder what that meant. He had to find Blair.

*********************

Without thought, driven by fear and need, Blair ran from the house. There was no reason operating as he dashed down the street, heedless of the stares directed his way. Just the need to be in the open, to see the sky, to breathe the air. Just the fear of being held against his will, held down, put in a small space, left in a small space without enough air, without light or sound, alone...

He ran until he couldn't any longer. Sinking down on a bench, he tried to get on top of his spinning emotions. He would go back. James would be even angrier and demand to know what the nightmare had been about. That was never going to happen. The idea of making the memories real by speaking them out loud left the taste of bile in his throat.

Once he caught his breath, he looked around and saw he was at Charing Cross Road. He knew he was a sight, no jacket or cravat, hair wild, bruises making him look like a footpad, but he ignored the people muttering around him and kept moving, unsure of what to do or where to go.

It wasn't long before he wished he hadn't missed the mid-day meal, as his stomach protested the meager breakfast he'd consumed. He had no money with him. It would have been child's play to lift enough for a fat sausage, the crowd being ripe for the picking. Blair frowned at that thought, dismayed it had entered his mind. Those days were way past him; he was no longer fighting to survive, he merely had an empty belly. Had he gotten so soft that one missed meal would compel him to rob?

Leaning against a wall, he tried to breathe and control the panic that was coming back. A different kind of panic-- the fear that he everything he was, everything he had attained, was a sham. He looked down at his rumpled clothes and felt revulsion for the fine dandy he had been playing.

He was a bastard, left by his father before he was born, left by a mother who had sworn she'd come back for him.

Had sworn she would write...but she hadn't, not after the first year, and had only come to see him a few times in all the years they'd been apart. The first few years had been the hardest as each week he had been so sure she would come. So sure she would take him away and he would never have to go up another dark chimney. But she didn't come and the only thing that put a stop to his imprisonment was the breaking of his leg. Then the delayed growth spurt that finally made it impossible for him to do that job.

Imagination had been a wonderful thing then. He'd imagined all sorts of reasons why she couldn't come. He knew she was working hard, trying to make a life for them. He imagined she had put all her money away for the house they would rent, and that was why she had no money for postage, no money for travel. They would have a cat and he would wake to her sweet voice saying "Good morning, sleepyhead," the way she always had. He imagined his father had come back and found her. He'd been shanghaied by pirates, but had never stopped loving Naomi and had finally won his freedom by saving a Prince's life. He was ecstatic at the news he had a son, and soon they'd come for him.

He had never imagined that she hadn't wanted to come for him, that she had fallen in love and chosen to stay away from him. Finding that out shattered every dream that had sustained him through his childhood.

Who did he think he was? He was a servant who aped his betters. A thief and a gambler, he had no business living in a house on Belgrave Square, attended to by servants. He had no business crying friends with a man like James Ellison. It was time to go back and take his place at some estate as a servant, it was time he accepted who he was, who he'd always been. He would tell James, and not be weak this time. He would put an end to James' protests and do what was right for both of them. Starting back to his house, * his house,* as if such a thing were possible, his head was down. He never saw the men who took him down, his head hitting the pavement with enough force to knock him out.

************************

Danyon shook his head. "Pure folly, after yesterday, but Blair of'en got caught by restless feet, 'specially after one of 'em dreams. Fact, after one of 'em he never could abide the house, always took off."

He should have remembered that, should have warned Master Ellison that Blair was flighty after a night of dreams.

"Do you know where he'd go?" James needed a starting place. He'd already sent George after Rafe with a message to search for Blair. London was a huge city, filled with an unending supply of places to find trouble in.

Alice came from the kitchen, straightening her hat and tugging her cloak about her.

" 'E' might go to the booksellers. I'll check Marsten's."

"Aye, that's where 'e'd be. I'll go 'round to Hatchard's in Picadilly." Danyon sighed in relief. At least Alice had kept her wits about her and figured out where Blair could be. He felt paralyzed and unable to put two thoughts together.

"What other shops are likely?" The three emerged from the house. The day had started out full of sun, but as the afternoon wore on the bright light had dimmed. Rain hovered above, waiting for some unknown signal to begin its descent.

"There are the ones in Charing Cross." Once again Alice supplied the information. She had been trained since she was a small child to pay attention to men and what they wanted and needed. Her ability to predict and please had served her well in her life before.

"Then that's where I'll start." James patted the pocket holding the small pistol. He hoped he'd have no need to use it, but where Blair's safety was concerned, he would do whatever was necessary.

Mrs. Duncan stood in the doorway, "I'll check the streets around here and make some inquiries with Mrs. McMerty, she always has one eye on the street, she does."

Charing Cross Road teemed with all manner of people, sounds and smells. James' focus was so narrow that none of it had impact. His height helped him to look for Blair, but he saw no one even vaguely resembling his small friend. His inquiries brought no satisfaction, until he chanced upon one of the smaller booksellers who remembered such a man as Blair. Encouraged, James searched every shop and stall. When the last store locked its door, James had to admit defeat and return home.

The rain that had started as a fine drizzle, had grown into a full-blown drenching. James prayed with each step bringing him closer to the house on Belgrave Square, that he would find Blair safe inside, fussed over by the women, cozy by the fire.

He was condemned to more disappointment. The group he encountered was as wet and as discouraged as he was, and trying desperately to think of the next thing to do.

James could see they'd all come to the end of their endurance; it was late, and there was little hope of discovering Blair's whereabouts in the dark.

"To bed with all of you, come morning we'll resume the search."

James gave it his best air of command and was glad to see he still had it. The goodnights were subdued and James shared their glum expression.

When the kitchen was empty, James snuffed the lamps, banked the fire and sat down at the long table where so much unlikely camaraderie had passed. Friendship and learning, skills shared, meals consumed, books read, torches passed. The wind rattled the windows and the sound of gravel being swept up and thrown against the house made even this haven seem vulnerable.

So far in his searching, James had been able to keep the madness contained. Perhaps it was the intensity of his focus, he couldn't say. The old headache, the one that gripped his skull like two hands trying to squeeze his brains out, was creeping back on him.

He would rather be back in the barren mountains of India, unknowing of his fate, than to be in this warm kitchen unknowing of Blair's.

Everything in him called for walking the streets all night. He knew that for folly; nothing could be found in the dark unless you knew where to look.

Sense dictated he sleep, but something else ruled this night. James put his coat on and left the house.

Oh God, it was dark, altogether dark without a crack of light or hint of air. Blair curled himself into a tighter ball and clamped his lips together. He wanted to yell questions, Where am I? Why am I here? Can I come out?

But knew as soon as he opened his mouth that it would be babble that would pour forth. And whimpering and then the begging.

No, better to hold on tight and wait. Wait until they decided to come and get him from this dark place. They would come. They would, wouldn't they? They wouldn't just leave him here.

At that thought, the air seemed to thin and Blair gasped. He knew what was coming, the fight to get oxygen into his body, his heart beating at triple speed, his body, wet with sweat. Trying to contain all this before it was too late, Blair breathed the first deep breath, in through his nose, releasing slowly through his mouth.

Again.

It tamped his heart rate down by a bit. Keeping his eyes closed so as not to see the dark, he told himself if he opened his eyes there would be light. And birds singing and breezes fresh from the sea. It was only because his eyes were closed that the dark was wrapped so tightly around him.

Tentatively, he reached out with his hand along the wall. When he didn't immediately feel another wall, he relaxed a fraction. Not an impossibly small space then. He could hear his breathing, a faint rasp, in and out, and nothing else. It was the nothing else that had haunted him through all the small, dark spaces.

Hugging himself tighter he started talking to himself. 'Not alone, not alone...James is in my life now and Danyon and Alice...even Mrs. Duncan counts...they all count...not here, but they're here...' Blair hated what the darkness did to him, the way it sucked him back to being a motherless child. His intellect seemed poorly suited to doing battle with the dark. The dark knew all his weaknesses, all his faults, every fear, and used them with ruthless precision against each defense he tried to put in place.

But this defense, this chant, held some power, worked some magic, gave him some measure of peace. He was not alone. He was able to sleep.

**************

James trudged through the near deserted streets. It was getting close to dawn. The buildings were silhouetted in a pink hazy light as the fog began to drift off. James had found he had no trouble seeing London in the night. His eyes were able to pick out a thousand details, the footpads lurking in corners, the children asleep in heaps to stay warm, the rats scurrying everywhere. Christ, at one point he thought he could see the fleas riding on the rats. But in all the many things he saw during the endless night, what he didn't see was any sight of Blair.

The house, Blair's house, was only a few blocks away. James planned to get some food and maybe wash off the night grime that clung to him with an oily residue. Then, back out.

The kitchen was ablaze with light, heat and voices. Everyone was ready to get back out and search. Baines had a map and was assigning districts. When James walked in, all talk stopped as they looked to James with hope on their faces.

James shook his head and shoulders slumped. Baines gestured to the map. "Perhaps you'd like a look see. Tell us if there's some better way to go about looking." His hand was shaking as he handed the map over.

James took the map as Mrs. Duncan put a cup of hot chocolate in his hand. Baines had done a thorough job of marking the likeliest areas to search and matching it with the right servant. James looked up from the map and really looked at the man who had served him for close to two years.

The previous butler had quit, declaring, "He didn't work for loobys, even if they were gentry." Baines had never seemed in the least perturbed by James' odd behavior or being relocated to another's house. He was the soul of disinterest. Until now. The man was clearly distraught. Leave it to Blair to pull something from the stoic Baines.

His headache was worse, the pressure behind his eyes fierce and unrelenting, Still, it was up to him to think of something, to lead this band in a plan. He set the map down, smoothing the wrinkles out. Before he could begin, there was a knock at the door and

Alice hurried to open it. Rafe filled the frame, looking apologetic.

"Sorry to come by so early, sir, but I got news on that Harry and Jeb and thought you might want it right away."

It was if the room brightened with this news. Alice hurried to set another plate for the handsome detective. Danyon scowled, "So whatcher find aht abaht them 'olligans wot set upon Master Blair?"

"I tracked them down to a hovel near Newgate. They were half-bosky, so it wasn't too hard to scare the name out of them. Hired by Charles Wettig." Rafe held his hand up as they all started to speak.

"Yes, I know who he is. For small time crime, he's big, the hub you might say, of a lot the nastier bits of business that go on round here. I have one of my men in his circle. Henri runs for him and keeps me informed. Should be hearing something from H soon. I told him to hightail it here when he knew anything."

James slumped back in his chair. Finally they had a thread to tug on, a thread to begin to unravel the conspiracy against Blair. There was no more point in running the streets.

"That's a marvelous piece of work, Rafe."

"At least we believe he's been taken, so this news couldn't have come at a better time. Stay. Eat. Perhaps you'll be of some more use when we have the name." James tried to convey confidence to his misbegotten troop. Confidence he didn't feel himself. All he felt right now was exhaustion, pain and fear.

Mrs. Duncan must have been aware of all that, because she took James by the arm, until he was facing the door and then gave him a little push.

"There now, go on up to room and have a nice lay down. Even a few minutes will do you good and we'll fetch you as soon as we have word from this Henri." When he didn't move right away she gave him a little shove that seemed to break his inertia.

"Right. A little lay down. All right. But you'll call as soon as Henri shows up?"

"We'll call." It was said in unison, from everyone but Rafe, who looked stunned at the volume.

*******************

When Blair woke, the darkness still held. He stood up, bumping his head hard against the low ceiling. Shuffling forward, he hit a wall, turned, took three steps and hit another wall. A small space, but he'd been in smaller and he held onto that thought to keep the panic at bay. The night had slowly leeched the warmth out his body and he sat back down in the corner. Pulling his knees up, he wrapped his arms around them and rocked a little, hoping to calm the shivering that was building. How long would he be made to stay here?

Why? Why do this? He tried to think how much time had passed. Hunger made him lightheaded even sitting down and his stomach ached with emptiness, but it was how very thirsty he was, and how much he needed to use the water closet that told him he'd been in this place twelve hours or more.

For a short while he was able to breathe and meditate, keeping the old demons at bay. But the nightmare had eroded much of his center and in the dark he couldn't find what was left. He thought about James and hugged the thought of him tight to his chest. Thinking about James had always given him some measure of peace.

With his mother gone and making only sporadic appearances in his life, Blair had not only been a lonely little boy, but a boy without any sense of belonging. For all that Mrs. Martin had liked fussing over Blair when she could and Perkins had treated him with a gentleness not usually shown boys in service, he was no one's and no one was his. Until James. He breathed the word, playing it out like the fishing line James had taught him to use.

He spent some time remembering that day and James calling him a guppy. His guppy. Blair smiled, he'd been inordinately pleased by that, but had somehow managed the outraged reaction called for.

He let his hands slide along the wall. Finding some stones only loosely embedded, he started to pry them out. It gave him something to do as he waited in the dark and the cold for what came next.

It took Henri half a day to learn anything and to find his way to Belgrave Square. As soon as he knocked at the back entrance, Alice headed upstairs to wake Master Ellison. James came awake slowly, testimony to his deep exhaustion. As soon as he realized Henri had come with news, he was in motion. They had all waited to hear what Rafe's man had to say, knowing James would not want to miss a bit of it.

James strode into the kitchen and Henri stepped back. The force of Ellison's determination to find Blair filled the room and made the hair on Henri's neck stand up. He knew he was in the presence of a dangerous predator and was damn glad they were both on the same side.

James wasted no time. "So what do you know about the people who took Blair?"

Henri swallowed. "It was a fellow by the name of Warbeck wot hired Wettig."

"Warbeck!"

"That'd be 'im."

"Do you know the man, Master Ellison?" Rafe was taking out pounds to pay Henri.

"Warbeck is my father's butler at Saybrooke and has always had something against Blair, but how he found him and why he'd want him..." James sat down and tried to think through the ramifications of what he'd learned.

Ever since he'd come home from the Himalayas and his madness had become obvious, his father had kept his distance, deeply embarrassed that one of his own should be so afflicted. Could his father have learned that he was living at Blair's and objected? If he had, James couldn't imagine that this is the way he's deal with it. Strong-arm tactics just weren't his forte, as well as the fact it would be James he'd want to see put away.

Could Warbeck be so obsessed with Blair that he would go to the trouble to track him down and take him? The only recourse was to go home and confront Warbeck and demand answers.

"Rafe, can you accompany me to Saybrooke?" He needed a good man at his back and while Danyon qualified, he needed someone who could blend in. That would be Rafe.

"Happy to." Rafe had never met O'Malley, yet in some ways, felt as if he had, having spent so many hours on his track. Blair's ability to elude him had frustrated him to no end. He'd cursed the man in three languages after coming to one blind alley after another, yet had come to admire the intelligence that fueled his quarry.

"Danyon, see to the horses." Nodding, Danyon set off at a trot to the stables.

James turned to address the concerned faces looking to him. " We won't be more than a night away, Saybrooke is just a few hours ride, and I don't mean to take my time with Warbeck. If need be, I'll send word. In the meantime, keep your ears close to the ground, you know the servants know everything first."

**********************************

Curled up against the wall, Blair thought he could hear voices. One of the voices he recognized. Warbeck. The cold that had him shivering, now deepened. The nightmare was real and it had a name. It took a moment for Blair to refocus on the voices.

"The key here is the dark. That and it being a small space. Doesn't hurt that it's cold but hot works, too. He's been in there close to twenty-four hours now, which ought to make him ripe for you." Warbeck seemed to tune into his pun and started to laugh. "Ripe, ha! That'll describe the bastard."

Another voice, cultured, impatient. "He'll do what I say?"

"You can count on it, Lord Ebury. And if he doesn't, well, just have him whipped and put back. Never takes long after that."

"Bring him out, I want to see the love of Naomi O'Malley's life."

The door opened, spilling pale light into Blair's prison. Hands reached in, grabbing hold and pulling him out into a room that was obviously used as a wine cellar. The light came from several oil lamps attached along the walls. Before him stood a handsome man who looked to be near sixty. He was dressed impeccably and it was easy to see he was an aristocrat, born and breed. He looked down on Blair from his imposing height and reached into his pocket for his linen, bringing it to his nose.

"Told you he'd be ripe." Warbeck's voice dripped contempt.

Blair tried to stand on his own feet, but the night and day inside the cramped, cold space caused his muscles to spasm, making him depend Danyon on the arms holding him to keep him up.

"So this is precious Blair. Dear, sweet Blair." Ebury stepped forward, and using his handkerchief, tilted Blair's head up. Blair looked into a pair of gray eyes that glinted with amusement. The man had the bone structure of an aristocrat, high cheekbones, a sharply defined nose, dark hair with a swath of white through it, making him look dashing and dangerous. The man had said his mother's name and Blair felt sick at the thought that this man knew her.

"He looks like the Irish bastard he is. No wonder Naomi never allowed him to come for a visit. I would have known just how well she lied, had I set eyes on him."

Blair tried to pull his head away, but Ebury tightened the grip in his chin. "Wha-what does my mother have to do with this?" His voice barely registered above a whisper. His throat raw with the need for water.

"Your mother is the whole point of this." Ebury's painful hold on Blair's chin eased up and he let go. Blair's head dropped down. Ebury began to pace the small room.

"I loved your mother the moment I set eyes on her. Well, perhaps love isn't quite the right word. I wanted her. Does that shock you? The idea that a man would look at your mother that way?"

Ebury laughed. "You're blushing. You have no idea what a magnificent woman you have as a mother. She's beautiful, passionate, sensual. Her time being ordinary just made her all that much more extraordinary. Every luxury delighted her, no matter how small. Every courtesy pleased her. She was-is-- intoxicating." The look in his eyes scared Blair. The were the eyes of a man obsessed.

Ebury came back to where Blair hung in Warbeck's tight grip.

"However, her attachment to you was a bit much. I knew if you were brought here her affection would be divided, and I wasn't about to compete with a bloody child for her attentions. She threatened to leave my employ, fetch you, and start over."

Ebury voice was flat. He shook his head ruefully. "Well, at first, I'll admit I didn't think anything of it. I've had my share of mistresses and it doesn't take long to tire of them. But when it seemed certain that Naomi was going to leave, I found I couldn't bear to let her go."

Warbeck shifted his hold and Blair, who tried to stand up straighter, and face head on the angry lord.

"She stayed, but only because I put Warbeck in place, and told her what would happen to her darling should she ever leave the estate. And that worked. Until you showed up at my door. Once Naomi realized you were free of Warbeck she became determined once again to leave me."

Ebury took Blair's face in his hand once more and turned him, first to the right and then to the left. "You look nothing like her; you have none of her beauty." Ebury seemed to be affronted by that.

"It pains me to do this. I really am loathe to resort to manipulation to keep a woman by my side, but Naomi is incomparable, a diamond of the first water, and I will do whatever I need to do to make her happy with me."

Blair lifted his head and tried to follow what the man was saying. It was difficult. There was a buzzing in his head, making it all the more arduous to decipher what the man in front of him was saying.

His mother, the man was talking about his mother. He loved her, and wanted to keep her and somehow Blair was part of the plan to keep her. He wouldn't do that, wouldn't make his mother do something she didn't want to do. She had always been a free spirit. It had cost her, but it was who she was. Blair tried to struggle out of Warbeck's hold, but a night and day without water or food, had taken its toll. Warbeck had no trouble keeping his grip on Blair.

"I won't..." Blair whispered, unable to shout it in the lord's face the way he wanted to.

"Oh, but you will...Warbeck has assured me that he knows exactly how to make you pliable."

Lord Ebury nodded at Warbeck, who pulled Blair up until he barely had his feet on the ground. Ebury pulled his fist back and sank his it into Blair's stomach. Blair's body tried to double up, but Warbeck held him and Ebury landed several more blows.

When Ebury was done, Warbeck released his hold and Blair fell to the dirt floor, his chest heaving as he tried to get air back into his lungs. He knelt there, on his hands and knees, and saw one impossibly shiny boot tip coming at him. It reached his chin and gently lifted Blair's head.

"Look at me boy. I'm your master now and you'll do exactly as I tell you, say exactly what I tell you to say. Do you understand?"

Blair had no intention of agreeing to any of it, but he couldn't find his voice to argue the point. Ebury lifted his head up and down in a parody of affirmation.

"I want you to tell your mother that you've decided to work here and you want her to stay."

Blair started to shake his head no, but Ebury stopped him, grabbing his hair.

"Think carefully O'Malley. You say yes, and I'll have you cleaned up, given food and water and a bed. You'll get to see your mother on occasion and if you prove useful, I may even allow you some privileges. Say no, and I'll have Warbeck throw your worthless carcass in that hole to rot."

Ebury removed his boot and Blair's head dropped back down to the cold floor. Blair was torn by his fear of that space and his fear for his mother. He couldn't let himself be used against her.

"No one wants you, O'Malley, no one will look for you, no one has any use for you, except me. I want you. I have a use for you. You know how important that is, don't you? To be of some use? To have a place where you are wanted? Your place is here."

"No." The whisper galvanized Warbeck. He hauled Blair back up and threw him into the cellar. Blair hit the far wall and scrambled to get to the door, only to watch it close in his face. He screamed and pounded at the door, but it didn't so much as rattle and Blair finally stopped. Shivering, he brought his knees to his chest and hugged them, trying to contain his despair.

The darkness pressed in, assaulting him. It smelled of death and decay and bone deep loneliness. As the hours passed it seeped into him, taking away all the things that made him who he was. For in the dark there was both nothingness and infinity. And neither could be touched, or measured or held. The nothingness was bad enough, it was horrible to share space with it, to breathe it into his lungs. But worse, it had gravity. It pulled and pulled, seeking to suck him in, to bury him in the nothingness. Bury him and then the nothingness would set about breaking him down, reducing his flesh to ashes, just like the ashes he had scrubbed and swept all those years before. He would be ashes and the wind would come and blow him away, erase him.

Before it could erase all of him, Blair fought back. He found a ledge, overlooking the vast emptiness. With painstaking patience, he pulled himself up to it and rested on it. Here was light, instead of darkness; life, instead of decay. In this small space, he had friends and he was loved. Someone wanted him. James?

Pressing himself to the wall behind him, he fought to stay put. It would be so easy to fall. The ledge was narrow and it took all his concentration to keep his footing. Chanting, breathing, he held steady.

There was no telling how much time had passed. Hunger had settled in and made his stomach cramp, but it was the thirst that truly tortured him. He could hear himself sobbing and his voice pleading with them to let him out. It was a pathetic sound, harsh and ragged, words barely discernable. The begging sickened him, but he couldn't stop it. The air was hot and thick with dust. It was hard to it get past his swollen and dry throat. His lungs labored to draw enough in. Finally the begging stopped and there was only the whimpering left.

When Warbeck pulled him from the tight quarters the second time, it was a very different man he saw. Blair hung in his hands, all resistance gone.

"Will you tell your mother you want to stay and work here?" He asked.

Blair didn't raise his head, but tried to say yes. He couldn't get the words past his swollen throat and scabbed lips, so he nodded.

"Good. I'm sure you'll be very happy here." Warbeck handed him to the two men who had accompanied him.

"Get him washed up and do a thorough job of it, he reeks."

The men grinned at each other and said a civil, "Yes, sir."

***********************

Blair lay in a cot in Warbeck's closet. The man was taking no chances with him. As ordered, he'd had Blair fed and bathed and issued serviceable work clothes. The feeling of stranger's hands undressing him had caused a panic and he couldn't stop himself from fighting them, until they had done the expedient thing. Tied to the beam in the wash house, his feet an inch above the floor, he was rendered harmless.

The pain to his bruised ribs nearly caused Blair to pass out, and he endured the rest of it without protest. It had been humiliating to hang there, helpless, as one of Warbeck's men ran the sponge over his body, all the while making lewd comments. Seeing the pain Blair was in as he hung there, the man took his time. When at last Blair was cut down, he'd fallen to the floor, and lay there, shivering, while clothes were fetched.

Finally shown to the broken down cot that he was to sleep in, he'd crawled in gratefully, immediately falling asleep.

The next morning Ebury had found his plans sidetracked, as Blair had developed a fever during the night and was barely coherent.

"I don't want him and his sickness in my room." Warbeck had a great fear of illness and wanted Blair put as far away from him as possible. That was difficult, as Ebury didn't want Blair's presence announced to Naomi until the boy could state convincingly that he had voluntarily made the decision to stay at the castle and work

Announcing he'd take care of it, Warbeck dragged Blair back to the cellar. This time, Blair was given blankets and light, but at the sound of the door clanging closed and a bolt being shoved in place, Blair had had to stifle a scream.

He looked up at the lamp, trying to see how much oil was left and how soon the room would be plunged into darkness. The shadows on the walls flickered and in Blair's fevered state, took on demonic dimensions. He feared the lamp running out more and so tried desperately to stay awake. Fending off the darkness by reciting sonnets, then switching to math problems, he couldn't manage to hold sleep back. When he awoke, his nightmare had returned. It was dark.

***************

"What do you mean Warbeck's no longer employed here?" James stared down at his stepmother. The tiny woman wasn't in the least intimidated by her husband's son, she knew he was mad, and probably a simpleton by William's account.

"I mean he no longer holds a position here, James. How many ways do you want me to convey the same simple information?"

"I understood you perfectly well the first time. What I'm asking is why did he leave and how long ago and where did he go?"

"I'm sure I have no idea where he went. He quit quite suddenly."

She studied him from head to toe. Icy blue eyes stared down at her. His face had the definite lines of command etched into it and he stood a good foot and a half taller than she. His jacket hung with causal elegance upon his graceful frame and his breeches clung to his long, muscled legs. The body was spectacular; too bad the mind was so spotty. She wondered once again from what part of the family James had sprung.

"....expect from you." She pulled herself back from her contemplation. Shaking her curls, she gave him one of her winsome smiles.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?" He didn't seem to appreciate the bestowment, his face set in a scowl.

"I said, madam, that I was going to question the staff and I hoped you would not interfere."

"La, if it amuses you, go right ahead, James." She placed her dainty hand in James larger one. James glanced down, the look on his face conveying his surprise and then as swiftly, his distaste.

"Then I will take my leave of you." James plucked the pink thing out of his palm and turned, moving quickly to the back of the house and the kitchen, leaving Geogianna feeling like the scullery maid.

In the pantry, James cornered Gilbert. The footman, was known as 'The Font' due to his uncanny ability to know every last scrap of information that passed through the house, the stables and the countryside in a two mile radius.

"What do you know about Warbeck and whose service has he entered?"

Gilbert looked at James. Known in the house as the looby one, he didn't take the question too seriously.

"Don't know nothing, sir."

James' eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. Gilbert belatedly remembered that no one had ever said he was a harmless looby. He quickly changed his stance.

"They say he went back to Saybrooke. They say he never really left Lord Ebury's service."

"What do you mean by that, never left his employ?"

"Well, I'm just telling you what I hear. That he had been in service to Lord Ebury, came here, but- not that I ever knew what they meant by this-- was still working for that other lord. And now he's done gone back there. Real sudden like."

"Wentworth is familiar, but I know nothing of this Ebury."

Rafe had been one step behind James all the way and now stepped forward. "Wentworth is where Naomi O'Malley works as governess. Of course O'Malley's not her real name and the Ebury heirs have all quite outgrown the need for a governess." Rafe managed the effect of a wink without the wink.

Gilbert nodded in agreement. "That be the word, she's his fancy piece all right."

Ellison took that in and turned it over in his mind. It couldn't possibly be coincidence, which left Ebury at the center, pulling the strings.

"Rafe, what do you know about Ebury?"

"Didn't look into him when I was hunting down O'Malley, but I'll put my ear to the ground and see what I can come up with."

"Wot you need to know?"

Both Rafe and Ellison turned in surprise to their reluctant informant.

James wasn't about to turn down the 'Font' if he had suddenly decided to contribute all he knew. "What kind of man is Ebury?"

Gilbert paused, clearly running through the relevance of what he knew.

"Besotted." Seemed to sum it up as far as Gilbert was concerned.

"Besotted? By what? Drink? Women? Gambling?"

"By the O'Malley woman. Word is he fell for her hard as soon as she came to look after the children. That be more'n ten years ago and he's still caught in her skirts." Gilbert's face showed his amazement. He thought a little more. "He likes his cattle, he does, known for spending a fortune on a stud."

"And?"

Gilbert made a show of scratching his chin and looking contemplative.

James motioned to Rafe, who understood and immediately drew out money, handing it to the footman.

"He belongs to one of them hells, the kind that likes their doings rough."

"Their doings?" There were all types of hells.

"Their naked doings." Gilbert winked.

James grimaced in distaste. Those "hells" were well known for their debauchery and craven inclinations. Everything he had learned about Ebury made his stomach twist with fear and loathing. There were only a few reasons a man like that would want Blair. James turned away from that thought, unwilling to let his imagination work.

Mrs. Martin came through the kitchen and catching sight of James exclaimed, "Dear boy! You're back! How are you feeling?" She moved with uncommon speed for a woman so large, patting James' arm and urging him to sit.

"Why James, you look much better. How is that London air agrees with you?" As always, she left very little room for replies and James just smiled, knowing he'd never actually get a sentence out.

She surprised him, pausing and then stated, "You've found Blair." Beaming, she took his face in both hands. "You clever boy, I knew you would."

Nodding, James looked into the warm brown eyes that had watched him grow up. The hands on his face were more familiar to him than his father's and certainly more comforting.

"Yes, I found him." James looked sharply at Gilbert, warning him with a scowl to say nothing.

"And? How is he, where is he, has he come home with you?" Mrs. Martin barely waited a beat until she launched into another soliloquy.

"Wait until he hears the good news! That evil beast Warbeck is finally gone. There's no reason Blair can't come back; the new man is a lamb. Tell him, won't you? Oh, it'll be good to have the boyo back, reading the papers in the evening. Och, I must go tell the cook, we've all been so worried." Mrs. Martin steamed back out of the kitchen in full gossip regalia.

James shook his head with fondness at Mrs. Martin's single-mindedness. He hated to disappoint her, but there was no way Blair would ever set foot in Saybrooke again as a servant.

"C'mon Rafe, I want to get to Wentworth as soon as possible. It's only a few hours ride from here."

It was already mid-afternoon and Wentworth, a good four-hour ride from Saybrooke, but Rafe made no protest to the brutal pace.

*****************

Nothingness. No light leaked into the cellar, it was deep with darkness. Blair clutched the blanket, grateful for the warmth, ducking his head under it. He tried to pretend that the darkness merely came from being under the cover and if he stuck his head out there would be light. For a time that fiction held. Too soon, Blair realized he needed to relieve his bladder and would have to pull the blanket down and face the dark. Shakily, he got to his feet. With his hands in front of him, he shuffled forward until he connected to a wall. He followed it to the furthest corner where Warbeck had indicated he would leave a chamber pot.

The number of steps it took to get to it reassured Blair that he wasn't in some small space, but still in the cellar. Thirst was his next concern and he backtracked to where he thought he'd started. He moved towards the center, but his feet failed to connect to the blankets he'd left there. Blair shuffled around, at first randomly, until the panic started to swell uncomfortably.

He forced himself to breathe again and begin his search in a more systematic way. No matter how he covered the room, he couldn't seem to find the place he'd started from, the place that had the blankets and the water. He'd lost his place, he'd lost everything, and no one would find him here in this darkness. No one would try. He paused in his panicked scramblings, leaning his head against the wall. The fever had yet to run its course, and the coughing fits hit him with a savagery that left him limp, his chest aching from the effort to clear his lungs. Putting his back to the cold wall, Blair sank to the floor. He'd rest and then start again.

*******************************

Rafe and James pushed through the evening gloom. The rain had started just after they stopped to eat and rest the horses, making the last hour miserable. Neither man said anything, concentrating on making progress. The cold and the wet barely registered with James, all his concern focused on Blair. He refused to think Blair might already be dead. The intent in both assaults seemed to be acquisition, not assassination. The two men at the center of this web seemed capable of anything.

James had lived among men his whole life, lived among battle-hardened men and men who had no mercy. He knew what men could do, the kind of games that were played out as men vied for dominance and survival. He'd experienced most of it, seen all of it. Some of it had come close to killing him, but none had come close to breaking him.

James was, at heart, a warrior. Faced with an opponent bent on his destruction, he fought, feinted, dodged or retreated. He understood how to protect the center, how to take a beating that left scars, but no marks. Manning and his father had started that lesson at an early age. Instinctively he had seen their intent, their need to reduce him. Where they failed, the madness nearly succeeded. And it was Blair who somehow kept the madness at bay.

From the moment he'd set eyes on Blair, he'd been drawn to him. At first it had been curiosity. Then surprisingly, respect and finally, alarmingly, James had felt things he had fought against his whole life. Affection, attachment...for the warrior in James knew the danger in those things, instinctively knew that those things left the center unprotected.

James shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts as well as the rain dripping down his hat and under his collar. He didn't like to examine the feelings he had for Blair too closely. He knew the word affection was a mere shadow of the feelings he had for Blair. But to give those feelings articulation was to acknowledge the power Blair held over him.

James had been successful at denying the power until the madness. If not for that, James would have skirted his feelings for Blair. He would have served his country, found a ladylove, settled into a life of gentility and children, hunts, and old age with grandchildren at his knees.

The madness had put an end to that possible future and replaced it with Blair. James had been surprised there was no bitterness with that knowledge. No great pangs of regret for what he could no longer have.

Blair was enough. Blair would do.

James accepted that, was even grateful for it, but did not want to name it. But as James contemplated what men did to one another...out of power, fear, boredom, need...he couldn't fight, dodge, feint or even retreat.

And two men held Blair. Their purpose was unknown, but their capacity for pain and depravity had been established. For most of this time, James had refused to imagine what might be happening. He didn't have the strength to look at the possibilities.

As they drew closer to Wentworth, James realized he needed to prepare himself for what he might find. Blair was not a warrior, couldn't be counted on to know how to protect himself. The nightmare had already revealed how someone had tried to destroy him. They had not succeeded, but they had eroded the core. James vowed that if he found Blair alive James would make sure he survived whole.

Rafe interrupted his dark silence. "Almost there, just another mile and we'll be in view."

If they were in view of Wentworth, then Wentworth would be in view of them. That would not do.

"Know of a back way in?"

"Aye. Grew up in these parts. We'll have to walk the last half-mile."

Blair woke to a hand in his hair, pulling him upright. A moan escaped him before he was fully awake.

"O'Malley, only you could manage to get lost in two rooms. Cox, show O'Malley to his bed."

Blair opened his eyes. The lamps had been re-lit and Warbeck stood by the door, keeping his distance from the shivering heap of sickness. The man who had administered the washing to Blair, knelt beside him, his hand still painfully entwined in Blair's hair.

Struggling to sit upright and move away from Cox, Blair used the wall to gain his feet. Although the room had light, grayness edged Blair's sight and he knew once he left the support of the wall, he would fall. Cox put his hand under Blair's elbow, and pulled him forward. Blair stumbled, but kept his feet, allowing the man to lead him to the mound of blankets. Cox removed his support and Blair crumpled, fighting to remain conscious. He tried to pull the blankets around him.

"Give him the water, he seems unable to accomplish even that small task."

Cox took the earthen jar and supported Blair's shoulders, as Blair drank as fast as he could, afraid it would be taken away. Cox waited until Blair had enough, then lowered him back to the ground.

"If it were up to me, I'd let you fend for yourself, but Lord Ebury has need of you and that requires you regain your health. I'll send someone down with soup, make sure you eat every drop."

Blair watched Warbeck and Cox leave, wincing at the sound of the door closing. There was no accompanying sound of a lock clicking into place. He would wait until Warbeck was truly gone and then he'd try the door. Perhaps he could find his mother and they would be able to leave. Blair waited, but before the footsteps had faded away, he was asleep.

Blair came awake to gentle hands on his face, urging him to consciousness. "'Ere, now, can't be feeding you soup when yer fast asleep."

There was a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, sitting next to him, a bowl of soup in her lap. With a great deal of effort, Blair sat up. The soup smelled divine and he took it from Daisy with shaking hands. The warmth of the bowl helped to steady him and he finished it all too quickly, wishing there was more.

"I'm Daisy. You were a right hungry one. Want me to fetch you another?" Blair nodded and Daisy took the bowl. She was small but there was something in her eyes that was old and Blair wondered what story she could tell.

"Be back in a flash." Blair pushed the blankets off. He was hot and sweaty and the blankets itched. Crawling over to the wall, he put his back up against it, welcoming the coolness. Daisy was as good as her word, returning quickly with a second bowl.

Blair took a spoonful. The hot liquid soothed the rawness of his throat.

"Daisy?' His voice sounded rusty and he wondered how long he'd been here.

"Yeah?" She waited, warily, for what he might ask.

Blair almost stopped himself; almost held back the question, but he had to ask. "Do you know Naomi O'Malley?"

She looked surprised at the question. "Course I know Miss Naomi. Do you?" The inflection in her voice indicated she found the idea of a man like him knowing Miss Naomi one of the most ludicrous things she'd ever heard, and Blair bit back the information that he was her son.

"Yes. Is she...all right?" Blair waited, his fear for what he might hear making him hold his breath.

"Is she all right? Of course she's all right. She..." Daisy paused, seemingly trying to decide what to say. "She's a favorite here, and what she wants, she gets. My goodness, just last month she up and decided she was bored and she demanded Lord Ebury provide some amusement. He had the Billings' Players brought in and they played their show here, just for the Lord and his lady."

Blair blinked at that. Tried to understand what that meant.

"But she has no freedom, she's his prisoner." The protest elicited a laugh from Daisy.

"Miss Naomi, a prisoner? Ah, pull the other one, why doncha. She goes to London for the Season and the little Season. She just came back from Bath. It's true, she don't ever stay away long 'less the lord is with 'er. They don't like being apart."

Well, he was talking to a child, what kind of information could you get from a chit of twelve. He put the bowl down carefully.

"Thank you for all your kindness." Blair tried to swallow the tears that were threatening, knowing it was just exhaustion and pain.

Daisy collected the bowl and spoon and moved the jar of water and blankets next to Blair.

"You gonna be all right?" Daisy round face looked concerned and Blair nodded his reassurances.

"I'll be fine."

"Well, okay then, I'll be back later. They says I'm to bring you more food later."

Blair was relieved to know that someone would be coming back.

***********************

James and Rafe crept the final yards to the great castle. It was full night now and that, combined with the rain, meant there was little fear of being seen. Nevertheless, the training they'd each gotten did not allow them to be careless. Now that he was close to Blair, James found himself trying to hear Blair, the way he'd heard him in the park. The first thing he heard was the clang of the pots being washed and marked the location of the kitchen in his head. There was conversation, but no mention of Blair.

Moving past the guttural speech of the servants, James listened for the rounded vowels of the upper-crust. There was a trill, the kind of laugh only a woman of leisure could have, light...airy...musical and it made him think of Blair. Listening to him speak was so often like following notes rather than words.

"Oh pish posh, Edward, you can't deny me a trip to Paris. It's been an age since I was there last--" She was interrupted.

"Less than a year, Madame." It was a tenor voice and held amusement, exasperation and affection in equal parts.

"That's an age, Edward. You know how fast fashion changes."

"But I want you to stay here for at least a week, love. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" A delighted squeal that made James wince.

"Yes, love, but I need a week."

"Why? Why is it taking so long? Are you waiting for it to be brought here?" The pout was done with just the right child-like inflection mixed with impatience.

"I'm not telling you anything, except you will love it and you must wait a week."

"You're not making this up are you? Just to keep me here?"

"No, my dear, this has been in the works for quite awhile and it's only now coming together."

"Very well, darling. I will be a font of patience, for one week. Then I'm going whether this surprise is here or not."

"Thank you, love. Every week, every day, every hour, with you is treasured."

It was a shock that the bastard that had taken Blair was capable of such a pretty speech. It followed logic to assume that he was speaking to Blair's mother, who seemed to find it all to her liking. If Ebury was speaking of Blair as the surprise, why would it take a week? Where was Blair?

He moved on, not expecting to learn anything more in that room, but marking the voices to memory. The housekeeper was discussing household details, "I've decided to send word to Lenox and see if they have any people we can hire. Blast Warbeck! We can barely keep the scullery maids, let alone anyone with skill. The man manages to run them all off eventually..." James moved on, searching, listening for the one voice that mattered... a young voice, one that should have been in bed was saying, "'Er now, you 'avta at least drink somthin'." A grunt and then finally, the beloved voice, low, raw..."Th-thank you, Daisy."

More sounds of movement, the echoes telling James it was a small room, stone....

"I need to, uh....get up and..." Blair's embarrassment was obvious.

"You need to take a piss? 'Ere, I'll 'elp ya up. Just grab--" grunts and gasps and then the sound of Blair shuffling, each breath labored, rasping in and out of weakened lungs....

"James! James! Hell, James if you don't--" Rafe was in his face as James became aware of the dark, moist night.

"Yeah, I'm back, I hear you."

"My God, what was that? What the hell is wrong with you?"

James ignored him. "How long was I like that?"

"About ten minutes."

Ten minutes...James immediately went back to search for Blair's voice, afraid he wouldn't find it. Nothing, there was nothing....and then he heard Daisy.

"Och, why they have him in that cold, damp cellar if they want him well, is beyond me. He's sick as a dog and not gettin' any better in that place."

"Warbeck was clear, lass, and you don't cross Warbeck. That poor fella down there is proof of that. You get any of that soup into him?"

"No, didn't seem to have no interest in nothing, not hardly the water, even."

"Yes, well, given his suddenly changed circumstances, one can understand."

"He really gonna be one of us, Mrs. Clancy? Such nice clothes, even if they are all ruined now. He speaks like an upper and--" her voice dropped to a whisper, but James had no trouble hearing, "he asked about Miss Naomi."

"Did he now? Maybe the master caught him flirting with her and this is his punishment. Wouldn't want to be in his shoes. Master Ebury will make sure Warbeck has him well in hand and then probably make the lad haul in the water for her bath. Ever since he brought those men here, he thinks he can do anything to anybody and get away with it. No wonder we can barely keep this place staffed. Does the man think he's king? "

James pulled himself away, knowing he'd learned all he was likely to. James turned to Rafe, who hovered next to him, a familiar look of concern mixed with impatience on his face.

"He's in a cellar."

Rafe snorted. "And you know that by how? Divination?"

Now this posed a problem. James hadn't realized just when he'd made the transition from thinking he was mad to thinking madness or not, it worked. Now he'd blurted out what he knew to be true with no way to explain it.

"Well, it just makes sense, that's all." Hedging weakly, James started moving, hoping that Rafe would lose interest in the question.

"I suppose it's as good a starting place as any." Rafe grumbled and followed.

Getting in was difficult. Ebury ran his estate like a military operation, complete with patrols. James used his uncanny ability to stop and find them a hiding place, often in the darkest, most obscure corners, long before one of many servants wandered by. James thought the cellar would be one off the kitchen, but didn't give Rafe the reasoning behind that deduction and Rafe had worked for the aristocracy often enough not to bother asking.

At one point, they waited, nose-to-nose in a small alcove made by a stairway. James took the time to catalog Rafe's smell, acknowledging to himself the usefulness of each part of his fractured madness. If he and Rafe were separated, he'd have no trouble tracking him by his scent. Having had that thought, he sniffed, checking the air, seeing if there was a hint of Blair. He could not have named what Blair smelled like, but he knew he would recognize it without any doubt.

The castle was rife with the smell of unwashed bodies, vegetables rotting in the kitchen, dank air saturated with water, cloying perfume that was used to mask the obnoxious odors.

James started to gag and tried desperately to quash the heightened sense. It was utter folly to think he could make use of it and James castigated himself for his arrogance, as a footman rounded the corner into their hiding space. Rafe hit him, while James bent over; unable to control the gagging that had accelerated to retching.

They fought, the tight corner and James on his knees, making the combat awkward. The noise of the fight echoed along the walls. James pulled himself up and snaked an arm around the servant, and twisted, breaking his neck and ending the commotion.

"What's the matter with you?" Rafe hissed, irritation and concern in equal parts communicated.

"The smell..." James gasped out. His stomach, not full before, had emptied on the first volley and still, his body spasmed violently with the need to purge itself.

"Smell? What bloody smell? It smells exactly as it's always smelled." Rafe's assertion did nothing to calm James. Seeing that James showed no signs of getting over his peculiar reaction, Rafe grabbed James by the arm and supported him, quickly leading them back the way they had come.

Bursting out the side door, James collapsed on the ground, trying to get fresh air in his lungs and clear the stench from his nose. Rafe tugged and pulled and got James into the shadowed trees, where he lay, limp and defeated.

"It must have been something that you ate. Bad timing that, we almost got to him." James remained silent. Many minutes passed until finally he was able to get to his knees and then his feet.

"We go back in."

"Don't be insane, man. Did you see the patrols are set? He's got his own private army here, loyal to him and prepared to defend this place from the likes of you and me. They'll have found the servant dead by now and alerted the household. We'll have to come back."

"No, I don't want Blair to spend another night here." James would go after him alone if necessary.

Rafe planted himself in front of the large, imposing body of his employer. "I can't let you do that. Think. If we get caught there'll be no hope for O'Malley. We must retreat and find another way in tomorrow."

James' brain heard the wisdom, but his body fought Rafe all the same. He looked down at the dark-haired man.

"Please, we have to get him out." It took effort to make it a plea and not a command, but James knew, after that fiasco, he could no longer expect Rafe to put aside his judgement and simply accept whatever decision he made.

Rafe's face reflected shock that James had used the word please. It was a powerful inducement, but Rafe stood firm. His job here was to get O'Malley out of there, but he was pretty sure alive was also part of the job and to go in now was to bring the odds down on that outcome. Something was going on, something was going on with Ellison, and until Rafe understood it a little better, he wasn't about to risk all three of their lives.

So he shook his head and took Ellison by the elbow and guided him back the way they had come. Ellison hesitated, but allowed himself to be steered and when they were far enough away from the castle to be safe, they stopped.

"Look, " Rafe ran his hand through his hair, wondering how one countermanded one's boss and still stayed on the job, "this is going to take some finesse. We've alerted them now and there's no telling how they'll react to intruders in the house. I say we get Alice to come and get herself employed. A place like this is always understaffed. We get her in, she finds out what 's going on and then we get O'Malley out, quick as a tick and no one hurt."

Ellison listened with his head down. Whatever had been bothering him, was bothering him still.

Rafe took a chance. "And," he stopped, sure that this was a bad idea, "you have to tell me what was going on back there."

At that, Ellison's head came up and the look in his eyes chilled Rafe to the core. He was sorry he'd asked and sure he was about to become even sorrier.

Ellison shifted on his feet and Rafe instinctively took hold of his elbow once again, to make sure he didn't suddenly bolt back to the hulking pile of stones that held his friend.

"I came back from India changed." Ellison said it flatly and then paused. Rafe jumped in.

"Everyone comes back from India changed."

A tight, grim smile flitted across James' face. "Yes, well, not quite in such tangible ways." Ellison shuddered. "Suddenly I could hear what should have been impossible to hear, see, what was much too far away to be seen. My skin hurt all the time, food was poison and smells..." his voice trailed off and Rafe got a glimmer of what had just gone on back there.

Ellison continued. "I thought it was madness, the doctors thought it madness. And then...something happened. I saw and heard something from much too far away and yet it was real. It was at the park, when Blair was attacked for the second time. I saw it from the third floor window. It was real. Do you understand?" Ellison stood, tilted aggressively forward, daring Rafe to draw conclusions.

Rafe nodded, he understood. He performed the sign of the cross. Because he had seen the truth of these words today, and while he wasn't as superstitious as some, he knew that this was unnatural, this was...what? He knew the devil gave his favors...stood to reason Ellison had performed some deed, or maybe sold his soul, or more likely, sold some poor sod down the river...and this was his reward. Except it wasn't much of a reward if it made you puke your guts out and think yourself insane.

At Rafe's sign of the cross, James had sighed and clenched his fists. He really didn't want to hurt Rafe, he needed him and besides, he'd come to like him. He was on guard, waiting to see what Rafe's reaction would be and whether Rafe would decide he was Satan himself. He didn't want to die because of this blasted curse. Once he had, but no longer. And he didn't want to die with Blair caught in Ebury's machinations. He would kill Rafe before he'd let the man's religious beliefs get in the way of freeing Blair and that was all there was to it.

He watched as Rafe thought it all through. His stomach ached with a dull fire and his skin was clammy. If Rafe made a move, James would have to go for his throat. He didn't have the stamina to fight fair and he *would* win this fight.

Rafe nodded again and said, "I understand. Double-edged sword, eh? And a damned nuisance when it's not an asset."

Rafe was going to treat this like it made sense then. James shoulders eased back down and he tottered a little as he settled back on his heels, relaxing his stance.

"You got that right." James was glad to let it drop.

"We don't have time to wait for Alice to come and get herself hired on. But I have an idea..."

*********************

Blair woke to the total blankness of his personal hell. His breathing started to come in quick, hard pants as he tried to pull himself back from the hysteria edging ever closer. He bit his lip to keep the scream in and flung his arms out, reassuring himself that he had space around him. Hiccuping the cry back, he took in a deep breath and held it, held it and then slowly released it.

His ability to contain the fear was eroding and the only thing that gave him the resolve was his knowledge that Warbeck was purposefully taking the light away. The lamps held more than enough oil to stay lit and yet Blair always awoke to pitchy darkness.

The fever hampered Blair's ability to keep his head clear. The darkness of his mind was almost as frightening as the darkness of the room. He held on to the little piece of himself that still had light. James. But the fever continually tried to wrest that small piece away. It beat him down with the confusion, the dreams, the vertigo that came out of nowhere, spinning him hard to the ground. Sometimes he could hear James speaking to him, his voice tickling his ear, the sound like the faint echo of a lullaby. Sometimes he felt James' hands on his body, stroking him, soothing him, his touch holding him together. He'd open his eyes, sure that James had come, to the nothingness, which mocked him.

He told the nothingness that soon Daisy would come in. "Bloody hell," she would exclaim, and the rough words would sound ridiculously sweet in her clear, young voice, "what in blue blazes is wrong with that lamp?"

She would re-light it, her small stature belying her sturdy strength and ability. Then in her childish voice that still held a lisp, she would tell him to "eat, all of it, and now drink". She would bring the cup to his lips and hold it there until she was satisfied that he had taken in enough. Later, her thin shoulder would be under his hand, and she would guide him to the chamber pot. Finally, her little hands would tuck the covers around him in a mimicry of maternal fussing.

She would come, you'll see, she would. Blair held on to that thought, held on to it tightly, as he waited in the infinite darkness and the nothingness crept closer.

*************************

Rafe looked over the man in front of him. The clothes hung on him, making it clear he had missed too many meals. The jacket was shabby and patched, the breeches loose and threadbare. The man's head was bowed, his hands twisting his cap all out of shape, as he awaited judgment.

"Will I do?" He asked, his voice tentative and pleading.

Walking around him, Rafe pondered the question. The man was built for hard work, the muscles in his back and calves, speaking to a life of hard labor. He had spoken with a rough country accent, a little Yorkshire around the edges of his vowels. His shoulders hunched forward in the classic stance of the common man hoping for favor. He kept his eyes down, which was just as well. The sharp intelligence there would give it all away.

Rafe finished his survey, coming back to stand in front of the supplicant. The head lifted and the eyes that met his were dull, a little crossed, and lacking in wit.

"By jove, James, this could work. You are the very picture of a serf."

"Glad you're pleased, gov'ner. Got a lot of little mouths to feed at home and would be real grateful for the position."

Rafe nodded enthusiastically. "Get on with you now. The sooner you get hired on, the sooner we can get done with this rescue."

"Aye, aye. I'll meet you in two days, hopefully, I'll have Blair. If I fail to make that meeting, wait three hours and then ride back to Belgrave Square for help."

"Understood. Do this the old-fashioned way. you got that? You should have no trouble gathering information on O'Malley, the servants will be more than happy to tell you everything you need to know. Do-not-risk---it." Rafe looked Ellison in the eye and was happy to see a nod of acquiescence as Ellison adjusted the cap on his head and headed down the winding road.

***********

'Alfie' straightened from the task of placing the logs he'd chopped in neat rows and eyed his woodpile. It was symmetrical to an extreme and twice as large as Pete's, who had labored all morning alongside James. He felt the strain of the repeated movement, but he was well used to physical labor, even if he'd been less active in the last year and a half. The problem was Pete. He'd only been working for Ebury for three days and so had no information to divulge. James hoped the evening meal would bring him into contact with some talkative soul.

*************

Ebury studied the man who lay at his feet. Nudging the heap with his toe, he turned him over. Grimacing at the sight, he sighed. This had seemed like such a good idea when Warbeck had suggested it, but now it was all falling apart. The heap was probably dying and even if it lived, wouldn't be presentable to Naomi in four days time. O'Malley looked like a discarded scarecrow, his hair, wild and matted, his face, pale under the growth of beard. O'Malley opened his eyes and Ebury could see the sickness in the watery pale blue his eyes had become, looking nothing like the vibrant blue that he had first seen.

"Wha--?" The heap spoke and tried to sit up, but failed and subsided.

"If Naomi could see you now, what would she think of her darling boy, her brilliant, boy, her oh so intelligent, clever and adorable Blair. She wouldn't even recognize you, I wager."

"Sh-she would." Blair said through teeth clenched to keep from chattering.

"Would you really want her to? Would you want your sweet, charming mother to see what a dirty animal you are?"

"Not... ju-just sick." Getting the words formed and out was getting increasingly difficult.

"Really?" Ebury pursed his lips. "I think you delude yourself." Ebury reached down and pulled Blair up by his hair to a sitting position.

Leaning back, Blair tried to keep his balance, though the room spun and threatened to pitch him to the floor. He worked to keep his eyes open and pay attention but it was hard and he wasn't sure it was worth it.

"Have you always been more trouble than you're worth? God knows, you're more trouble to me." Ebury paced.

"Look, I can't have you upstairs, Naomi would come across you. I need you to get better so I can get you established in the household before Naomi goes off to London. With you here, she'll be sure to come back. So you see, I'm on a schedule here."

Blair looked up and tried to follow the man as he walked back and forth, tried to follow what the man was saying, but all of it made him dizzy and made his head hurt. Closing his eyes, he rested, but was snapped back awake by a slap that bounced his head off the wall.

"You will listen to me. You will get better, you will tell Naomi you want to be here and you will play the good son and servant. Do you understand?"

It sounded like an assent was called for and Blair nodded.

"Good. I'm sending a man down here to get you cleaned up and halfway presentable." Ebury watched as Naomi's son's eyes closed again and he slumped over. This one was almost too easy. He liked to see a lot more spirit before he brought them graveling to his feet. Who would have thought Naomi's son would be so afraid of the dark that he would willingly agree to servitude? There was something utterly delicious about having dear Blair here and in this state.

Ebury looked down at the son of the man he hated and the woman he loved and something twisted inside. Something dark took shape and grew. His eyes glittered with newborn interest. He would get the whelp cleaned up and healthy and then he would explore the makings of this man. Reaching down, he moved the blanket and sought O'Malley's cock.

When O'Malley felt a hand there, he jerked awake and tried to shove Ebury aside. It was a pathetically futile attempt. Ebury's hand roved up and own the soft organ, disappointed when it didn't grow in his hands. O'Malley's feeble efforts to dislodge him made Ebury grow hard and he bit his lip, relishing the pain. O'Malley was barely conscious and liked them to feel what he was doing to them.

He had plenty of time to find ways to make O'Malley squirm and beg, whether for more or to be left alone. He walked away, whistling. Yes, this had been a very good plan of Warbeck's.

*****************

For the first time when Blair heard the door close, he felt relief. Hugging himself close, he tried to forget what Ebury's hand on him had felt like, but he couldn't. He could still feel it, the cold, hard implacableness of the grope, the almost clinical way Ebury had touched him, like someone handling a dead thing. Cupping his penis, Blair pressed it, trying to erase the memory. The memory stayed.

Blair had little experience with sex, having lived an intensely communal life. Once on his own, his thoughts had been filled with grief and survival. Quickly he sorted through his memories of touch, trying to find one to take the place of the ligering vileness of Ebury's assault.

Mrs. Martin had hugged him on ocassion. The sensation of being buried in her massive bosoms had been both nice and alarming, like getting swallowed whole by Jonah's whale. The memory of Ebury stayed.

He couldn't remember his mother's hugs, though he was sure she had.

He thought of Alice, with her slim fingers, touching him on the street the first time they met. Her hand had been cool, her touch delicate and caressing. The memory of Ebury stayed.

A memory of James came to mind, of being held tight to his chest as he had been carried up the stairs. It had been embarrassing when it happened, being picked up like a child and carried to bed. But now the memory was magic as it dispersed the ugliness of Ebury's touch. He held onto it, held it close and fell asleep.

Waking, he was surprised to see the lamp still lit. He pushed himself up, his arms shaking with the effort. He needed to get up, to move, why? Something pushed at him, telling him he had to get to his feet. Oh... yeah, Ebury was sending his man down to clean him up. He could hear the rattle of keys as someone approached. The tread was heavy, nothing like Daisy's little skip.

Remembering the last cleaning he'd received, Blair forced himself to stand. He wasn't going to let that happen again. He positioned himself and as the door swung open, he brought the wine bottle down on the intruder's head. The man twisted and easily eluded the bottle, catching it in his hands and disarming Blair. Blair threw himself backward, a sob catching in his throat as he tried to think of some way to get away.

"Whoa there, cub, it's me, James." Blair continued to back up, not recognizing the shabbily attired man and only knowing something bad was about to happen.

James kept his distance, recognizing Blair's disorientation and not wanting to add to his distress, but it was hard. Blair was close to collapse, shaking and fumbling for another bottle.

"Blair, it's me, it's James, I've come to take you home."

"No, no, that's a lie. No, James wouldn't come."

"I came, I'm here. Look at me, take a good look, Blair."

Blair was shaking his head, not looking at James. "Couldn't find me, no, he'd never find me."

James couldn't help the exasperation that was creeping into his voice. "I did find you. I am here. And I will get you out."

Blair's head shot up and he looked hard at the stranger in front of him.

Lowering his weapon, he asked, "Ja-james? You came for me?"

"I've come to take you home." James repeated, hoping Blair wasn't as sick as he looked. "It's a little difficult, everyone is on their guard here, but I will get you out."

"Out? Away? Now? Please?" Blair stumbled forward and James bridged the distance between them, catching Blair before he fell to the ground. He held on, dismayed at all the signs of the illness that had almost taken Blair's life before.

Blair looked up at him, hope fading in his eyes. "I can't go."

"Yes, you can, I'll carry you out if I have to."

"No, you...I'm filthy, you'd.... no, but even if-- I can't, I must stay here. I said I would."

James looked at him as if he were speaking the Latin they had tried to decipher together.

Blair's exhausted mind couldn't find the words to make James understand what would happen if he didn't stay. The nothingness that would consume him and blot out everything. If he stayed, at least something would be left. None of the words that would explain that would come and he pushed at James, trying to separate before that became impossible.

James allowed himself to be pushed. Blair was eased back to the ground. The nothingness was gaining on his ledge and would soon devour it. Oh, God, it would take him if he went away and take him if he stayed. Which should he do? Could he leave here? Was that even possible? Did he have anywhere to go, anything to be that wasn't here?

Before that could happen, he felt James pulling him up

"Soon, Blair, I promise. I have a plan, but first, a man's coming down to clean you up." At those words, Blair started to struggle in his arms, panic giving him strength. James held on, trying not to add any more bruises, waiting for Blair's strength to give out. Which it did, quickly. What the hell had they done to him, to make the idea of getting clean so frightening?

"Blair, I won't let them hurt you. Shhh, you'll get this done and then it won't be long before I'll get you away. Okay? Trust me."

Blair lay quietly in his arms, blinking up at him, the look in his eyes one of confusion.

"Come on, Blair. It won't be long before you're back in your house, just work with me here."

James could hear someone coming. He needed to leave Blair, but it wouldn't be for long.

James stood and pulled Blair with him and holding him steady. "I'm not leaving you here. Even if you don't see me, I'm nearby and as soon as chance allows, I'll get us away."

Blair said nothing and his passivity sent a jolt of fear through James. He told himself it was the illness and that once that was dealt with, Blair would cease this idiotic talk of staying and going back into service. Leaning against him, Blair had closed his eyes. By the sound of the footsteps, the man sent to bathe Blair was getting closer. James carefully lowered Blair back to the ground and stepped behind the stacks of wine. It took all the discipline he had to stay hidden as the man came in and shook Blair, who'd fallen back asleep on the cold stone.

Blair woke and stared in confusion at the man looming over him. As he registered it was no longer James, he tried to scramble away. James recognized the man as Nickers, a man of great girth and little brain. It took one step for Nickers to catch up with Blair and then he did the expedient thing of reaching down and picking Blair up, carrying him like a babe in his arms.

James continued to listen as Nick took Blair farther and farther away from him, a strange cooing sound accompanying the sounds of their passage to the washing room. James found himself following those sounds, unable to keep his distance.

Nickers looked up when James entered and gave a shy smile. They had worked together rebuilding a fireplace the day before and Nickers had taken a liking to 'Alfie'. Alfie didn't tease or make jokes he couldn't understand. Alfie didn't hide and make him do all the work. Alfie had seen how hungry he was, and had shared his lunch.

"Hullo, Alf. Whacha doing down here?"

"Nickers, just the man I hoped to see."

Nickers smile grew wider; very few people ever expressed pleasure in seeing him.

"I was sent down to get some sacks of grain, but got lost. And I 'urt my shoulder yesterday and don't think I can lift 'em."

A frown of sympathy crossed Nick's face. "I'll finish with this fella and come help."

"They wanted them right quick, Nick. I could finish 'ere if you'd like."

Nickers looked down at his charge who was shivering and hunched over in misery. He didn't like this job. It didn't seem right to make someone take a bath when they were sick.

"'Kay." He said slowly. "But be careful wit' 'im, 'e's sick and kind of skittish."

"I'll be very careful and I'll do a good job." James moved in and took the sponge from Nicker's hand.

"I'll get the grain upstairs."

"Thanks, Knick, you're a good lad."

Smiling from ear to ear, Nickers left Blair with James, who wasted no time in kneeling down and seeing how Blair was doing. Blair's eyes were clenched shut and his arms were wrapped tight around his middle.

"Blair?"

At the sound of his name, Blair opened his eyes. "James? What are you doing here?"

"Don't you remember? I came to get you out."

"No," Blair said slowly, "there's no getting out. Too dirty. See?" Blair held up his hands, dirty and scabbed over.

"No, Blair. We are getting out." James took one of Blair's hands and said, "And you're not too dirty. Nothing wrong with you that a little soap and water won't fix."

He soaped up the washrag and carefully cleaned Blair's face, then moved on and washed his hands. The fingernails were torn and the tips scabbed over. Trying not to disturb the healing process that had begun, James carefully soaped each finger and rinsed them clean.

Next the beard that darkened Blair's face. After he got it lathered, James stood behind Blair and tilted his head back, then carefully scraped his face with the straightedge. Blair submitted passively, though whether from exhaustion or trust, James couldn't tell. It felt odd to perform such an intimate service and James was surprised at the satisfaction it gave him.

Did Blair feel this way when he did these things for him?

There was the sweet compliant way Blair allowed him to move his head this way and that in order to get a better angle.

The way his hands felt on Blair's face, as he guided the razor across the well defined planes and valleys. Taking his time, James enjoyed the sensitivity of his fingers for the first time as he mapped out the contours of Blair's face

The heaviness of Blair's head, resting on his stomach, sent warmth through James' body, as he scraped the whiskers from the long column of Blair's throat. Letting his hands linger there for a moment, he felt Blair swallow, felt the air traveling to his lungs, which rattled with the effort of breathing.

Blair's eyes were closed in total exhaustion and trust and James felt his desire for this man spill from friend and brother to something far more primal. He ached with it, a sweet, terrifying ache.

James pulled himself back from his immersion in the tactile sensations of Blair, realizing he needed to get a move on or he would be lost. After he wiped the soap and whiskers from Blair's face, he removed Blair's shirt, his eyes taking in the purple and yellow bruises mottling Blair's chest and back.

Soaping the rag again, he ran it up and under Blair's arms and across his chest and back. His fingers could feel the warmth and texture of Blair's skin through the cloth. The sweet ache grew.

Once Blair was rinsed and dried, James got the clean shirt on him. Blair had been silent the entire time and James hadn't said much beyond, "Arm up, that's good. Almost done, tilt back..." Knowing that Blair was beyond further communication.

Finally, James undid the ties and slid Blair's breeches off. This time he handed Blair the soap and cloth. Blair took it, but seemed unsure of what he was supposed to do, so James guided the cloth down to Blair's penis.

James was afraid he might be called upon to clean there as well. Afraid and hopeful, his hands were eager to touch Blair and yet afraid of what it would feel like. Understanding came into Blair's eyes and he put the rag to use, finishing the bath.

Once Blair was clean and dressed, James hesitated. He knew that Ebury had ordered Blair brought to the kitchen once he was clean.

What James wanted to do was get Blair out the side door and to the rendezvous with Rafe, but Ebury had set guards at each door after the break-in. Had Blair had been in better shape, perhaps they might have taken that chance. As it was, he just had to bide his time.

James recognized the need to stay in character. He must act indifferent to Blair's state and neutral as he went about waiting for the guard to relax. His fists clenched and unclenched as he looked down at the man he supported in his arms. Blair was sick and beaten and confused. James cupped his clean-shaven face and rubbed his thumb across the naked cheek. His skin was taut, blue-tinged and fragile, like a leaf too long off a tree. Blair looked up at him with sleepy, trusting eyes and James thought his heart would break. James would have forced his way out, but now, that was too great a risk. He would have to comply with Ebury's order.

Reminding himself that Blair's mother would take over his care and make sure a doctor was called, James tried to appease his worry for Blair's health.

Getting in and positioning himself inside the house had taken longer than he'd thought it would. It had gone against his natural inclination for action and he found himself grateful for the training Lewis had given him when he'd first been chosen to work undercover. The weathered Colonel had thrown up his hands in exasperation more than once, despairing that he would ever make the reckless young man in front of him understand the importance of patience and subterfuge. Somehow his lessons had lodged and James had been surprisingly adept at donning foreign identities and living alternate lives as he collected information.

But it was one thing to become someone else and take on the pain and humiliation of a role while working clandestinely. It was another thing entirely to see his friend abused and still have to maintain a ruse. James found this nearly unbearable.

In his time serving Colonel Lewis he had to do many things, endure many things that would have shocked the people of Saybrooke, who had known Master Ellison as a rather feckless and indulged young man.

Oddly enough, those things, rather than filling him with hard bitterness, had opened him to a world he had been blind to. A world in which one held a position, favor or friendship by virtue of what you did and what you were good for. That you had been born into the gentry, that your father was a lord, that your mother had the blood of king's in her veins...mattered for naught. And James had found out that that world made sense to him. That world was worth protecting.

Now he had to take Blair upstairs to a man he knew had orchestrated the state that Blair was in. He had to help present Blair to his mother, as she sat in her elegant surroundings and Blair stood before her, defeated and reduced.

But he would do it because he didn't yet have the safe means to get Blair out. And he would put his faith in Blair's mother, to get him well.

"Come on, Blair." James moved them toward the door, his arm around Blair's waist.

"Home?" Blair was so hopeful. He looked down at himself and back up at James. "Am I clean enough to go home?"

"Yes, you're clean enough. But first you have to go and see your mother."

"My mother?" Blair paused and looked at James with a frown.

"Yes, Lord Ebury has arranged for you to see your mother."

Blair slowly nodded. "Oh, yes, see my mother and tell her I want to stay and be in service here. Yes, that's right...'

James alarm grew. Blair's voice was toneless and confused and uttering total fustian.

"No, Blair. You aren't going to be in service here. You have a home. You're going to Cambridge to study. You'll just have a nice visit with your mother and perhaps recuperate a little here and then we'll go back home."

"No, James. I must stay. If I stay, my mother will stay. So I must stay."

James was set to argue, but when he saw how pale Blair was, saw the sheen of sweat on his face from the simple act of walking to the door, he knew this wasn't the time.

"First things first. You visit with your mother and get well and then we'll think this through." Blair nodded and James firmed up his hold on him. "Oh, and Blair? You must act as if you don't know me. Do you understand?"

Blair tilted his head back to look at James. His sunken eyes searched James face and what he saw must have reassured him, because he nodded and said, "I understand."

The trip to the upper floor was laborious and James knew Blair would not be able to stay conscious for long. When they reached the kitchen, a small mite of a girl flew at them and started chattering, asking questions.

James set Blair on a chair and turned to her. "Your name, miss?"

She barely glanced at him, keeping her attention with Blair and answered, "I be Daisy. It's my job to look after 'im. Who you be?"

"Name's Alfie, young miss. Have you seen Nickers anywhere about here?"

"He just brought up some grain and then said he was going to the garden. Did you need him?"

"Nooo, it's just that I expected to see him here. He knew what to do with Blair."

Blair was leaned sideways in the chair and might have fallen if James had not kept a hand on him.

Just then, Lord Ebury invaded the kitchen. "I heard that this was far as you'd gotten. We're done with breakfast and soon we'll be done with lunch at this rate." James kept his face passive and bowed, determined to keep his cover and try to stay by Blair's side.

Ebury strode over to where Blair sat, slumped in the chair. He took Blair's chin in his hand and tilted Blair's face up. Blair blinked at him blearily, his eyes unfocused.

"This will never do. He won't be convincing at all in this state. You!" He pointed at James. "Are you in the servant's quarter?"

James didn't directly look at Ebury and answered in a voice that barely rose above a whisper, "No, sir. I'm in Nate's old room off the stable. Looking after a mare that's due to foal any minute."

"Take him there. Do what you can for him. I need him steady on his feet by tomorrow. I need him coherent and convincing by tomorrow night, no later!"

"I'll do me best, m'lord."

"Good, now get him out of here, before Mrs. O'Malley sees him like this."

James waited until Ebury had turned his back and then helped Blair to stand. Daisy had watched the whole exchange with wide-eyed amazement.

"I've only seen 'is lordship from afar afore. 'E must be frightful mad at Blair to come into the kitchen." She bustled over to the pantry and pulled out vegetables and dried beans.

"I'll put together some soup for Blair, and fetch it to you in the stables." When James looked at her questioningly, she shrugged and said, "Well, 'is lordship did say as you was to make Blair better. Ya gotta get food into 'im to get 'im better, sos I'm jest following orders like." She beamed, seemingly proud of her logic and her ability to help.

"Thank you, Miss Daisy, I'm in your debt." James gave her a small bow and she hesitated and then did a clumsy curtsey back to him.

Steering Blair out the side door, James considered his options. The best one would seem to be waiting until dark, and then getting Blair as far away from here as possible. So for now, he proceeded to the stables.

One could not fault Lord Ebury's judgment of cattle. The horses he owned were magnificent and it took a staff of ten to look after the considerable investment. They were always short-staffed and had drafted 'Alfie" from the wood-cutting detail on his second day. The house was also short-staffed and on the third day, 'Alfie' was put to work inside as well.

James maneuvered Blair to his simple cot and got him under the rough covers. Blair mumbled "Thanks," falling immediately into a deep sleep.

Daisy, true to her word, brought a pot of soup and bread to the stables at suppertime. James had a hard time getting Blair to wake, but eventually he propped Blair up against the wall and spooned the soup into him.

As he was feeding Blair, Shipton came in. He'd made his dislike of James known from the first moment they had met, and was further enraged when James was chosen to move furniture in the main house. Now he walked in and took in the scene before him with a sneer.

"You found something to keep you all warm at night, Alfie? I hope you plan to share. Thems the rules here, we share and share alike."

James never took his attention from Blair, though Blair's eyes had snapped open.

"Shipton, if you value your place 'ere, you won't go messin' with someone his lordship has 'is eye on."

At those words, Blair had swung his attention back to James.

"Wot 'e want wit a scaggy bit like that?"

"Don't know, why don't you ask 'im?" James voice was deceivingly mild.

Shipton looked torn between wanting to challenge the protection and knowing if he guessed wrong, there'd be hell to pay. He backed away, muttering about lords and their queer ideas.

James maintained his eye contact with Blair, refusing to give the interruption any importance. He was intent on getting a full bowl of soup into Blair.

"Come on, Blair, stay with me now and take another spoonful." Blair obligingly opened his mouth and swallowed the barley broth but immediately his eyes started to shut.

"Blair," James said more sharply and Blair's eyes snapped open, afraid. "Sorry, cub, just want you to eat the good soup that Daisy made for you."

"Yes, of course, I'll eat it." Blair's struggled to keep his eyes open but James could see it was a losing battle. Giving up, he let Blair fall asleep, then gently laid him down on the cot.

Wondering how long Ebury would give him to get Blair well, and not trusting that it would be long enough, James planned to act. For now he stretched out on the straw next to the cot, resting, waiting. Then he planned to get Blair out of here, carrying him if necessary, to the meeting place, where Rafe waited. Listening to the restlessness of both men and beast, James chafed at how long it was taking for the inhabitants of the stables to settle down.

It took several hours before James was satisfied that all were peacefully unconscious. Rising silently, he put one arm underneath Blair's head and the other underneath his knees and lifted. Blair stayed fast asleep and James strained his eyes to see in the murky light and then was amazed to be able to see everything with the clarity of day. They had almost made it to the outer door, when Shipton sat up saying, "Ere, now. What are you about, Alfie?"

James froze, knowing that Shipton could put an end to any hope of getting Blair to safety. Just then Blair shifted in his arms and started to gag and James took his cue.

"The lad's barfin' and I didn't want that in my bed. You want it in yours?" Swinging back to Shipton, James was delighted with the awful sounds Blair was making.

"Ew, get 'im otta 'ere." James obliged him and stepped into the cool spring night. Moving towards the edge of the formal garden, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

Turning, he was confronted by two men-at arms, their scowls familiar.

"Where do you think you're going?" The hulking one asked.

"This here one was sick and I was just taking him to the bushes." Blair obliged him by making the sounds again. The smaller man stepped away, but the first was unfazed and said,' Very well, take him to do what he must. I'll have my eye on you. No one is to leave the buildings at night."

James nodded and carried Blair to the first ring of bushes, setting him down.

Whispering, Blair entreated James. "You can't outrun those two with me in this shape. I need to stay for my mother's sake in any case. Tomorrow you can slip away. I'll be all right, I feel stronger already."

James said nothing, knowing this was no time to argue. Blair finished miming being sick and straightened, his face as pale in the moonlight as if that were the truth. Supporting Blair with his arm around him, James got them back to the stables and resettled. The horses shifted in their sleep, the men snored, and James ground his teeth in frustration, finally using his military training to force all thought away and fall asleep, knowing he would need it.

******************************

The stables came to life early, as did the men who tended to the valuable beasts. Blair watched the activity from 'Alfie's' cot, happy to be in the light of day. The cough was running its course and the fever was finally ebbing. Daisy had brought breakfast and Blair held on to all of it, knowing soon he would be alone. It was odd to think he would be back in service, this time in the same house as his mother, the same house as Warbeck.

Before...ah, there were so many befores...before Perkins had died...before James had died...before Blair had stepped out into the world...before Blair had dared to dream...in any case, before-- he had not considered his life as a servant particularly hard or even unrewarding. It had been the life he'd known, the one he'd been born to and he shared it with his fellow servants.

His time away had softened him and made him aware of other ways he might live, of friendships, studies, adventures he might have given the chance. If he was going to survive, he needed to forget all that, erase it from his memory or go mad with the desire to have what could not be.

For now, all that was being asked of him was to lie here and get well. He had the comfort of James close at hand one last time, and the sweetness of fresh air. Blair tried to stay awake, to enjoy these things to the fullest, knowing he would need the memories in the future, but they slipped away from him, and he slept.

***************************

Worry kept James company as he mucked out the stalls and groomed the horses. Getting Blair out was looking nigh near impossible. Ebury couldn't have known what the intruders were after, but he was taking no chances, keeping a vigilant eye on all comings and goings. He protected something else, but James had seen no hint of it. Rafe needed to be told of the difficulties here somehow. He'd have to find a reason to leave the estate, but that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Now there wasn't anything to be done, but the job at hand and he did it with plodding efficiency. No way, no how, was he leaving without Blair. He would stay knee deep in horse manure if that's what it took to stay close. Eventually the vigilance would ease. Eventually he would get Blair out.

The only potential problem was running into Warbeck, and even if that were to happen, James doubted that Warbeck would credit the vision. In the meantime, James had no trouble being 'Alfie' and doing the work.

*****************************

"Hmm... you're looking slightly better, Mr. O'Malley. Had a good night's rest amongst your brethren and it's done you a world of good."

Blair opened his eyes to Warbeck's smirk and closed them again, only to be hauled off of the cot and slammed against the wooden stall.

"You stand when your betters are addressing you."

Leaning against the wall for support, Blair tried to focus his eyes and give the correct response.

"Yes-ss, sir."

"Stand up straight."

Blair pushed away from the wall and locked his knees, swaying, but staying upright.

"I'll tell Lord Ebury that you're ready to meet your dear mama."

Warbeck came closer and Blair resisted the desire to back up. Keeping his eyes lowered, Blair tried not to think of all the things the man had done to him, tried not to think of all the things he knew he would do to him again.

Instead, he thought of his dear mama and seeing her again. Their last time together had ended with Blair leaving and refusing to listen.

Would she be glad to see him? He should have listened when she had tried to tell him how it was. Instead he'd let his irrational anger turn him away from her, leaving her caught and at the mercy of Lord Ebury.

What kind of son was he, never thinking that there could be an explanation for her actions? What would she think when he walked in and told her he wanted to stay and work here? Would she hate him for walking away and hate him for coming back and trapping her? He didn't think he could bear to see her look at him as a cause for her misery. But if it meant she stayed safe...it did mean she would be safe didn't it? Blair tried to remember what he'd been told in the cellar, why he was to do this and why it would mean his mother would be safe.

As if reading his thoughts, Warbeck spoke. "Lord Ebury loves your mother very much and desires her happiness above all else. She, on the other hand, seems willing to throw that away in order to find you. Well, she's about to find you and everyone is going to live happily ever after." Warbeck tapped his cheek.

"Look at me when I speak to you."

Blair looked up.

"Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Someone will be out to fetch you shortly." Warbeck turned and left, and Blair sank back onto the cot and put his head back. Soon, he'd have to leave James. Too soon. But any time would be too soon.

****************************

James watched Warbeck walk away from the shadowed overhang of the outbuilding. They were running out of time. He had thought the guard would be let down after some time had passed without incident, but there was no sign of that. Before he could get back to Blair and ask him what had just happened, he was called to the house. Reluctantly, he left the yard and obeyed the commands that made up his day.

******************************

Blair felt the hand on his cheek and knew James was back. He soaked in the touch and sighed.

"Like that, whelp?"

Blair's eyes snapped open to see Ebury standing over him. He tried to sit up, but was held flat by Ebury's hand on his chest. The hand trailed down his chest. Seeing where it was going, Blair drew his legs in, but Ebury was not deterred.

"No!" Blair's voice contained the revulsion he felt at the exploration. He tried to rise, but Ebury shoved him back down, pinning him there. Blair kicked out, landing a glancing blow on Ebury's knee. It did nothing to stop him, simply made Ebury backhand Blair with a blow that snapped his head against the wall and brought unconsciousness.

When he became aware again, he realized that Ebury had tied his hands to a post and his feet to another. His breeches had been pulled down and Ebury was stroking him, his hand on Blair's cock. Blair weakly tried to buck his hand away, but Ebury held him down easily and continued, not saying a word. To Blair's shame, he felt himself responding.

"That's right, you're mine. See how your body knows its master? Do you spread your legs for all the stable lads? That will have to stop. I don't share." His hand continued its pumping motion and Blair pressed his lips together, afraid of the sound he would make.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sought to take himself away from what was happening. To his horror, there was nothing inside, but darkness. There was nowhere to go, no ledge to retreat to. Ebury was panting and groaning.

Blair wailed, "Noooo!" and tried to twist away from the hand, which only seemed to fuel Ebury's desire..

Ebury slowed the assault, but only to begin unbuttoning his breeches. He looked at Blair and his tongue darted out, catching a drop of sweat.

"You are so like her. You are her male essence and I will have you." His grip on Blair had become a caress and Blair tried to squirm away from it, furious with himself for reacting as if this were pleasure.

Ebury's hold tightened, punishing the defiance. "You belong to me and you will serve me in every way I desire. Do you understand?"

His eyes were cold, all lust submerged in his anger. He jacked Blair's erection to demonstrate he could. "If you refuse me, I will make Naomi pay. You would hate to see your mother in this position, at my mercy." That thought brought the spark of desire back and Ebury fondled himself as he touched Blair.

Blair's world had narrowed to a hand roughly touching him, hurting him and making him feel lost, lost in the sensation, lost in his soul. Something was being taken and he couldn't stop it or run from it.

There was a howl, low and anguished, and Blair opened his eyes to see a scrawny dog approaching. Ebury noticed as well, stopping his motions.

Ebury yelled, but the dog, his head down, held its ground. Ebury turned back to Blair and the dog growled. Ebury picked up a pitchfork and the dog barred his teeth, moving forward. Blair watched, curiously detached, as Ebury tossed the implement at the dog, missing him. With a curse, Ebury backed away. The dog, more wild than domestic, all bunched muscles and sinew, padded to Blair's side, sniffing him. Seemingly reassured, it settled down on the ground.

Blair lay there panting, trying to free his hands, terrified Ebury would come back with a gun and shoot his defender, terrified any of the other men would come back and see him like this. It was pitiful, how little strength he had left after struggling and he made no progress on freeing himself. The dog watched his efforts with his head cocked and when Blair finally stopped, came forward and began licking Blair's face. The soft tongue removed all traces of tears.

"Thank you. " It felt a little silly to be thanking a dog but lord knew, he owed the beast his sanity and welcomed the comfort of his companionship.

Shivering violently, from the cold and the ordeal, Blair settled down to wait.

********************************

James finished carrying the last buckets of hot water upstairs and hurried down the back stairs. He didn't want Blair moved back to the house without being able to make some kind of plan. He wasn't going to be able to move as freely inside and it worried him, though he knew Blair would be safe enough. After all, Ebury's whole purpose was to unite mother and son.

As soon as he entered the stables, he heard a growl. Surprised that any dog that lived at the estate would have the temerity to growl, he slowed his approach, searching for a club. Blair would not be able to defend himself against a mad dog and he rounded the corner prepared to kill the beast with his bare hands, only to be stopped by what he saw. Blair's hands and feet were tied, and he was half naked. The dog stood next to him, the growl dying away as soon as it saw James.

"Blair!" James relaxed a fraction when Blair's eyes opened. He moved toward Blair slowly, not wanting to set the dog off.

Blair looked down at the dog, who moved closer to him and whined. "It's all right, James. He seems to have decided to protect my honor. Good dog." Wagging his tail, it gave James one more look before it ambled away.

"Who did this, Blair?" James knelt next to Blair and began to work at untying the ropes that bound Blair's hands.

"Ebury." Blair spat the name out.

James couldn't get the tight knots to loosen. "I can't get these knots untied--I need a knife." His shaking hands were at least part of the problem as he tried to contain the rage that Ebury had done this to Blair. Looking down at Blair's nakedness he felt himself respond and tore his eyes away. "I'll be right back."

"Wait! Can you...um...pull my breeches up?" Blair was blushing and shivering in the sharp November air.

James reached down, lifting Blair's hips a bit and then started tugging the material up. Keeping his eyes on Blair's face, he managed the task by feel. James hurried to fasten the buttons and be done.

"There. Done. I'll have you free in a moment." James was as good as his word, finding a knife and sawing the rope off. Helping Blair sit up, he was at a loss at what to say.

"He...came here and, um...once before he, he...when I was...but I'd thought that a nightmare." Blair stopped and looked at James through the camouflage of his hair. "I...I never, I mean...he just..."

Interrupting Blair's incoherent explanation, James reassured his friend, "It's him, you didn't do anything, he has a reputation for liking things rough."

Blanching at that news, Blair cried, "My mother! He's kept my mother here all these years with threats to me and maybe...with worse things." Blair's stricken look tore at Jim's heart. How could he tell him what he'd heard about Naomi O'Malley? He couldn't.

"I wouldn't worry overmuch. The scuttlebutt here is that Ebury adores her and is much attached. Everything I've learned says she is happy with him."

"But he said she wanted to leave him, wanted to come and find me."

"Those are two different things, Blair. She may have wanted to find you, but that doesn't mean she wanted to leave him." James couldn't help the exasperation in his voice.

From what he had heard, Naomi loved to find ways to make Lord Ebury twist in the wind and her desire to find Blair seemed like it was just one more of her tactics. She was an effective games player, but she would have to be, to keep a man like Ebury interested in her all these years.

"Oh, yeah, you've got a point there." Blair pulled his legs up and hugged his knees to his chest. "She wouldn't want to leave all this for me."

Damnation. Blair had heard the tone in his voice and had interpreted it the wrong way. He still believed in his sainted mother.

"No, I meant-" What could he say, it was true. Not because Blair was unworthy of her attention. No, Blair was by far the most worthy person James had ever met.

He wondered how much Blair understood about affairs of the heart and the passions that made people incomprehensible. James suspected Blair had little experience with love and even less with women. He didn't want to educate Blair using Saint Naomi as an example, but Blair needed to understand what was going on here.

James started again. "Sometimes, when a man and woman meet, it's like combustion. They come together and everyone around them gets scorched." James checked to see if his metaphor was working. Blair's attention on him was total, so he continued.

"They, um... meet and the feelings they have...take them, make them...some people like to hurt and some like to be hurt...some-"

Blair interrupted. "Are you trying to tell me that you think my mother enjoys Ebury hurting her?" Blair's voice trembled with outrage.

"No, no, I just mean, people have different needs and often find the perfect person to meet those needs and it could be-"

Blair clapped his hands over his ears. "No, don't say anything more, you don't know my mother. You don't know what she is like, how sweet she is. She doesn't have these...these needs you're talking about!"

James shut his mouth on all further arguments, concentrating instead on getting Blair buttoned. His wrists were going to need cleaning, but first...

"They're moving you back inside today." Blair stiffened at that news and James hurried to reassure him.

"That's good, you'll be seeing your mother. She'll be able to look after you. The only thing is-it may be hard for me to connect with you, or get messages to you for awhile. I just wanted you to know that even if you don't hear from me, or see me, I'm still here. I'm not leaving without you." James ran his hand down the side of Blair's face. Tilting it back, Blair looked up at his bedraggled friend. Hard to see the manor-born James under the dirt and shabby clothes.

"I wish you would reconsider, James. Go. Sometimes one simply can't fight one's destiny. I am where I'm supposed to be, doing what I was born to do. I accept that. Now you need to. "

"Forget it, Blair, if destiny needs a fight, I'll give it one. I'm not losing you again."

Shaking his head at his friend's stubbornness, Blair leaned back against the rough wall. There was a place for him here. It wasn't a very good place, but it was secure and required nothing of him except obedience. That is, if Ebury kept his distance.

And he could do obedience. Follow orders, routines, respond to commands. The days would be full of hands and feet moving. Things getting done, only to have to be done the next day. No need to try to make a new place for himself. No need to try to fit himself into a society that was quite clear in its opinion of him. It meant living with his curiosity leashed. It meant living without the company of James. It meant keeping his mother safe.

"--so I'll find a way to get messages to you." James had been talking and Blair pulled his wandering mind back.

"How?"

"I don't know how, seduce one of Naomi's maids, maybe. I will find a way to keep in touch."

The image of James with a maid sent new shivers across Blair's skin. The woman with her skirt hiked up, James leaning into her, his hands braced on the wall as he, as he....Blair's stomach twisted a the image.

"I'm-fine. And good...good. But promise that when you finally see it's hopeless, you'll leave."

"I promise." The tone was one of fingers crossed.

"James!"

"I promise, and I mean it. When I see that it is hopeless, I will leave."

James moved into Belle's stall and began to muck it out. Moments later, two men appeared and Blair realized James had heard them with his uncanny gift.

"Come on, Blair, we've orders to take you back to the house."

Blair pushed off the cot, and stood. He could see James looking busy yet still keeping an eye on him and he held that image all the way back to the stone walls that would be his prison.

Warbeck was waiting for Blair in his rooms. He gestured to the clothes laid out and said, "Get dressed. You'll be taken to see your mother in a few minutes."

When Blair hesitated, Warbeck picked up the clean breeches and thrust them at him. "Modest? Don't be. Get dressed. I want to go over a few things with you before you have your audience."

Warbeck turned his back and continued speaking. "You will address your mother as Mrs. O'Malley whenever anyone else is present. You will not speak to her unless she speaks to you. You will not approach her, nor send her messages. You will assure her that you are fine and that you have chosen Saybrooke to work at after looking into other positions and finding none to your liking. Whenever she asks about how you are getting on, you are to be convincing in your reassurances that you are happy and content. Am I understood.?"

Blair was finished dressing and nodded as Warbeck swung back around to him. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Warbeck walked slowly around Blair, assessing him. "Pull you hair back." Warbeck handed him a leather tie and Blair did as he said. "You look like hell. Tell her you were drunk last night."

"Yes, sir."

"Tuck in your shirt and let's be on our way."

Blair followed Warbeck down the stairs and down several long corridors, until they reached a pair of closed doors. Warbeck knocked and Ebury barked, "Come in."

At the sound of that voice, Blair blushed and pushed aside the memory of Ebury's hand on his most private part. He was right behind Warbeck and so did not see his mother until the big man stepped aside.

Naomi stood up, her face alight with astonishment, her needlework falling to the floor. "Blair, is it really you, darling?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Oh, Blair!" Naomi rushed to him, engulfing him in her embrace. She looked over his shoulder at Lord Ebury and said in a teasing voice, "So this was your surprise, Andrew. You naughty thing, keeping this a secret from me. Whatever am I going to do with you?"

Blair found it odd to be in his mother's hold now that he was grown. He swayed in her arms, overcome with the returning memories of being a child. Her voice in his ear, as she scolded Ebury, was so familiar and yet so exotic, with its low, husky tones and the little trill that accompanied the end of each sentence.

Pulling away, she exclaimed, "Let me look at you! Oh, you've grown into such a handsome man. Blair O'Malley, you're the spitting image of your father, may he rest in peace."

She turned Blair around to face Ebury, who had a strangled look of pleasure, underlaid with rage. Blair nearly stepped back and wondered how his mother could prattle on in the face of such hostility. Then he realized that it was all being directed at him.

"Andrew, do you think me impossibly old now that you've seen my grown son?" Ebury stepped in close to Naomi and took her hand. Turning it until it rested, palm up in his bigger hand, he kissed it, slowly, his lips massaging the tender pad of her palm.

"You, old? A contradiction in terms, my dear. You are as lovely as the day you walked into my study." Naomi laughed and sighed as Ebury kept her hand in his, his fingers now kneading her slender hand.

"Oh," sighing again, she let herself be drawn to the couch and settled next to her lord.

"Your son is taking service here, Naomi."

Naomi looked up at her son. "Blair? Is this true? You're coming here to stay?"

At Blair's nod, she turned to Ebury. "Oh, this is a wonderful present. Andrew, you are the dearest man to arrange this. Blair, you'll be so happy here. It's a beautiful castle, the gardens are stunning, and everyone loves it here."

Blair nodded again. "Darling..." Blair almost answered before he tuned in that his mother was addressing Ebury again, "I want Blair to work in the gardens. He's too pale. Some sunshine will do him good. Is that all right? Did you have other plans for him?"

"No, no, my dear, the gardens it is. I'll put him to work there immediately." Ebury nodded to Warbeck, who stepped forward and took Blair's arm.

"Mother?" Blair was a little stunned by how fast everything was happening.

"Yes, dear?" Naomi was picking up her needlepoint and looked up at him, eyes wide and green.

"I'll see you-I mean, it was good to see you."

Naomi closed the distance between them and hugged him.

"My, dear boy, you've made me so very happy. I am sure we will have the best of times now that we are back together."

Blair followed Warbeck out, hearing as he left, his mother say, "He used to tell the dearest, funniest stories to me when he was young..."

Rather than lead Blair out to the gardens, as he expected, Warbeck led him back to his room and the closet that held the cot. He pointed to it and said, "You're in no shape to work yet. Lie down until supper and then we'll see how you're getting on."

Sitting down on the cot carefully, Blair then stretched out. He was worn out from the meeting with his mother. She had been warm and welcoming and delighted to see him. So why did he feel so bad? He fell asleep trying to puzzle out an answer.

**********************

Warbeck kept O'Malley close to him for another day. When it seemed that to him that the man had accepted his place and gained enough strength, Warbeck assigned him to the servant's quarters and to working in the greenhouse. It was late March and there was much to do to prepare for the coming spring. He would have preferred to keep O'Malley under his thumb, but as long as Mrs. O'Malley was in residence, her son would have to be seen in the gardens.

Blair had nothing to put away in the large room housing the male servants. The space reflected its male inhabitants, being dusty and devoid of any softening effects women always brought to their living spaces. The emptiness of it hit him, and he wondered how he was going to be able to do this for the rest of his life.

His next stop was the kitchen. Daisy's face lit up when she saw him. "You're looking like you feel a whole lot better, Blair." In truth, Blair looked pale, shaky and like he still belonged in bed. Even so, he did look much improved.

"Yes, the worst seems to be over." Blair patted Daisy's errant curls.

Blair looked around the large room, hoping to see James and startled when he saw another familiar face. Danyon was standing on a chair, putting away some pots. When he saw Blair looking at him, he winked. The door to the pantry swung open and Alice came bustling through, carrying a sack of flour for the day's baking. She smiled at Blair and moved past him without a word. Daisy tugged on his sleeve and when he looked down, she whispered, "You missed the morning meal but I put this together for you," and she thrust a wrapped, warm bun into his hands.

Cox came in, carrying overalls. "Put these on and follow me."

Blair's head was spinning with questions but Cox was waiting impatiently and there was no time to find out what was going on.

He spoke over his shoulder as he strode the paths to the greenhouse. "You'll work with Ames. He's the head gardener and he'll assign you your tasks. Unless he specifies that you are to leave, you are expected to stay in the greenhouse at all times. If you are found outside without Ames' permission, you will be disciplined. Warbeck has given me leave to watch over you and keep you in line. Do you understand?"

Blair buttoned up the overall, saying "yes, sir, I understand."

"Good. I won't hesitate and there will be no warnings, just so we are clear."

"I understand."

The greenhouse was a massive complex of glassed in rooms, each containing a different level of humidity and warmth. Hip high tables were covered with boxes of growing things, all in various stages of maturation.

The moist air was thick and difficult to pull into his battered lungs. The man Blair assumed was Ames spotted them and came forward.

"This be O'Malley?" He looked to Cox for confirmation.

"Yes."

"Kind of scrawny for this work."

"Yes, can't be helped."

Blair studied the man who would rule his world. Ames was tall and broad shouldered, looking like the farmer he had most likely been. His face was seamed with deep lines and even at the end of winter he looked tan. His hand came towards Blair, who flinched but held his ground. Instead of the blow he was expecting, Ames took his chin in hand and turned his face left and right.

"Boy ain't used to the sun."

"He'll get used to it."

"Yup, s'pect he will."

"Right. I'll leave him with you. You're clear on the special nature of his assignment."

"I'm clear."

"Good."

Blair shivered in the warm air, glad to see Cox's back.

"Okay, O'Malley, you know anything at all about propagation and the nurturing of plants?"

"No, sir."

"You'll learn. Come with me and I'll introduce you to Paters, who will teach you the ropes."

***************************

It took two days before James could find a reason to go to the greenhouse. Two days of waiting to see Blair for himself and confirm Danyon's daily report. He had been as surprised as Blair to see Danyon and Alice at work in the kitchen and even more surprised when he encountered Rafe in the stables, assisting the blacksmith.

James had been given the job of hauling the manure to the greenhouse and he'd loaded the wagon in record time. To his disappointment, the manure was destined for outside of the glassed house and he started to unload it slowly, casting his hearing out in the hopes of catching Blair's voice. One third of the way through his task, the door that lead to the glass house opened and James was assailed with the sticky sweet smell of flowers and...something else. He looked up quickly to see Blair standing there, shovel in hand.

"James!"

"Shhh! Alfie! Remember?"

"Oh, sorry...what are you doing here? For that matter, what it is Danyon doing here and Alice?"

James simply stared, mesmerized by the sight of Blair.

"Ja-Alfie? Are you--? Is this one of your--? Alfie?"

Blair took James by the arm and shook him, peering into his face. James' eyes fluttered and his hand came to rest Blair's cheek.

"I was worried. Has he come anywhere near you?"

Blair blushed, knowing immediately who James was speaking about.

"He's tried, but every time he's come close, Danyon or Alice show up, it's uncanny. They are like guardian angels."

"I told them to keep a sharp eye."

At that information, Blair blushed again and James hurried to reassure him.

"I told them nothing else, simply to keep an eye on you and Ebury and make sure he never found you alone."

"Well, it's working. So far."

James had had the same thought, that if thwarted long enough, Ebury would simply have Blair summoned. Time was running out.

"Has your time with your mother reassured you?"

Blair hesitated in his answer. "I've only seen her twice. The first meeting was with Ebury and then yesterday, she had me come to her rooms."

"And?"

"She seems happy."

"How long were you able to spend with her away from Ebury?"

"I haven't had any time--yet."

"What? Even yesterday she was with him?"

"When I first walked in she was alone, but Lord Ebury came in right away."

"We need to leave here, soon, Blair. Ebury's not to be trusted when it comes to you."

"I know he seems to have gotten some idea in his head about me, but now that my mother is aware that I am here, I'm sure he won't try anything. And I can't go, I need to stay and protect her."

James kept his thoughts on that to himself. When the time came, he planned on getting Blair out, whether Blair agreed or not.

"You said yourself she seems happy."

"But I need to speak to her alone before I know that for sure."

"So ask to speak with her."

"That isn't allowed."

"You're not allowed to speak to your own mother?"

"No."

"And your mother goes a long with this?"

"No! I mean, I don't believe she knows."

The system James had lived and thrived under had never seemed so vile as it did now, as he looked at the bowed head of his friend.

"I'll be in the kitchen tonight at eight. Try and meet me there, all right?"

"I'll try."

"Good. Were you sent to help me?"

Blair looked down at his shovel as if he'd forgotten all about it.

"Yes."

"All right then, dig in."

They worked in silence, and Blair was soon drenched in sweat, despite the coolness of the day. Blair had begun the shoveling enthusiastically, but his recent illness was severely taxing his stamina. James reached over and put his hand on the shovel.

"Take a break, Blair."

"A break? We've just begun."

"You're just getting over being ill. Have they been giving you jobs like this the last two days?"

"No. Master Ames is delighted to have found someone he can teach, who will listen to him ramble on about the nature of roses and the various blights they are susceptible to. So mostly I sit, as he pots and trims and sprays and talks."

"Good, you aren't strong enough to be doing this kind of work yet."

"Won't get strong enough sitting around being lectured."

"You volunteered for this." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I wanted to get outside. They don't let me out, and I longed to see the sky."

"Well, enjoy the sky, cub, and I'll finish here. Tell me about your mother and Ebury."

Blair leaned on his shovel and looked dreamy. "She's just as I remember her, gay and lovely."

"What did she say about your illness, and the marks on your face?"

Blair fingered the cut that was still healing above his eyes. It was only one of the fading reminders of Ebury's attacks.

He swallowed. "She-she said..." and then stopped, unable to lie to James, even if it meant admitting his mother had not noticed.

"She didn't say anything, did she?" James guessed.

"No."

"Let me tell you how it went. She was delighted to see you. She hugged you to her bosom and exclaimed her happiness. Then she turned her interest to her lord and only noticed you when it was time for you to leave."

"How-how could you know that? You listened, didn't you? You listened in, admit it."

"Yes, I heard. But only the first meeting, not the other."

"It was much the same. My, God, James, how far away were you? We need to test this talent."

"As soon as we get home, I'll let you devise a test." James smiled at the idea that that would constitute a bribe.

Blair smiled a little and then shook his head ruefully. "You were right. She loves him."

"Afraid so."

"Then why did she tell him she would leave him?"

"Because it's a game they play, only this time she played it to well and Ebury got rattled. He believed her. And he acted to protect what is his."

"So what do I do?"

"You come home. She'll barely notice. You'll leave a note stating your devotion and telling her you've decided to go to Africa. She'll sigh and moan and Ebury will console her with baubles. She certainly will not make plans to follow you there."

"That's easier said then done. They watch me from morning to night."

"Don't worry, we'll get you out. And soon."

James could hear someone coming, probably to check up on Blair, and he motioned for Blair to resume. Cox burst out the back door and stopped when he saw the two men silently shoveling the horse manure into the troughs that served to hold it.

"O'Malley!"

"Yes, sir?"

"What do you think you're doing? Who told you you could be outside?"

"Master Ames, sir."

"Well, get the hell back inside and you there, get this job done." Cox grabbed Blair's elbow in a painful grip and led him back to the humid interior.

James listened until he could hear the lecturing tones of Master Ames and then finished up quickly. There was much to do before tonight.

**********************

Lying in his cot among the other servants on the top floor, Blair tried to compose a letter to his mother in his head. He found it hard to find the words that said goodbye without revealing the bitterness he felt at who she had chosen to love.

It was as if he had been on a clock's pendulum for the last few weeks. One moment feeling abandoned by her, the next, ashamed of his judgment and protective, then back to the realization that she had indeed, chosen Ebury over him all those years ago.

James seemed to understand what went on between a man and a woman, but Blair could only see it through the eyes of a child. A child waiting every day for some word that he belonged to somebody...that somebody thought about him for reasons other than chores, that somebody loved him.

That reassurance had been sporadic at best. His place in her life had been taken many years ago. He let the tears fall silently, one didn't let on in a roomful of men that one was crying. Chastising himself for the weakness, he turned on his stomach, wiping his face on the gray, rough fabric of the pillow. There wasn't any use in feeling bad that a beautiful woman like Naomi had found love and happiness and safety.

If only it wasn't Ebury. Shuddering at the memory of that man's hand on him, Blair tried to push down all the feelings it evoked. What kind of man was he that he had grown hard under that hateful touch?

As he lay there, caught in miserable awareness, a hand covered his mouth. Before he could react, he heard Danyon's voice in his ear. "Time to go, Master Blair. We're going home." Danyon removed his hand and both men rose silently, leaving behind a roomful of men.

Danyon led the way down the backstairs and out the side door. There was a fire blazing by the smithy and men were milling about, disorganized, waiting for someone to lead. Danyon nudged Blair toward the stable. They passed a guard lying unconscious.

"Alice's 'andy work. She put a the sleeping potion in their night's dram. Shouldn't be any trouble from that direction."

"And the fire?"

"Bloke named Rafe in Master James' hire set it, don't worry, it's nowhere near the 'orses."

"Where is Master James? Is he all right?"

"Course 'e's all right. 'E's readying the 'orses."

Through the smoke, Blair could make out James in full Alfie disguise, running toward them with three horses.

Meeting midway, James clapped a hand on Blair's shoulder and they exchanged a look of profound relief and determination.

"Where's Alice?" Blair shouted over the mounting noise and hysteria.

"She'll be by the back field. Rafe will meet us there, too. Let's go."

The three men were ignored as the fire shifted, following the grass toward the house.

Alice waited with Rafe, hidden behind the giant oak. They stepped out when the trio got near. At that same moment, a whirl of motion intercepted the reunion. It was Daisy.

"Take me with you, I'll be good. Good and useful. I work hard, know how to do things. Please?"

Everyone looked to Blair, who didn't hesitate but said, "Of course you can, but if we're caught, you must promise me to tell them we made you come with us. Understand?" Daisy nodded, looking baffled at such an odd command, and James picked her up and placed her behind Rafe.

Danyon and Alice shared a horse and James mounted Malvolio, a stud that still had plenty of vigor in him. Reaching down, he grabbed Blair's arm, hauling him into the saddle behind him and the six left at a gallop, moving away from the commotion and detection.

They rode hard and reached the edge of the estate, where George and Baines had waited each night with the five fresh horses needed to get them to safety. They tied Ebury's beasts to the tree and re-arranged themselves, four missing the cozy companionship of being doubled up.

James had watched Blair closely, and two hours into the night flight, had called a halt and transferred Blair back to his horse. Blair had protested but not for long, and a half-hour later, his head rested on Jim's back and he slept.

By dawn, they were on the outskirts of London and it wasn't long after that they saw the familiar gray door on Belgrave Square.

"Blair, we're home."

James felt Blair rubbing his face back and forth across his back, trying to wake.

"Home?"

Danyon spoke up. "Aye, and a pile o' bricks never 'as looked so good."

Rafe got down and reached up to pull a sleepy Daisy into his arms. She looked at the motley crew of ragtag servants and then back to the house.

"This 'ere is where you live? Who do we work for?"

James answered, pulling Blair from the saddle and getting him steady on his feet. "They work for Blair, miss."

"Blimey."

"Yes, blimey, indeed." James gave Blair a little nudge and Blair led the group to the door.

Looking back at Danyon, James asked, "Can you see to the horses, Dan?"

Danyon had already begun to gather the reins and lead the horses off. "I'll see to it that they're 'andled extra special-like."

The door opened and Mrs. Duncan stood waiting, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, Master Blair, I was afraid I'd never see your face again." Blair stumbled up the steps and drew the woman into a hug, but it was clear he was dead on his feet.

"Let's get you up to bed. All of you look like you need a week of sleep. I'll bring trays to your rooms." Her eyes swept the group with relief and pride.

"And who's this?" Mrs. Duncan looked down at Daisy, who had tucked herself behind Rafe.

"I be Daisy, ma'am. I come to-to work. I can help with the trays." Daisy approached Mrs. Duncan with confidence, belied by the slowness of her step as she approached the housekeeper.

Mrs. Duncan looked to Master Blair who had a half-smile on his face and then to Master James who nodded.

"I could use the help. You come along with me." She took Daisy's hand in hers and led them all inside.

James steered Blair to the stairs but he had only climbed a few when he stopped and looked back.

"I don't know what to say, there really aren't any words to express my feelings, the debt of gratitude I owe you. I-I'll try to make it up to all of you."

James started to speak, but Alice was quicker.

"You belong to us, Master Blair and ain't no high and mighty lord gonna come along and snatch you away from us. And if 'e thinks 'e can, 'e's got a 'nother thing coming to 'im, 'e 'as."

Baines had his hand on Alice's elbow, attempting to bring the belligerent miss in line, but she shrugged out of his hold away and continued.

"And if your mum wants to see you, she can bloody well come to visit 'ere."

There were nods of agreement all around and Blair's smile blurred a little. "I think my mother has had her maternal curiosity satisfied. But we'll prepare a room for her just in case." He laughed a little at that but no one else joined in and he resumed his slow ascension up the stairs.

James followed. On the landing, he put Blair's arm around his neck and supported most of Blair's weight for the last leg of the journey. Blair's breathing was deep and slowing down and by the time his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep.

Getting Blair undressed, he was reassured to see many of the bruises faded and only a few signs of the abuse Blair had suffered were still visible. Looking down at Blair, safe in his bed, he started to shake and stumbled over to the chair, sitting down hard. He'd come so close to losing Blair. So close...again...and it all had to do with fear, his and Blair's. It was time for them to face the things that terrorized them, face and conquer them.

Standing, James hesitated. Fear and longing fought each other and longing won. Leaning down, James cupped Blair's face, brushing his lips across the wide forehead. He rested his mouth there, refusing to call it a kiss, refusing to end it. When Blair stirred, James brought his mouth next to Blair's, letting it hover, waiting the clue that would tell him what to do. Deeply asleep, Blair responded to the feeling of being held.

Held, his head cradled, warm breath on his face, someone claiming him...he moaned. The deep loneliness that contained him cracked a little and he reached for the light that spilled in.

James drew back, sure that Blair's moan and hand reaching up was a protest to the liberty he had taken. Blair had just been assaulted by Ebury. He wouldn't be welcoming a man's touch.

Stumbling away from the bed, he didn't see Blair's sleepy groping for the warmth that had been offered and withdrawn. Instead he kept moving, finding his bedroom in a haze of reproach. What had he been thinking? The last thing he wanted was to lose Blair. Oh, God, no, he couldn't lose Blair.

It was broad daylight by the time he slept, but the heavy drapes kept his room as dark as midnight. His dreams were violent and urgent and always there was fear. When his body could no longer take the beating his sleep was giving it, he woke. Blair sat in the chair next to his bed, looking rested and clean, a cup of hot chocolate in his hand.

"Bout time you woke, James. I was getting worried enough to call in a surgeon."

"How long?" His mouth was dry and the words were barely audible.

Blair leaned forward and put his cup down. "You've been asleep twenty-two hours."

"No, that's not possible." James looked around the room in confusion, but there was no way to tell what time it was.

"It's midnight. You slept the night, the day and now this much of the night again."

Pushing himself upright, James felt the pressure in his bladder testifying to Blair's words.

"I'll go tell Mrs. Duncan she can finally feed you. She's been desperate to get food into all of us." Blair stood up. His look was one of concern and affection and James was nearly overwhelmed with the relief that Blair had no memory of his transgression the night before.

"Thank you. Blair? Are you all right?"

"About leaving my mother with Ebury?"

"Well, yes, that and everything."

"No one's ever all right with everything, James. I'm fine, really."

James read the unspoken pain in those words and vowed that someday all would be right-everything would be all right.

For now he had to settle for being back home, safe, all together, plus one.

*****************

I been here for a month and it's the strangest house. I woulda never a thought such a place could be. Blair—Master Blair—but everyone here just calls him Blair, is the oddest gentry. Take the master part. No one ever forgets to call Master James, Master James. But even though this is Blair's house, we just calls him Blair.

Sometimes I look at Master James and wonder where Alfie went. He don't sound nothing like Alfie, but even more strange, he don't look nothing like Alfie either. Alfie was shorter and older and his eyes kinda crossed and his mouth was always open-like. Alice and Danyon are just the same, thank goodness, or I'd be wondering if I'd been knocked on the head and woked up in some fairy place.

Mrs. Duncan's been real good to me, not even smacking me when I ask my questions or do something the wrong way. But by far the most amazing thing happens at night. After supper's been served and everything cleaned up, Blair comes to the kitchen and we all gather round. He reads the newspaper to us, cause he says it's important we know how the world works. And sometimes he reads a bit of Mister Dicken's latest. Then he takes out the learning books and teaches Alice, Danyon and me the letters and how they goes together. I'm learning to read! Me, Daisy with no last name, is gonna know how to read.

Sometimes Master James comes in and watches. He likes to sit in Mrs. Duncan's comfy chair and listen to the lessons. Once in a while he joins in, but mostly he keeps his eyes on Blair. He has this little curvy smile that twitches as he sits there, like he knows a grand joke, but he ain't—isn't— about to share. He's always the one who declares when the lesson is over. Then he shoos Blair out of the kitchen and makes him go to bed.

It's good someone is watching over Blair. I get up first to start the kitchen fire and no matter how early I wake, Blair is always in the kitchen afore me, drinking tea and reading one of his journals. I don't think he sleeps much.

All the marks on him have faded and you would hardly know what happened 'cept for his eyes. They look all cloudy and sad and he don't—doesn't— hold anyone's gaze for too long. Each of us tries to make the clouds go away.

Mrs. Duncan has that French chef whipping up something new everyday and Danyon got it in his head that Blair might like to learn some card tricks so he's been teaching him. And a course, Master James is always right by his side. Almost fussing I say, but Alice says men don't ever fuss. Especially gentry men. So it can't be that. The only time the clouds go away is at night in the cozy kitchen when one of us gets it right. So we all tries really hard to get it right

Master Rafe comes by every once in a while, looking all dangerous in his dark clothes. He's a handsome one, with his fine manners and funny little accent. No one knows where he comes from. Seems like he does things for Master James, but he don't act like someone who's been hired. More like a friend or brother. Even keeps extra clothes here and comes and goes by the back door.

Sometimes he stops to talk to me. To me! And I try to talk the way Mrs. Duncan is teaching me, all good, but it's hard to remember and it's especially hard to remember anything when Master Rafe is looking at me with those pretty eyes. Men shouldn't have pretty eyes like that.

Sometimes I fall asleep remembering the ride here on Master Rafe's horse. Never had been on a horse before, but he held onto me and so I wasn't scared at all.

Today the house is all havey-cavey. A messenger came from what Master James calls the Field Office with orders for him. They made him a Lieutenant and want him to do something and he is angry. I've never seen him angry, though he seems like the kind of man what would have a temper. He's stomping around saying they can't make him go. Blair hasn't said much, but we all know he doesn't want Master James to go. It has me worried, we're all worried, polishing everything to the point of wearing it out.

***

"They can't make me do this. I am no longer under their command." James paced the library, his long strides making it difficult to get many steps in before he had to turn around and pace the other way.

"James, they wouldn't be asking you if they didn't need you." Blair sat in the chair by the fireplace, watching his friend try to burn off the anxiety he was feeling.

"Why me? There are plenty of good men they could call upon."

"You must have some skill or knowledge they need for this task."

"I'm not going. I'm not leaving you again. That bloody Ebury's still a threat to you."

James stopped his journey and looked at his friend. He'd changed since Ebury had taken him. He'd pulled back. The bloody nightmares weren't helping any either. No amount of cajoling had made Blair reveal the contents of the dreams that woke him screaming in the night, and James could only guess what part of his time in Ebury's captivity had most damaged him. Was it the beating? His mother's attachment to Ebury? Ebury trying to rape him?

"Of course you aren't leaving me. I'm coming with you." Blair said it calmly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You're what?" James sputtered, both delighted and alarmed at the prospect.

"I'll be your man. That way you can keep an eye on me and I can keep an eye on you."

"My man? I won't have you serving me."

"Why not? It's what I am, Jamie."

James scowled; Blair using his nickname was taking unfair advantage. "It is not what you *are*! It is what you've done. Past tense."

Blair flinched a little at the anger coming his way, but didn't back down.

"No, " he said, almost gently, "we are each born to a station in this life and I accept mine. This house," he gestured vaguely at the room, "and me in it, is a sham. I know it, but I'm too much of a coward to let it go. To let you go. Accept me as your valet. Let me do this."

"You think this is a sham?" James mouth was open in stunned surprise. "Why would you think that?"

"I stole the money that allowed me to make my investments. I'm a gambler. I bear a false name."

"Do not tell me that you think the aristocracy came by all they have legitimately? You cannot be that naïve. There are more thieves and gamblers and bastards and whores among the ton than you could possibly imagine. My own mother comes from the bourgeois. My grandfather built a fortune out of his ability to build a ship that could survive storms that took down the best of sailing vessels before it. Rumor is that my great-great grandfather was a pirate."

"A pirate?" Blair laughed. "Somehow that fits. I can see you commanding a pirate crew. Patch over one eye, sword in hand, damsels swooning at the sight of you. Nevertheless, that's hardly the same thing."

"Swooning?" James cocked his head and smiled. "Hmm, you paint a pretty picture. Perhaps I should consider the Navy."

Ignoring the teasing tone, Blair declared, "wherever you go, I go. Let me take service with you." Blair shoved aside the flash of fear at the thought of the tiny cabins he’d be forced to live and work in.

"I’m not going anywhere. I’m where I want to be and I consider you my brother. And my brother will not serve me. End of story."

Blair felt the heat in his cheeks and turned away, hoping James would miss him blushing like a maid. Such simple words and yet they were the most powerful Blair had ever heard.

Finally Blair found his voice again. "Well then, let me play the *part* of your valet. The way you played the part of Alfie."

James considered that. To have Blair helping him undress, to have Blair's hands upon his body…he stopped himself from that line of thought. He’d just declared Blair his brother.

Certainly Blair would be a good man to have next to him in any kind of fight. He was quick on his feet and a good fighter, but his primary asset was his mind. James had always admired the way Blair was able to put two and two together and end up with four squared. Still, it could be dangerous and Blair was not military. He was about to deny Blair once again, when he looked at Blair and saw what this meant to him. He couldn’t leave Blair behind again..

He was about to deny Blair once again, when he looked at Blair and saw what this meant to him. He couldn’t leave Blair behind again, it just wasn’t possible for either of them.

"I imagine I could assert my rank and privilege. Bringing a man would not be unexpected. And I could keep an eye on you."

"Aye, and I could keep an eye on you as well."

James harrumphed at that and secretly acknowledged that he did do much better with his renegade senses whenever Blair was near.

"Just because I am willing to let you play the part, don’t be thinking that it’s for real. This is a game we play. A dangerous, clever game that can easily end in disaster. Are you sure you want to do this?"

Folding his arms across his chest, Blair nodded. "I’m sure. You'll let the Office know?"

Scowling, James stared hard at the determined man in front of him. Finally he shrugged and said, "I'll have word sent."

Calling for Danyon, James scribbled an answer and sent it off, wondering just what he had set in motion.

***

It's official. They're going. Danyon has them both packed. Blair had some clothes made that he's wearing now, making him look like a serving man. I mean, he looks nice, he's dressed as Master James' valet, but it still makes me want to cry to see him done up like one of us. Just don't seem right, though he's right cheery about it and it's scary how well he plays the part. He's tied his hair back and he stays behind Master James, always sort of hidden.

Alice and Mrs. Duncan have been crying. No one knows how long they might be gone.

Before they get up on the fine horses that will carry them away from us, Blair comes and kneels by me.

"Daisy? Mrs. Duncan will keep a good eye on you until I get back. I want you to keep studying and practicing, all right?"

I nod my head. If I try and say anything I might cry and I don't want Blair to think I'm a baby. The sight of them on their horses, rounding the corner makes me want to break down and cry. I'm not the only one. Alice is sobbing and she don't look at all ashamed of it and Mrs. Duncan's got some tears in her eyes as well.

We all wave until they are out of sight, even though they don't look back. That night after supper, we get the books out. Mrs. Duncan takes Blair's chair and has a go at it, but it's not the same. Blair always made everything so interesting with his stories about far-away lands and the funny things people do in them. Like eat bugs. Ugh. Did make me look at those pesky things differently though.

Still, fun or not, I work hard. I want to surprise Blair and Master James when they get back. I want to be able to read out loud when Blair comes back. And they will come back. I just hope it's soon.

***

The Field Operation Office was close to Green Park and was the first stop. There James was to be briefed by Brigadier General Hacker who seemed surprised that James had decided to bring his "man" with him.

"I need to speak with you privately." The Brigadier was a large man who had not let age soften his muscles or his outlook on life.

James gave Blair a curt nod and Blair answered with his own small bow, leaving the room.

"Ever since the debacle in India, we’ve been trying to ascertain who is responsible for the ambush that killed your regiment. There is no doubt that the ambush was made possible by someone passing along information from inside the Home Office."

"A traitor."

"Precisely."

"And?"

The Brigadier looked down at his papers. When he looked up, his eyes were hard and bitter. "We know who passed the information on. And we know who received it. What we don't know is why those men had to die."

"The name of the traitor?" James wanted that name. He wanted to make sure the man's life was a misery before he was court-martialed and executed. Many of the men in his Regiment had been good friends. All had been good soldiers.

"It was Trevor Finch—" Hacker held up his hand as James surged forward. Finch had been exceedingly well liked, a part of every meeting, helpful with all the many details that went into launching an overseas campaign.

"Yes, Lieutenant, I know that's hard to believe and I know what you want to do. Every man here wanted to do the same thing. Unfortunately, Finch is dead."

"Executed already?"

"Regrettably, no. He was found hanging in his cell. Suicide."

James ran his hand over his face, closing his mind's eye to the image of the charming Trevor hanging by the neck. "Who was the recipient of the information?"

The Brigadier started to speak, but then paused. "You aren't going to like hearing this either."

"Who?" He spit the one word out. He wanted the information.

The Brigadier pursed his lips together and slowly let out his breath. "Your brother, Stephen."

Eyes widening, James stepped back, shaking his head no. "There must be a mistake." Turning away, James ran his hands through his hair, then swung back and said more forcefully, "Tell me you are mistaken, sir."

"I wish I were, Lieutenant, believe me. We have been most thorough, confirming this information through several different avenues. I would never have told you if I thought there were a shred of doubt."

It felt as if a giant fist had just punched him in the stomach. "Is he under arrest?" James looked away as he asked. He was stunned, ashamed and afraid. His brother, a traitor. His brother responsible for the deaths of so many good men.

"No. We're quite sure he passed the information to someone else and it's that person who actually made the arrangements for the ambush. We have yet to learn why they wanted you all dead, and we have yet to learn who is behind all this. That's why you have been summoned."

"You want me to ask Stephen, force him to tell what he knows?" The idea of confronting his older brother made his stomach twist. He wanted answers, but he didn't relish going up against Stephen. From the time he could remember, he'd adored Stephen, followed him, tried to be just like him.

Stephen had kept his distance, teasing him often to the point of tears. As James got older, he'd learned to take the teasing without showing any reaction. Stephen still found ways to make James feel like some ill-bred clod, lacking in all refinement the few times a year family brought them together.

"No. We want you to go home and shadow him. We need to know who he sees, what circles he frequents. That's where you come in. You're the best hope of getting the information that will enable us to unravel this plot."

"You want me to spy on my brother?" The order shocked him, but he didn’t indulge in that reaction for long. In war one did not have the luxury of ethics. Getting information by deception was understood as right and fair and he had been trained well in the art.. He had long ago put aside any feelings about the dishonor of using trickery to get information.

And yet, the idea that he would project a false front to his brother in order to expose him…he shoved those feelings to the side. There was no place for the remnants of affection he still held for Stephen despite everything. No place for that kind of misplaced loyalty in war. And his brother had declared by his actions which side he was on.

"Yes, we want you to spy on your brother. I know it's a lot to ask but—"

James interrupted. "I'll do it. I don't know what made my brother betray his country, but believe me, I will learn who he betrayed us to, and to what purpose. On that you have my word."

"I knew we could count on you, Ellison. You know best how to infiltrate your brother's life. I'll leave the details to you. We'll need a go-between, someone who can keep us informed here. Your man?"

"No. I have someone just right for that job. Thank you, Brigadier, for bringing me in on this."

Salutes were given and James left the office, walking past Blair as if he didn't see him. Hurrying to catch up, Blair refrained from asking any questions. He had a part to play, one he knew well, and it meant he had to relearn to hold his tongue, though he was dying to ask what had been said. Whatever it was had left James white and shaken and barely able to contain a fury that Blair could read as well as any words on a page.

James didn't speak until they had ridden for over an hour. Finally he turned in the saddle and said, "It was my own brother. My own bloody brother is the one who sold out my unit and caused 89 good men to die pointless deaths."

"Lord Stephen?" Blair was dumbfounded. "Your brother betrayed the very Regiment you were in? It's only by a miracle that you survived."

Oddly, this was something that had not occurred to James yet. His brother must have expected his death to come about by his actions. It hurt, but he was surprised that it hurt less than knowing Stephen had betrayed his country.

"A miracle Stephen didn't expect, I can assure you. I can remember his face when I came home. I had thought he was upset that I had been missing for so long. Now I realize it was his disappointment at my apparent good health. Of course it must have pleased him when I showed all the signs of being insane. It simply confirmed his opinion of me."

"Why?"

"That is the mystery we will aim to uncover. That and to whom he passed along his information."

"So we ride back to Saybrooke?"

"Yes. Back home."

They rode on in silence, each lost in thoughts of "home" and what it meant. For Blair, the emotions were mixed. It was the only home he'd ever known. But it had been a place of great loneliness and pain and he found himself breaking out in a sweat as he thought about confronting his past life.

As each mile brought him closer to Saybrooke and his brother, James’ anger grew. Knowing he needed to keep a firm grip on it if he was going to able to play the part of the slightly addled younger brother, he tried to push it back down. With each step he forced himself to retreat into the part he must play.

That evening as they finally arrived and dismounted, the man who turned to Blair was nearly as unrecognizable to Blair as Alfie had been.

"I will need to let them believe I still hallucinate. Don't be alarmed. You know how to play your part well, and I expect you to stick to it. No breaking out of it because you are worried about me. I will be acting."

The tone of voice brooked no argument. It was a Master's voice, commanding, ripe with expectations and Blair unaccountably found himself blushing. It was one thing for him to declare he was naught but a servant, quite another to have his friend speak to him in a way that told him of his place with every staccatoed syllable.

"Yes, I understand. Sir."

James didn't even lift an eyebrow at those softly spoken words that acknowledged the chasm that existed between Master and servant. He was deep into his role and allowing his training and discipline to carry him onto this field of battle. It was an elegant field, with deep plush carpets and book-lined walls, but James had no illusions. He was entering into war and his once beloved home was now the battlefield.

***

James had sent a message back to Baines who had made the arrangements. Rafe arrived at Saybrooke shortly after they did, with clothes appropriate for a stay in the country.

"Lord Ellison! What a pleasure to have you visit our quiet part of the world." Holding out her hand, his father's wife looked up with expectation.

"Lady Saybrooke, you’re looking lovely as always." James bent over her dainty hand, kissing it.

"Now that we have those formalities out of the way, James, tell what brings you here. Last time I saw you, it was Warbeck you were after. Tell me, did you find him?" As she asked her question, she led the way down the wide hallway to the sitting room.

James entered, while Blair held back. James saw the hesitation.

"I take it I will have my old room?"

"Oh, yes, it may be a bit musty. We had no idea you were coming, you naughty thing, else Mrs. Martin would have had it aired and readied."

"O’Malley, take my things upstairs." James didn't wait to see if Blair complied, there was no question but that he would do as he was told.

Turning his attention back to the woman in front of him, he answered her last question. "Yes, I found Warbeck. He is employed by Lord Ebury. Do you know him?"

Lady Saybrooke's eyes widened. "Know him? Well, of course I know him. He is one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England. And dashedly handsome as well."

James could see the faintest of blushes on her cheeks. His stepmother had had an affair with him, James was sure. He filed that information away; perhaps it would be of some use later.

"Yes, well, Warbeck is now in his employ. And he was able to answer my question, so my mission was accomplished."

If the lady had not been of so delicate a frame and delicate of nature, James would have thought he heard a snort issuing from her mouth.

"You certainly were in a snit that day, James. I am so glad you've come back in a more relaxed frame of mind."

She moved in closer and pressed her small body close to his. The top of her head didn't even reach his chin. James hurriedly strived to pull his sense of smell back in. While she was not the unwashed nightmare of Cordelia, the scent of jasmine was overwhelming, threatening to send him into coughing spasms..

Putting his hands firmly on her shoulders, he moved her away a pace. He almost felt sorry for her, married as she was to his father. She couldn't be much older than he was, certainly younger than Stephen, and married to his father now for ten years. His father had doted on her at first and spoiled her with her every wish granted. But as the years passed he'd lost interest in his plaything.

James doubted she’d ever loved his father; it seemed inconceivable and, in any case, rarely was that the cause or nature of a marriage. Still, it had to have an affect, being ignored day in and day out. He knew how it had affected him until he'd learned to push those feelings aside. And then there had come a time when he actively avoided his father's attention as it always meant censure and occasionally beatings delivered by Manning.

He remembered the first time it had happened. He'd been all of eight years old and late for his lesson. Running in from the outside, he'd encountered his father waiting in the schoolroom. Manning stood with his arms crossed and Stephen was sitting at the desk, looking studious.

"Where have you been?" The vein in his father's forehead pulsed and his voice shook with barely suppressed rage.

James had looked around wildly, wondering how he could be in so much trouble for being 20 minutes late.

"I-I was out riding, sir, and the horse lost a shoe. I had to walk her in, sir." The faces didn't soften and he hastened to add. "I apologize, sir."

"Manning tells me this happens quite a lot." His father's anger had grown at his attempts to apologize.

"No, sir, not a lot."

"Are you calling Mr. Manning a liar?" His voice had not gotten louder, only colder.

"No, sir, I-I'm—"

Before James could try and make it better, his father signaled to Manning, who produced a cane. He swished it through the air, the thin, supple bamboo making a whining noise.

"Drop your pants."

"Sir?"

"You heard him, James. Be a man and take your punishment." Crossing his arms, his father waited for him to comply. Slowly James did as he was told, wishing Stephen wasn't there to witness what was about to happen.

Standing in his underwear, he waited. Manning circled him, then put his hand on the back of his head and bent him over the desk. Hands yanked his cotton briefs down so that he was naked and exposed. The sound that came next filled his head and then branded his buttocks with searing pain. Five times he heard the sound and felt the cane slice his skin. He managed to keep quiet on the first strike, but by the fifth, all his determination could not keep the sobs from escaping.

The entire time he could see Stephen, who never took his eyes away, but watched without emotion as James was beaten bloody by their tutor. Finally it had stopped and his father's voice had floated to him through the haze of pain and nausea.

"For God's sake, cover yourself up. You'll have no supper tonight and I expect you to be on time from here on."

James had slowly straightened, appalled at how sick he felt, as if he might vomit right then and embarrass himself further. With shaking hands, he fumbled for his pants and pulled them up, crying out as the cloth touched his bloody backside. He'd stopped sobbing, though tears still dripped down his chin and more than anything he hated that Stephen was seeing him cry, seeing him exposed and naked, with snot running down his face. Finally covered, he'd shuffled out of the schoolroom, his head down and made his way to his room. Contrary to his father's expectations, he wasn't able to return to his studies for more than a week.

After that, Manning had beaten him regularly, sometimes with fists and sometimes with the bloody cane. After the first beating, it always took two to make it happen, for James never again submitted passively. Then one day, he swung his fist accurately instead of flailing about in panic. It hit Manning square in the jaw and it had been the beginning of the end.

Manning and the footman were able to hold him down and deliver a beating that exceeded all previous ones, requiring a surgeon's visit and a week in bed. It hardly mattered to James. He'd landed a blow and seen the look in Manning's face. One made up of equal parts shock, pain, and fear.

When Manning left for his yearly trip abroad, James used the time to his advantage. Searching out the head lad, he'd found a man who could teach him to box. He practiced long and hard, changing from a tall, gangly boy into someone with sinewy strength, speed and cunning. He secretly spent time in the smithy, learning to shoe horses and the art of the blacksmith. The servants did not know what to make of a second born son of a lord toiling like a common man, but they kept mum and took not a little pride in his accomplishments.

Manning came back in James' thirteenth year and was confronted with an entirely different creature than the one he'd left behind. Powerful shoulders bespoke of a summer filled with hard labor. James sat slouched in his chair, his long legs encased in breeches that revealed hard muscle. Even the hand that held the quill looked different. Tan, roughened and strong, Manning swallowed quickly as he imagined it formed into a fist.

The next time he'd raised his hand, he'd ended up on the floor. The footman's nose bled all over his uniform and they never tried to discipline him with corporal punishment again.

James mentally shook himself, forcing himself back to the present. His father was a hard man in some ways, disgustingly soft in others and James did not begrudge Lady Saybrooke her dalliances. Still, the idea that she had formed any kind of bond with Ebury sickened him.

"Is my brother here?"

Stephen had his own house in London, but generally spent his time in the country at Saybrooke.

"Yes, your charming brother is here, along with some of his cronies." Georgianna wrinkled her nose indicating what she thought of Stephen's friends. James nodded in sympathy. For one who prided himself on his breeding and refinement, Stephen seemed to gravitate to a certain kind of aristocrat. Usually a second or third born with little prospects for a good marriage. Heavily into drinking and gaming, they were universally dull of wit and sensibility. James had always been baffled by Stephen's choice in associates, for to call them friends was to exaggerate the ties. Rarely was one seen a second time.

"The whole family together again. I'm sure my father will be delighted."

His sarcasm did not escape Georgianna and she smiled. She was well aware of how little love was lost between James and her husband.

"Yes, all in all, dinner should be quite entertaining. I think I shall go dress."

Georgianna had no sooner left to begin that task, than his father entered the room.

His first words upon seeing his son were, "What brings you here?"

James smiled, gave his father a small bow and stifled the urge to fiddle with his cravat. "Town had simply become too tedious. I hope you have room for a refugee from the season?"

Lord Saybrooke sighed. "Been looking for a wife, James? With your prospects I'm sure it is hard going."

James fought to keep his smile in place. "I only wish my lack of prospects kept them at bay!"

His father ignored that information. "Stephen is here with some of his friends. I do hope you won't embarrass him."

At those words, James’ smile wavered, the memories of the state he had been in after returning from India all too vivid. He couldn't even fault his father, as it had indeed been mortifying when he had fallen to the ground, clutching at his head, screaming about unbearable noise. Being found staring straight ahead, oblivious to his father and then his brother calling to him. Realizing that the madness was growing worse and all the while frantic for Blair's well being. Blair…the thought of Blair brought the smile back to his face.

"I'll try and keep myself from their scrutiny as much as possible, Father."

Lord Saybrooke walked over to the windows and gazed out on the garden. James was just about to assume he'd been dismissed, when his father said, "Will you be coming to dinner?"

James was well aware that before he had fled to his house in town, he'd gotten to the point where he had all his meals brought up to him. In truth, he rarely left the confines of his room, for it was the only place that offered a measure of peace. But he'd come here not for peace, but with a purpose and he'd learn nothing eating alone.

"Yes, I believe I will make an appearance."

His father turned in surprise and made no attempt to hide the grimace at that news. "Fine, don't be late. I won't have my meal delayed."

His father turned his back to him and James knew he'd now been dismissed. Still, he couldn't stop himself from responding.

"Yes sir, I quite remember how much you value punctuality." Making a bow to his father's back, he left the room, then dashed up the stairs looking for Blair, to find him laying out evening clothes.

"Will you be wanting the gray or white cravat?" Blair looked up from his study of the choices. James walked over and whacked him across the back of his head.

"Don't do that to me, cub. This is difficult enough as it is without losing my best friend to the role."

Blair broke into a smile, relieved to have James back for a bit. It was unnerving to be here, in this room, doing what he had ached to do for so long, look after James. It took him back to when he had been fourteen and James had let him stay and do the tasks of a manservant, though everyone knew that was ridiculous. Later, when he'd hoped that he might assume the position for real, his hopes had been dashed by James' decision to buy his colors. Now he stood in this room, the position at last his, at least as long as they stayed here.

He'd forgotten the peace that came with manual work. Or was the peace there because he had a function in James' life? James always put such stock in their friendship, but Blair knew how little one could count on relationships. Function and being of use, doing needed tasks, these were things you could count on, things that didn't change because something or someone — better came along. As long as one was competent, one’s place was safe. And Blair was competent.

Someday James would marry and Blair knew he would no longer fit into James' life. Oh, James would say he'd keep in touch, but Blair knew how that went. Once married he would be in the country, concerned with an estate, surrounded by his peers. He'd have no need for one such as Blair James.

But Blair O'Malley might still be able to stay close. And Blair wanted that more than anything. Certainly more than his house on Belgrave Square, and oddly enough, more than going to Cambridge.

So perhaps if he did this job convincingly well, James would be persuaded to let him take it on permanently.

***

Dinner started out quietly enough. Stephen had greeted James with a cool nod and a comment, "Feeling any better these days, James?"

His tone was one of kind solicitousness, but his eyes showed his contempt.

Even with the knowledge that his brother was the reason 89 good men had died, James still had a hard time not flinching under his brother's cold regard. There had been times when Stephen had been the only good thing in his life, when Stephen had looked out for him, even going so far as to bring him supper when their father had forbidden it.

That only happened once, but James would always remember how it felt to be hurting after one of Manning's beatings, hungry and alone in his room when Stephen had snuck in, bringing a meat pie. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious. It was hard not to admire Stephen. There were few things he didn't excel at. Fluent in three languages, quick-witted, possessing an easy charm that made him welcome wherever he went, he was considered one of England's finest, a shining example of all that was good in Britain. James did his best to appear oblivious to Stephen's opinion of him and carefully laid the snowy white napkin on his lap.

Stephen's friend Hemming was already half-foxed, barely able to maneuver food onto his fork, looked around the table with unfocused eyes. The other two friends had the good manners to be sober enough to eat without mishap, but showed their inebriation in the laughter that came without provocation.

Lord Saybrook sat at the head of the table, ignoring the antics of his son's comrades. Georgianna sat at the other end of the long table and openly showed her displeasure. James, seated to her right, ate and made no comment. Occasionally he would catch his brother looking at him, and James realized that he was being assessed.

Before the new information he had been given about Stephen, he would have thought it was merely his brother’s concern about his health. Now he had to consider that Stephen looked upon him as a foe and sought to ascertain the level of threat he represented.

Georgianna leaned over and said in a mock whisper, meant to be heard, "James, you must feel right at home here. Does this remind you of the men in your barracks?"

She smiled sweetly as she hurled the insult at her stepson's friends. One did not compare lords with enlisted men.

"She's jest upset that we know how to have a good time and she don't." Hemming's slurred words were accompanied by a broad gesture that overturned his wineglass, creating a red puddle the servants hurried to mop up.

The third friend had not said a word all evening. He was thin to the point of looking ill and watched the proceedings closely, while never faltering in keeping up with his wine consumption. He'd been introduced as Jonathan Banning, and he was a very odd member of the house party, as he seemed to make a point of keeping his distance from everyone.

Georgianna looked to her husband for defense, but he continued eating, saying nothing. Next her big brown eyes lit on James.

Sighing, James took up her challenge.

"Some of us don't need to be so foxed that we can't manage to get soup into our mouths in order to enjoy ourselves."

"And would that be you, James?" His brother drawled. "For I seem to remember a scene just a few months ago, at this very table, when you spewed your food out, cursing Cook and her miserable spices. Were you enjoying dinner then, dear brother?"

Now his father looked up. "James, don't be criticizing your brother's friends for their table manners, when on more than one occasion, you've embarrassed this family with yours."

Unable to stop his face from flushing, James could only nod and say, "Point taken."

Stephen's lips thinned a little as he repressed a smile and took the conversation in a different direction.

"So James, have you decided what to do with yourself now that your military career has come to a sudden and inglorious end?"

To his right, Georgianna gave a little gasp at the rudeness of the question.

James took his time responding, mulling over the possible answers and knowing that he needed to play it as if he still thought himself mad.

"Great Aunt Agatha has invited me to her Norfolk estate after the holidays and I thought I would go. It's quite peaceful there."

"Norfolk? Egad, man, you might as well bury yourself alive. The place is full of the old retired Admirals and pensioners. 'Tis deadly dull. Unless your great aunt is really great." Hemmings guffawed at his wit.

"Well, you see, Hemmings, James came back from India with a curious affliction. He needs the quiet." Stephen's tone was a cross between compassion and contempt.

"Affliction, you say? What kind of affliction? Don't see anything wrong with him."

Birdy, who had been quiet up until now, joined in. "Don't tell me you're one of those who find they aren't cut out for the Military and cries injury to get out?" He glared at James, as if personally affronted.

Before James could defend himself, his brother answered. "Oh, James' afflictions are quite real, I assure you. You would not care to be around to witness one of his…episodes."

Birdy maintained his skeptical face and James realized he would have to experience one of his 'episodes' at some point in the weekend. Dreading the moment, but knowing the need for it, he found he'd lost all appetite. Picking up his wine, he was caught by the candlelight glowing through the ruby liquid.

The next thing he knew, Blair was talking to him, pleading.

"James," Blair's voice was barely a whisper. "Come on, James, wake up. Please, James, please, wake up."

They were alone in the dining room, which was fortunate as James’ hand had instinctively sought Blair's face as he resurfaced. Eyes huge and worried, Blair was crouched next to his chair.

"Damn! I did it, didn't I, lost it in front of everyone?" James released Blair's cheek and put his head in his hands.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"I think, perhaps close to an hour. Your brother had me fetched when nothing they did brought you around."

James rubbed his cheek. "Is that why I'm all wet and my face aches?"

"I'm afraid they were not gentle in their efforts."

Imagining what had been done and said as he sat, slack-jawed, James groaned and put his head back in his hands.

Standing, Blair tugged on James' sleeve. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

"Are they near?"

"No, they've retired to the smoking room."

Slowly James got to his feet, wincing as he felt odd aches and sharp pains. They had obviously been quite creative in their attempts to bring him around. Had he been faking, he wasn't at all sure he could have maintained the utter blankness required to convince his brother he was still a looby and harmless. One small silver lining.

His room was a haven, softly lit, the bed turned down. He sat on the edge and allowed Blair to remove his boots. Closing his eyes, he said nothing as Blair began to undress him. The unsleeping had left him shaken and drained.

As usual after one of these 'spells', he felt chilled, as if being stripped of animation had made his blood stop flowing. Blair's touch as he tugged at the sleeve, unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his breeches, left trails of warmth and James longed to lean in and lose himself in the scent and heat of his friend. Floating in a world that was cold and painful, intersected by warmth, he only opened his eyes when Blair gasped.

"Dear God, James, what did they do to you?"

Looking down, James saw that his left nipple was swollen and turning purple. There were other bruises starting to form along his ribs and he knew, when his breeches were removed, he would see that his genitals had not been spared abuse.

"I hope they had the good manners to wait until Georgianna had left the room." James said dryly, trying to make light at what horrified him.

Mumbling something, Blair brought the bowl of water to the bedside. Then stepping between James' legs, he gently applied a bit of wet cloth to James' nipple, causing James to hiss in pain.

James had not looked at Blair since he came to and kept his face turned away as Blair fussed. Whatever they had done to his cock, it was not stopping the response to having Blair so close. His body pulsed with pain, and he realized that he ached all over. Like a map, each point of pain revealed the direction of the night’s entertainment. As he had sat like a statue, hands had taken pleasure in violating him, and they had made sure to leave marks so he would know of the violation.

Blair's hand was on his naked shoulder as he leaned in, dabbing at the ill-treated torso, his fingers gently kneading the muscles, his fingers trying to stroke away the tension. James breathed in, trying to inhale all the things that made up Blair's scent. There was earthiness, the richness of a body that has worked and sweated and yet there was a smell something like rain on the wind that also enveloped Blair.

Groaning, both in pain from what had been done to him and pleasure at what Blair was doing to him, he tried to stifle his body's reaction to Blair.

"Am I hurting you more?" Blair stopped his ministrations and stood holding the cloth, biting his lip, looking worried.

"No—yes—no….I'm fine, really. Stop."

Blair dropped the cloth in the basin and resumed undressing James.

"I said, stop!" The harsh command froze Blair and he removed his hands from James' britches.

"I can undress myself, Blair. Go, and do whatever you need to do before we turn in."

Backing away, Blair mumbled something, but the blood pounding in his ears obliterated the sense of the words to James.

If Blair knew…if Blair ever knew the way he felt, what infiltrated his dreams and made him sweat in the middle of the night, how the dreams of Blair under him moaning, asking for—asking James to—to—James couldn't even complete the thought. Sometimes the things that Blair asked for in some of James' dreams made him arch off the bed and come before he was fully awake—

No, Blair must never know. Blair was safely on the other side of the room, fussing with the clothes he'd removed from James. Quickly, James finished undressing, refusing to look down as he put his nightclothes on. Climbing into bed, he lay stiffly, his body still cold, feeling the aches deepening. He could imagine what they had done and said as he had sat immobilized by his 'affliction.'

His cover now firmly established, his brother would not doubt his harmlessness, nor watch him too closely. He had known a scene something like that would need to take place, but he had hoped to have the solace of knowing it was staged.

Blair was getting ready for bed in the dressing room that had always served as his room when he had attended James as a boy. Watching through the doorway, James watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, the shadows on the wall making his movements into a sort of dance. Blair was utterly unself-conscious once he was naked, and James drank in the sight of Blair's lithe body. The dimness of the room did not hide the darkness that marked the places on Blair's body where hair grew abundantly. Moonlight from the high window bathed Blair in its soft rays. James’ eyes feasted on the darkness and light that translated into Blair.

"Goodnight, Blair." His voice sounded husky and he hoped Blair would take no notice.

"Goodnight, James." Blair's voice sounded far away, so very far away. James longed to pull him into this room, into this bed. Instead, he rolled on his side and tried to force sleep to come.

***

What had he done wrong? What had made James shout and demand he be left alone? The marks on James' body were shocking, the expression of a kind of viciousness that one never expected to find in a formal dining room. That James' own brother had been a part of the proceedings sickened Blair.

It reaffirmed his newfound belief that one could not depend on family, which meant in truth, one could depend on no one. For if one's own family had no place for you, found no value in you, it was unlikely anyone else would.

His friendship with James seemed to contradict that truth. It had been the one thing he could depend on, far beyond making sense.

James, his friend, lie battered in the other room and for all the times he had been by Blair's side when Blair had been in pain he had made it clear that Blair's attentions were unwelcome. Why?

Coming here, searching out who Stephen worked for, what had motivated his traitorous acts, was going to be far more difficult than he'd realized. The amount of time that James was away from him was already wearing on him and it had only been one day. And now each time he was gone Blair would live in fear of another one of those peculiar states that left James so vulnerable.

The rest of the night Blair spent thinking through the fugue that sometimes gripped James and how to prevent them.

***

The smell of chocolate brought him awake. Opening his eyes, he scanned the room, finding it empty. He let his hearing open up and could hear footsteps on the stairs. A few minutes later Blair came in the room, bearing a tray laden with scones and the cup of chocolate he'd already identified.

James kept his eyes half-closed, watching as Blair carefully placed the tray on the lacquered table at the foot of his bed. The look on Blair's face was one of deep concentration, as if all depended on him getting this simple act of serving breakfast right. James thought he looked tired, fine lines were evident around his eyes and his skin had the pallor of the sleep-deprived.

They'd only been in this god-forsaken house a day and already it was taking a toll. The sooner they learned who Stephen had sold out to and finished, the better.

"Morning, Blair."

Blair's head snapped up, making his curls fly about his face. "Morning, sir."

Blair missed the glare directed at his use of the word sir, as he was busy stirring the chocolate.

James swung his legs out of the bed and held out a shaky hand for the cup. Smiling, Blair passed it to him.

"Ahhh, now that's a reason to wake up."

"How are you feeling?" James could hear the implied sir in Blair's tone and winced. Having Blair serve him was his dream and nightmare all rolled into one. Knowing that this was the only way he'd ever feel Blair's hands on him left James feeling hopeless. It was one thing for Blair to serve his country by serving him, but Blair would never again be put in this position. James would make sure of that.

"I'm fine." In truth, he hurt, but hurting was nothing new. It was where he hurt that disturbed him. They had made sure he would know just how vulnerable he had been, inflicting blows and leaving marks in the most private places.

The madness -- his enhanced senses as Blair called them -- came at a high price. It gave him advantages as well as stripped him of defense. Blair seemed to think the exercises they had been doing would give him control and there was no doubt he could control them in ways unimaginable before. At this rate they might actually become useful.

And then something like last night happened and he'd trade every advantage if only he might never be so humiliated again. With that in mind, he moved to get dressed.

Blair gave a small smile and nodded, arranging the used dishes on the tray and removing it. "What would you like to wear today?"

James was about to tell Blair that he didn't need any help in choosing his clothes and Blair was taking his role a tad too seriously, when he heard his brother approaching. Stephen was talking to one of the housemaids, asking whether his brother was awake yet.

"I'll wear the green." James informed Blair and pointed to the door to warn Blair that a visitor was eminent.

"Yes, sir, excellent choice." Blair's voice was a model of unctuous solicitude and it made James' skin crawl, but before he could tell Blair to stop, Stephen was knocking on the door.

"James? Are you awake?" Stephen sounded warmly concerned and James silently noted that the talent to dissemble must run in the family.

"I'm awake, Stephen. Come in."

Blair moved to open the door. Stephen stepped in looking awake and alert and James realized he must do very little real drinking with his chums.

"I wanted to see how you were doing this morning after suffering one of your episodes." Straightening his cravat, Stephen looked around the room, spotting Blair by the wardrobe.

"So, I see you found your little friend and are making good use of him." Stephen smirked at Blair and then swung his attention back to James.

James fought back his anger at that remark and instead, tried to respond casually and in a manner befitting the situation.

"Yes, I ran into O’Malley in London and was pleased when he agreed to become my valet."

"Yes, I imagine it would be difficult finding someone, er, suitable, willing to take you on." Stephen didn’t bother to look at Blair, his contempt for the former chimney sweep evident in his tone of voice.

Digging his fingernails into his palms to keep from saying something he would regret, James didn't trust himself to speak, simply nodded his head as if in agreement.

"Well, I just wanted to see how you were getting on. I'll see you below in a little while."

Stephen moved to leave, pausing to look Blair up and down, the look in his eyes sending alarm signals to James' brain.

Laying the clothes out, Blair turned his back on Stephen and once he was gone, began to silently hand James the undergarments, fussing with the coat jacket. By tacit agreement, neither one commented on Stephen.

Blair buttoned and straightened and then turned his attention to the piece in every gentleman's wardrobe that caused the most consternation, the cravat.

As Blair tied the cravat with the concentration he usually gave only to his journal articles, James noticed that Blair's hand was red and small blisters were starting to form.

"What happened to your hand?"

Glancing down, Blair immediately transferred his attention back to the cravat.

"Spilled some tea this morning."

"That must have been some piping hot tea." James looked down on the head full of brown curls that was in front of him.

"Aye, 'twas uncommonly hot."

James frowned. Blair must have been seriously distracted for that to happen. That would never do. When one went under cover, so to speak, it was all too easy to slip and small slips could spell the end. He hoped he hadn’t misjudged Blair’s ability to do the job.

"Be sure to watch that, burns tend to infection."

"I'll keep a close eye on it, mother." Blair seemed to realize just what he'd said and who he'd said it to. His gasp and James' bark of laugher mingled and Blair relaxed a fraction, patting the cravat and stepping back.

James looked especially splendid in the bottle green jacket that molded to his broad shoulders. The pale cream and white stripes of his waistcoat drew the eye up to the cravat, Blair’s masterpiece.

"There. I tied the cravat in the tone d’amour, it’s the latest style."

"How do you know these things, Blair? I’ve never known you to be much taken with fashion." James eyed himself critically in the mirror, admitting to himself that Blair was an excellent valet.

Blair grinned, pleased. "I’ve been paying attention. It would never do to have a valet who wasn’t au currant with what the ton finds acceptable."

The idea that Blair would remain his man once this charade was done was ludicrous and it bothered James greatly to think that Blair was acquiring skills for the position. But every detail gave verisimilitude to their act and lulled the enemy into complacency. James couldn’t fault Blair for doing what needed to be done.

"You always were a quick study, just never thought to see that considerable brain put to pleasing the eye of society. Brummell couldn't have tied it better."

Blair steepled his hands together in a gesture James recognized from the tutoring sessions he gave each night to Daisy, Danyon and Alice.

"Ah, well, the heart of Anthropology is studying the culture, the way people live, eat, dress, the way they survive. In India, survival might depend on how well one is able to ride an elephant. Here in England, one does well to know the intricacies of tying a cravat."

James endeavored to hide his laughter. "Just so. The ton can be as ferocious as any beast in the wild and pick a man cleaner than a hyena. Thank you for providing the safety of my neckwear."

Ducking his head, Blair sought to hide the blush he could feel heating his face. It was absurd to be so pleased about the success of tying a cravat and yet he was. It was important that James look good, even if James dismissed the need most of the time. Taking care of James, dressing and undressing him, caring for his clothes, was a way to stay close, as James did the difficult assignment of discovering all he could about his brother’s treason.

They’d fallen easily back into the routine that they had as boys, but Blair had found it wasn't the same. He felt James’ heat every time his hand worked at undoing a button. Felt his breath on his neck as he removed a jacket, a shirt, his breeches. The way it felt was odd, like falling and being snug at home and Blair knew there was danger in courting the sensation.

James interrupted his thoughts, asking, "Mrs. Martin is due today?"

"Yes, she should be here by two." Blair started to pick at imaginary lint on James’ coat, but James grabbed his hands, stopping him and doing his own cursory sweep of the immaculate jacket.

Turning away from Blair he said, "Hopefully she'll be able to tell you something. We have to get information and get out before Stephen tumbles to our visit. Hacker needs to know just who is behind all this before more men are needlessly killed."

" James, it’s not—" Blair began, but was stopped by James.

"I know you'll be able to find something out among the servants. Just use that O'Malley charm."

The look of doubt on Blair's face angered James. His own men, dead on a mountainside, continents away, flashed across his mind.

"James…they don't—" Blair stopped his explanation as James swung away from him. Instead he said, "I'll do my best."

"Good. I really don't want to spend much more time in the bosom of my family." Shooting his cuffs out, James drew in a deep breath and headed to the door, every step proclaiming his reluctance as well as his determination. He didn’t look back.

Blair busied himself straightening the room, then gathering up the tray, he headed for the kitchen, hoping that someone would at least acknowledge his presence. Perhaps would give him an opening to start a conversation.

So far, the staff had collectively decided to give him the cut him direct, neither looking at him nor responding to his inquiries. He wasn't sure if it was because he was a valet to a visiting lord or because they knew about him from when he had been employed here before. He felt himself flush with shame at the thought of the kinds of things that they had been told and that this might be their reaction to him.

When he’d been employed at Saybrooke he'd tried to protect the younger ones from Warbeck, but many had thought he brought Warbeck's ire down on them. The staff had certainly learned soon enough that the quickest way to win his favor was to join in tormenting Blair.

Mrs. Martin had stood by him, doing what she could to defend him to the rest of the staff, but it had been of no use. They had seen that it was Blair who made Warbeck's blood boil and they hadn't liked getting caught in the crossfire. As a result, Blair had soon been given a reputation for being lazy and whining. This had allowed the other servants to turn away from the sight of him beaten and bloody without a moment's hesitation or discomfort, reassuring themselves that Blair had only himself to blame.

But this staff was almost entirely new and their hostility was both unnerving and baffling. He was pretty sure the cook had deliberately poured hot tea on his hand this morning.

Squaring his shoulders, he pushed into the warm enclave, determined to find some answers for James. The scullery maid was watching him from the corner of her eye, as she worked with desultory inefficiency at the breakfast pots. Cook made a point of turning her back as soon as he entered and attacked the bread dough with aggression, the loud smacks and thuds filling the room. Two footmen who had been lounging about rose to their feet and left the room, noses high in the air.

Blair carefully set the tray down, pondering ways to get someone to talk to him. Sitting at the recently vacated table, he dreamt up various plots. He was saved from instigating one of his convoluted schemes when the cook finished abusing the supper bread, covering it with a cloth and shoved it to the back of the stove.

She removed her flour-dusted apron and hung it carefully on a peg. Without a glance at Blair, she swept out of the room; a grand imitation of the Queen herself, if one ignored the white dust that swirled about her as she left.

"She don't like you." The maid's voice was soft, but Blair had no trouble hearing the amusement in it.

"Yes, I noticed. Can't imagine why she has taken such a dislike to me."

"It's not you so much as the lord you attend. Everyone knows he's titched in the 'ead and got 'is men killed over there in India."

"That's not true!" Blair rose and stalked over to the sink. "Who told you he was responsible for his men's deaths?"

"Ain't nobody told me nothin', I jus' heard the cook talking with Andrews. He was telling Cook to steer clear of you two, that the master had told 'im all about his looby brother and 'ow 'e 'ad no business leading men to a tavern, let alone a foreign country. How 'e didn't have the good sense to get a real valet, but used you instead. And 'e has fits sometimes and foams at the mouth and jus' stares ahead like his brain done left 'is body."

Blair winced at the terrible portrait being painted by James' brother.

"Those are all lies; lies Lord Ellison uses to cover up—" Blair clamped his mouth shut, appalled at what he had let slip.

"Cover up 'is own doings?" The maid asked, and Blair could swear she winked at him.

"What is your name?" The diminutive size of her had fooled him into thinking she was barely beyond childhood, but there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence that shone out of her cornflower blue eyes.

She seemed taken aback by the question. "Why, I be known as Maggie."

Something in the way she said that made Blair ask, "And your real name would be?"

Maggie hesitated. "Can I trust you?"

"To not reveal your real and true name? Yes, I understand all about aliases."

"Alias? Heck, no, my name is Mary Margaret. Folks in this great 'ouse don't take to Catholics, so me mum fibbed a little about it."

"I won't let on. I do know how to keep a secret."

"I know you do, Blair O'Malley." The way she said his name conveyed its own secret meaning and Blair took a better look at the little maid of the scullery.

"You were here when I was here." Blair said in wonderment.

"Aye. You used to call me Lollipop."

"Lollipop…. oh my, what a difference two years has made."

"Not much if you ask me, I 'aven't growed but an inch and I'm still up to me armpits in pots."

"It won't be long now before you move up."

"That's what Mrs. Martin says, bless her, but sometimes I think I am meant to live and die at this station." Maggie pushed her damp hair away from her face with her wrist.

"I know the feeling." Blair smiled ruefully.

"Oh, aye, but look at you now, all done up like a real gent and a valet! You're lucky Master James is a little off and always 'ad a soft spot for you—God knows you we're never going to get a recommendation from Warbeck."

"He is not 'a little off'!'" It bothered Blair a great deal that James was thought to be mad, but he knew he could hardly announce what was really at work. In fact, if he was better at this spying business, he would play it up. But that was impossible.

Maggie laughed and shook her head in comment at the folly of that belief. "Well, you're his man, you would 'ave to say that, but you don't 'ave to pretend with me. I always liked Master James, titched or not."

"He's a good man, don't believe all the nonsense you hear." Blair saw the stack of pots that still remained to be scrubbed and was tempted to help, but knew that was an idea that would be met with disbelief and contempt. There was a strict hierarchy and it was impossible to challenge it. Maggie wouldn't appreciate it and might, in fact, decide that whatever James had was catching and that Blair was now infected with the madness as well.

"So have there been many visitors here lately?" Blair leaned against the sideboard, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Besides them friends of Lord Ellison's that are 'ere now?" Maggie resumed scrubbing, intent on finishing.

"Yes, aside from them."

"Well, let's see, in the last month there was Lady Snow, Lady Ellison's friend. She was here for two weeks—just left a little while ago. And Norman Tow. He comes and goes real regular. Oh, and Ian Potters. 'E's a pincher, that one is. And those foreigners, but they ain't been 'ere for awhile."

"I suppose Master Stephen will be going to town for the Season soon."

"Naw, Master Stephen don't ever leave the estate. He says town is a bore."

"What? What possible reason could keep such an eligible bachelor moldering in this place?"

"Ah, well, wot I 'eard was 'e got good and foxed and done lost a mighty piece to someone that 'as said 'e'll take out 'is winnings in Master Stephen's 'ide. So 'ide he does." Maggie giggled, clearly pleased with the image of the high and mighty Lord Ellison being too afraid to step foot outside of his father's home.

"Do you know who he lost to?"

"No—ain't never 'eard a name. Andrews would know, or Gilbert, them two know everything."

Blair knew neither man would talk to him, but perhaps James would be able to pry the information out of one of them. It was time to check on James and convey some of this new knowledge.

"I hear Mrs. Martin is due back this afternoon."

"Yes, finally! Cook's a witch when she's away." Maggie finished the last pot and set it to dry, climbing down from the stool that had elevated her high enough to work in the deep sinks. Wiping her hands on her apron, she looked up at Blair.

"So what does a fine gentleman's valet do once the buttoning's all been done?" Maggie had her hands on her hips and looked sincerely interested.

"I wait to unbutton, of course." The aptness of that phrase made Blair smile.

"And you like doing that? Ew. I 'ope I never 'ave to 'elp no lady off with 'er unmentionables. Though I must admit I 'ouldn't mind 'elping Master James off with 'is." Maggie giggled and poked Blair in the stomach.

"Close your mouth, Blair, you’re likely to swallow a fly if you leave it open like that for long."

Closing it with a snap, Blair stared at her.

She glared back at him. "I’m fourteen, Blair, old enough to be married and have me own man."

"Yes, well, I suppose…" Blair’s flustered response seemed to embolden Maggie and she sashayed in closer.

"I’ll make someone a fine wife, I will. I work ‘ard and I ‘ave a body just made for ‘aving babies, see?" She grabbed one of Blair’s hands and placed it on her hip, holding it there.

"Maggie!" Blair’s protest didn’t stop Maggie from taking his other hand and placing it on her other hip.

For a moment Blair stood there, trying to comprehend a slip of a girl thrusting herself at him. The dampness around her carried her scent, one of soap and sweat, not unpleasant. Through her thin work dress, he could feel the fine bones of her pelvis nudging his penis and it also was not unpleasant.

Just then James walked in and his exclamation of, "Blair!" held exactly the same note of shock and outrage as Blair’s shout of "Maggie!" had.

"Ja—Lord Ellison, er, forgive me, er---did you need me for something?" Blair quickly stepped away from Maggie, while she grinned, winking at him, then left the room and Blair to James’ glowering countenance.

"Would you care to explain how I came to find you engaged with a kitchen maid?" James arms were folded and Blair’s heart pounded. The combination of James’ stance and tone sent shivers of dread down his spine as he relived the many times Warbeck had confronted him in the same way, if not for the same reason.

"Ja—sir, I—she’s not, we weren’t—I wouldn’t—but even so—" By the time Blair had stuttered out the sentence he had backed up clear across the kitchen and was in danger of connecting with the hot stove. James crossed the room in a flash, reaching out to stop Blair from burning himself.

"No!" Blair’s arm came up in a protective gesture and he closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

It never came and he lowered his arm slowly, opening his eyes to see James staring at him as if he’d grown a second head.

"You thought I would strike you?" James voice had an odd hollow sound, but his face was a blank mask.

Blair turned away, unable to explain his reaction.

"I only meant to keep you from burning yourself. I wouldn't—I can't believe you'd think that of me—that you think me capable—" his voice trailed off and one hand reached out to Blair, dropping when Blair turned back to him.

"No, James, no, I don't think—I wasn't thinking—I…I—" Blair faltered, unwilling to admit the memories, unwilling to insult James further by explaining his temporary confusion. "It's just that you thought I was—groping a child—and of course you were angry—I understand that—it would be depraved—and you are so honorable—you would—"

"Blair!"

Shutting his mouth with an audible snap, Blair stood with his head down and waited.

"Blair," James began again, more gently this time, "you are an honorable man also and I should not have jumped to conclusions. I apologize. Let that be the end of it."

James moved away and Blair finally looked up. He wanted to argue, wanted to point out that he had been a thief and therefore hardly entitled to be called honorable, but James had declared that it was done, so he kept mum. James was staring out the kitchen door, his stance stiff and contained, looking very much like the soldier he was. The kitchen had been built to accommodate a staff of kitchen help and yet right now, it seemed small and claustrophobic as James seemed to fill the space.

Blair tried to take a deep breath. It was harder than it should have been, the air in the kitchen was stifling. "Sir, I did learn something that may have some bearing."

James flinched at the sir, but didn't turn around.

"Yes, tell me what you learned."

"Master Stephen never leaves the estate these days. They say he lost a great deal of money to someone and fears for his well-being."

Turning away from the window, James nodded. "Hmm, that hardly sounds like the Stephen I know, but then I believe it's been pretty well established that I don't know my brother very well at all."

Blair remained silent, unable to offer an argument to the bitter truth.

James seemed to shake himself and gave Blair a small, tight smile. "I'm riding to Hargrove, this afternoon. Lord and Lady Bellingham have invited me for a visit."

"You're visiting Lady Bellingham?" Blair knew there had been a time when James had had his heart set on marrying Sally Danton. It must have been a brutal blow to come home to find her wed to Lord Bellingham.

"Yes, she was always delightful company and full of the latest gossip. I'm hoping she will have something to tell me that will aid me in my search."

Blair didn't know which piece of information made his stomach twist—that James was leaving him alone for the afternoon or that he was going to spend it in Lady Bellingham 's delightful company.

"Yes, sir, I quite understand."

"You'll be able to keep yourself busy while I'm away?" James tone was brisk and Blair automatically matched it.

"Yes, I have quite a bit of work to do on your wardrobe and Mrs. Martin will be arriving shortly"

"Good. I'll see you sometime this evening then."

Blair watched James leave the kitchen. The room expanded, air flowed freely once again. The smoke from the stove made Blair's eyes sting and water, and he pressed his palms to them in an attempt to push the tears back. Sighing, he left the kitchen and went back to work.

***

James walked slowly to the stable. Seeing Blair engaged with a kitchen maid, for James had known immediately that she was no child, had been a shock. The image of the two of them in an embrace lingered in his mind.

Over and over, Blair had insisted his rightful place was that of a servant and James had fought that assertion body and soul. He’d fought because it was not the relationship he wanted with Blair. But seeing Blair in the kitchen, a look of both surprise and pleasure on his face, was making him rethink that. Perhaps Blair would be happier as a servant. He would be able to find someone like the lusty chit who had been making her case. Oh, yes. James had heard it all and had interrupted before he was forced to hear Blair’s answer to her proposition. He didn’t want to study too closely his reluctance to learn of Blair’s response.

***

It was late when James finally returned to Saybrooke. The evening had been pleasant, with Sarah (for he couldn’t reconcile the childish nickname with the elegant woman before him) recounting tales of managing the huge estate and fussing over him with an attentiveness he couldn't remember having ever experienced from her before. He'd allowed himself to relax, soaking in the atmosphere of a well-run home and the sight of a beautiful woman who once meant something to him.

Sarah was older now and like things that were truly fine, had grown even more lovely. James watched her and wondered at the life he might have had with her as his wife. A small shudder ran through him and Sarah called to have more logs thrown on the fire.

Marriage was often referred to as being leg-shackled and men joked and moaned about the necessity of the deed, of the duty to beget heirs. Perhaps because Sarah was his first love and he couldn't imagine moving beyond it, James had looked upon marriage quite differently. The idea of his own household, the woman he loved beside him in the garden, at social functions, naked in bed, had seemed nothing like being shackled.

Shuddering again, he made excuses about coming down with something. Sarah had insisted he stay the night while her husband, Lord Bellingham, glared. He was nearly as old as James’ father and still looked upon his wife with keen affection. James took the hint and made his good-byes. As soon as he reached the woods, he whooped with the joy of reprieve.

Thank God she had been more greedy than in love. Thank God he'd felt the need to define his life outside of Saybrooke. Thank God he'd found Blair.

And he wouldn’t lose him to the role of servant or to a piece of baggage that saw a husband in Blair.

Putting his heels into Ares’ flanks, he hurried back to the only home he really understood. Blair.

***

Gilbert met him at the door. It was late enough that the rest of the household was asleep. The lock snicked into place as Gilbert bid James good night.

In town, parties would be at their height and the streets in the fashionable parts of town would have been nearly as busy as in the light of day. Here in the country, there weren't nearly as many ways to stay amused or debauched. James didn't miss being either of those things, but he did miss late nights with Blair and the long conversations that sometimes lasted until dawn.

Blair was most certainly asleep. It would be natural to have him woken so that he could help James undress. It's what valets did. It was their function after all. James began to call the footman back and have Blair summoned when he stopped himself.

The morning would come soon enough and Blair with it, he'd just have to wait. Climbing the long stairway to the upper floor, James tentatively let his hearing expand. At first all he heard was the muffled sounds of snoring, clocks ticking, beds creaking, low moans. Then the tiny scratching of claws on floorboards, the wings of bats flapping rhythmically as they finished up their nightly hunt, the thud of bread being kneaded and readied for the morning.

And finally heartbeats, first the ones from above, slow in sleep. Then hundreds from below, abnormally fast, indicating small creatures. The sound was deafening as it swelled in his head. Falling forward, he knelt on a step and breathed as Blair had taught him, fighting to contain the noise that was assaulting him in the silent house and edging him into that frozen oblivion.

Severally minutes passed before he was able to take his hands away from his ears and he stayed kneeling on the cold marble, his breathing ragged. Slowly he stood up and finished the trek to his room. His shoulders were hunched, his gait halting. He'd done this very thing a dozen times successfully. With Blair by his side, he'd been able to go through the layers of noise, isolate and study the auditory information. Left on his own, he was like a babe running headlong into a bog, the danger of being swallowed up all too real.

***

Morning came but a few hours later, though none but the servants knew it. Hours and hours after the sun had come up, the masters and mistresses stirred, called out and were attended to. Drapes were flung open, some maliciously, allowing the sharp sunlight to assault hung-over eyes and the lords, ladies and visiting gentleman were coaxed from slumber. Baths for some were drawn, others ate lavishly in bed.

Blair entered James' room quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but fearing that James would never call for him if he waited. James had apologized and told him to forget the incident, but Blair feared that yesterday would never be forgotten, that he had forever damaged his friendship and perhaps his position.

After James had left, the afternoon had dragged by even with Mrs. Martin's arrival and consequent non-stop chatter. Blair had done his best to be attentive and responsive, but the only time he was able to put his misery aside was when Mrs. Martin began to speak about Stephen and the foreigners he regularly invited to the estate.

"There's this Frenchy guy, a marquees he is, and nothing but criticisms ever come out of that pretty mouth. Flirted with Lady Saybrooke, right in front of his lordship. He just about swallowed her hand while he was kissing it, and I believe he's gotten at least two of the girls from town with child. Comes and goes without so much as a by your leave. Never know when he's going to show up and every time he does, Master Stephen goes crazy, checking out all the rooms, ordering the maids to redo every chore twice, pacing until the place is polished to a high shine."

"Sounds like an odd fellow for Stephen to invite." Blair wrapped his hands around his cup of tea. The warmth was welcome, though the tea was weak.

"Odd, aye, and not the only odd house guest that's come here."

"Oh, what have the others been like?"

"That Russian, Count Veransky, is a lovely man, but his accent's so thick, you can't hardly understand a word he says." Mrs. Martin pushed her hair back in a gesture that Blair recognized from growing up. She liked the count.

"Was master Stephen as—umm, concerned when the count came?"

"Oh, no. The count always seemed happy with everything so I don't think master Stephen ever worried about his visits."

"How often do they come?" Blair set the delicate cup on the table. Mrs. Martin picked it up and swirled it, then set it back down and hunching over it, studied the contents. Blair watched her with some trepidation. Mrs. Martin's tea leave readings were rare and unfailingly accurate.

She looked up at Blair, her soft, round face filled with an equal measure of awe and fear.

"Blair, boyo, you're in deep. Too deep. You realize that, don't you?"

Ducking his head, Blair pondered his answer, but finally couldn't bring himself to pretend to not understand.

"Yes."

She put her hand on his arm and squeezed it reassuringly. "Oh, Blair, what have you gotten yourself into?"

That was the question. Living in a household filled with refugees like himself, living with a name not his own, on money duped from his betters…and the only thing that really mattered was a misbegotten friendship that made no sense at all.

Placing his hand over Mrs. Martin, Blair answered, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I hardly believe it myself."

Blair picked up the cup, looking at the leaves intently. "What is it you see, Mrs. Martin?"

Looking away, the elderly housekeeper blinked a few times, and Blair saw that she had tears in her eyes.

"I see a lot of pain. You're not who you say you are, Blair O'Malley. You're something else entirely from the boy that left here in the middle of the night. And something has a hold of you and it's not going to let go."

Fear seized Blair. She could tell, she could see the lies he'd told, the ways he'd thieved, the duplicity of his life. "Is it, the thing that has a hold of me, is it, bad?"

Mrs. Martin took the cup out of his hands and glanced at the leaves plastered against the porcelain. "There's no telling that, Blair."

Could he ask? How could he not ask? "Can you tell if I will remain as James' valet?" The real questions, at his side? In his life? he left unsaid.

"I don't see the life of a servant in your cards, boyo. I don't think this position is something you should count on."

A lump of unshed tears formed in Blair's throat and stayed there the rest of the day and into the night.

"Tell me about these friends of Stephen's." And Mrs. Martin did, spilling details that had no meaning to her, but started to paint a picture for Blair.

James' room was nearly as dark as night, the heavy, brocade curtains effectively blocking any light from penetrating. Blair carefully maneuvered his way with the heavy tray into the dark depths, finding the table to set it upon by feel. Then he waited, surprised that his actions hadn't awakened James, who was the lightest of sleepers.

Shrugging at the oddity of that, he decided to wake James and approached the bed. Placing his hand on James' shoulder, he shook it lightly.

The sleeping man exploded into action, his hand shooting out and grasping Blair's throat which he squeezed. Blair batted at the steel grip ineffectually, trying to get words out, but all that passed his lips were inarticulate sounds of pain and fear as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. It didn't take long for those sounds to fade as Blair lost consciousness and hung limply in James' hand.

James became aware of a weight dragging on his arm and released it.

What in damnation? He'd been plagued by his sight and hearing most of the night. Both had been abnormally sensitive and he had lain in bed, stiff with tension as he sought to find a way to damper them. Nothing was working until he breathed in and out in the rhythm that Blair had taught him and imagined himself deaf and blind. Thankfully peace had descended then in the form of a complete blackout of sight and sound and he'd fallen asleep, only to awaken with his senses still blanked out, a hand threatening him.

For a moment he feared he was stuck in the silent, dark place he'd retreated to, but then he pushed and found he could hear harsh breathing from his attacker, though the darkness still prevailed. He swung out of bed and padded over to the windows, flinging the drapes aside, then turned to see just who had invaded into his room.

It was Blair. He lay sprawled on the floor, small movements and groans signifying that he was slowly regaining consciousness.

James stayed by the window, paralyzed by the realization of what he'd done and what he'd almost done. Watched as Blair slowly struggled to his knees, his hand at his throat. When Blair finally raised his eyes to James, he froze and to James' horror, there was fear in them.

"Blair—I—I was asleep. I'd pushed my senses way down and I didn't realize it was you—I didn't mean —I would never —you know I would never—" Still, he stayed rooted to the spot, afraid to approach Blair, afraid to see him flinch away.

Slowly Blair got to his feet, using the bed to leverage himself up. Shaking his head, he said, "I know." He clearly wanted to say more, but those two words had come out as a croak and he grimaced in pain.

Moving over to the tray, James poured a glass of water and handed it to Blair, who took it with hands that shook.

After he'd taken a sip, he said, his voice a raspy whisper, "I should know better than to shake a soldier in a dark room. Stupid of me. I mean—" Bair paused, the discomfort of talking even in a whisper difficult, "you are on a mission."

Blair's face brightened as he seemed to realize something. "James, your senses, how low were you able to take them?"

"Sit down, Blair, before you fall down." James pulled the chair up and gently guided Blair into it. He couldn't believe Blair was interested in this now, after what he'd done.

"How far?" Blair's eyes gleamed in the bright, late morning light.

Sighing, James knew Blair wouldn't let it drop until he had answers.

"All the way," he admitted, frightened at the admission.

"All? As in blind and deaf?"

"Yes."

"Touch, too?"

"Yes, I—the places that—" James' voice trailed off, unable to reference what had been done to him the night before last and the residual pain he was still in.

"Could you do it again?"

"I don't know, cub, I had no idea I could do this much and look what happened? This sensitivity is a curse. Perhaps it is insanity. It's simply not natural for a man to be able to hear and see the things I do, nor natural to be able to turn it off." James sat down heavily on the bed, putting his head in his hands.

"No, I think you're wrong." Blair's voice was quieter than a whisper and it took James' "curse" to hear him.

"Once upon a time this was probably normal. There were no towns, just small enclaves of people. But once populations became denser and there was noise, smoke, dirt, horrible smells…well, then, slowly people would have willfully dampened their senses until they lived a life less than half of what it had once been. But you—you have the capacity to be a truly natural man."

"And nearly kill my friend in the process."

James couldn't know what that statement, said as self-condemnation, meant to Blair.

His greatest fear was not that James might hurt him. He had endured pain for far less reasons. The knowledge that James still called him friend made the bruises around his throat fade in significance.

They stood looking at each other and something in that exchange seemed to give them each the reassurance they sought.

James ventured closer to Blair and allowed himself the luxury of putting his hand on Blair's face, feeling the strong bones that gave his friend such undeniable beauty. His hand moved lower to Blair's throat, where bruises were already surfacing. Blair remained entirely still as James laid his hand over them.

"Ah —you won't believe this, but I can feel the heat of the bruises and the blood pooling at the surface." James winced as the knowledge of the damage he had done was translated through his fingers.

"James—" Blair croaked—"I do believe it. I believe we are at the very beginning of exploring the things you are capable of." Blair put his hand over James', holding it there, soaking up the warmth.

"No more talk for you today. I'll tell Mrs. Martin you've come down with laryngitis."

"But—"

"No argument. You're to rest. I know how hard it is for you to be quiet, but believe me, you'll feel better much quicker if you rest your voice."

Nodding, Blair leaned back in the chair, the effects of being throttled making him feel shaky and worn out. Closing his eyes, he drifted off, only to wake some time later in James' bed, a blanket covering him and a glass of water at hand. The room was empty and felt cold, though Blair couldn't tell if it was the fire being nearly out, the shivery way he felt, or James' absence that made him feel so chilled.

Slowly he stood, and wondered what he should do. He couldn't just hide in this room all day and do nothing. And James needed to hear the things he'd learned. Rubbing his throat, he knew he'd never be able to convey it all. He went to James' desk, pulling out the drawers until he found paper and quill. Then he sat down and began to write everything he knew, everything he had conjectured. So intent was he on the task at hand, that he missed the shadow that paused at the door and then passed. When he was done, he placed the sheaves of paper in the desk, locking it. Then he rose and went in search of James.

***

There was only one place in Saybrooke that James truly felt comfortable in and that was the stable. He retreated there after Blair fell asleep. Right now all he really wanted to do was saddle----gather Blair and leave this place. Finding out why his brother had betrayed his country and to whom he had sold it out to was a task and duty he couldn't turn away from, no matter what the personal cost. The sooner he learned what he needed, the sooner he'd be able to right the grave injustice done to his men and remove the threat to England.

Hiding in the stables wasn't going to get the deed done and James reluctantly left, searching out his brother and companions. They were found lounging in the gaming room, deep into cards and their cups. James sat down across from them.

Stephen looked up. "Why James, you've decided to join our party? How very unlike you." He turned to Birdy. "James has always been quite serious, much too serious for his own good, I'd say, for all the good it did him."

Birdy snorted, briefly looking up and then back down at his cards. "He maybe serious, but I found him most amusing the other night."

James steeled himself against responding and allowing them to see his discomfort. It wasn't too hard to look mystified by the comments as he found Stephen's friends incomprehensible.

Let them think him a lackwit as well as insane, every way in which they underestimated him would serve his purpose. He admitted to himself that was all well and good—but the awareness that Stephen saw him that way rankled.

"Who's winning? You, Stephen?"

Stephen didn't even look up, his whole attention on the cards in front of him.

Hemmings answered. "Stephen, win? For a serious fellow, you make quite the joke."

Stephen scowled at Hemmings, but didn't bother to look up at James, who had a moment's insight of what it might be like to be a servant like Blair and essentially invisible. He quickly pushed that awareness aside and concentrated on what was going on.

Birdy added, "One of the reasons we come to this moldering stone heap stuck away in the country, aside from the fine wine cellar your father provides, is your brother's ever optimistic nature. Despite every indication to the contrary, he still thinks he knows how to play cards and will start to win any hand now."

"Do shut up Birdy and play. James isn't interested in my dealings with that bitch, Lady Luck."

Hemmings made sound suspiciously like a snort, but quickly turned it into a cough when Stephen glared at him.

Banning threw his cards down, announcing, "I'm quite finished."

His statement went unanswered and he drifted over to the window, which overlooked one of the formal gardens. After a few more rounds of bets, the game came to an end with Birdy raking in the winnings.

Banning came back to the table and James was surprised at the way the hair on his arms stood up as the man came near.

"I need some fresh air. Perhaps your brother would sit in my place." Banning actually smiled in his direction, if you could call the barring of teeth a smile and it was all James could do to return it and not look away.

Stephen had thrown his cards down in disgust and now slouched in his chair, one booted foot upon Banning's chair, which he nudged in James' direction.

"What do you say, dear brother? Care to play a hand or two? I wouldn't mind relieving you of some of Grandmother's inheritance."

James stood up and appropriated the chair from Stephen's foot. "It always galled you that she had such a soft spot for the second son, didn't it? She was quite the toast even in her fifties. Who would have thought she would outlive two dukes, a marquis and an earl?"

The men left at the table grinned at that information, thinking their prospects for coming away with heavier pockets just got considerably better.

Banning had left the room by the French doors and Birdy got up to shut them, muttering about the inconsideration of some people, giving the impression that there was little love lost between them.

Hemmings dealt and the four men settled in.

***

After writing out everything that seemed pertinent to the identity of the traitor, Blair left the bedroom. First he stopped in his room and selected another cravat. The one he was wearing was rumpled. Carefully trying to tie it to hide the marks, Blair had to retie it several times before he was satisfied that the dark marks encircling his neck were hidden.

There wasn't much for him to do until James returned and he didn't like the idea of explaining why he was whispering. The library would be as good a place as any to pass the afternoon away, and Mrs. Martin was unlikely to wander into it.

As always, the sight of the floor to ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound volumes, made his heart quicken. His feet moved him to the section that he knew almost by heart, and he studied the books, his fingers tracing the gold-embossed titles. Just as he was about to pull one down the library door opened and Blair quickly snatched his hand away, belatedly reminding himself, that he was a servant, not a guest.

Turning, the apology lodged in his throat, he saw that one of Stephen’s guests stood in the doorway. It was the inordinately tall fellow, who looked as if he'd recently been ill. Blair bowed and croaked, "My apologies, sir. I was just fetching a book for my master." Grabbing the book that had caught his attention, he murmured, "I’ll leave you to the room's delights."

The man said nothing, simply stared at him, and Blair tucked the tome closer to his side.

"You're Ellison's man, aren't you?" The voice was surprising rich, rumbling with unexpected power.

"Yes, sir." Blair waited. Having been addressed, he couldn't simply bolt, though every instinct told him to put distance between himself and this man.

The man stepped closer, and Blair forced himself to stand his ground. "My name is Jonathan Banning. Have you heard of me?"

Blair shook his head no, and tried to swallow. There was something about the tall, cadaverous man that alarmed him, but he didn't know why.

Banning reached out and Blair did step back, but all the man did was lift the book so he could read the title.

"The Voyage of The Beagle. What an odd book for Ellison to request. I would never have pegged the man as any kind of scholar. While you…well, let's just say, I've heard about you."

There was a smile on Banning's face as he said that, but there was no crinkle of skin around his eyes, no indication that the smile was anything but placed upon the angular face.

"We know someone in common, Mister O'Malley."

Blair instinctively backed away as Banning came closer.

"Mr. Warbeck has been most informative about your—your particular vulnerabilities."

The bookcases at his back prevented Blair from ducking the hand that reached out, but he jerked his head to the side before Banning could connect with his face. Instead, Banning's hand latched onto Blair's hair and tightened, swinging Blair's head back and pulling it toward him.

Fighting to keep his eyes open and not reveal his fear, Blair stared into the deadest eyes he'd ever seen. He had thought Warbeck was cold and vicious, and Ebury evil, but he knew they were angels compared to the man he was dealing with right now.

"Yes, I can see you know me. Good. Makes this much simpler. I’ve watched you for some time and I can see your devotion to Lord Ellison. It’s most—touching, if ill advised. But it tells me you’re capable of dedication, not an attribute I come across often and one I happen to value. Ellison isn’t fooling me with his visit. I know what he seeks. For his sake, I want you to convince him to give up is quest. Do you understand me?"

The stark, cold eyes bore into Blair’s, cruel intent evident. Blair considered saying no, that he didn’t have that kind of influence, but before that thought could turn into resolution, he heard himself saying, "Yes." It was little more than a rasp.

"Yes?"

Blair forced the words past his swollen throat. "Yes—s-sir." A little louder, no less raw.

"Well, good. I like you, boy." Banning released Blair's hair and swept it back from Blair's face. The hand on his skin sickened Blair, the cold trail of Banning's fingers etched into his skin.

"I don’t care how you discourage Ellison, just see that he leaves here in the morning. He’s weak-minded; you shouldn’t have any trouble re-directing his inquiries. And if that task is too much for you, well, then I'll deal with him. I must warn you, however, that my way of dispatching bothersome gnats like Lord Ellison is generally rather messy."

Shaking his head no, Blair tried to verbalize his protest. No sound managed to get past his lips and Banning’s tugged the cravat down, revealing the bruises.

"Ach, lad, I see you’ve had a bit of trouble. With Ellison?"

Blair said nothing, but Banning went on as if his suspicions had been confirmed.

"So it’s like this, is it?" Banning’s cold hands touched each mark as Blair forced himself to stay still. His breath was oddly cold, as he leaned in to study Blair’s neck. Taking his eyes away from the bruises, he looked at Blair.

"And still you stay?"

Blair shook his head, denying what Banning was implying.

"No," he tried to clear his throat in order to make himself understood, "this was an accident."

"This was an accident?" Banning was incredulous. "Blair, you’re young and I see I have much to teach you. First lesson: there are no coincidences, no happenstance, no accidents. Ellison can excuse this anyway he likes, but I hope you are intelligent enough to understand that it is what it is."

Banning’s kept his hand on Blair’s throat, lightly rubbing the bruises, his gaze one of fascination. Blair tried to swallow, but his throat muscles were paralyzed by the hand that encircled his throat. Instead of warming, the hand seemed to be getting colder, though that made no sense.

"Perhaps you’d like to come with me. I could protect you from Ellison, and if you pleased me, I’d make sure neither Warbeck, nor Ebury ever held power over you again. I am a influential man, and I take care of those who pledge themselves to me."

Banning took his hand away, but not his eyes.

"You have a lot of your mother in you, even if your looks do favor your father." When Blair’s head shot up, Banning nodded and continued, "Yes, I knew your father. Knew him well."

"Tell me…"

"Oh, no, my boy, that information will have to be earned. Come with me, I’ve many ways to reward you and information about your father is just one."

Blair considered the offer. If he went with Banning it would be a way to get to the bottom of this intrigue, and perhaps keep James safe as well. Shamefully, he admitted to himself that he didn’t have the courage to find out what pleasing Banning would mean, even if it did bring to an end the plot against England and finding out more about his father.

"So what will it be? Ellison or me?"

Taking in the first deep breath he’d managed since Banning had entered the library, Blair looked into Banning’s soulless eyes and said, "I’ve already pledged myself to Lord Ellison and I don’t break my word."

The dead eyes flashed fire, and then the smile was back, the one that had no impact on the eyes. "Who would want a man who broke his ties so easily? I admire you for your loyalty to someone who has so clearly found fault with you."

The dark shape that was Banning moved away, heading for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob.

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, watching and listening. If I hear that you have failed me, I will take you, and punish you, slowly, carefully, and with infinite attention. You will either bend to my service or it will take a long, long time for you to die. Perhaps even years. Never doubt my commitment to you."

Blair stayed frozen in place until he heard the door close and then sank to his knees, unable to hold himself upright a moment longer. He shook with fear and reaction to having Banning’s hands on his body. One had only to hear that voice to know it didn't exaggerate nor did it belong to a man who contained even an once of mercy. As an adversary, he was a nightmare come to life. Blair swayed on his knees and tried to think, tried to pull himself away from the abyss of terror that had opened up before him.

Think. He might seem like a devil, but he was a man. He had revealed himself and by doing so, had made himself vulnerable as well. It was infinitely harder to battle the unknown and unseen than an enemy made of flesh and blood, and defined by a name. And he considered James a bothersome gnat. Blair had no doubt that the day would come when Banning would look at James and realize the enormity of that miscalculation.

Slowly Blair got to his knees. Moving as if he'd aged twenty years in twenty minutes, he replaced the book he'd come for and left the sweet womb of the library. The climb to his room took a long time and Blair was sweating by the time he reached the top.

There was much to be done, but the hardest part was going to be getting James to leave now, no questions asked. For to answer any questions was to risk Banning's many ears hearing and reporting.

In his room, he hurriedly packed his small bag, picked it up and walked back down the stairs to James' room. He didn't allow himself to think beyond getting James out of this place and away from Banning.

The room was empty and cold, the fire having died out. The servants seemed to take some perverse joy in neglecting it, but instead of stopping to remake it, Blair began the task of packing James' things.

Time for supper came and went before Blair had everything packed, but anxiety kept Blair from feeling hunger. Getting away wouldn’t be hard if he could convince James of the necessity of leaving. Convincing him, however, might be impossible.

Sitting down in the chair, Blair waited and hoped that James would make an early night of it. The room got colder, and then colder still, and Blair waited. Finally as the clock chimed midnight, James stumbled into the room.

Blair had fallen asleep and jerked awake at the sound of James’ clumsy entrance. The smell of alcohol and tobacco was strong and grew stronger as James stumbled to where Blair sat.

"Blair! There you are! You should be asleep." Falling to his knees, James looked up at Blair with bleary eyes.

"I hurt you." His hands came up and slowly untied the rumpled cravat, gently pulling it off. Then he carefully placed his fingers on the bruises, feeling heat at the surface. Blair didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink and belatedly James realized Blair was afraid. Retracting his hands quickly, he unbalanced himself and fell backwards, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

"James!" Blair’s cry was a harsh croak and it pained James to hear it. Covering his ears, he lay on the floor and tried to block out the sound of Blair saying his name in that horrible voice. His hands were pulled from his ears and Blair’s lips took their place.

"James," he breathed, his voice considerably quieter than a whisper. The touch of Blair’s mouth on his ear, warm, moist air tickling him, sent James spiraling into a dark whirlpool of desire. With a groan, he tried to push Blair away, tried to push the sweet agony away, but Blair held fast.

At first, Blair’s words buzzed in James’ befuddled brain, but as Blair repeated them over and over, the meaning started to penetrate.

He started to say, "What about Banning?" but Blair put his hand over his mouth as soon as he breathed the first syllable.

"Shh," Blair’s velvet mouth was still on his ear, and the sound of shh accompanied by the moisture from Blair’s mouth and his scent made James’ cock press against his tight breeches. Flinging his hand out, he latched onto Blair’s shirt and tried to concentrate on what Blair was telling him.

"James, we have to leave here. We have to leave tonight. Do you understand me?"

"Leave? Because of Banning?" James tried to force his brain to understand what Blair was telling him.

"He has spies everywhere. He can’t know that I’ve told you. Please, James, please, shh. We just have to go. Can we go?"

Clutching Blair, James realized the only thing he understood was that Blair wanted to leave, now, tonight, and that he was afraid of Banning. James wanted to sit up and scoff at that, the idea of that sack of bones being a threat seemed ludicrous. Looking at Blair, whose eyes were huge and nearly black in the low light of the one candle, he knew he couldn’t dismiss Blair’s fears that easily.

"Help me up." Blair put his hands under James’ arms and slowly heaved the bigger man to his feet.

The alcohol was rapidly losing its hold as James saw how very serious Blair was about Banning and leaving. Damn. The man must have really been convincing to make Blair want to bolt like this.

"I’ve got you all packed." Blair gestured at the portmanteaus lined up.

"I’m not leaving, Blair." Even knowing that Blair was upset, he was unprepared for his reaction. The breath left his friend's body, the blood drained from his face and James could make out the beads of sweat that popped out on his upper lip. What the hell could that silent man have said to Blair to make him so terrified?

Blair’s look of dismay turned to one of determination. "Be reasonable, they know why you're here. We aren’t going to get any more information than we have."

"That may be, but I don’t run simply because someone says "Boo!" I think you know me better than that."

Blair’s face got whiter and he flinched at the implication. "I do know you, you have to understand—"

"Get a good night’s sleep, Blair, and we’ll talk in the morning. You’ll see, you’ll feel better then."

Blair’s shoulders slumped as he picked up his bag. "All right, I’ll wait until the morning. But then we leave, James."

James shut his eyes and listened as Blair made his way up the stairs. He was listening so hard to Blair that he didn’t hear someone come in and only realized he wasn’t alone when a voice asked, "Going somewhere?"

Opening his eyes, James saw Banning standing in his doorway, one shoulder propped against the door jam, arms crossed.

James looked closer at the man he’d barely spared a glance at before. Banning was dressed with impeccable taste and yet it didn’t seem to have any effect. He was an unremarkable man, except for his extreme thinness. The sharpness of his nose gave him a hawk-like appearance and his height seemed greater simply because he took up so little space on the way up. The look on his face was bland, but James had no trouble recognizing the signs tension that betrayed his nonchalant pose.

The bags were lined up by the door so James decided to play out the hand.

"Yes. Time to get back to the pleasures of town."

"What? In the middle of the night?" Banning shook his head at the folly, but there was a sly smile on his face.

"No." James watched with some satisfaction as the smile faltered.

"We’ll be leaving in the morning. First thing."

Banning straightened, folding his arms across his chest. "How very uncivilized, not to mention unfashionable. You’ll be missed, old top, you’ve added quite a bit of amusement to my visit here."

James schooled his features to remain slack. Better the man thought him still drunk enough to take that comment as a compliment.

At that moment, Blair reappeared. James watched as the sight of Banning him flinch.. Watched in fascination as tiny drops of sweat appeared. The next thing he was aware of was Blair at his side, squeezing his shoulder and Banning saying, "I don’t imagine I will be awake to make farewells, so I’ll say it now. Have a good journey back to London."

Blair looked down at James, who refocused his eyes on Banning.

Pulling himself together he said, "Thanks, old boy. I hope to run into you again some time." Carefully he slurred the words and added a wink to the effect.

"That would give me a great deal of pleasure as well, Ellison." Banning bowed from the waist in an oddly formal way.

Banning's eyes lingered on Blair and he seemed to come to a decision. "And I'll give my regards to your mother when I see her next."

James felt Blair stiffen next to him, and knew what your words would mean to his friend. He didn't allow his body to signal his understanding of the by-play, staying slouched in his drunken pose.

Banning waited a beat, but when he got no reaction, he turned on his heel and left.

As soon as he was gone Blair turned to James. "What did you tell him?" It came out a cacophonic whisper.

"That we’re leaving in the morning." James whispered in reply. Banning’s brief and seemingly benign visit had convinced James that Blair’s terror was well founded. When Banning’s eyes had latched on to Blair, the raw rapacity had been all too evident. It had made the skin on his neck prickle and that was a sign he had learned never to ignore. And that last remark about Blair's mother…there was much more going on here.

"Blair—"

Blair knelt down by his chair. "James," said so softly that even James had to concentrate to hear, "somehow he knows that you are seeking answers to the ambush. He thinks you’re addled enough to not be a threat, so he’s let us go, but I don’t think we’re in the clear. And he has his people everywhere, we must act as if we take him seriously."

James bent over and placed his mouth by Blair’s ear. He whispered, "Oh, I take him seriously. And I will act the part of the addled bumbler who allows his servant to convince him to abandon his commission."

Pulling back, haunted eyes met his, "I would understand if you chose to stay."

Cupping the back of Blair’s head, James pulled him close to resume his whispering. "There is no point in staying, you were right about that. I have what I came for." He let his thumb rub the spot behind Blair’s ear, then sat back.

Blair rose to his feet, the look on his face one of uncertainty. "Do you want my help undressing?"

Shaking his head, James waved him away. "I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning."

"Good night, then."

Once again James listened as Blair made his slow way up the stairs to his room. This time, he didn’t return.

***

In the morning Blair came downstairs looking as if he hadn’t taken his clothes off, let alone slept. James was alert and ready. He knew now that Banning was at the center of the web. His brother’s role and motive was yet to be exposed, but James had no doubt that he had found the information he had come for.

He’d written a letter to his father and Georgianna, thanking them for their hospitality and feigning a need to retreat to his own house in town. His father would absorb the news with a scowl at his son’s weakness, but be pleased to have him gone.

Blair looked rumpled and exhausted, but he emanated a wild energy. He was slinging the bags around and bolting down the stairs to the stable before James even was even able to say good morning. The lad was running on fear and survival instinct. James had seen it in long-running battles, when men were braced for the worst, with very little left to give physically. He would collapse soon, and James just hoped he’d be able to get him home before he did.

When he finally caught up with Blair in the stable, he was saddling James’ horse as one of the lads saddled Nightingale.

"Are you going to say good-bye to Mrs. Martin at least?"

Blair looked up from under Ares belly where he was pulling the cinch tight. "Already have."

"And have you bid farewell to that saucy pot maid?" James teased, and was surprised when Blair frowned at him and said curtly, "No."

"Well, if you’re ready to leave, let's be off."

Blair did just that, handing James his reins and collecting his from the lad, then leading the horses out into the open yard. Swinging up onto his, James looked back at Blair, who was settling into his saddle. James noted the hands that shook as they pulled on the reins to turn Nightingale around and head the horse toward town and home.

James dug his heels in and guided his horse next to Blair’s. "Were you able to sleep last night?"

Blair didn’t look at James, but said, "Yes."

Blair may have been able to lie about his identity and where he came from, but had no talent for lying to James. "Like hell you did."

"That would accurately describe my night."

"Banning really affected you." James watched Blair out of the corner of his eye, trying to understand where Blair’s reaction was coming from.

"The man is dangerous, James. Appearances can be deceiving. You of all people should know that." Blair sounded uncharacteristically sarcastic and James looked closer. There was more than a sleepless night wearing at him, but getting to the bottom of it would have to wait until they got back home.

"Yes, I understand the nature of appearances and deceit." As James said that thought of his time as Alfie and how easy it was to make people believe you were harmless. Blair gave him a sharp look, then hunched over in the saddle and fell silent.

***

Blair shifted in the saddle again, and tried to refocus his eyes, which desperately wanted to close. His hand ached where the tea had burned him and his throat felt as if he’d swallowed a glass of sand. Twice he’d some close to tumbling off the horse as he fell asleep, but was saved from that ignominy by James’ quick actions. Thoughts of Banning flitted in and out of his befogged brain. How to convince James to take every precaution, when he knew James’ need to get to the truth was driving him relentlessly?

And then there was the threat of forced servitude to Banning. The shivers started then and soon developed to outright tremors. James reached over and took the reins out of Blair's shaking hands and stopped both horses.

"Blair…"

"I'm fine. We'll be home soon. Give back the reins, James." The fierce words sounded ludicrous whispered and the next thing Blair knew, James was behind him, settling into the saddle. Blair considered protesting, but didn't have the energy. Besides, it was a relief to be able to lean back, knowing James would keep him safe as he slept.

A few hours later, the sound of the horses' hoofs on cobblestone alerted him to the fact that they were on the outskirts of London. They received quite a few looks from people surprised to see two men sharing a horse, one so obviously an aristocrat, the other so clearly a servant. Blair considered the propriety of the arrangement, but the short sleep he'd gotten had actually made him feel worse rather than better and he doubted he'd be able to stay seated on Nightingale if James abandoned him now. So he said nothing and James appeared oblivious of the stares, making no move to go back to his own beast.

Finally the house on Belgrave Square came into sight. Maybe he had acquired it dishonestly, maybe he was a fool to call it his, but Blair’s heart swelled with happiness at the sight anyway. To be back among people who knew him for just exactly what he was and still looked him in the eye was a great comfort as he tried to make sense of all that had passed in the last week. James' remark about the nature of appearances and deceit reverberated in his head.

He feared it meant that the time among his family and peers had made James recognize that his friend was indeed a fraud. A fraud, a liar, a thief…not the attributes of a gentleman. No, he certainly couldn’t call himself that and perhaps James was finally realizing that.

When they stopped at the back of the house, James dismounted while Blair tried to remember how one got off a horse. He needn't had tried because James took care of that problem, gently pulling him down and setting him on his feet.

By the time they entered the house, Blair was stumbling in his fatigue. Alice and Daisy hurried down the steps, exclaiming their welcome and Danyon and George came running at the commotion. Blair looked at James and was surprised at the look of tenderness he had on his face. Looking around at the beaming faces surrounding them, Blair noted the contrast between this welcome and the one that had met James at his "home".

Just then, as if she had read his mind, Mrs. Duncan came bustling out from the kitchen, exclaiming, "You’re home!"

And indeed they were.

***

They came back today, lookin’ mighty pitiful.

Everyone was excited, but we could see they were in no shape for any kind of ruckus. Mrs. Duncan put them to bed right off and we’ve been tiptoeing around ever since, hoping that when they wake up we will all be back to the way it was.

I can say the alphabet and write me name and Alice can read from the newspaper a little. We can’t wait to show Master Blair that we’ve kept studying. I hope it brings one of them beautiful smiles to his face. If I a ha’penny, I’d give him one, just to see it.

Mrs. Duncan is the only one of us who actually understands the way things work in the kind of fine home that master James grew up in, and she says they can be worse than the streets. Seeing how Lord Ebury done treated Master Blair, I guess I know what she means.

***

The chair by Blair's bed was blissfully comfortable. James had had it built to his specifications. The extra padding had been a brilliant idea. He sat in it now, watching Blair sleep. The fire cast a warm glow in the room and on Blair. In this light, he almost looked at peace, the haunted shadows that been evident since their sojourn to Saybrooke seemed to have retreated.

James no longer fought the need to be here, simply accepted that there was no other place for him at times like this.

The sound of Blair’s breathing filled his ears, each breath relaxing another set of muscles and sending James into deeper into a light trance. It was a different kind of fugue; he wasn’t lost in it as was the usual case. He knew where he was, he knew who he was with, he knew… he knew…he fell asleep

***

Opening his eyes, Blair saw familiar long legs stretched out by is bed. Lifting his head higher, he saw James sprawled in the chair he was so proud of, chin resting on his fist. How often had he awakened to this sight? He didn’t really understand why James chose to sleep in a chair in his room, but every time he woke to see James there, the walls expanded, the sun came out, there were birds in the sky and he felt a rush of emotion so deep he feared he might drown in it someday.

There was much to do yet. There would be no real peace until the men who had betrayed England and James' regiment were brought to justice. But they had a name and that gave them a starting place. It wouldn't be long. And in the meantime, they were home. Blair closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back asleep.

END