The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (38 page)

Will’s gaze went flat and his brows dropped. “Yes, peacock,” he drawled. “You’re handsome in rags, but you’re stunning in finery, and I think you know it.”

Chris dropped his gaze, his flush returning. Wordlessly, he started to unbuckle his trousers.

When they hit the dusty mahogany floor, there was a
thud
, and the forgotten pen case rolled out of his pocket. “Ah,” Chris said, but could hardly stoop down for it when he was standing in his under-drawers, legs bare below the knee. Will beat him to it in any case, and probably would have regardless.

His friend stood and the case opened with a
click
. He looked up at Chris, eyebrows raised in a silent question. “It’s a nice pen.”

“It’s…” Chris glanced away. He really hadn’t imagined having this extremely serious conversation while he was half in the finest clothing he’d ever worn, and half in his underthings. But Will was insatiably curious. There would be no dodging it. “It’s possible evidence in the Livingstone case,” he said finally. “In fact, I have it on very good authority that it’s
decisive
evidence in the Livingstone case.”

Will studied the pen. “How?”

“W-well,” Chris said. “I thought―that is, it was likely used, rather, it was
promised
to have been used in a forgery that’s been brought against Livingstone in the upcoming trial. Whoever held this pen signed Livingstone’s name to a document he didn’t write.”

“Which is all just hearsay,” Will said with a sigh. He clicked the case back closed and held it out to Chris.

“Yes,” Chris agreed. “Unless we could somehow know who used it.” He met Will’s eyes and watched as understanding dawned.

“Chris, even if I found out for you, you
know
none of that is admissible in court.”

Chris shook his head. “Please, Will, I
really
don’t want to have this discussion with my calves hanging out. Can we just―after this, we can have tea, play cards, and… and talk about it?”

Will took a deep breath. Chris was almost certain he would say no. But then he sighed and dropped his eyes. He muttered something under his breath, something Chris couldn’t make out. He pulled the case back and slipped it inside the pocket in his waistcoat.

The fine trousers fit Chris even better than the rest had. Will walked in a circle around him this time instead of asking him to turn. “You’ll charm every maiden at the ball without even opening your mouth,” Will said, sounding almost bitter about it.

“That is,” Chris pointed out, “until I have to ask them to dance, and it’s all entirely awkward because I haven’t the foggiest idea how.”

Will sighed. He motioned to Chris and, without waiting for a response, stepped out onto the floor until he was right beneath the warm, orange glow of the salamander-powered chandelier. Chris followed dutifully. Will whirled and held out a hand. “All right,” he said, sighing. “I’m teaching you box step, progression, and that’s all. Is that perfectly understood?”

Chris nodded. He took Will’s hand. He was wearing the gloves that had come with his finery, but Will’s fingers were cold even through the fabric. Will took his hand, pulling it off to the side, and stepped very close. He laid his hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping volume. “Put your hand on my back. Just beneath my arm on your shoulder. My arm should lie over yours―yes, just like that.” Unlike his hands, Will was quite warm where Chris placed his hand against his shoulder blade. “Obviously, I’m teaching you the gentleman’s role. Thankfully for you, I know both well enough to explain this.”

Chris nodded, trying not to look at Will’s face, which was―extremely close. He settled his gaze just over Will’s shoulder.

“The waltz is six steps. Or rather, three steps, repeated once.” Will’s voice went even lower, settling into a low tenor drone, down from its usual alto. “It’s simple enough. Just remember: step, side, together. Step forward―always step with your left foot first. There you go.” As Chris put his left foot forward, Will moved his right back, so they moved in perfect symmetry. “Now side. Put your right foot parallel to your left, but step out to the side instead of forward.”

Chris obeyed and Will broke into a smile that touched his eyes. Chris realized that he’d made eye contact at some point and glanced away. “Good. Perfect. Now just together, where you move your left foot to touch your right―perfect!”

“That felt not so bad,” Chris said. He meant to speak louder, but his voice was even lower than Will’s.

“That was quite decent. Now you repeat it. Come on, do it the same as you just did.”

Chris repeated the steps, which came easily enough to his feet. Step, side, together. “Good, again.” Step, side, together. “Keep going.” Step, side, together. Step, side, together. Chris realized that he was smiling widely and he looked right at Will, who was wearing the same expression.

“Good?” Chris asked.

“Perfect,” Will agreed, his eyes curiously soft. “Wonderful. You learn fast.”

They fell into the same steps, step, side, together, until Chris wasn’t even thinking about where he put his feet. He forgot to not make eye contact, and he found himself almost lost in Will’s dark, dark green eyes. Mossy pools, he thought. What a terribly frivolous thought.

“All right,” Will said, and now his voice was barely a murmur. “Next. On the seventh step, you’re going to switch feet. Step forward with your right instead of your left. It’s important that you meet my eyes when you do this. You need to nod or give some signal that you’re about to switch. Otherwise, I―your partner―will fall on her arse.”

Chris nodded.

“I’ll count,” Will said, and they fell into the steps. “One, two, three,” Will said, his voice barely a whisper as they stepped. “Four, five, six, and
switch
, good, three, four, five, six,
switch
, two, three―Gods, Chris, you’re actually quite good at this. It’s not as easy as you’re making it look.”

Chris saw the point of switch. Every time he led with a new foot, they moved in a new direction, whirling around the ballroom instead of just circling the area directly below the chandelier.

“All right,” Will said, and he laughed quietly. The air vibrated with it. “
One
fancy trick, then. Because you’ve impressed me. Here. On four, drop your arm on my back to your side. Hold up your wrist of your other hand and look directly at your cufflink. Then keep taking the same steps with your feet, just―smaller. All right?”

Chris nodded.

“One, two, three,” Will whispered as they danced. “Four―” and Chris dropped his hand as he was told, raising the other. Will ducked under Chris’s upraised arm and moved in a twirl, his fingers interlacing with Chris’s and twisting and Chris tried to remember his steps―he saw why it was important now, with Will’s feet in the midst of a turn, he could easily trip his partner―and then Will was coming back. Chris reached for him again, instinctively knowing how to continue the dance, but he pulled Will back in too close, and suddenly his friend was pressed up against him all the way down his body, and his face was close enough to feel his breath, and William Cartwright was―

―beautiful―

―and it took barely any movement at all to angle his head slightly, pressing their lips together. Chris felt sandpaper against his chin. Apparently, Will wasn’t as baby-faced as he looked. Just very well shaved. Will gasped and stiffened in Chris’s arms for only a moment before making a small, weak noise. The hand that was entwined with Chris’s dropped and wrapped around his neck, and Chris automatically, instinctively enfolded Will with his free arm, pulling him closer still.

He heard a sound, low and desperate, and then realized it was himself.

Will’s mouth was soft, warm, and sweet. His lips parted and Chris, flushing, remembering how Ethan Grey had kissed Viktor val Daren, cautiously slipped his tongue inside. Will groaned. Chris went limp. The hand that Will had laid on Chris’s shoulder came up to caress his face. He shuddered. He gasped. He kissed his friend with a passion he’d never felt before, and it was so real, so normal, so
right
, and―

Not right.

Not right at all.

He wrested himself away.

They stood, panting, under the warm salamander light. Will stared up at him. Chris stared back. His chest heaved. His mouth felt wet and bruised. Will’s faced was crumpled, his mossy pools―ridiculous―already begging. “Please,” he whispered, his throat hoarse. “Please, Chris, please, don’t.”

How couldn’t he?

He turned away. He ran a hand over his face. His heart was pounding. What had just happened? What was wrong with him? He wasn’t like that; he knew he wasn’t like that. His eyes lingered on women most unchivalrously. He
knew
he was―normal. It was that kiss between Grey and the Duke, a kiss that William had
made
him experience, and then―then Grey posing as Miss Albany, a woman he
knew
he was attracted to, and how could he be expected to know what normal
was
when everything was conspiring to make him anything but?

He should have just kissed Georgie in that closet a lifetime ago. If he had just done as he was told and kissed that poor dead girl, then maybe he wouldn’t be so
confused
…

“Chris,
please,
don’t do this to me, not again
―
”

“You need to leave,” Chris said, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. What choice did he have? How could he―how could this―

Will’s voice broke. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded very much like a young boy, balanced on the edge of familiar, and he sobbed. “I’m sorry, I won’t―please don’t push me away,
please
don’t leave me again.”

He couldn’t do this. He whirled. “Get
out.”

Will’s entire body flinched back. He choked on his own sobs. There was horror and shame in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and he twisted and he stumbled over his own feet and he fled.

Only when the door banged shut behind him, leaving Chris alone in the empty, dusty ballroom, did he realize why Will had turned so quickly. He’d managed use his mysterious gift again, after all―to destroy his relationship with his only friend.

He stood in the silence, standing akimbo in the dusty orange glow from the chandelier, and then suddenly, he began to chuckle. Oh, Gods. It was too funny. He threw back his head as gales of laughter tore up his throat and he howled until he collapsed into a pile on the floor and wiped tears from his eyes.

William still had the pen.

Ah, Gods. It was funny, in a way. In a way, it was very, very funny.

His shoulders shook and he started to cry.

hristopher Buckley wandered Darrington like a ghost.

The heat didn’t seem to touch him. He felt as if he floated just above the paving stones, invisible to everyone who passed him by. He’d thrown his daily clothes back on and he knew there was dust and dirt clinging to them, that he hadn’t managed to attach his cufflinks, that his face was swollen from crying and that his hair was tousled from where Will had ran his hands through it. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to see him at all.

He wandered through the best neighbourhoods, the familiar haunts of his youth. Had he ever really been part of this world? Had it ever welcomed him? He wondered, drifting past the Edison estate, if she’d ever missed him. Wondered where he’d gone. Asked after him. What would Missus Edison say, if he marched up the front steps, knocked on the door, and asked?