Henry.
It had been so long.
Kit had thought he’d forgotten what Henry looked like. He still remembered one night, some years ago now, when he’d tumbled into bed, drunk and miserable, and hadn’t been able to summon up the memory of Henry’s face. He should have been pleased but instead, he’d wept like a drunken fool, as if his heart was breaking in two.
Except, now it seemed that he hadn’t forgotten—not really—because the moment he had laid eyes on Henry, the familiarity of the man’s face, his bearing, his expressions—all of it had crashed into Kit like an unexpected wave, knocking him off his feet.
For years, he’d thought of Henry as the man who had cheated him and left him with nothing. The resentment and bitterness he’d felt over that had kept him going for a long time, like red-hot, smouldering coals keeping a fire alive.
But this afternoon, he had seen Henry’s unmistakable dismay. His mortification at having wronged Kit. Kit could admit that now—Henry’s horror at learning what had happened had obviously not been feigned. There had been real despair in his eyes as Kit had confirmed his worst fears.
All these years, Kit had believed that Henry had just cast him aside, like Kit was nothing. He had been cast aside, of course—that remained true—but not as ruthlessly as he’d once thought. And not without regret.
Henry’s regret did not, however, undo the past. And it did not change the fact that Henry had seen Kit as little more than an object to be used. One that would not be needed as long as first anticipated, and that could disposed of by an instruction given to a servant.
No need to look Kit in the eye and tell him why he was breaking their arrangement early.
But really was that so surprising? Kit had been of no more consequence to Henry than a tailor, or a footman. It was only that the services he provided were rather more intimate—and that he had made the very great error of imagining that genuine feelings had arisen between them while he was providing those services. He could only be grateful that he had not made the even worse mistake of confessing his foolish feelings to Henry, as he had been on the verge of doing so many times.
Henry had simply never reciprocated Kit’s feelings, had he? But then why was he now offering to do whatever Kit demanded to make amends?
Kit stared at his barely-touched dinner, his heart racing as he considered the question… and came to an answer that made his stomach twist.
“If you are making amends, it has to cost you something.”
Kit closed his eyes, regret settling in now.
Henry had been genuinely horrified to learn the truth, and Kit could admit now that the Henry he had known, all those years ago, was the sort of man to do whatever was necessary to make good a wrong he was responsible for.
“You, on your knees for me. Sucking me off in front of everyone.”
Did Kit really want to do that to Henry? To humiliate him like that? Would it achieve anything? Make anything better?
When Kit opened his eyes again, he glanced at the clock on the wall.
Half past eight.
Time to dress and go downstairs.
Henry probably wouldn’t come anyway.
14
Henry
The entrance to Redford’s was very discreet, and only one doorman stood outside. A large man but well-dressed and polite. Henry gave his name to the man, who nodded in recognition and opened the door to admit him.
Inside, there was another door, and another doorman—also large and polite. He directed Henry down a short, well-appointed corridor, which led to a spacious, tastefully decorated room, just like any one might find in an ordinary gentlemen’s club.
Some of the patrons sat in groups, their armchairs clustered around low tables, while others stood, talking in low voices. Several discreet waiting staff circulated. Everyone was well-dressed, and there was no sign of any debauchery.
“Avesbury? Is that you?”
Henry turned towards a familiar voice, smiling when he saw who it was.
“Corbett,” he said, genuinely pleased. “It’s good to see you, man.” He moved towards his old friend, his hand extended and Viscount Corbett took it, a genuine smile lighting up his rather forbidding face.
“And you—it’s been far too long! What brings you back to town at long last?”
“Family matters,” Henry said vaguely. “I am only here occasionally. I don’t bother with society events these days.”
“Christ, nor do I,” Corbett said quickly. “The last time I saw you was at your daughter’s wedding, and we didn’t get much chance to talk. Before that—hell, Avesbury, it must have been a good few years!”
“I made one or two appearances during Marianne’s season a couple of years ago, but happily my sister was only too pleased to deal with bringing her out.”
“I’m not surprised I didn’t see you then,” Corbett said, his expression pained. “I avoid those sorts of events at all costs. Must say though, this is rather the last place I’d have expected to see you turn up. Kit Redford’s club?” He arched a brow. “Did he approve your membership?”
Henry noted Corbett’s surprise with dismay. How well known was the story of what had occurred between him and Christopher?
“Why do you think he would he not?” Henry asked carefully.
Corbett looked momentarily taken aback, then he said carefully, “My apologies. I think I might have spoken rather out of turn.”
Henry shook his head. “Don’t apologise,” he said quietly. “The question was a genuine one. I’d appreciate your honest answer.”
Corbett eyed him doubtfully, then he shrugged. “It’s not something that is freely gossiped about, Avesbury—you needn’t worry about that—but there are a few, like myself, who were regulars at the Lily back then, who remember what happened.”
“And what is that?” Henry asked softly.
Corbett looked pained, but he said, “You’d set Kit up—word was with a very nice little arrangement. And then all of a sudden, it was over and Kit was out on his ear with nothing to show for his time with you.” He met Henry’s gaze. “It was rather assumed he must’ve done something—some whispered that he had stolen from you, or perhaps tried his hand at blackmail.”
“God, no!” Henry interjected, horrified. “You didn’t believe that, did you?”
Corbett looked abashed. “Later, I realised it was nonsense, but at the time I didn’t know what to think—why else would you turn him off so suddenly? And there was no retribution.”
Henry’s stomach churned. “Is that why he—is it true he took up with Lionel Skelton?”
Corbett’s brows drew together in a frown. “I’d forgotten about that,” he said. “Yes, he did. That was a bad business.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Well, I only heard about it after,” Corbett said, “but the story I got was that Skelton was a brute. Used his fists on Kit and one night went too far—left him in a bad way.”
“Christ,” Henry whispered. He felt sick.
“I used to make him beg for my cock like a dog.”
“Are you all right?” Corbett asked, frowning. “You’ve gone as white as a sheet, Avesbury.”