Kit’s anger surprised Henry a little—Kit might as easily have been the babe that was got rid of, after all—but what did Henry know of the life Kit had been born into, or the choices his mother had made?
“Tell me,” he said gently. “What was she like?”
Kit’s anger faded and his lips stretched upwards in a smile that was sweet and a little sad. “She was very beautiful. I suppose everyone thinks that about their mother, but mine really was breathtaking.”
Henry reached a hand out to touch Kit’s face, brushing his thumb over the fine line of Kit’s cheekbone. He was filled with a soft, familiar affection, and it struck him that he had missed feeling like this. It was a different sort of feeling than the one he felt for his children, but with the same sort of tender ache to it.
“I’m not surprised to hear it,” Henry murmured. “If she was anything like you.”
Kit’s eyes flickered to Henry’s. After a few moments, he said, “Beauty is a strange thing. It can be a gift, and it can be a curse. If you’re lucky, it can be the means of lifting you out of the gutter, but it attracts people, ruthless people, who only want to exploit that beauty for their own gain. Who don’t care where you end up.”
“Is that what happened to your mother?” Henry asked gently.
Kit nodded. “Her father sold her to a brothel when she was twelve years old.” He swallowed, hard. “Can you imagine?”
Henry shook his head, his heart aching. Helplessly, the picture of Marianne at twelve came to mind, followed a surge of anger so intense, it took his breath away.
“She was lucky,” Kit said, the bitter edge in his voice giving lie to the words. “One of the patrons was so taken with her, he wanted her all for himself. She was with him for a few years, before she was moved on. She was mistress to a number of men after that until she fell pregnant with me.” He sighed. “I don’t know why she kept me—it wasn’t a very sensible decision.”
“Why not?”
“She could not keep me with her and live as a man’s mistress, at his beck and call. But she didn’t want to live apart from me, so she went back to brothel work—that was when she started at the Golden Lily. It was a fancy place but still, she was servicing multiple men every day, exposing herself to all sort of risks.”
“And you grew up there? In the brothel?”
Kit nodded. “I think I told you before—my mother left me in Mabel’s care when she died. Mabel wasn’t what you’d call sentimental, but for some reason, she loved my mother, so she agreed to look after me.”
“Until you were sixteen,” Henry pointed out.
Kit looked faintly amused. “I had to earn my keep at some point. Even then, she treated me differently from the other whores. I was not made generally available to patrons of the house. She only offered my services to certain clients.”
Henry winced. He remembered his own discussion with the madam after he first saw Kit. “Christopher is a rare beauty. I am only offering his next contract to a very few select patrons.” She'd had several wealthy men vying to become his protector. When Henry’s bid had been accepted, he’d been triumphant.
Was that Kit’s idea of being looked after—being put to work in a brothel at sixteen? Repeatedly sold to the highest bidder?
Even as he had the thought, Henry was filled with self-loathing. Who was he to judge? He’d never questioned how Kit had become a prostitute, or doubted Kit’s eagerness to serve him. At the time, he had been only too happy to take him at face value—a beautiful, pliable young man with a seemingly endless appetite for pleasure. A man who was always available to Henry, never complaining.
A man who’d seemed to be free of any desires or thoughts of his own, and conveniently devoted to fulfilling Henry’s every whim.
How Henry now regretted not looking beyond Kit’s endlessly accommodating nature. Never questioning whether Kit really was as agreeable and obliging as he had seemed. He was so lost in these thoughts that Kit’s next words near passed him by.
“I like your boy, Freddy,” Kit said. “He seems to be a very decent young man.”
Henry blinked, startled by the sudden change of subject, then he smiled, his heart swelling with affection and pride. “He’s always been like that. Even as a very small boy, Freddy would always speak out when he thought something was wrong.”
“You raised him well,” Kit said. “When he came here, the day he rescued Clara, I was so absorbed with looking after her, that I didn’t even think to ask his name. I feel rather foolish that it didn’t occur to me how similar he looks to you when I first knew you. Tall and handsome and—”
Henry placed his fingertips on Kit’s lips, silencing him. “Please,” he said. “Do not say any more admiring things about Freddy.”
Kit’s laughter was muffled under his fingers, the vibrations ticklish. When Henry moved his hand away, Kit said, “I’ll restrict my admiration to his actions, then. He seems to be a man of action.”
“He is rather,” Henry admitted. “Growing up, he cared for nothing but horses and joining the cavalry.”
“Ah. Is that what he wishes to do?” Kit asked.
Henry sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. I’ve tried to persuade him to consider another path—hell, any other path, but it’s all he wants and every time we discuss the matter, we fight.”
“Why do you want him to consider another path?” Kit asked curiously.
“You may not have noticed,” Henry said shortly, “but life in the military is not exactly safe.”
“Is anything?” Kit asked carefully. “Life is… very unpredictable.”
Henry was quiet a moment, then he said, “My younger brother died in Portugal. My mother never got over his death.”
Kit stared at him a moment, then he reached his hand out and stroked a lock of hair back from Henry's face, his touch unbearably gentle. Henry wanted to press into his hand, like a cat, but somehow managed to hold himself back. They stared at one another.
At last, gently, Kit whispered, “You realise—I know you do—that it’s Freddy’s life. And that means, as difficult as it is for you to accept, it’s his decision to make.”
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out.
He thought of Freddy in Sharp’s tonight, bruised and dishevelled and absolutely calm. His boy—his energetic, happy, sometimes angry boy—who seemed to find the best part of himself whenever he was tested.
Kit was right. Henry knew he was right—and it made his heart feel like a lead weight.
He closed his eyes.
“Oh, Henry,” Kit said, his voice brimming with sympathy. He inched closer and his fingers stroked through Henry’s hair again. The tenderness of it was almost unbearable. Over the years, Henry had grown so used to being alone—in this way at least—that he had begun to think himself immune to isolation. It was galling to learn that all it took was a few brief gestures of affection to have him so undone.
“I just want to protect him,” he said hoarsely. “For him to be safe.”
“I know,” Kit said. “You’re a good father, Henry. But your boy is a man now, and he seems to me to be an independent one. I wager he’ll go his own way in the end, with or without your consent. Wouldn’t it be better to at least be able to help him, so far as you can?”