Sinless (The Shaws #1.5)

“The one virtually clinging to your coattails.”

Darius gave the offending garment a twitch. “That is something I do not allow. Favor me with a description of the youth. Maybe then I can help you.”

A muscle twitched in Graham’s jaw. Darius only saw it because the light from the door fell over him starkly. He had moved aside, but not far enough.

“You know him well enough. Had you not dressed yourself in that veneer of aristocratic disdain, I would have believed you.”

Intrigued, Darius studied the man further. Nobody had broken through that particular defense before. He would go on the attack. He was getting too close. Darius never allowed anyone that close to him. He used the distancing tactic again, tilting his head back and staring at his quarry from under half-closed eyelids. “I believe you are jealous, Mr. Graham. Can it be that you did want me, after all?”

Graham’s eyes flashed. The fierce but fleeting spark of raw anger roused Darius. The memory of their kiss returned, roared through him, arousing parts that would be better staying dormant.

He liked that passion. He wanted more of it.

Last night he’d presumed he’d taken Graham by surprise with his kiss. After all, once a person closed his eyes, a kiss was a kiss. Except that one hadn’t been. Graham had closed his eyes but Darius hadn’t. He rarely did, always on the alert for trouble.

Now he wasn’t so sure. Had Graham responded so gloriously because of shock? People’s preferences were not as set as most supposed them. He took a step closer. Another pace would bring him into the man’s body.

Graham stood his ground, but his lips tightened.

“You did,” Darius said softly. “You truly wanted me. I felt your response. That was not feigned. It was not a mere physical reaction.”

The response came immediately. “How could I want you, as you put it? As you reminded me a moment ago, your station is well above mine.”

But he hadn’t denied it. “A cat may look at a king. Presumably a cat may kiss a king, if he has a mind to.” Darius was taunting the lawyer now, daring him to take that final step or take one back, daring him to deny his attraction.

Graham widened his stance, rocking from one foot to the other. “If I said I wanted you, would you answer my other question?”

The cleverness of the response evoked a crack of laughter from Darius. “Try it and see.”

“Not if I have no indication of your intention.”

“My intention, is it?” Darius softened his voice and lowered his volume. The crowd outside, going about their morning business at a pitch that threatened the eardrums, didn’t matter anymore. The space between them and around them became their own. “Should I prove my intention to you…again?”

He let his eyes add to the conversation. He glanced up and down the lawyer’s body, taking inventory. The man was well-shaped, a trim body which showed evidence of supple strength beneath the neat though drab clothes. Darius would enjoy removing each garment slowly, folding the fine fabric and carefully laying it down, giving himself time to appreciate what he was uncovering.

Graham didn’t look away. The indomitable character who had faced down a court full of jeering spectators and the might of Magistrate John Fielding returned to this squalid cell. He was completely masked, his expression still and unresponsive.

At least, it should have been that way, but Darius, long accustomed to assessing people and uncovering hidden secrets, saw more. The eyes, frozen in gray ice, were slightly larger than normal, and the pupils darker. Andrew Graham had responded to him last night, and he was responding now.

Darius could push his advantage, try to persuade the man into further confessions, but if he did that, he might set the lawyer against him.

So he took a pace back and forced an easy smile to his lips. “I must be tired. I should not tease you so. Did you come here merely to see me and ask your questions, or did you come to get me out?”

“I dare say you wish to see the back of this place.”

“I dare say I do.” He would not beg.

“Unfortunately, a quick visit to court is required before you leave. You could grease the jailer’s palm,” Graham suggested. “He will ensure you appear before the magistrate first. Cases are building up, and while Mr. Fielding is fast, he won’t get through them all in a day.”

Sighing, Darius drew out his purse.

As if by magic, the jailer appeared in the doorway, blocking the shaft of light. “You shouldn’t go to those places, my lord.” He advanced, hand extended. “I’ll see you right.”

Darius placed a guinea in the man’s hand. If that wasn’t enough, he’d stay here. He made his point by putting his purse back in his pocket.

The jailer glared at him but closed his fingers over the coin. “I need this cell. I have customers willin’ to pay more.”

“Let them pay, then.”

“Nobody the public will be willing to see,” Graham pointed out. “That’s what you want the single cells for, after all.”

The jailer sighed as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders and grimaced. “Come on, then.”

Darius was not chained like most of the other prisoners. He had paid for that privilege the night before. He strode from the noxious space, other prisoners falling into line behind him. He barely noticed them. Graham walked by his side in a strangely comfortable way, as if he’d always been there.

A narrow passage, stinking as much as the jail, led to the courtroom. A blinding light at the end of the dark space appeared like the gates of heaven, although Darius doubted such a place existed in this part of London. He had never found it here, at any rate.

Bracing himself, he stepped out and headed straight for the box where his brother had stood a few months ago. Now came his real test.

Here, at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court, justice was truly blind. At least the magistrate was. Today the man himself sat behind the substantial bench, his eyes dramatically bound with a black velvet ribbon.

Graham kept pace with Darius and took his place by his side. Darius assumed Graham didn’t want to lose sight of him, since nobody in their right mind brought a lawyer to a hearing like this.

“Your name, sir,” the clerk said. He stood by the magistrate’s side, occasionally muttering to his master.

Darius considered giving a false name but decided against it. Nobody had yet asked him for his name. The court was all but empty, it being too early for many journalists and muckrakers to concern themselves. The courts had stolen quite a march on them, holding the hearings so early. Did they want to keep the raid on Mother Fleming’s quiet, or had they received orders from a different authority? John Fielding was as incorruptible as a magistrate could be, but he would not be above influencing from a higher power.

Darius’s heart sank. Had his family come to hear of his latest exploit? The interview with his father came heart-sinkingly closer. The Marquess of Strenshall had the heartrending sigh down to a fine art.

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