Chapter Twelve

They stumbled back to the hotel, merried along by the champagne, stopping in alleyways to relieve themselves then stumbling back together, for all the world like three young blades intent upon mischief and a night of whoring. 

Or not, perhaps, so young. 

Jean was beginning to wear a little at the edges, while Edward was starting to feel that sinking as much brandy as he habitually did would not keep his figure trim, nor his aim straight. Oh, he could force himself to be more careful in his practice, make sure he spent more time in the fencing yards, or strengthening his arms and his stomach, his back, his legs, his seat upon a horse, but there was no hope for it. It was beginning to bite. 

Age. 

The last time he had been in Paris, he had never thought he would grow old. 

In fact, he hadn’t thought of anything much, beyond Dickie’s sculpted lips, the long column of his throat with its exquisite Adam’s apple, or the way the dark curls of his hair begged for reverential hands tousling it. That, and the knowledge that he could never touch those curls again, never even plead for a kiss from those lips, never feel his hands sliding down over those slim hips to the hot urgency of Dickie’s prick. Never again know the silk smoothness as he fell to his knees and ran his tongue across its head. 

No. He had been cast out from that heaven, and so there was nothing for him. His father had sent Edward from the country, just as Dickie had sent him from his sight – so easily done by the pair of them. Edward could have borne the banishment, had it not been pronounced with such bored distaste. 

There’s nothing so embarrassing as someone else’s grief. 

He had been left with nothing – not guilt, anger, or shame – just a bleak, awful sea of nothing which promised to swallow him whole.

To make that go away, he had drunk and whored and picked fights, hoping to find a man prepared to level a pistol at his head, a fight he couldn’t win because his hands were still shaking from brandy and who knew what other gut rot he’d poured down his throat. His eyes had been wet and red with spirits as he had thrown insults and gages. 

Most men had ignored him, for who would want to duel with a shameful, foolish, English drunk?

Edward had no-one. Nothing.

Not until Jean had taken him in hand. 

All the same, Edward had always got the impression that the older man was not interested in anything beyond kind friendship. 
Apparently, he had been mistaken.

When they got back to the hotel Peaches strode in like she owned the place, and – snatching Edward’s whip up from her borrowed boots – threw herself down on his bed. 

“Have a seat,” she said to Jean, who sat beside her and looked both pleased and surprised at the way she immediately started caressing his thigh. The girl had spent most of her adult life as a doxy, after all. 

Edward moved to join them when she gave a curt little shake of her head that would once have sent all her long black curls bobbing. “Not you.”

He smiled. So, that was how she wanted to play it?

“Knock that smirk off your face, Valance, before I do it for you. And stand up straight.” 

He was drunk enough to think it funny, but not so drunk that he would risk showing her that. And, of course, her tone burned like candle wax on tender skin. He felt his back prickle with it, felt his cock get hard.

Jean looked between them with an expression of curiosity. 

“You might have been misled,” said Peaches, “as to the nature of our relationship. As far as the world’s concerned, yeah, I brush his hats and shine his boots, but don’t get the wrong idea. That boy right there? He’s mine. You understanding me, Monsieur?”

Jean nodded, “I believe I am getting the impression.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” said Edward.

“Did I ask for your opinion, Valance?”

He shook his head.

“Good. For that, you can make sure your friend understands the next question.” She nodded, directing Jean’s gaze to him. 

The Frenchman watched him for a handful of seconds – quizzical, but avid. 

“He can see what you’ve got to offer. Does he want to fuck you, or to have you fuck him?”

“I believe I followed that, Monsieur Peach.”

“I know,” she smiled, sharp. “but I want to hear it in French from them pretty lips of his. Go on.”

“Peach wants me to ask you if…” he nearly let it rest, because it was rather evident that the three of them were communicating clearly enough, but no. No, that wasn’t the game at all. 

Besides, it was one of the few things he could say in flawless French. 

“Do you want to fuck me? Or may I fuck you?”

Jean massaged his crotch, “Did you learn that from the ladies of the street? You have just their inflection, Edward.” He smiled, “I think it suits you.”

“What’s he say?” asked Peaches.

Edward felt himself blush. It had been years since he’d actually needed to do that. “He says I talk like a gutter whore.” He could barely meet her eyes. “And that it suits me.”

Peaches turned to Jean with approving eyes. “So what’s his answer?”

“I think I’d like to fuck the boy,” Jean said.

There was no way she could have missed that, but Peaches stared hard at Edward, her face as tough and beautiful and merciless as it could be. “Well?”

“He…” and damn it all, she had him stuttering like a virgin. He hadn’t been called to account for himself like this since, well, school. “He wants to fuck me.”

Another one of her wicked, impossible smiles. He wanted to go over to her and kiss it, wanted to crawl to her. 

“The question is, do I want to share you? Hmm.” She pretended to think about it, brushing imaginary dust from off her cuffs. 

“Go and clean yourself up, Valance, and be quick about it.”