Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(64)

Lily watched Apollo. He squatted unselfconsciously nude at the hearth, stirring the fire. He was silhouetted in the firelight, powerful shoulders black and almost monstrous, narrowing to muscled hips and thighs. No wonder they’d thought him a murderer. No wonder they’d taken one look at such a big man and been afraid.

But was that entirely what had happened? He’d told her little, and what else she’d heard was from snippets of gossip and newssheets. Trevillion was the soldier who had arrested him, but now that same man was working to prove him innocent. There were gaps in her knowledge and she was tired of secondhand information.

She cleared her throat, the sound loud in the silence. “Can you tell me what happened that night?”

He’d been about to lay a scoop of coal on the fire, and at her words, he paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. He rose, dusting his hands, broad back hunched, the flames reflecting off the sheen of his skin. He turned his head so that she could see his profile, large nose, prominent forehead, craggy lips and chin.

“You have to understand,” he said quietly. “I was young. Four and twenty. That might not seem so very young to you, but I’d spent most of my life in schooling. First at Harrow, where my grandfather paid for my education, and then Oxford. When I came to London I had a very small stipend from the earl, delivered through his lawyers. I spent it drinking and wenching, mostly.”

He turned at last, though she still couldn’t see his features.

“That’s what men of my rank do. They spend money and drink. They don’t labor—even if their family might be starving.”

“Was your family starving?” she asked sharply.

He shook his head immediately. “No. But neither did they have very much to live on. My father had gone through nearly all the money he’d had and the earl refused to give him more. My sister and mother lived very simply in the country because of it. Artemis never had a season, nor a dowry.” He began walking toward the bed. “But I grew weary of the aimless days, the expectation of nothing. I was supposed to live my life waiting for the old earl to die.”

She couldn’t imagine him—so physically and mentally active—consigned to waiting on another’s death.

He’d reached the bed now and he climbed in, sitting up against the headboard and pulling her back to lie on his chest.

She laid her head on his shoulder, listening.

“I’d met some fellows at Oxford who had new theories on gardening. Grand schemes that broke from the medieval idea of straight little lines and ordered plantings. They were thinking in terms of vistas. Of beautiful sights that would last for generations. Of natural lines and shapes—made better. I began corresponding with them while I was in London, exchanging ideas and plans. Then I was hired to help on an estate outside Oxford itself.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned forward to kiss his hand, silently urging him on.

“It was a great opportunity,” he said, but his voice was sorrowful. “It was practical work when before all I’d done was dabble in theory. That garden took a season to build and after that I was recommended to another estate. And then my grandfather found out what I was about.”

She frowned. “Why would that matter?”

“Because,” he whispered, leaning his cheek against her temple, “remember what I already said? Aristocrats don’t labor. When my grandfather found out, he cut me off. He considered my desire to learn the art of garden planning on a grand scale to be an early sign of the same disease that had driven my father mad. He thought our entire line tainted.”

“Oh, Apollo.” She hadn’t much family herself, but to be so harshly judged simply because one had found an interest in life? It seemed ridiculous.

He nuzzled her hair. “That day I was in London. I met up with three friends. We resolved to spend the night together—two were from school and I’d not seen them in some years. We reserved the back room of a tavern in Whitechapel and ordered wine and food.”

She stirred. “Why such an awful part of London?”

“We hadn’t much money, I’m afraid. The tavern was cheap.”

He stopped speaking, but she could feel his uneven breaths.

“What happened?”

He inhaled. “I don’t know. We shared a bottle—and after that all is blackness. I woke the next morning with my head pounding as if it would split. As soon as I moved I vomited. And then I saw my hands.”

“Apollo?” She tried to twist her face to see him, but he tightened his hold on her.

“I’d been drunk before,” he rasped. “But this was nothing like that. It was as if I were dreaming and couldn’t wake. My hands were covered in blood, I held a knife in my right hand, and there was screaming. I couldn’t stand—when I tried, I fell. And my friends…”

She squeezed his hands. She already knew what had happened to his friends. The scene of the murder had been recounted in countless newssheets—and whether the details had been correct hardly mattered at this moment. They’d been murdered.

Horribly slaughtered.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “so sorry.”

“The soldiers came,” he murmured, his voice flat now. Had he even heard her? “They took me away in chains—on my ankles, wrists, and neck, for they were afraid of me. I was taken to Newgate to await trial. I vomited again and again and was half out of my mind for several days. I don’t remember much of Newgate. But I remember Bedlam.”