Sherlock Holmes 09: Those Halcyon Days [Part 1] [Blackwood/Coward]
Title: Those Halcyon Days
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Length: 21,200 words
Rating: At the very, very most R.
Also now crossposted to AO3 here.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
February 1881
A fog was curling its way around the capital, sitting low and heavy across chimney-pots, writhing illicitly around streetlamps and the tips of policemen’s hats. In immutable, true British spirit, the night, for the rich, was like any other, and the ceaseless cabaret of fine society chose to exhibit its nightly debacle at the Coward residence, much to the vexation of their eldest, who’d somewhat hoped for a quiet night in.
Tonight’s entertainment came at the leisure of Nicholas’ parents, and as of such the guests mainly consisted of ageing friends and family Nicholas hadn’t seen for years; not seeking any joyous reunions, he skulked malevolently around the bookshelves, glass in hand. He kept a keen eye on his sister, immersed in her entourage; she had taken it upon herself to make a gentleman of him, and took every such party as a perfect opportunity to do so. Speckled through the elderly crowd was the occasional splash of vim and vigour; male for conversation, female for flirtation, all within two years of his age and some even surreptitiously glancing his way in invitation. Nicholas sighed and rubbed his eyes; Emily had, once again, outdone herself. Even now, across the room, she spoke quickly to her cluster of girls, scolding one or two for their inappropriate dress and praising another for a well-selected accoutrement. He’d been told on frequent occasion that, in the right circles, his sister was scaling the dizzying heights of celebrity, but he merely found it all rather trite.
At length, she selected her protégé for the evening - young, pretty, in an unfortunately European sort of way - and Nicholas turned away on a curse and quickly drained his glass. Emily had him pinned; escape from the room was impossible, what with her motley crew between him and the door, and the sole other distractions came in the form of decrepit relatives who would spend far too long talking about the war and not listen to a word he said, due to inability or a particular form of rudeness only acquired and forgiven with senility. It was possible, despite the hour, to make an escape across the garden -
And one presented itself, in the tall form of a man lurking by the French windows. Nicholas gave him the once-over as he placed his glass on the side-table. Young enough to be interesting, but too old to be one of Emily’s honey-traps in very deep disguise. He was probably the only person who Nicholas hadn’t, at some point, been introduced to, and despite it being horribly improper to simply present himself to a stranger, Emily had the girl on her arm (oh Lord, Nicholas thought, I’m sure she’s a Frances, or even a Matilda) and any option was preferable to that. With a nod to Lord Glastonbury, who had begun to totter in his direction, he stole across the room and came to a halt at his side.
“Hello,” he began, and the man gave a small start of surprise. “I hope you’ll forgive the importunity, but that’s my sister in the shocking blue dress, and I believe she has dishonourable intentions for me and that poor girl hanging off her arm.” Lord Glastonbury had managed to intercept Emily halfway across the room; she had grown curiously quiet, and was watching him rather sharply. “Besides,” Nicholas continued, “you look about as ready to shoot yourself in the foot as I am.”
The man arced an eyebrow, looking amused, and rummaged in his pocket, withdrawing a silver case. “Cigarette?” Very Laconic, then, Nicholas thought, somewhat down-heartedly. Laconic men never made for great conversation, by definition.
“Not a vice of mine, I’m afraid,” he replied, and caught the man’s pointed glance through the garden door. “But,” he smiled, “I feel exceptions can often be made.”
The fog had settled low by the time they stepped outside, and the door snapping shut behind them separated them from the muggy, smoky warmth of the parlour behind. Beside him, his mystery man lit up a cigarette with a rasping match. “Unseasonal, this late in the year,” Nicholas commented, gesturing at the fog, and the man nodded. “Nicholas Coward,” he offered, holding out a hand.
“Henry Blackwood.” He was more than a little taken aback to have such a celebrity at his parents’ commonplace affair, and Blackwood, as if sensing his surprise, smiled. “I am allowed to leave the house, you know.” He offered Nicholas a cigarette, which he politely declined. “Besides, I owe someone a favour.” Nicholas knew this would be Emily; there was no way his father would ever be able to twist such an influential arm. “I have to admit, I find these things more than a little boring.”
Nicholas found himself easily returning the smile. “We’re certainly agreed in that respect. You must come more often; give me someone to talk to.”
Blackwood’s eyes tracked back through the French window, shifting irritably in the cold. “I expect we’ll have tongues wagging, what with your scandalously improper behaviour.”
Nicholas grinned. “I’d hate to drag down your good reputation with my association.”
“To be honest, I’d rather you did, just to avoid becoming quite so dull as half the people in that room.” He finished the cigarette, and dropped it into a miniature puddle skulking around his ankle. They stood for some time in silence, and Nicholas felt all frustration and irritability slide out of him, into the cool night air.
It took him a while to notice Blackwood looking at him rather pointedly; Nicholas, feeling slightly sheepish, gestured back into the parlour, where Emily had busied herself by talking to Lady Marchmain, making it no longer a warzone too terrifying to enter. “Shall we?”
Blackwood held open the door as they went. They spent little further time in conversation; Blackwood was inexorably popular, but Nicholas felt utterly content to hang to one side, and not simply as a deterrent for his sister. There was something about the man; something calming, something grounding, something which seized your attention and confined it. He would, one day, make a good soldier, or an excellent politician; there was a steady quality in his words that could arrest a man’s loyalty in a heartbeat.
The following morning, Nicholas was dismayed to realise that his only tenuous link to his new acquaintance came from his sister, and she had thrown a fit of importunity at his rudeness the night before and was pretending that Henry Blackwood didn’t so much as exist. He didn’t know enough about Blackwood to write to him, nor was he in the social circles of London enough to know which gentlemen’s clubs to stumble into - though, he supposed, from what he gathered the evening before, Blackwood didn’t spend much time in such places. He knew the Blackwood estate controlled a little bit of almost everything - it was, after all, what they were famed for - but it seemed equally unlikely that their son would be seen stumbling around Nine Elms inspecting pig corpses. Nicholas liked his company, and it was especially rare to find someone who actually cared enough about anything other than his sister’s vapid obsessions and his father’s dreary politics to hold a decent conversation with him.
At Emily’s gentle provocation, he spent fewer evenings brooding in his bedroom and writing pathetic poetry and more socialising with friends of both his sister and his parents. He even ended up with a scattering of offers of employment, a few of which were in the government and even fewer were tempting, though each met with both Emily’s and his father’s disapproval. “Besides,” his father reminded him, trapped in a carriage with his two children, returning from Lady Bramstone’s, “it’s not your job to finance our household until I’m dead and gone. Spend time on your studies and entertain your sister.” His sister needed little entertaining, but it was rare for his father to impart advice that was actually of any use.
Despite the alarming increase in Nicholas’ social life, it was a month or so before he went to an event which Blackwood also happened to attend. Lord Samson was celebrating a birthday - the actual age was concealed, though Emily scandalously speculated it was probably closer to sixty than fifty, as the Samsons would like the world to believe - and, it seemed, the whole of London had to be invited, and not to attend would mean suicide in the eyes of London’s upper class. Nicholas nearly rejoiced to spy Blackwood across the room, but he was talking soberly to some grey, sombre men, and he thought it probably improper to charge across the room on the virtue of a single meeting. He was snuck up on from behind halfway through the evening, nearly causing a horrible incident with red wine and Lady Salinger’s dress, much to Blackwood’s amusement. “I know you’re not one for impropriety, but there’s no need to ignore me all evening, you know,” he murmured, biting back a laugh, and Nicholas apologised profusely and steered away from the little cluster of people around Lady Salinger.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. We haven’t spoken in at least a month.”
“You could have written.”
“So could you - besides, I didn’t know where you lived.”
“A man of little resource, then; half of London knows where I live. A letter is far less scandalous than an impromptu introduction at a party.”
They hovered around the back of the room, nearly at the window, and Nicholas drank slowly from what remained in his glass. Presently, one of the sons of Samson - John, Nicholas seemed to recall, though it could just as easily be James or Jacob - dramatically entered the room and announced the dinner to be served. The Samson household was famed for its spread (in fact, it was the only reason persuasive enough to make Nicholas attend that evening) and even amongst the stoic, reserved upper class of London there was somewhat of a rush to the table. Nicholas sat to the right of Blackwood, and spent the meal chatting amiably about anything interesting which occurred to him and fervently ignoring his sister’s foul looks along the table. She appeared to have unfortunately been seated next to Miss Price, who, after being married three times at the age of fifty-three, was under the impression she had accumulated all the wisdom the world had to offer and therefore was obliged to impart it on any fool who would try not to listen. Nicholas occasionally caught the expression on Emily’s face and attempted not to grin.
Blackwood, not expecting Nicholas’ attendance, had arranged for a hansom to arrive around ten, his own family’s coach preoccupied with shuttling his father from ‘important business in the city’. The evening rolled around amiably, the food taking up the majority of the time, with Nicholas taking full advantage of his educated and above all fascinating companion, and the grand clock in the hall announced it to be quarter to ten rather sooner than he would have wished. There was, of course, the option of staying inside whilst waiting for it to arrive, but the Samson household was flooded with guests becoming steadily more and more drunk as the rooms fogged up with more and more smoke, and for the sake of fresh air they lounged on the steps outside instead.
“Well, I have to say, you made what promised to be a thoroughly dull evening somewhat more interesting,” Nicholas said mildly, peering down the street, and Blackwood laughed.
“Fine praise indeed, though I feel that your sister probably would have caused some entertaining scandal to keep you occupied.” The hansom approached, and Nicholas opened the door for him as he climbed inside. “I think I’ll call on you in the week, provided you’ve got nothing better to do - I know I don’t, and besides, it’d probably be better than hanging around another month for the next party.” With a tiny smile, Blackwood thumped the side of the carriage, and it clattered away.
Nicholas skipped back up the steps to the Samsons’ front door, located his sister in the drawing room and elected to leave as soon as possible, easily recognising the rash impulsiveness in the set of her shoulders, which he caught hold of calmly to steer her from the room. “Come on, dear, even you should know better than to upset the Home Secretary’s wife.”
“He doesn’t frighten me,” she protested, attempting to prise her wrist from his fingers. “Besides, I hadn’t had the chance to say anything really dreadful.”
He tugged her into the hallway, scanning around for their father. “Don’t you think of anyone but yourself? Father’s currently in negotiations with his part of the government, and you attempt to insult his wife.”
“Men and their politics,” she sighed, leaning on him lazily. “I shall have to become a suffragist before my opinions are heard.”
Lord Samson sent her a rather alarmed look, which Nicholas had to dissuade with an uneasy smile. “Don’t joke about such things,” he hissed. He had the butler call them a hansom, left a message for their father and bundled his sister inside before she could do any more damage.
She grinned at him wickedly as they rocked their way past Charing Cross. “You spent all the evening talking to Henry again,” she declared, nudging his shin with her foot.
Nicholas scowled. “For want of better conversation, yes. How was Miss Price?”
She flopped back in mock theatrics. “Oh, God, Nick, if I ever get to be like that, promise me you’ll have me shot.”
“Do I have to wait?” he muttered, and she kicked him viciously.
Blackwood waited until Thursday before calling on the Coward household. Nicholas was brooding in his room, wondering whether it was rather presumptuous to worry why he hadn’t heard from him yet, when Carlyle knocked on the door to announce his arrival. He hurried down the landing, realising with increasing dread that Emily had intercepted him before Carlyle had managed to smuggle him into the parlour, and was now chatting to him at the foot of the stairs - and, good Lord, Blackwood was laughing. He sent her a filthy look as he descended the last flight, reserving his smile for Blackwood.
“Henry was just telling me how he wants to tour Europe during the summer, Nick,” she said, slowly, grinning at him from over Blackwood’s shoulder. “Though I think it can get horribly hot on the continent during August, don’t you agree?”
Nicholas ignored her. “I hope she’s not been too offensive.”
Blackwood smiled. “On the contrary, she’s been quite informative.”
Emily sent him a sly look, and placed a hand on Blackwood’s shoulder. “I must apologise, Henry, I’ve got a meeting with my dressmaker I need to rush off to. I can’t quite seem to find the right thing to wear for the Opera this evening - it’s the première of Patience at the Comique, you know, quite impossible to get tickets, but I’ve managed to make friends with someone courting the understudy of Grosvenor. All down to who you know, as ever. Anyway, I’d best leave you to your politics.” She gave Blackwood a flattering smile and swept regally from the room.
Once sure she was well out of earshot, Nicholas snorted. “She’s rather taken with you; I have never seen her act so obnoxiously. I would apologise for that, but I feel you handled it all quite admirably.”
Blackwood smiled easily. “Interesting women are so hard to come across, here, unless they’ve deserted to America at some point and lost all of their propriety. She’s quite refreshing to talk to.”
They crossed into the drawing-room, and then out to the garden; the time of the year still left it rather cool, but at least it wasn’t smothered in fog as it had been before. “I can never talk to her without suspecting she’s plotting something.”
“I find that happens with women in general,” Blackwood said, mildly. “You should meet my mother.” Nicholas squatted by the fountain, extracted a pebble, and threw it to rebound off the bronze sculpture in the centre before falling back into the water. “That looks expensive. Laocoon and his serpents?”
Nicholas snorted. “A replica, and a pretty shoddy one at that. I think it’s hideous, but my mother loved it, so of course it has to stay.” He slouched back against an elaborately trimmed shrub; Lord Coward had a fondness of horticulture bested only by Xerxes himself.
“Your mother, she - ?”
“Eloped.” Nicholas flicked the leaf to the ground. “With Father’s brother, actually - he’d moved to America, and Father hates the lot of them now. He discovered the affair around two months after Emily was born and they were divorced with her in New Jersey by the end of the year. Generally people assume she’s dead, and by Father’s instruction we don’t tell them otherwise.”
“The women of your family have a tendency to be impetuous,” Blackwood said absently, which Nicholas felt was somewhat of an understatement. “I did have a conversation with a friend of my father’s about the hereditary nature of personality once - he theorised that something in the blood flow in the mother’s brain during the pregnancy affected the characteristics of the offspring.”
“He can’t have had much proof.” Nicholas glanced up from the water. “You’re a determinist?”
“Nothing quite so absolute; I have no inclination towards the concepts of fate or destiny. The notion that some human traits might have a biological basis... interests me.”
“I had no idea you were such a pragmatist. I might have to stop speaking to you.”
Blackwood wandered up to the fountain, observing the skitters in the surface. “You disapprove of science?”
“It does nothing but tirelessly prove things wrong and strip the magic and mystery from the mundane, leaving it quite pointless and boring.” Nicholas straightened, and climbed the steps back towards the house. “No; in my experience, some things are best left well alone.”
Blackwood elected not to remain for dinner, though this was rather at Nicholas’ insistence than his own choice; it was to be one of the rare occasions Lord Coward returned from work to dine with his children, and with Emily at the Opera the three of them sat together at dinner would be uncomfortable at best.
“If he’s not had this treaty signed he’ll be as miserable as sin, and if he has he’ll be insufferable; not the most auspicious of introductions, really.” He watched Blackwood fetch up his hat and scarf, and passed down his coat from a peg by the door. “Do you want my man to call for someone?”
“No, I’ll walk; I need to call off somewhere on the way anyhow.” He moved down the first two steps from the door and paused, leaning against the rail to look back inside. “Do you like the theatre?”
Nicholas smirked. “I’m partial to a little, in the right circumstances. Why?”
“A friend of mine’s headlining in Odette on Saturday, and I’ve got two tickets and no one to go with, if you don’t mind. I could always take your sister instead.”
Nicholas laughed. “Don’t joke; I’ll tell her you said so and there’ll be Hell to pay.” He leant against the door frame. “Unless I get a better offer, consider my evening yours.” With a smile, Blackwood made off down the street.
His father, it turned out, had managed to secure a profitable treaty with the Marquis, and came home insufferably jovial. He stayed at the dinner table long enough to ascertain that Emily wouldn’t be joining them and scold Nicholas for letting her out unaccompanied before retiring to his study with the majority of the food, leaving Nicholas to stare at his plate sullenly and regret urging Blackwood home.
Emily spent Friday and the majority of Saturday skulking around the house, forbidden by their father to go ‘gallivanting’ across London until a time he deemed appropriate. She contented herself by making her brother’s life a misery, especially when she learnt that he was allowed out on Saturday evening when she was instructed to stay indoors without any entertainment.
“This is favouritism,” she grumbled, slouched across his bed and watching him dress. “Blatant favouritism. If I wrote to Josephine Butler she’d be deeply scandalised.”
“Emily, if you wrote to Josephine Butler she’d remind you how damn lucky you are you don’t work as a common whore on the docks.” He turned away from the looking-glass. “I would point out that not only did I tell Father I was going out, I did so in the right tone and a full two days before the evening itself.”
“You plan things too meticulously, Nick,” she sighed, shaking her head as if all the great misery in the world originated from his fastidiousness. “Your life lacks impulsiveness. Spontaneity.”
“And yet, which of us is hanging indoors like an old bat on Saturday evening?”
She scowled at him fiercely and watched him inspect himself in the looking-glass again. “You’re fretting over your appearance again; it’s quite adorable.” Carlyle knocked quietly on the door to inform him that Blackwood’s coach had pulled up outside, and Emily glared at him. “Do have a nice evening.”
Nicholas grabbed his tailcoat from the closet. “If you’re still up when I return, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Blackwood had filched the use of the family coach that evening; it was huge in comparison to the others clogging the streets, and rather lushly done up, although internally rather than externally. Lord Blackwood liked to ride comfortably, but in style. Nicholas mockingly touched his hat to his sister, leaning out of the bedroom window for a better view, and clambered inside.
The play in itself was, thankfully, not as awful as Nicholas had anticipated it would be. Blackwood’s friend made a decent stab at Clermont, even if his interpretation was a tad soppy, and the rest of it was rather well put together; the director clearly knew his stuff. He told Blackwood as much between the hubbub of the curtain closing and the doors opening, and he looked rather amused at his interpretation, though he politely asked him not to mention to his friend that his Clermont had been “a tad soppy”.
“He’s been insufferable about it for weeks,” he murmured as they crossed the foyer. “He thinks he’s got it down to pat - he even wrote to Sardou in Paris for pointless fact-checking and the like. Apparently it helped ‘elaborate the role’.” Blackwood straightened against the counter, and Nicholas glanced across the foyer to watch his friend approach; it was the current fashion to emphasise vitality over maturity, and he played it perfectly, with a natural babyish face accompanied by blonde hair and innocent brown eyes. “Alex Duvall; Nicholas Coward.”
Duvall shook his hand. “It was a surprise to hear about you, Mr Coward. Harry doesn’t tend to make friends, so naturally you came as quite a shock.”
Nicholas smiled uneasily. “I have to say, by my first impression he did seem rather Laconic.”
Duvall looked from Nicholas to Blackwood, full of glee. “Do you hear that, Harry? Laconic! I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put so well. I dread to think what your perception of me must be.” He put a hand on Blackwood’s shoulder, and leant in rather close. “Listen, I’ve got to hang around for a bit, do the ingratiated actor role with a couple of producers, but after that what do you say about us heading over to the city, eh? Make a night of it?”
“Perfect,” Blackwood replied, and Duvall, beaming, scurried back across the foyer.
“I think I’d better leave you to it,” Nicholas said quietly. “Better not push my luck with my father.”
Blackwood looked at him, and, after a pause, nodded. “You are allowed to say you don’t like him, you know.” Nicholas, taken aback, made no move to deny it; he suspected Blackwood would tell he was lying. “No matter; we’ll spend it floating around some of the more ill-kept public houses and he’ll head over to Tiger’s Bay to stick a pipe between his lips and a whore between his legs. Hardly the most entertaining of evenings, and far from your tastes. Besides, you mustn’t keep your sister waiting - promise me you’ll invent some scandal to shock her with.”
Nicholas smiled. “I hadn’t planned to, but it’ll give me something to do on the ride home.” They shook hands, shared the briefest of looks, and he moved through the foyer to wait for the cab outside. As he left, he turned up the collar of his coat; there was a storm on the air.
Following the theatre escapade, it occurred to Lord Coward that his son was in rather close relations with the son of Lord Blackwood. From that moment onwards, Nicholas could do no wrong; gone was the imperative to study, to nanny his sister, replaced by his father’s insistence he should spend the afternoon, evening, weekend with Blackwood. “If I didn’t value so highly as a friend,” Nicholas informed Blackwood, drily, basking in the tentative April sunshine on the Cowards’ lawn, “I’d abandon you entirely out of spite.”
“If I weren’t your only friend,” Blackwood retorted, smiling a little. It was true that whilst only a few years ago Nicholas had enjoyed his own wonderful entourage of companions, they’d long since abandoned life with their parents to go off and do thoroughly exciting things in thoroughly exciting places. Nicholas was evidently destined for something different and, depressingly, more domestic.
Blackwood became their guest of honour, asked to dine with the Cowards every night that could be spared and made to put up with Lord Coward’s sycophantic conversation at every opportunity. Although it provided Nicholas with the rare chance to frequently entertain his closest friend, it disgusted him to watch his father’s constant toadying. “I don’t know how you can stand it,” Nicholas muttered to him, darkly, after one particularly appalling display.
Blackwood shrugged. “It’s only politics. Besides, spending every evening with you makes it almost worthwhile.”
When Blackwood announced that their family would be spending a month or so in their Chichester estate, Lord Coward looked about as appalled as Nicholas felt. “There’s a good postal service between Sussex and London - there has to be, otherwise Father couldn’t afford to be away from Parliament so long. I promise I’ll write.” They’d chosen to spend the afternoon at the Blackwoods’, rather than the Cowards’, to allow Blackwood the time to pack and to escape from Lord Coward’s despair. Currently, they were perched in Blackwood’s bedroom, watching the Blackwoods’ housekeeper, Mrs Wilcott, somewhat frantically prepare the family for their departure the following day. Blackwood snapped shut a black-strapped leather writing case and touched Nicholas’ shoulder briefly. “A month really isn’t all that long - and besides, I might just have a surprise for you when I get back.”
Nicholas swiftly said his goodbyes once Mrs Wilcott worked herself into an abominable fluster, possibly scarring one of the serving-girls for life in the process, and trudged back home with low spirits. Without their guest of honour, his father was in a foul mood, and Emily, still in disgrace, wasn’t much better without Blackwood to discourage her. With nothing better to do, she caused a tempestuous argument and flounced off to bed once gaining the upper hand; Nicholas was left stranded with their father, who, in a fit of rage, threatened to disown the both of them. This was a largely empty threat; they both reminded him far too much of their mother, who, after all this time, was still deified in the Coward household.
His sister, bored and depressed without Blackwood’s frequent visits to entertain her, flung herself back into any social scene she could find; Nicholas was dragged with her for the first few times, just to satiate their father’s disapproval, but was so bitter and jaded with Blackwood gone he quickly gave up and took to spending far too much time in his bedroom.
A note came after a few weeks, announcing his safe arrival and hoping for his family’s wellbeing, but Nicholas could never quite bring himself to write back.
Having received no word from Blackwood for the best part of a month, Nicholas was in a terrible mood; fortunately for the rest of the world, he’d decided to vent it entirely in the space of the bedroom to which he isolated himself, drafting broody and contemptuous letters to various members of government or regressing to rereading favourite books from his childhood. One Friday afternoon, Emily flew into his bedroom as he was in the midst of one particularly eloquent piece of work, and virtually dragged him from his writing-desk in excitement. The letter in her hand turned out to be from Thomas Hamilton, one of Nicholas’ childhood friends, who was -
“ - coming to stay with us, Nick!” Emily shrieked, spinning around in circles, the letter abandoned on the carpet.
Nicholas stared at her. “You read my post?”
Emily sat down on the bed and threw him a jaded look. “Oh, don’t act like that, it’s not like there’s anything private about it.”
Thomas’ imminent visit - which, Nicholas thought, a little moodily, was announced at rather short notice, and rather impolitely - sent the household into a flurry, with a million highly important things which had to be done before he got there, and everyone, other than Nicholas, forgot all about Blackwood. Thomas, it turned out, had spent the last few years touring the continent and securing a rather important ambassador’s role, which made him a vital ally for Nicholas’ father; he was to be their new guest of honour, or at least for the week or so he was staying with them. He had to admit he was full of nerves at the thought of his friend returning; they’d not seen each other for such a long time, and he’d probably become a far more interesting man than Nicholas in the time they’d been apart. Nicholas hadn’t managed to leave Middlesex in the best part of a year, and the last time Thomas wrote to him it was from Zimbabwe.
Still, on the afternoon of his arrival, his old friend stepped out of the coach and ran, beaming, into the house and jumped on him with an entirely inappropriate and rather affectionate hug. “You could have written to me a bit earlier,” Nicholas muttered begrudgingly, but couldn’t quite help a smile.
“It seems an odd time to return to London, though,” Nicholas said, sat in the study. The weather was turning to summer; although it was almost evening, the windows were wide open, and the sun was still dragging itself down through the sky. They had spent a companionable few days together, visiting plays of questionable quality, lounging around in fine society and attempting to convey to one another the events of the past few years. Nicholas had forgotten how easy he had found his friendship with Thomas, and regretted them falling out of touch.
“I knew you’d spot my ulterior motives.” Thomas smiled as he turned from the window. “You see, I’ve come rather in want of a wife.”
“Ah.” Nicholas smiled. “That is the only reason anyone ever comes crawling back to fine society; I should have guessed. I take it you intend to consult my sister on the appropriateness of the young women of London? You’ll find her a master in the subject, and she’ll relish someone to lecture on it.”
“No, Nicholas,” Thomas replied, frowning slightly. “I intend to marry her.”
Nicholas stared at him. “Have you told my father?”
“Not yet.” Thomas spread his hands with an easy smile. “I’m well-suited financially, and I can promise to keep her content, if not excited. Marriage might even calm her down a little.” He paused for a second, teeth worrying his lip. “She does like me, doesn’t she? I remember her taking a fancy to me years ago, and God knows she never stops flirting with me.”
“She likes you,” Nicholas confirmed, though he spoke slowly, and felt thoroughly confused. Besides, Emily flirted with everyone, in a socially acceptable sort of way; it was generally perceived as endearing.
“I’ll do it properly, of course. Court her for a while, buy her expensive things, ask your father’s permission, but I don’t see a reason why we shouldn’t be married.”
“She believes in love, you know.”
Thomas shrugged. “Then I’ll have her fall in love with me; she’s halfway there already. I might even fall in love with her myself.” He watched him closely. “You disapprove.”
“Not so much,” Nicholas replied, quietly. “I always imagined she’d fall passionately in love with a sailor and run off on a scandalous elopement and live happily in Russia with her thirteen children. This is - ”
“Preferable?”
“Different,” he said. “I’ll have to take a while to get my head around it. I shouldn’t worry, though; Father practically worships you, and Emily will be over the moon. There shouldn’t be anything stopping you.”
“But their opinions don’t matter to me, Nick,” he said, softly, and managed to hold his eye.
Nicholas stayed quiet, studying his hands. “You’d keep her happy. She’d be safe.”
“Of course.”
“Well, there’s little I could do to dissuade young love, is there?” He smiled as he settled back in his chair. “You know, out of all the men she took a fancy to when she was younger, I suppose I’d prefer her to marry you the most.”
Thomas laughed. “From you, Nicholas, that’s practically a compliment. We won’t be married for the best part of a year, you know - ” He paused, wetting his lips nervously. “I do want to do things right.”
“Well, you’ve won me over - you always were a stupidly good politician, and your fancy promotion hasn’t made you any less obnoxious. Just promise me you won’t drag her off to some godforsaken land where I’ll never see hide nor hair again?”
“You have my word,” Thomas replied, solemn as a pastor and grinning like an idiot.
After the last invasion of his privacy, Nicholas had arranged with Carlyle for his post to be brought to his room directly, in an attempt to stop Emily intercepting it; the operation carried through quite successfully, and it at least gave him the chance to read Blackwood’s letter before Emily worked the strategy out, charged into his room and snatched it from his hand.
“It’s from Henry!” She spread herself out on his bed, scanning the pages quickly. “Ugh, how boring, it’s all politics and drivel. Does he mention me?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Nicholas tersely snapped, reaching over to take it; she snaked back from his reach and flipped it over to read the postscript and check for a hidden message.
“Oh, look, he signs it Harry - not Blackwood, or even Henry. Has he been doing it long?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he muttered, teeth clenched. “Can I have it back now?”
She ignored him. “Are you going to write back?”
“That is how letter-writing works, Emily.”
Once again, she ignored him, electing instead to fully read the letter, until interrupted by Carlyle knocking quietly on the door to announce that their father wanted to speak to her. Still none the wiser to Thomas’ imminent proposal, she glowered at him as she swept from the room, leaving Nicholas staring at the letter which lay, a little rumpled, curled at the foot of his bed.
Lord Coward insisted they dine out that night, and Emily mischievously picked Claridge’s, well aware that securing a reservation so late in the day would be impossible. It came as no surprise to Nicholas that Thomas swanned into the dining room a half-hour later with a reservation for all four of them for eight o’clock - “Although,” he added, as Carlyle quietly serviced the pianoforte, “if you’d like to join us, Carlyle, I’m sure I can persuade them to fetch us another chair.” Carlyle politely declined.
Once Emily excused herself to get ready for the evening, Thomas sent him a slightly queasy smile and slumped against the piano. “You have actually proposed to her, am I right?” Nicholas asked. “She does know?”
Thomas nodded absently. “You wouldn’t think so. She’s being almost unnaturally quiet.”
“Maybe it’s a sign of longed-for maturity. It’s been in the works long enough.”
Thomas laughed. “Oh, come on, Nick. You know as well as I do immaturity is half her charm.”
The meal came out of Thomas’ pocket - he rather sickeningly insisted on being the gentleman - and, despite the extortionate nature of the prices, was likeable enough. Lord Coward even managed to look pleased for most of the night, greatly perturbing both of his children, who shot each other nervous looks whenever their father laughed or cheerfully cracked a joke. “I think he’s just glad I didn’t do what Mama did, you know,” Emily muttered to him darkly.
“I think we all expected it of you, to be perfectly honest.”
She gave him an odd look. “I may be impetuous, selfish and ignorant, Nicholas, but I still have my principles,” she replied, and refused to talk to him for the rest of the evening.
Thomas had the intention of procuring lodgings in St James’, to keep as a base of residence when in London; his job was calming down a little, now, but it still demanded he travelled most of the year. Besides, Emily felt obliged a grand London townhouse to fuss over and heavily customise the drapery of; maintaining the house would give her something to do. Until then, the Cowards were stuck with the both of them.
Nicholas did eventually compose a reply to Blackwood; he told him of Emily’s engagement, narrating the whole affair with far too much grandeur and melodrama in what he hoped came off with an ironic tone. He could imagine his friend stuck in the country, bored stiff with no one to talk to and nothing to do, and liked to think his letter would bring him some form of amusement. The letter he received in turn briefly outlined a scandal between the cook and the kitchen maid, but other than that Chichester life seemed to be inexorably dull; Nicholas shot back ever more complicated and philosophical questions, just to give each of them something to do. When Blackwood wrote back with a ten-page essay on Descartes, Carlyle gave him a very odd look as he handed across the bundle of papers.
As Thomas began collecting his things, Blackwood outlined a date for his return; the 13th June was his brother’s birthday, and he intended to be in London from at least the evening before. ‘And,’ he wrote, ‘I even have that surprise for you I mentioned.’
When hearing that Blackwood would soon be returning, Emily quickly reverted from the sombre, austere wife-to-be to her childish and asinine self, and as for Lord Coward, he looked close to aneurysm from sheer happiness; both his children with highly respected, highly influential companions, both, in his mind, eagerly ready to further their father’s position.
Blackwood ended up returning on the afternoon of the fourth, promising to drop by as soon as his men had properly sorted out his effects; Nicholas ambled around the parlour, running his fingers across trinkets and tabletops until Emily fussed at him for wearing down the varnish. She herself lay sprawled inelegantly across the chaise in the corner; the summer didn’t agree with her, as the pollution from the riverbanks carried further and got into her lungs, and she was miserable and exhausted from far too little sleep. “Do you suppose he’ll have bought me something?” she asked, hopefully, and Nicholas scowled in her direction.
“I - ” Nicholas stopped, started, stopped again, ran the words through his head, selected the least suspicious phrase. “If he’s been addressing me as Nick and I him as Harry for, say, over a month or so, even if merely in communiqué - what do you think the proper decorum is for when we meet?”
“Goodness, Nick, you don’t half get yourself worked up over decorum. I suppose you should let him speak first.”
Nicholas caught his lip with his teeth. “But suppose he’s as uncertain as I am?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Well, then, you shall both stare and gawp at each other for a while and it’ll be most entertaining to watch.”
They heard the sound of commotion at the door, and Carlyle knocked to announce Blackwood’s arrival; “oh, hellfire,” Nicholas cursed, turning from the window. Emily, forever his saving grace, asked Carlyle to escort him through with a melodramatic roll of her eyes.
Nicholas turned to her rather violently to argue, but Blackwood entered the room, and he found his voice faltered in his throat. “Nicholas,” he said, easily, before turning to his sister and smiling amiably. “Emily. I hear you’ve managed to get yourself a husband.”
“Honestly, Nick, have you done nothing but gossip for the last month?” She smiled at Blackwood as he kissed her hand. “He’s at the Commons for most of today, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you could meet him before he leaves for Cyprus at the end of next week.”
“At the Commons on a Saturday? He must be a very diligent worker - I approve already. I can’t imagine you as a wife, though, dearly devoted to his arms.”
“Through passionate duty love springs higher,” she replied, brusquely, smiling just a little. Blackwood let go his sister’s hand and turned to Nicholas, finally, instead.
“Hullo, H-arry,” Nicholas decided, at the last possible moment, and found himself rewarded by the most fleeting of smiles.
“Your letters were a most welcome distraction. You have no idea how completely boring it can get when stuck in a house with no one but an obnoxious father and an insufferable brother to keep you company.”
Nicholas opened his mouth, grinning a little, but the look on Emily’s face made him close it again. “Indeed,” he said, drily, “I can’t imagine.”
“Anyhow, there’s something I think we need to discuss - ” Blackwood looked across at Emily. “ - and I thought it best to do it away from - ”
“Prying eyes,” Nicholas interrupted, and Blackwood smiled, just a little.
“Precisely.”
“The drawing-room should be free. Emily, you’ll forgive us if we leave you to your - ”
“Sewing?” Blackwood suggested, face quite blank. “Needlework?”
They began to hightail it to the adjacent drawing-room at the murderous look on Emily’s face, and Nicholas slid shut the door. He pressed his back to the panelling, bracing himself for the thump his sister was sure to deliver, but it didn’t come - Nicholas rather uneasily suspected she was skulking around behind the door, attempting to listen in. “Well, can I get you a drink?” He paced to the cabinet on the west wall.
“Certainly.” Blackwood took the proffered glass and drained it instantly; Nicholas watched him place it down on the sideboard, and wondered absently if it was a case of Dutch courage.
“You mentioned a surprise,” Nicholas said slowly, and Blackwood nodded, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Quite. I spoke at length with my father, while I was away - ” He broke off for a moment and smiled. “Not the easiest thing in the world to do, but it had to be done, and he was actually suspiciously amiable. In any rate, we spoke of you, and he reminded me we have a cousin with a townhouse in Vienna.” He looked at Nicholas nervously. “What do you say to it? I know it’s not quite Prague, but if you like I’m sure we could spend a day or so there as well.”
Nicholas stared at him, dumbfounded. “Your father wants - you want us to spend the summer in Vienna?”
“Perhaps not the whole summer - July, maybe? Or August? I’m sure Lord Coward - ”
Nicholas paced across the room and halted before him, his hand reaching towards Blackwood’s arm. “Harry, that’s - it’d be - ”
Emily chose the inopportune moment to crash into the room and gaze happily at Blackwood. “Nick, accept the offer this instant! Oh, that’s so kind of you, Henry,” she gushed, looking at him with soppy eyes, but Blackwood kept his own on Nicholas.
“ - perfect,” he finished, eventually, his voice quiet. “Thank you.” He turned to his belligerent sister, who did have the decency to look a little ashamed. “Have you been listening all this time?”
She tossed her head back and looked at him haughtily. “Of course.”
“I do hope Thomas knows what he’s let himself in for,” Nicholas muttered darkly, and watched as Blackwood attempted to hide a smile.
“Nicholas - ” Blackwood took his wrist for an instant and dropped it just as quickly. “Listen, I’d better get back to my father; we’ve got a thousand and one preparations to make before next Monday night. I’ll come by next week to make arrangements?”
“Absolutely. Emily, would you have Carlyle fetch Harry’s coat, please?” She cast them a surreptitious look as she left, and Nicholas glanced quickly at Blackwood to catch his expression. His countenance suggested that he had something more to say - but then Carlyle was entering the room, and he graciously accepted hat and coat. “Wednesday?” Nicholas asked, watching him slip them on.
“Wednesday,” Blackwood confirmed, shook his hand and left with Carlyle seeing him to the door.
Nicholas broke the news of the suggested holiday to his father at dinner, with Emily watching them eagerly; Lord Coward was not as instantly dismissive as Nicholas had dreaded, but wasn’t as immediately ecstatic as Emily had been. “You’ve not known him for very long,” he said, slowly, as perfectly-steamed vegetables were heaped onto his plate. “Is it proper to go off to the continent with him?”
“He’s become - a very good friend of mine, Father, even in so short a space of time. Nevertheless, we won’t be alone, if that’s what’s concerning you. We’ll be lodging with his cousin and I’m sure his father will insist a man or two accompanies him.”
His father made a long, low noise in the back of his throat. “How is Lord Blackwood?”
Nicholas bit his tongue against a sharp retort. It was so like his father to turn it into yet another chance for toadying, but his desire to go to Austria with Blackwood won out. “Fine, or so I’m told. I’ve not had the pleasure of his acquaintance as of yet.”
“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity, don’t you, Father?” Emily piped up from across the table, sending her brother a small grin.
“Hmmm,” Lord Coward said, and took a drink of his wine. “Well, I suppose I approve of the notion, at least. When are you thinking of finalising your plans?”
“Harry intends to visit next week.”
If Lord Coward was surprised by the use of forename, he didn’t react to it. “Let me know what you intend; I want to spend some of the summer in Devon with your aunt.” He gestured for the table to be cleared, and in the commotion Emily caught Nicholas’ eye and smiled.
Part Two
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Length: 21,200 words
Rating: At the very, very most R.
Also now crossposted to AO3 here.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
February 1881
A fog was curling its way around the capital, sitting low and heavy across chimney-pots, writhing illicitly around streetlamps and the tips of policemen’s hats. In immutable, true British spirit, the night, for the rich, was like any other, and the ceaseless cabaret of fine society chose to exhibit its nightly debacle at the Coward residence, much to the vexation of their eldest, who’d somewhat hoped for a quiet night in.
Tonight’s entertainment came at the leisure of Nicholas’ parents, and as of such the guests mainly consisted of ageing friends and family Nicholas hadn’t seen for years; not seeking any joyous reunions, he skulked malevolently around the bookshelves, glass in hand. He kept a keen eye on his sister, immersed in her entourage; she had taken it upon herself to make a gentleman of him, and took every such party as a perfect opportunity to do so. Speckled through the elderly crowd was the occasional splash of vim and vigour; male for conversation, female for flirtation, all within two years of his age and some even surreptitiously glancing his way in invitation. Nicholas sighed and rubbed his eyes; Emily had, once again, outdone herself. Even now, across the room, she spoke quickly to her cluster of girls, scolding one or two for their inappropriate dress and praising another for a well-selected accoutrement. He’d been told on frequent occasion that, in the right circles, his sister was scaling the dizzying heights of celebrity, but he merely found it all rather trite.
At length, she selected her protégé for the evening - young, pretty, in an unfortunately European sort of way - and Nicholas turned away on a curse and quickly drained his glass. Emily had him pinned; escape from the room was impossible, what with her motley crew between him and the door, and the sole other distractions came in the form of decrepit relatives who would spend far too long talking about the war and not listen to a word he said, due to inability or a particular form of rudeness only acquired and forgiven with senility. It was possible, despite the hour, to make an escape across the garden -
And one presented itself, in the tall form of a man lurking by the French windows. Nicholas gave him the once-over as he placed his glass on the side-table. Young enough to be interesting, but too old to be one of Emily’s honey-traps in very deep disguise. He was probably the only person who Nicholas hadn’t, at some point, been introduced to, and despite it being horribly improper to simply present himself to a stranger, Emily had the girl on her arm (oh Lord, Nicholas thought, I’m sure she’s a Frances, or even a Matilda) and any option was preferable to that. With a nod to Lord Glastonbury, who had begun to totter in his direction, he stole across the room and came to a halt at his side.
“Hello,” he began, and the man gave a small start of surprise. “I hope you’ll forgive the importunity, but that’s my sister in the shocking blue dress, and I believe she has dishonourable intentions for me and that poor girl hanging off her arm.” Lord Glastonbury had managed to intercept Emily halfway across the room; she had grown curiously quiet, and was watching him rather sharply. “Besides,” Nicholas continued, “you look about as ready to shoot yourself in the foot as I am.”
The man arced an eyebrow, looking amused, and rummaged in his pocket, withdrawing a silver case. “Cigarette?” Very Laconic, then, Nicholas thought, somewhat down-heartedly. Laconic men never made for great conversation, by definition.
“Not a vice of mine, I’m afraid,” he replied, and caught the man’s pointed glance through the garden door. “But,” he smiled, “I feel exceptions can often be made.”
The fog had settled low by the time they stepped outside, and the door snapping shut behind them separated them from the muggy, smoky warmth of the parlour behind. Beside him, his mystery man lit up a cigarette with a rasping match. “Unseasonal, this late in the year,” Nicholas commented, gesturing at the fog, and the man nodded. “Nicholas Coward,” he offered, holding out a hand.
“Henry Blackwood.” He was more than a little taken aback to have such a celebrity at his parents’ commonplace affair, and Blackwood, as if sensing his surprise, smiled. “I am allowed to leave the house, you know.” He offered Nicholas a cigarette, which he politely declined. “Besides, I owe someone a favour.” Nicholas knew this would be Emily; there was no way his father would ever be able to twist such an influential arm. “I have to admit, I find these things more than a little boring.”
Nicholas found himself easily returning the smile. “We’re certainly agreed in that respect. You must come more often; give me someone to talk to.”
Blackwood’s eyes tracked back through the French window, shifting irritably in the cold. “I expect we’ll have tongues wagging, what with your scandalously improper behaviour.”
Nicholas grinned. “I’d hate to drag down your good reputation with my association.”
“To be honest, I’d rather you did, just to avoid becoming quite so dull as half the people in that room.” He finished the cigarette, and dropped it into a miniature puddle skulking around his ankle. They stood for some time in silence, and Nicholas felt all frustration and irritability slide out of him, into the cool night air.
It took him a while to notice Blackwood looking at him rather pointedly; Nicholas, feeling slightly sheepish, gestured back into the parlour, where Emily had busied herself by talking to Lady Marchmain, making it no longer a warzone too terrifying to enter. “Shall we?”
Blackwood held open the door as they went. They spent little further time in conversation; Blackwood was inexorably popular, but Nicholas felt utterly content to hang to one side, and not simply as a deterrent for his sister. There was something about the man; something calming, something grounding, something which seized your attention and confined it. He would, one day, make a good soldier, or an excellent politician; there was a steady quality in his words that could arrest a man’s loyalty in a heartbeat.
The following morning, Nicholas was dismayed to realise that his only tenuous link to his new acquaintance came from his sister, and she had thrown a fit of importunity at his rudeness the night before and was pretending that Henry Blackwood didn’t so much as exist. He didn’t know enough about Blackwood to write to him, nor was he in the social circles of London enough to know which gentlemen’s clubs to stumble into - though, he supposed, from what he gathered the evening before, Blackwood didn’t spend much time in such places. He knew the Blackwood estate controlled a little bit of almost everything - it was, after all, what they were famed for - but it seemed equally unlikely that their son would be seen stumbling around Nine Elms inspecting pig corpses. Nicholas liked his company, and it was especially rare to find someone who actually cared enough about anything other than his sister’s vapid obsessions and his father’s dreary politics to hold a decent conversation with him.
At Emily’s gentle provocation, he spent fewer evenings brooding in his bedroom and writing pathetic poetry and more socialising with friends of both his sister and his parents. He even ended up with a scattering of offers of employment, a few of which were in the government and even fewer were tempting, though each met with both Emily’s and his father’s disapproval. “Besides,” his father reminded him, trapped in a carriage with his two children, returning from Lady Bramstone’s, “it’s not your job to finance our household until I’m dead and gone. Spend time on your studies and entertain your sister.” His sister needed little entertaining, but it was rare for his father to impart advice that was actually of any use.
Despite the alarming increase in Nicholas’ social life, it was a month or so before he went to an event which Blackwood also happened to attend. Lord Samson was celebrating a birthday - the actual age was concealed, though Emily scandalously speculated it was probably closer to sixty than fifty, as the Samsons would like the world to believe - and, it seemed, the whole of London had to be invited, and not to attend would mean suicide in the eyes of London’s upper class. Nicholas nearly rejoiced to spy Blackwood across the room, but he was talking soberly to some grey, sombre men, and he thought it probably improper to charge across the room on the virtue of a single meeting. He was snuck up on from behind halfway through the evening, nearly causing a horrible incident with red wine and Lady Salinger’s dress, much to Blackwood’s amusement. “I know you’re not one for impropriety, but there’s no need to ignore me all evening, you know,” he murmured, biting back a laugh, and Nicholas apologised profusely and steered away from the little cluster of people around Lady Salinger.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. We haven’t spoken in at least a month.”
“You could have written.”
“So could you - besides, I didn’t know where you lived.”
“A man of little resource, then; half of London knows where I live. A letter is far less scandalous than an impromptu introduction at a party.”
They hovered around the back of the room, nearly at the window, and Nicholas drank slowly from what remained in his glass. Presently, one of the sons of Samson - John, Nicholas seemed to recall, though it could just as easily be James or Jacob - dramatically entered the room and announced the dinner to be served. The Samson household was famed for its spread (in fact, it was the only reason persuasive enough to make Nicholas attend that evening) and even amongst the stoic, reserved upper class of London there was somewhat of a rush to the table. Nicholas sat to the right of Blackwood, and spent the meal chatting amiably about anything interesting which occurred to him and fervently ignoring his sister’s foul looks along the table. She appeared to have unfortunately been seated next to Miss Price, who, after being married three times at the age of fifty-three, was under the impression she had accumulated all the wisdom the world had to offer and therefore was obliged to impart it on any fool who would try not to listen. Nicholas occasionally caught the expression on Emily’s face and attempted not to grin.
Blackwood, not expecting Nicholas’ attendance, had arranged for a hansom to arrive around ten, his own family’s coach preoccupied with shuttling his father from ‘important business in the city’. The evening rolled around amiably, the food taking up the majority of the time, with Nicholas taking full advantage of his educated and above all fascinating companion, and the grand clock in the hall announced it to be quarter to ten rather sooner than he would have wished. There was, of course, the option of staying inside whilst waiting for it to arrive, but the Samson household was flooded with guests becoming steadily more and more drunk as the rooms fogged up with more and more smoke, and for the sake of fresh air they lounged on the steps outside instead.
“Well, I have to say, you made what promised to be a thoroughly dull evening somewhat more interesting,” Nicholas said mildly, peering down the street, and Blackwood laughed.
“Fine praise indeed, though I feel that your sister probably would have caused some entertaining scandal to keep you occupied.” The hansom approached, and Nicholas opened the door for him as he climbed inside. “I think I’ll call on you in the week, provided you’ve got nothing better to do - I know I don’t, and besides, it’d probably be better than hanging around another month for the next party.” With a tiny smile, Blackwood thumped the side of the carriage, and it clattered away.
Nicholas skipped back up the steps to the Samsons’ front door, located his sister in the drawing room and elected to leave as soon as possible, easily recognising the rash impulsiveness in the set of her shoulders, which he caught hold of calmly to steer her from the room. “Come on, dear, even you should know better than to upset the Home Secretary’s wife.”
“He doesn’t frighten me,” she protested, attempting to prise her wrist from his fingers. “Besides, I hadn’t had the chance to say anything really dreadful.”
He tugged her into the hallway, scanning around for their father. “Don’t you think of anyone but yourself? Father’s currently in negotiations with his part of the government, and you attempt to insult his wife.”
“Men and their politics,” she sighed, leaning on him lazily. “I shall have to become a suffragist before my opinions are heard.”
Lord Samson sent her a rather alarmed look, which Nicholas had to dissuade with an uneasy smile. “Don’t joke about such things,” he hissed. He had the butler call them a hansom, left a message for their father and bundled his sister inside before she could do any more damage.
She grinned at him wickedly as they rocked their way past Charing Cross. “You spent all the evening talking to Henry again,” she declared, nudging his shin with her foot.
Nicholas scowled. “For want of better conversation, yes. How was Miss Price?”
She flopped back in mock theatrics. “Oh, God, Nick, if I ever get to be like that, promise me you’ll have me shot.”
“Do I have to wait?” he muttered, and she kicked him viciously.
Blackwood waited until Thursday before calling on the Coward household. Nicholas was brooding in his room, wondering whether it was rather presumptuous to worry why he hadn’t heard from him yet, when Carlyle knocked on the door to announce his arrival. He hurried down the landing, realising with increasing dread that Emily had intercepted him before Carlyle had managed to smuggle him into the parlour, and was now chatting to him at the foot of the stairs - and, good Lord, Blackwood was laughing. He sent her a filthy look as he descended the last flight, reserving his smile for Blackwood.
“Henry was just telling me how he wants to tour Europe during the summer, Nick,” she said, slowly, grinning at him from over Blackwood’s shoulder. “Though I think it can get horribly hot on the continent during August, don’t you agree?”
Nicholas ignored her. “I hope she’s not been too offensive.”
Blackwood smiled. “On the contrary, she’s been quite informative.”
Emily sent him a sly look, and placed a hand on Blackwood’s shoulder. “I must apologise, Henry, I’ve got a meeting with my dressmaker I need to rush off to. I can’t quite seem to find the right thing to wear for the Opera this evening - it’s the première of Patience at the Comique, you know, quite impossible to get tickets, but I’ve managed to make friends with someone courting the understudy of Grosvenor. All down to who you know, as ever. Anyway, I’d best leave you to your politics.” She gave Blackwood a flattering smile and swept regally from the room.
Once sure she was well out of earshot, Nicholas snorted. “She’s rather taken with you; I have never seen her act so obnoxiously. I would apologise for that, but I feel you handled it all quite admirably.”
Blackwood smiled easily. “Interesting women are so hard to come across, here, unless they’ve deserted to America at some point and lost all of their propriety. She’s quite refreshing to talk to.”
They crossed into the drawing-room, and then out to the garden; the time of the year still left it rather cool, but at least it wasn’t smothered in fog as it had been before. “I can never talk to her without suspecting she’s plotting something.”
“I find that happens with women in general,” Blackwood said, mildly. “You should meet my mother.” Nicholas squatted by the fountain, extracted a pebble, and threw it to rebound off the bronze sculpture in the centre before falling back into the water. “That looks expensive. Laocoon and his serpents?”
Nicholas snorted. “A replica, and a pretty shoddy one at that. I think it’s hideous, but my mother loved it, so of course it has to stay.” He slouched back against an elaborately trimmed shrub; Lord Coward had a fondness of horticulture bested only by Xerxes himself.
“Your mother, she - ?”
“Eloped.” Nicholas flicked the leaf to the ground. “With Father’s brother, actually - he’d moved to America, and Father hates the lot of them now. He discovered the affair around two months after Emily was born and they were divorced with her in New Jersey by the end of the year. Generally people assume she’s dead, and by Father’s instruction we don’t tell them otherwise.”
“The women of your family have a tendency to be impetuous,” Blackwood said absently, which Nicholas felt was somewhat of an understatement. “I did have a conversation with a friend of my father’s about the hereditary nature of personality once - he theorised that something in the blood flow in the mother’s brain during the pregnancy affected the characteristics of the offspring.”
“He can’t have had much proof.” Nicholas glanced up from the water. “You’re a determinist?”
“Nothing quite so absolute; I have no inclination towards the concepts of fate or destiny. The notion that some human traits might have a biological basis... interests me.”
“I had no idea you were such a pragmatist. I might have to stop speaking to you.”
Blackwood wandered up to the fountain, observing the skitters in the surface. “You disapprove of science?”
“It does nothing but tirelessly prove things wrong and strip the magic and mystery from the mundane, leaving it quite pointless and boring.” Nicholas straightened, and climbed the steps back towards the house. “No; in my experience, some things are best left well alone.”
Blackwood elected not to remain for dinner, though this was rather at Nicholas’ insistence than his own choice; it was to be one of the rare occasions Lord Coward returned from work to dine with his children, and with Emily at the Opera the three of them sat together at dinner would be uncomfortable at best.
“If he’s not had this treaty signed he’ll be as miserable as sin, and if he has he’ll be insufferable; not the most auspicious of introductions, really.” He watched Blackwood fetch up his hat and scarf, and passed down his coat from a peg by the door. “Do you want my man to call for someone?”
“No, I’ll walk; I need to call off somewhere on the way anyhow.” He moved down the first two steps from the door and paused, leaning against the rail to look back inside. “Do you like the theatre?”
Nicholas smirked. “I’m partial to a little, in the right circumstances. Why?”
“A friend of mine’s headlining in Odette on Saturday, and I’ve got two tickets and no one to go with, if you don’t mind. I could always take your sister instead.”
Nicholas laughed. “Don’t joke; I’ll tell her you said so and there’ll be Hell to pay.” He leant against the door frame. “Unless I get a better offer, consider my evening yours.” With a smile, Blackwood made off down the street.
His father, it turned out, had managed to secure a profitable treaty with the Marquis, and came home insufferably jovial. He stayed at the dinner table long enough to ascertain that Emily wouldn’t be joining them and scold Nicholas for letting her out unaccompanied before retiring to his study with the majority of the food, leaving Nicholas to stare at his plate sullenly and regret urging Blackwood home.
Emily spent Friday and the majority of Saturday skulking around the house, forbidden by their father to go ‘gallivanting’ across London until a time he deemed appropriate. She contented herself by making her brother’s life a misery, especially when she learnt that he was allowed out on Saturday evening when she was instructed to stay indoors without any entertainment.
“This is favouritism,” she grumbled, slouched across his bed and watching him dress. “Blatant favouritism. If I wrote to Josephine Butler she’d be deeply scandalised.”
“Emily, if you wrote to Josephine Butler she’d remind you how damn lucky you are you don’t work as a common whore on the docks.” He turned away from the looking-glass. “I would point out that not only did I tell Father I was going out, I did so in the right tone and a full two days before the evening itself.”
“You plan things too meticulously, Nick,” she sighed, shaking her head as if all the great misery in the world originated from his fastidiousness. “Your life lacks impulsiveness. Spontaneity.”
“And yet, which of us is hanging indoors like an old bat on Saturday evening?”
She scowled at him fiercely and watched him inspect himself in the looking-glass again. “You’re fretting over your appearance again; it’s quite adorable.” Carlyle knocked quietly on the door to inform him that Blackwood’s coach had pulled up outside, and Emily glared at him. “Do have a nice evening.”
Nicholas grabbed his tailcoat from the closet. “If you’re still up when I return, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Blackwood had filched the use of the family coach that evening; it was huge in comparison to the others clogging the streets, and rather lushly done up, although internally rather than externally. Lord Blackwood liked to ride comfortably, but in style. Nicholas mockingly touched his hat to his sister, leaning out of the bedroom window for a better view, and clambered inside.
The play in itself was, thankfully, not as awful as Nicholas had anticipated it would be. Blackwood’s friend made a decent stab at Clermont, even if his interpretation was a tad soppy, and the rest of it was rather well put together; the director clearly knew his stuff. He told Blackwood as much between the hubbub of the curtain closing and the doors opening, and he looked rather amused at his interpretation, though he politely asked him not to mention to his friend that his Clermont had been “a tad soppy”.
“He’s been insufferable about it for weeks,” he murmured as they crossed the foyer. “He thinks he’s got it down to pat - he even wrote to Sardou in Paris for pointless fact-checking and the like. Apparently it helped ‘elaborate the role’.” Blackwood straightened against the counter, and Nicholas glanced across the foyer to watch his friend approach; it was the current fashion to emphasise vitality over maturity, and he played it perfectly, with a natural babyish face accompanied by blonde hair and innocent brown eyes. “Alex Duvall; Nicholas Coward.”
Duvall shook his hand. “It was a surprise to hear about you, Mr Coward. Harry doesn’t tend to make friends, so naturally you came as quite a shock.”
Nicholas smiled uneasily. “I have to say, by my first impression he did seem rather Laconic.”
Duvall looked from Nicholas to Blackwood, full of glee. “Do you hear that, Harry? Laconic! I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put so well. I dread to think what your perception of me must be.” He put a hand on Blackwood’s shoulder, and leant in rather close. “Listen, I’ve got to hang around for a bit, do the ingratiated actor role with a couple of producers, but after that what do you say about us heading over to the city, eh? Make a night of it?”
“Perfect,” Blackwood replied, and Duvall, beaming, scurried back across the foyer.
“I think I’d better leave you to it,” Nicholas said quietly. “Better not push my luck with my father.”
Blackwood looked at him, and, after a pause, nodded. “You are allowed to say you don’t like him, you know.” Nicholas, taken aback, made no move to deny it; he suspected Blackwood would tell he was lying. “No matter; we’ll spend it floating around some of the more ill-kept public houses and he’ll head over to Tiger’s Bay to stick a pipe between his lips and a whore between his legs. Hardly the most entertaining of evenings, and far from your tastes. Besides, you mustn’t keep your sister waiting - promise me you’ll invent some scandal to shock her with.”
Nicholas smiled. “I hadn’t planned to, but it’ll give me something to do on the ride home.” They shook hands, shared the briefest of looks, and he moved through the foyer to wait for the cab outside. As he left, he turned up the collar of his coat; there was a storm on the air.
Following the theatre escapade, it occurred to Lord Coward that his son was in rather close relations with the son of Lord Blackwood. From that moment onwards, Nicholas could do no wrong; gone was the imperative to study, to nanny his sister, replaced by his father’s insistence he should spend the afternoon, evening, weekend with Blackwood. “If I didn’t value so highly as a friend,” Nicholas informed Blackwood, drily, basking in the tentative April sunshine on the Cowards’ lawn, “I’d abandon you entirely out of spite.”
“If I weren’t your only friend,” Blackwood retorted, smiling a little. It was true that whilst only a few years ago Nicholas had enjoyed his own wonderful entourage of companions, they’d long since abandoned life with their parents to go off and do thoroughly exciting things in thoroughly exciting places. Nicholas was evidently destined for something different and, depressingly, more domestic.
Blackwood became their guest of honour, asked to dine with the Cowards every night that could be spared and made to put up with Lord Coward’s sycophantic conversation at every opportunity. Although it provided Nicholas with the rare chance to frequently entertain his closest friend, it disgusted him to watch his father’s constant toadying. “I don’t know how you can stand it,” Nicholas muttered to him, darkly, after one particularly appalling display.
Blackwood shrugged. “It’s only politics. Besides, spending every evening with you makes it almost worthwhile.”
When Blackwood announced that their family would be spending a month or so in their Chichester estate, Lord Coward looked about as appalled as Nicholas felt. “There’s a good postal service between Sussex and London - there has to be, otherwise Father couldn’t afford to be away from Parliament so long. I promise I’ll write.” They’d chosen to spend the afternoon at the Blackwoods’, rather than the Cowards’, to allow Blackwood the time to pack and to escape from Lord Coward’s despair. Currently, they were perched in Blackwood’s bedroom, watching the Blackwoods’ housekeeper, Mrs Wilcott, somewhat frantically prepare the family for their departure the following day. Blackwood snapped shut a black-strapped leather writing case and touched Nicholas’ shoulder briefly. “A month really isn’t all that long - and besides, I might just have a surprise for you when I get back.”
Nicholas swiftly said his goodbyes once Mrs Wilcott worked herself into an abominable fluster, possibly scarring one of the serving-girls for life in the process, and trudged back home with low spirits. Without their guest of honour, his father was in a foul mood, and Emily, still in disgrace, wasn’t much better without Blackwood to discourage her. With nothing better to do, she caused a tempestuous argument and flounced off to bed once gaining the upper hand; Nicholas was left stranded with their father, who, in a fit of rage, threatened to disown the both of them. This was a largely empty threat; they both reminded him far too much of their mother, who, after all this time, was still deified in the Coward household.
His sister, bored and depressed without Blackwood’s frequent visits to entertain her, flung herself back into any social scene she could find; Nicholas was dragged with her for the first few times, just to satiate their father’s disapproval, but was so bitter and jaded with Blackwood gone he quickly gave up and took to spending far too much time in his bedroom.
A note came after a few weeks, announcing his safe arrival and hoping for his family’s wellbeing, but Nicholas could never quite bring himself to write back.
Having received no word from Blackwood for the best part of a month, Nicholas was in a terrible mood; fortunately for the rest of the world, he’d decided to vent it entirely in the space of the bedroom to which he isolated himself, drafting broody and contemptuous letters to various members of government or regressing to rereading favourite books from his childhood. One Friday afternoon, Emily flew into his bedroom as he was in the midst of one particularly eloquent piece of work, and virtually dragged him from his writing-desk in excitement. The letter in her hand turned out to be from Thomas Hamilton, one of Nicholas’ childhood friends, who was -
“ - coming to stay with us, Nick!” Emily shrieked, spinning around in circles, the letter abandoned on the carpet.
Nicholas stared at her. “You read my post?”
Emily sat down on the bed and threw him a jaded look. “Oh, don’t act like that, it’s not like there’s anything private about it.”
Thomas’ imminent visit - which, Nicholas thought, a little moodily, was announced at rather short notice, and rather impolitely - sent the household into a flurry, with a million highly important things which had to be done before he got there, and everyone, other than Nicholas, forgot all about Blackwood. Thomas, it turned out, had spent the last few years touring the continent and securing a rather important ambassador’s role, which made him a vital ally for Nicholas’ father; he was to be their new guest of honour, or at least for the week or so he was staying with them. He had to admit he was full of nerves at the thought of his friend returning; they’d not seen each other for such a long time, and he’d probably become a far more interesting man than Nicholas in the time they’d been apart. Nicholas hadn’t managed to leave Middlesex in the best part of a year, and the last time Thomas wrote to him it was from Zimbabwe.
Still, on the afternoon of his arrival, his old friend stepped out of the coach and ran, beaming, into the house and jumped on him with an entirely inappropriate and rather affectionate hug. “You could have written to me a bit earlier,” Nicholas muttered begrudgingly, but couldn’t quite help a smile.
“It seems an odd time to return to London, though,” Nicholas said, sat in the study. The weather was turning to summer; although it was almost evening, the windows were wide open, and the sun was still dragging itself down through the sky. They had spent a companionable few days together, visiting plays of questionable quality, lounging around in fine society and attempting to convey to one another the events of the past few years. Nicholas had forgotten how easy he had found his friendship with Thomas, and regretted them falling out of touch.
“I knew you’d spot my ulterior motives.” Thomas smiled as he turned from the window. “You see, I’ve come rather in want of a wife.”
“Ah.” Nicholas smiled. “That is the only reason anyone ever comes crawling back to fine society; I should have guessed. I take it you intend to consult my sister on the appropriateness of the young women of London? You’ll find her a master in the subject, and she’ll relish someone to lecture on it.”
“No, Nicholas,” Thomas replied, frowning slightly. “I intend to marry her.”
Nicholas stared at him. “Have you told my father?”
“Not yet.” Thomas spread his hands with an easy smile. “I’m well-suited financially, and I can promise to keep her content, if not excited. Marriage might even calm her down a little.” He paused for a second, teeth worrying his lip. “She does like me, doesn’t she? I remember her taking a fancy to me years ago, and God knows she never stops flirting with me.”
“She likes you,” Nicholas confirmed, though he spoke slowly, and felt thoroughly confused. Besides, Emily flirted with everyone, in a socially acceptable sort of way; it was generally perceived as endearing.
“I’ll do it properly, of course. Court her for a while, buy her expensive things, ask your father’s permission, but I don’t see a reason why we shouldn’t be married.”
“She believes in love, you know.”
Thomas shrugged. “Then I’ll have her fall in love with me; she’s halfway there already. I might even fall in love with her myself.” He watched him closely. “You disapprove.”
“Not so much,” Nicholas replied, quietly. “I always imagined she’d fall passionately in love with a sailor and run off on a scandalous elopement and live happily in Russia with her thirteen children. This is - ”
“Preferable?”
“Different,” he said. “I’ll have to take a while to get my head around it. I shouldn’t worry, though; Father practically worships you, and Emily will be over the moon. There shouldn’t be anything stopping you.”
“But their opinions don’t matter to me, Nick,” he said, softly, and managed to hold his eye.
Nicholas stayed quiet, studying his hands. “You’d keep her happy. She’d be safe.”
“Of course.”
“Well, there’s little I could do to dissuade young love, is there?” He smiled as he settled back in his chair. “You know, out of all the men she took a fancy to when she was younger, I suppose I’d prefer her to marry you the most.”
Thomas laughed. “From you, Nicholas, that’s practically a compliment. We won’t be married for the best part of a year, you know - ” He paused, wetting his lips nervously. “I do want to do things right.”
“Well, you’ve won me over - you always were a stupidly good politician, and your fancy promotion hasn’t made you any less obnoxious. Just promise me you won’t drag her off to some godforsaken land where I’ll never see hide nor hair again?”
“You have my word,” Thomas replied, solemn as a pastor and grinning like an idiot.
After the last invasion of his privacy, Nicholas had arranged with Carlyle for his post to be brought to his room directly, in an attempt to stop Emily intercepting it; the operation carried through quite successfully, and it at least gave him the chance to read Blackwood’s letter before Emily worked the strategy out, charged into his room and snatched it from his hand.
“It’s from Henry!” She spread herself out on his bed, scanning the pages quickly. “Ugh, how boring, it’s all politics and drivel. Does he mention me?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Nicholas tersely snapped, reaching over to take it; she snaked back from his reach and flipped it over to read the postscript and check for a hidden message.
“Oh, look, he signs it Harry - not Blackwood, or even Henry. Has he been doing it long?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he muttered, teeth clenched. “Can I have it back now?”
She ignored him. “Are you going to write back?”
“That is how letter-writing works, Emily.”
Once again, she ignored him, electing instead to fully read the letter, until interrupted by Carlyle knocking quietly on the door to announce that their father wanted to speak to her. Still none the wiser to Thomas’ imminent proposal, she glowered at him as she swept from the room, leaving Nicholas staring at the letter which lay, a little rumpled, curled at the foot of his bed.
Lord Coward insisted they dine out that night, and Emily mischievously picked Claridge’s, well aware that securing a reservation so late in the day would be impossible. It came as no surprise to Nicholas that Thomas swanned into the dining room a half-hour later with a reservation for all four of them for eight o’clock - “Although,” he added, as Carlyle quietly serviced the pianoforte, “if you’d like to join us, Carlyle, I’m sure I can persuade them to fetch us another chair.” Carlyle politely declined.
Once Emily excused herself to get ready for the evening, Thomas sent him a slightly queasy smile and slumped against the piano. “You have actually proposed to her, am I right?” Nicholas asked. “She does know?”
Thomas nodded absently. “You wouldn’t think so. She’s being almost unnaturally quiet.”
“Maybe it’s a sign of longed-for maturity. It’s been in the works long enough.”
Thomas laughed. “Oh, come on, Nick. You know as well as I do immaturity is half her charm.”
The meal came out of Thomas’ pocket - he rather sickeningly insisted on being the gentleman - and, despite the extortionate nature of the prices, was likeable enough. Lord Coward even managed to look pleased for most of the night, greatly perturbing both of his children, who shot each other nervous looks whenever their father laughed or cheerfully cracked a joke. “I think he’s just glad I didn’t do what Mama did, you know,” Emily muttered to him darkly.
“I think we all expected it of you, to be perfectly honest.”
She gave him an odd look. “I may be impetuous, selfish and ignorant, Nicholas, but I still have my principles,” she replied, and refused to talk to him for the rest of the evening.
Thomas had the intention of procuring lodgings in St James’, to keep as a base of residence when in London; his job was calming down a little, now, but it still demanded he travelled most of the year. Besides, Emily felt obliged a grand London townhouse to fuss over and heavily customise the drapery of; maintaining the house would give her something to do. Until then, the Cowards were stuck with the both of them.
Nicholas did eventually compose a reply to Blackwood; he told him of Emily’s engagement, narrating the whole affair with far too much grandeur and melodrama in what he hoped came off with an ironic tone. He could imagine his friend stuck in the country, bored stiff with no one to talk to and nothing to do, and liked to think his letter would bring him some form of amusement. The letter he received in turn briefly outlined a scandal between the cook and the kitchen maid, but other than that Chichester life seemed to be inexorably dull; Nicholas shot back ever more complicated and philosophical questions, just to give each of them something to do. When Blackwood wrote back with a ten-page essay on Descartes, Carlyle gave him a very odd look as he handed across the bundle of papers.
As Thomas began collecting his things, Blackwood outlined a date for his return; the 13th June was his brother’s birthday, and he intended to be in London from at least the evening before. ‘And,’ he wrote, ‘I even have that surprise for you I mentioned.’
When hearing that Blackwood would soon be returning, Emily quickly reverted from the sombre, austere wife-to-be to her childish and asinine self, and as for Lord Coward, he looked close to aneurysm from sheer happiness; both his children with highly respected, highly influential companions, both, in his mind, eagerly ready to further their father’s position.
Blackwood ended up returning on the afternoon of the fourth, promising to drop by as soon as his men had properly sorted out his effects; Nicholas ambled around the parlour, running his fingers across trinkets and tabletops until Emily fussed at him for wearing down the varnish. She herself lay sprawled inelegantly across the chaise in the corner; the summer didn’t agree with her, as the pollution from the riverbanks carried further and got into her lungs, and she was miserable and exhausted from far too little sleep. “Do you suppose he’ll have bought me something?” she asked, hopefully, and Nicholas scowled in her direction.
“I - ” Nicholas stopped, started, stopped again, ran the words through his head, selected the least suspicious phrase. “If he’s been addressing me as Nick and I him as Harry for, say, over a month or so, even if merely in communiqué - what do you think the proper decorum is for when we meet?”
“Goodness, Nick, you don’t half get yourself worked up over decorum. I suppose you should let him speak first.”
Nicholas caught his lip with his teeth. “But suppose he’s as uncertain as I am?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Well, then, you shall both stare and gawp at each other for a while and it’ll be most entertaining to watch.”
They heard the sound of commotion at the door, and Carlyle knocked to announce Blackwood’s arrival; “oh, hellfire,” Nicholas cursed, turning from the window. Emily, forever his saving grace, asked Carlyle to escort him through with a melodramatic roll of her eyes.
Nicholas turned to her rather violently to argue, but Blackwood entered the room, and he found his voice faltered in his throat. “Nicholas,” he said, easily, before turning to his sister and smiling amiably. “Emily. I hear you’ve managed to get yourself a husband.”
“Honestly, Nick, have you done nothing but gossip for the last month?” She smiled at Blackwood as he kissed her hand. “He’s at the Commons for most of today, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you could meet him before he leaves for Cyprus at the end of next week.”
“At the Commons on a Saturday? He must be a very diligent worker - I approve already. I can’t imagine you as a wife, though, dearly devoted to his arms.”
“Through passionate duty love springs higher,” she replied, brusquely, smiling just a little. Blackwood let go his sister’s hand and turned to Nicholas, finally, instead.
“Hullo, H-arry,” Nicholas decided, at the last possible moment, and found himself rewarded by the most fleeting of smiles.
“Your letters were a most welcome distraction. You have no idea how completely boring it can get when stuck in a house with no one but an obnoxious father and an insufferable brother to keep you company.”
Nicholas opened his mouth, grinning a little, but the look on Emily’s face made him close it again. “Indeed,” he said, drily, “I can’t imagine.”
“Anyhow, there’s something I think we need to discuss - ” Blackwood looked across at Emily. “ - and I thought it best to do it away from - ”
“Prying eyes,” Nicholas interrupted, and Blackwood smiled, just a little.
“Precisely.”
“The drawing-room should be free. Emily, you’ll forgive us if we leave you to your - ”
“Sewing?” Blackwood suggested, face quite blank. “Needlework?”
They began to hightail it to the adjacent drawing-room at the murderous look on Emily’s face, and Nicholas slid shut the door. He pressed his back to the panelling, bracing himself for the thump his sister was sure to deliver, but it didn’t come - Nicholas rather uneasily suspected she was skulking around behind the door, attempting to listen in. “Well, can I get you a drink?” He paced to the cabinet on the west wall.
“Certainly.” Blackwood took the proffered glass and drained it instantly; Nicholas watched him place it down on the sideboard, and wondered absently if it was a case of Dutch courage.
“You mentioned a surprise,” Nicholas said slowly, and Blackwood nodded, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Quite. I spoke at length with my father, while I was away - ” He broke off for a moment and smiled. “Not the easiest thing in the world to do, but it had to be done, and he was actually suspiciously amiable. In any rate, we spoke of you, and he reminded me we have a cousin with a townhouse in Vienna.” He looked at Nicholas nervously. “What do you say to it? I know it’s not quite Prague, but if you like I’m sure we could spend a day or so there as well.”
Nicholas stared at him, dumbfounded. “Your father wants - you want us to spend the summer in Vienna?”
“Perhaps not the whole summer - July, maybe? Or August? I’m sure Lord Coward - ”
Nicholas paced across the room and halted before him, his hand reaching towards Blackwood’s arm. “Harry, that’s - it’d be - ”
Emily chose the inopportune moment to crash into the room and gaze happily at Blackwood. “Nick, accept the offer this instant! Oh, that’s so kind of you, Henry,” she gushed, looking at him with soppy eyes, but Blackwood kept his own on Nicholas.
“ - perfect,” he finished, eventually, his voice quiet. “Thank you.” He turned to his belligerent sister, who did have the decency to look a little ashamed. “Have you been listening all this time?”
She tossed her head back and looked at him haughtily. “Of course.”
“I do hope Thomas knows what he’s let himself in for,” Nicholas muttered darkly, and watched as Blackwood attempted to hide a smile.
“Nicholas - ” Blackwood took his wrist for an instant and dropped it just as quickly. “Listen, I’d better get back to my father; we’ve got a thousand and one preparations to make before next Monday night. I’ll come by next week to make arrangements?”
“Absolutely. Emily, would you have Carlyle fetch Harry’s coat, please?” She cast them a surreptitious look as she left, and Nicholas glanced quickly at Blackwood to catch his expression. His countenance suggested that he had something more to say - but then Carlyle was entering the room, and he graciously accepted hat and coat. “Wednesday?” Nicholas asked, watching him slip them on.
“Wednesday,” Blackwood confirmed, shook his hand and left with Carlyle seeing him to the door.
Nicholas broke the news of the suggested holiday to his father at dinner, with Emily watching them eagerly; Lord Coward was not as instantly dismissive as Nicholas had dreaded, but wasn’t as immediately ecstatic as Emily had been. “You’ve not known him for very long,” he said, slowly, as perfectly-steamed vegetables were heaped onto his plate. “Is it proper to go off to the continent with him?”
“He’s become - a very good friend of mine, Father, even in so short a space of time. Nevertheless, we won’t be alone, if that’s what’s concerning you. We’ll be lodging with his cousin and I’m sure his father will insist a man or two accompanies him.”
His father made a long, low noise in the back of his throat. “How is Lord Blackwood?”
Nicholas bit his tongue against a sharp retort. It was so like his father to turn it into yet another chance for toadying, but his desire to go to Austria with Blackwood won out. “Fine, or so I’m told. I’ve not had the pleasure of his acquaintance as of yet.”
“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity, don’t you, Father?” Emily piped up from across the table, sending her brother a small grin.
“Hmmm,” Lord Coward said, and took a drink of his wine. “Well, I suppose I approve of the notion, at least. When are you thinking of finalising your plans?”
“Harry intends to visit next week.”
If Lord Coward was surprised by the use of forename, he didn’t react to it. “Let me know what you intend; I want to spend some of the summer in Devon with your aunt.” He gestured for the table to be cleared, and in the commotion Emily caught Nicholas’ eye and smiled.
Part Two