Someone had set up a truckle bed in the master bedroom suite, much too close to the main bed for my liking. I usually slept as far away from the boys in our den as possible, while remaining close enough for safety. It wasn't as close as this.
I didn't complain. I didn't want Fitzroy's suspicions raised. But there were some things that needed to be made clear from the beginning. Best to get them out now.
"You have to leave when I use the chamber pot," I told him.
He shot me a flinty glare from the clothes stand, where he stood removing his dinner jacket. I suspected that meant he agreed.
"And when I wash and change."
"As you wish." He hung the jacket on the stand and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
I didn't look away, but I didn't stare either. Neither would be the sort of thing a boy would do. Besides, I'd seen men before. Or, more specifically, boys and youths. While I never undressed in front of them, they were not so inhibited. They even pissed in front of me, and Stringer had once bedded a whore where the entire gang could see. I was no stranger to a man's parts or their function. Fitzroy's nakedness wouldn't concern me.
"You have the run of these rooms," he told me, bowtie in hand. "The book is on my desk, spare candles and matches are in the top drawer. Don't burn the house down."
I blinked. Had he just told a joke? His mouth didn't twitch, so I suspected he was serious and did indeed suspect that I would try and start a fire.
I left him to his undressing, somewhat disappointed that I wouldn't get to see if the magnificent face was accompanied by a magnificent figure, and found the book. There was no point pretending I couldn't read anymore, so I tried to think of a reasonable explanation for my education as I searched in the top drawer for the matches.
As my hand closed around the box, a thought struck me. My father used to keep a small knife inside his middle desk drawer. I felt all around, but there seemed to be none in the top drawer. I tried the others, and still nothing. I sat on the chair and checked the desk surface and inside an unlocked coffer. It contained only papers. I groped beneath the desk and my fingers found a small, narrow shelf at the right. It contained one item—a knife.
I slipped it from the shelf and pressed it to my thigh. I stood and carried the book and knife to the other side of the room where I lounged on the sofa. As interesting as the book was, I didn't even read one sentence as I waited for Fitzroy to emerge from the bedroom.
He seemed to take forever, and when he finally came out, barefoot and dressed in loose white trousers and an Oriental style shirt, I was already having second thoughts. Not about using the knife, but about my ability to succeed. He was stronger and faster than me. In a close combat situation, I would lose. I had to throw it at him when his back was turned, or not bother.
The thought of knifing someone in the back didn't sit well. Even more so because Fitzroy had not harmed me, except to save himself. I slid the knife beneath my thigh then openly watched him.
He stood in the open space between the two different sections of the room and began jumping up and down on the spot, drawing his knees up high to chest. It was such an odd thing to do that I couldn't tear my gaze away. Then suddenly he dropped into a squat, spun round on the ball of one foot, and lashed out with the other at an imaginary foe. I set the book aside and continued to watch as he performed more maneuvers, sometimes kicking, sometimes thrusting with closed fist or open hand. His face was set with concentration and he did not once glance at me. He wasn't wearing trousers and a shirt, I realized, or not any that I'd seen before. The clothes were loose, the fabric flowing, ensuring his limbs weren't hindered.
After several minutes of repeating the moves, he opened a casket on the bookshelf and removed an object. Or was it two? It appeared to be two handles as long as his hands with the end of one connected by a chain to the end of the other. He returned to the clearing and began his moves again, this time incorporating the contraption by flicking it out and back, up and down. Blows from the metal device would cause a lot of damage to exposed flesh. It was something to remember, as was the place where he kept it.
I continued to watch, fascinated by his smoothness and speed. He exercised for an hour, not once stopping or looking my way. It didn't seem to bother him that he had an audience. Perhaps he liked it. When he finally finished, after almost two hours, his face was a little flushed and the hair at his temple damp, but he otherwise seemed unflustered. I would have been flat on the floor panting.
Without a word, he padded back to the casket and placed the weapon inside, then returned to the bedroom. He re-emerged after ten minutes wearing nothing but a towel around his hips and carrying another that he used to dry his hair.
His lack of attention to me allowed me to take in the sight of his chest and shoulders, the left one with a bandage covering it where I'd shot him. The youths in the gangs I'd been in had never had bodies like that. Fitzroy's shoulders were broad, with bulges of muscle rippling down his arms and across his chest. The sprinkle of dark chest hair tapered off before reaching his ridged stomach. From a distance, it was difficult to tell if it was curly like the hair on his head. I found myself wanting to find out.
Not really aware of what I was doing, I untucked my feet from beneath me and set them on the floor. He looked up and a small furrow connected his brows. I swallowed and reopened my book. I hoped my fringe covered the blush burning my face. Beneath my thigh, the knife point dug into me. I'd forgotten about it. I probably should have used his inattention during exercise to throw it at him.
Fool. Foolish girl. Surely he must know my secret now. Surely he could see my interest in him. No boy would stare like that. Good lord, I hoped I hadn't drooled. I wiped the corner of my mouth on my shoulder, just to be sure.
"It's late," he said, tossing the towel he'd used on his hair over the back of one of the chairs. He dragged his damp, tousled locks off his face, and my heart kicked in my chest at the way it somehow made him more handsome.
"And?" I prompted.
"Aren't you tired?"
"Aren't you?"
"I don't need much sleep." He sat at his desk. Wasn't he going to dress? His semi-nakedness was a distraction.
I rearranged myself on the sofa so that I faced away from him. "Nor do I." It was the truth. Staying awake and alert was just one way I'd kept alive and safe for years.
He emitted a soft sound, but I wasn't sure if it was in humor or derision. I refused to glance at him, and instead slumped down into the sofa, placing my head on the armrest and stretching my legs out. I held the book close, to see the words in the poor light, and I was soon lost in the story, swept into the world of Sherlock Holmes and his puzzling mystery.
Some time later, Fitzroy deposited a candelabra on the table behind my head. My breath caught as I waited for him to say something, do something. When nothing happened, I turned my head. He was once again at his desk. He still only wore the towel and he seemed lost in the paperwork spread out before him.
I fell asleep at some point and awoke in the morning in the same position, the book splayed across my chest and Fitzroy looking down on me. The nightmare that had woken me drifted away as we regarded one another. Had I said something in my sleep? Cried out? It was difficult to tell from his blank face.
I sat up and received a sharp reminder that the knife was still under my thigh. "What do you want?" I snapped.
"Breakfast will arrive shortly." He moved away and sat at his desk. The man liked to work.
I tucked the knife up my sleeve and headed into the bedroom. With one eye on the closed door, I slipped the knife under the truckle bed's mattress, then I quickly washed and changed into the clean shirt. With my hair once more covering my face, I returned to the sitting room.
"Good morning, lad," Seth said cheerfully from the small table where he was setting down a tray. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough."
Gus moved past me into the bedroom and re-emerged a few minutes later with the bowls of washing water. "When are we going to get proper maids, sir?"
Fitzroy didn't look up from his paperwork. "When we find some that won't tattle."
"Girls who don't tattle?" Gus grunted. "Ain't no such creature."
Seth patted the chair near the table. "Sit down and eat, Charlie."
I sat and noticed that Fitzroy had his own tray laden with bacon, sausages and eggs. "I can't eat all this," I said.
"Try. You need fattening up." Seth ruffled my hair as he passed and I slapped his hand away. He chuckled and I found I couldn't be mad at him. He wasn't a bad sort, despite his participation in my kidnapping. He was only following orders.
Gus handed me a steaming cup of tea and bent his head close to mine. "Does he snore?" he whispered.
Despite everything, I laughed. "Like a trumpet," I whispered back, keeping Fitzroy in my line of sight.
Gus grinned, revealing a patchwork of broken and crooked teeth. "I knew there had to be something human about him."
"Or maybe his gears get jammed when he lies down."
Gus roared with laughter. Fitzroy glanced over his shoulder, catching us both watching him. Gus choked on his laugh and turned it into a cough.
"Eat, Half Pint," he commanded. "Growing boy like you should eat every crumb."
Seth emerged from the bedroom carrying jugs and bowls. He mouthed, "What's so amusing?" at Gus, but Gus merely shrugged.
"You know what you must do," Fitzroy told them.
"Yes, sir," Seth said. "We'll head out now."
Fitzroy locked the door after they left then settled back at his desk. He read the newspaper flattened out before him and absently ate his breakfast. I ate all of the bacon on my plate. It was one of the foods I'd missed in the last five years, and I savored every bite. I didn't touch the rest. The bacon had filled me up.
"You do not eat," Fitzroy said, some time later when he approached.
"I'm not hungry."
"If you don't eat, you won't grow."
"Perhaps I like being short and thin."
"No boy likes being short and thin."
I watched him for signs that he suspected, but he was already turning away from me. He paced the room, covering the entire length quickly with his long strides. He seemed agitated or frustrated.
"I'm sure they're doing as you asked," I said.
He stopped and looked at me. Then he began pacing again. Back and forth, back and forth for an eternity, it seemed. I turned my back to him and read, but the rhythm of his footsteps distracted me. I plugged my ears with my fingers but the rhythm continued to tread through my head and it was difficult to keep the book open with my elbows.
With a sigh, I withdrew my fingers and closed the book. "Are you worried about them?"
"No." He almost sounded amused at the idea. Almost.
"Are you concerned they'll fail?"
"Somewhat."
But not enough to warrant the pacing, I thought. "Are you concerned they'll give away too much about you and the ministry?"
"They're not that incompetent."
Perhaps he was disappointed with the way the dinner with Lady Harcourt had ended the night before. Perhaps he didn't like her leaving on a sour note. Yet he'd shown no such qualms upon her departure. Curious.
He finally stopped pacing long enough to glance out the window. He looked to the bright blue sky, to left then right, and up at the sky again. Then he continued pacing.
I got up and padded barefoot to the window to see what he was looking at. There was nothing but gravel drive, garden, trees and sky. The roses were like jewels dropped on a carpet of green, and the sky was bluer than I'd seen it in an age. There must be a northerly breeze blowing the factory smog away, and most homes wouldn't light fires in summer except in the kitchen. I was so used to being surrounded by gray and brown that my eyes hurt from the dazzling sunshine and bright colors. It was a perfect day and I ached to be outside.
Now I understood Fitzroy's frustration. He didn't like being shut inside his rooms any more than I did—perhaps less so. While I was content with the books, he seemed to need to move and there simply wasn't enough space.
"Put on your shoes." His voice came from closer behind me than I realized and I jumped.
"Where are we going?"
"Outside."
I rolled my eyes at his back as I followed him into the bedroom. "Anywhere specific?"
"No."
A few minutes later we were walking across the lawn. I had to take twice as many steps to keep up with his long strides but I didn't mind. I liked stretching my limbs and feeling the blood pump through my veins. If I'd been a lady, we would have slowed to an amble, but I didn't want to amble. I wanted to run. I wondered what he'd do if I took off. Tackle me to the ground? Jerk me to a stop by my hair? Or race me?
I settled for the brisk walk. We didn't speak as we passed the rose garden and the lily pond, where a frog croaked a greeting. We headed toward the stand of trees at the edge of the property then abruptly changed direction and headed back toward the house. I wasn't ready to return inside, even though I was hot under my layers of shirt and jacket.
"What's around the back of the house?" I asked.
"Outbuildings, orchard, walled garden and tennis court."
"Tennis! Do you play?"
"Play?"
"Yes. Tennis. Do you play?"
"No."
"You've never challenged Seth or Gus to a game?"
"There is no time for games at Lichfield Towers."
"How dull. I'm sure the men would appreciate a little time to play games like tennis or cards."
"I've seen them play cards after dinner."
"You've never joined them?"
"Rarely."
"Is that because they don't ask or because you don't want to play?"
His only answer was to increase his speed. I had to trot to remain alongside him.
"You don't talk much," I said. If he wanted to keep a close eye on me, I might as well annoy him. It was my duty as his prisoner.
"You ask too many questions."
"Ha! That's rich coming from you. You only ever ask questions."
"I haven't asked you any today."
"It is only mid-morning. I expect them to come after Seth and Gus return."
"You are probably right."
I glanced sideways at him, but he kept his gaze directly ahead. He did slow down somewhat, which was just as well since I was starting to get a little breathless.
"You've almost finished the book." His attempt at starting a new conversation that had nothing to do with my background surprised me. I was growing used to his silences.
"It's a good book."
"Nor have you asked me the meaning of any of the words."
"So?"
"You're educated."
Ah, there it was. His attempt at digging into my past had begun more subtly this time, but he'd ruined it with that comment. "Very observant, Sherlock."
He said nothing.
"Sherlock is the character in the book I'm reading," I explained. "He's very observant."
"I've read it."
"Oh. So you didn't find my reference clever or amusing enough to bother replying, or even smirking."
"I didn't say that."
"I see. You only thought me clever and amusing. Be careful, Mr. Fitzroy, I've heard that keeping your emotions bottled up will rot your insides."
"You have a dry sense of humor. I wasn't expecting that."
"And you, sir, have no sense of humor whatsoever."
When he didn't answer, I worried that I'd offended him. Then I told myself to stop worrying. He was my jailor; his feelings were of no concern to me. Besides, I doubted he had feelings.
"Why do Gus and Seth call you Death?"
"Because I've killed people."
My step faltered. I'd been trying to goad him again, and wasn't expecting his frankness. "How many?"
"Enough."
"Why did you kill them?"
"They talked too much."
I stopped altogether, but he continued on, not caring that he was leaving me behind. I blinked rapidly, then realized he was teasing me.
"And you call my sense of humor dry," I muttered when I caught up to him near the stables. "Yours is positively parched."