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Percy blandly eyed his hands on the reins, thinking once more the thoughts that led him down a dangerous path. At the end of that path lie Lord John William Grey, his one-time brother and lover. Though it was the place where his deepest feelings and most intimate thoughts lie, he rarely visited that place anymore. Seeing John a few weeks ago had changed that.
Now, he was following the Marquis de Lafayette into Savannah, hundreds of miles away from the Greys and their Philadelphia home. He needed to forget, move fully back into his life. He knew it was best for both of them. He just didn’t want to drop the image of the blue eyes, and the feel of those soft lips… Percy closed his eyes for a moment, reliving memories.
“Monsieur Beauchamp,” a lively voice said. Percy’s eyes flew open and he smiled over at Lafayette. The man was very young and very flamboyant. He had chosen a blue satin outfit to wear as he entered the city. His cuffs were bursting with ruffled lace and embroidery cascaded down his front. Percy’s clothes were more subdued, but even he wore fine garments. This entrance was a victory; the rebels had won back their city. With the loyal help of the French, of course. “Come with me, Beauchamp. I heard tell of a salon in this city, and I would like to try it out.”
“Of course,” he said. So they dismounted and walked down the road a ways to this salon, Gilbert chattering on about how fine the establishment was, but how comfortable it was. Only the best people knew of its existence, he claimed. It wasn’t until Madame Jeffreys had taken his cloak and the Marquis had found himself a lady companion that Percy realized he might be right.
John Grey stood in a corner, staring out a window by himself. Percival slowly found two glasses of champagne and walked toward the empty corner of the room. Let it lie, he told himself. Let your last memory be a good one. Of course, he did not heed the warnings.
“John,” he said softly.
The other man whirled around, eyes widening slightly. “Percy!” But his face quickly neutralized and he regained his composure. Percy saw that his eye had healed nicely, which was well. It was for those eyes, after all, that Percival Wainwright had first fallen.
“What are you doing here?” John asked coldly. Percy knew him well enough to pick up the struggle to stay cold and uncaring. He appreciated that there was a struggle, at least.
Then he glanced around, making sure that the Marquis was not near, and still lowered his voice. “I might ask the same of you. I, at least, am on business with my employer.”
John, being presently employed by the British government, was likely not acting under any direct orders. His lips thinned, and he let the question pass, instead phrasing another. “Why have you come to me, Mr. Beauchamp?”
Percy lowered his eyes, aware that he had no reason to talk to John anymore. His words had another plan, though. “There is water under the bridge, John. And even if we cannot be friends any longer… I would like it of all things, were we to have peace between us.”
John’s visage softened and his own eyes darted around the room. “What did you mean when you said, ‘pour vos beaux yeux’?” Percy looked him in the eye.
“You understand the French.” John just stared at him, expecting more of an answer. Exasperated, Percy waved a hand vaguely in the air between them. “You feel the attraction between us still. I know it is there.”
“Physical attraction is unimportant. Certainly not worth setting a condemned prisoner of war free.”
“And is that all you feel for me, John? After all this time, what we once had has faded for you?”
John’s hesitation was all Percy needed. His heart began a quick, trotting rhythm. That low-level electric buzz he always felt around John leapt to a searing flame. Not this. Not again. He kept himself from reacting in any way. Firmly, he told his blood to cool down. John had nothing to give him, and he was a man who –
“Perseverance, my dear.” It was almost inaudible, but it stopped all thought, all movement, even time seemed to stop. It wasn’t just the use of his real name, a name which only John knew, nor was it the endearment he used. It was the tone. It was everything held in that tone: the pain and the love shared between them. The years of separation, John’s attempts to forget him, and finally… his reluctance to open up that box again. But it was open already. “Percy, you’ve married.”
“So have you,” Percy countered. “Twice.”
John grimaced. “You’re working for the French.”
“I do what I have to.” Percy stepped closer to him.
“You betrayed me.”
“We betrayed each other.”
“So we move on.” John stood his ground, face set.
Percy felt his crumpling. “I tried to. I couldn’t. You couldn’t, with Jamie. What makes you think I could ever forget you?”
Before John could answer, his attention shifted to a point somewhere behind Percy. “Who is your friend, Beauchamp?” Percy composed himself with remarkable skill – he was excellent at playing the French game of masquerade – and turned to his employer with a smile.
“Not a friend,” he started, but John jumped in.
“We’re brothers.” Percy glanced briefly at his brother, but did not allow his surprise to show. “My step-father and his mother married many years ago,” he explained. “We… did not expect to meet here.” Well. Brothers again, then? That was a start.