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Martin was not an invalid, but when Hartley found him in the attic (where he’d successfully hidden for most of the winter), he couldn’t fight him off. Hartley, ever-civilised (ever the son he could never be), insisted upon fetching Will, no matter how Martin insisted he was fine.
He supposed coughing blood up into a handkerchief (he wasn’t an animal, after all) rather undercut his authority. What was more, he hardly had the energy to leave. (And where would he even go if he could leave? Back to Cumberland? Absolutely not, and not just because he’d given everything he’d owned to Ben Sedgwick; he had no desire to ever return to Cumberland again.)
So he sat in Hartley’s drawing room — the drawing room that should have been his — and tried not to look as wretched as he felt. He wasn’t going to give Hartley the satisfaction. (Hartley might act unbothered, but Martin knew better.)
Will burst in, looking so utterly Will that Martin felt his heart squeeze in his chest.
He would never admit it, though.
When Will crossed to him and took his hands in his own. “Martin, sweetheart, what’s happened?”
“I found him in the attic,” Hartley said. His tone was matter-of-fact. “Alf thought we had a ghost.”
Martin didn’t know who Alf was, but Will holding his hands was such exquisite agony, and only served to remind him what an awful person he was. It made him want to cry (he wouldn’t, of course, but he wanted to).
Will moved one hand to stroke his hair. Somehow, that was even worse. “Why would you stay in the attic?”
Could he tell Will the truth? Absolutely not. Besides, Hartley would be offended at the idea of a corpse in his attic.
“I hardly think that’s important,” he said instead.
Will looked ready to protest, but Hartley said, “I suppose I should make up a room.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Martin said.
“He can stay with me.”
Hartley raised his eyebrows. And, yes, staying with Will (while preferable) hardly seemed appropriate for his health — and Will doubtlessly wanted him to be healthy. Hartley knew that just as well as Martin did.
(Martin couldn’t deny, though, that a comfortable bed sounded wonderful right now; particularly since his former plan had just been quashed.)
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” Will asked, evidently changing tactics.
Martin… did not know the answer.
Evidently, Will caught on. “Hartley, do you have any food?”
Hartley looked offended at the question. “Of course I have food.” He glanced at Martin; Martin knew that Hartley didn’t want him here any more than Martin wanted to be here himself. “Martin, are you able to walk to the kitchen?”
“Of course I can,” Martin snapped, even though he wasn’t truthfully sure whether or not he actually could.
Will noticed, though, the bastard. “Let’s get you up to a room for the night and we’ll have Alf bring some food.”
Martin wanted to argue — he never knew what to make of being fussed over, even when it was Will — but when he went to stand… perhaps Will had a point. Immediately, Will’s arm was around his waist.
“Come on, then, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” Martin said.
He couldn’t stop Will from shepherding him upstairs. “Hartley’s done away with most of his staff, so we’ll see if any room but his is in any fit state for another person.”
“I absolutely refuse to use Hartley’s bed,” Martin said.
“You might not have much of a choice.”
“Hartley doesn’t want me in his bed, either.”
Will frowned. “I suppose not, but he might not have much of a choice, either.”
Before Martin could retort, they were face to face with a child. All right; he was probably a teenager more than a child, but children still made Martin uncomfortable. How could he know how to handle them when he hadn’t had much of a childhood to speak of himself?
“I’ve made up a room,” he said. “Mr. Sedgwick said we don’t got a ghost; that it was a person.”
“Obviously there was never a ghost,” Martin grumbled.
“Don’t mind him, Alf. He’s just in a bad mood because he’s ill.” Will’s tone was light, but it sounded wrong. “But, yes, as I understand it, he was the one in your attic. If you’d show us to the room, I’d appreciate it.”
“Some of Sadie’s cooking should fix him right up,” Alf said, giving Martin a critical eye — and what business did this child have giving him a critical eye?
Martin nearly opened his mouth to protest when Will squeezed his arm, which utterly unmoored him.
“Shall we, then?” Will asked.
The child — Alf — nodded and led the way. The room was, as most of the rooms here were, unfamiliar to him. It was difficult for Martin to reckon with the fact that these rooms — this house — rightfully belonged to him. Hartley had stolen them, the same way Hartley had stolen his father.
The room was warm, though, with a fire going in the grate, and when Will helped him (honestly!) into bed, Martin nearly sighed. Will removed his shoes and climbed up next to him.
It reminded Martin of when they were children, but it wasn’t really like that at all, was it? Especially considering what Martin wanted to do with Will in this bed.
He never would, of course. He knew better than to give into his deviant urges.
Alf, not Hartley, returned with a bowl of stew, and before Martin could reach for it himself, Will had it. He should have felt ridiculous letting Will spoon-feed him, but… it was nice.
He didn’t deserve nice things, of course, but some selfish part of him wanted to steal it — to steal Will.
“Do you still have the hunting box in Sussex?” Will asked after a few moments.
“Why?”
“I think it might be nice to get you out of London. For your lungs.”
His lungs? What about his heart?
“Very well.”