The light throbbed and sputtered, and then grew. Within the lantern the flame itself was no larger, but the circle of illumination expanded and brightened until they sat within a cosy room of apricot-golden light. The night went on beyond.
Jack dropped his hand and exhaled slowly. The light shrank back.
“Every time it still feels like a mistake,” Jack muttered.
“Don’t say that where the tree can hear you,” said Alan. “Your land might decide I should still be unconscious.”
Partly joking; partly not. Jack had said it was Cheetham Hall who saved Alan—who drained the worst of George’s twisted magic from him and woke him up hale and well. Jack’s clear discomfort with his own magic aside, not a scrap of self-effacement lived alongside his natural arrogance, so it had to be at least partly true.
Alan had promised blood and secrets to the bees of Cheetham Hall. He didn’t know what he owed them now that the place had saved his life. He had a new, uncomfortable sense of what Jack and Edwin and Violet meant when they talked about obligation to a place. He didn’t want to remove his own shoes, in case he felt—anything. That would be too much to handle tonight.
“My land would prefer everyone to remain upright and non-bleeding,” said Jack, very dry. “I’ll already have to spend a lot more time here, to repair the damage from tonight’s deaths, just as my parents did after—Elsie. And that’s a choice.” His voice firmed. “It’s something I ran from, and I intend to stop running. I will inherit, after all.”
If there’d been the slightest hint of martyrdom in his tone then Alan would have felt fully justified in punching him, but there wasn’t.
“And after me, who knows?” Jack went on. “Someone who doesn’t know the place as well. I should do what I can, before then.”
Alan wrenched his thoughts to a stop in front of a large pile of his own assumptions. He thought about Robin and Adelaide. “You don’t intend to marry? Produce an heir?”
“The last time I had this discussion, a rich American was attempting to hurl her daughters at me,” said Jack. “You’re welcome to try to sell me your sister, if you wish.” He made an open, mocking gesture. “So far all I know is that she’s not a virgin and she probably detests me, but we’ve already established that I’m quite keen on angry, dark-eyed Italians who fit those criteria. And I expect she’s far better at housekeeping than you are.”
“Sod off,” said Alan. “You’d be lucky to have her.”
He was trying not to laugh. Past that, an appalling surge of jealousy was making itself known at the very thought of Jack getting married, but he firmly dismissed it as absurd. He would never ask anyone to throw away responsibility to family. Not for anything. Certainly not for him.
“No doubt,” said Jack. Some of the mocking glitter left him. “No. Even removing finer romantic feelings from the equation, I’ve never encountered anyone where I felt we could stand each other, even for duty’s sake, well enough to live together. Let alone have a sensible partnership.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Alan. “What with your warm and accommodating personality.”
Jack’s thumb slid across the nape of Alan’s neck with just enough fingernail to make it a threat. Alan shivered, distracted.
“Then who will inherit?” he asked. “The place is magical. Different rules. Could you choose someone? Like Lady Enid did with Violet?”
“If this were Sutton or Spinet, yes. But rules can’t be dodged when it comes to earldoms. Without an heir…” He gave an amused huff. “Ironically, Freddy Oliver might do after all, but for the pesky matter of his being illegitimate.”
“Oliver?” Alan was missing something. “Your valet?”
Silence. Jack had a peculiar expression on his face.
Finally he said, “He’s my father’s son.”
“Oh.” Alan couldn’t help the expression on his face.
“Not through … unwanted attention,” said Jack, reading his mind. “Well. To be frank, I don’t know that for certain.” It sounded effortful to admit. “I’ve always assumed Margaret Oliver was willing.”
The spectre of Bella was in the conversation again. Perhaps Margaret Oliver had said yes because she’d known how much it would cost her to say no.
“Give the lord a prize, he’s learning,” said Alan. This still felt odd. Jack wasn’t acting as though he’d shared a great and emotional secret. More as though it had simply slipped his mind.
“What?” Jack asked, in response to Alan’s look.
Alan considered Nothing, but discarded it. If it was a fight, it was a fight. They knew what to do with those.
“I thought you’d have stronger feelings about having a half brother, given you’ve lost a sister.”
No fight at all. Jack shrugged. “I thought I would too. But I don’t need to know him like a brother. It’s certainly not what he needs from me. The fact of blood doesn’t matter much without the fact of growing up together.”
Alan tried to imagine a boy showing up on the Clerkenwell doorstep and announcing himself a long-lost child of the dead Marco Rossi. Alan might have some feelings about it, but he couldn’t imagine they’d be straightforward.
He steered back to the topic at hand. Freddy Oliver. Who’d been genuinely gleeful and proud of making disguises to fit, and who had strong opinions about shoes and neckties and which tailors his lordship should deign to frequent.
“You think Oliver would make a good Earl of Cheetham?” Alan said, not particularly tactfully.
“Perhaps not. But he learns fast,” Jack said. “And he loves this place. And the presence of my former valet in the House of Lords would certainly throw a cat amongst the political pigeons.”
Damn him, he was right. What an appealing image that was.
“So cheat,” Alan said.
Jack looked a silent question at him.
“Not the magic. That’s the part you care about, right? Picking the right caretaker for the land. Cheat the aristocracy part. Make Oliver legitimate.”
“His mother…” Jack said. And then, somewhat strangled, “My mother…”
“Don’t pretend he’s your father’s legitimate son. Pretend he’s yours.”
“Alan,” said Jack. “I have no intention of marrying Margaret Oliver.”
“Forge a document saying you did, and a birth record saying he’s your son. Lodge it sealed it to be opened with your will. It won’t matter until you’re dead, will it?”
Jack looked at him unblinking for a few moments. “It’s alarming that forgery is your first instinct,” he said, “but I admire it.”
“If the rules are stupid, sod the rules.”
“It is helpful to have the option,” said Jack, and finally laughed. “You are far too clever for your own good, Master Cesare.” His hand lifted to Alan’s face. Halfway to bending down, he stopped and raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Is this still a rule?”
“Yes,” said Alan. “You have too much given to you without asking, your lordship. It’s good for you to have something withheld that you want, and—fucking hell”—the shivers from earlier began a campaign to conquer every inch of his skin, starting at his cheeks and heading downwards—“I love how you look when you’re wanting it.”
Jack hovered exactly where he was.