elaborate waistcoats and gold-buttoned coats sitting out for him. But instead there was a suit of clothes in brown wool, perfectly ordinary, and showing signs of wear. In fact, the last several times he had seen his brother, Hartley had been wearing unremarkable clothing—the sort of clothes one might expect to find on a man who lived above a pub, the sort of man you wouldn’t look at twice. With something of a start, he realized Hartley had done this to protect Sam, to keep anyone from reading anything specific into the nature of their friendship.
“You gave up your waistcoats,” Will said, pointing an accusing finger at Hartley when he walked into the room with a ewer of hot water. “And you dare accuse me of grand passions.”
“Fashions change, darling,” Hartley said. And then, busying himself in laying out a razor and a comb, “I’d go about in sackcloth for him if he required it, as much as it pains me to admit it.” He looked up sharply. “Don’t you dare throw it in my face.”
“I didn’t mean to!” Will held up his hands in surrender. “I think it’s . . . nice, that’s all.”
“You would,” Hartley sniffed.
An hour later Will was deemed sufficiently presentable to visit Bermondsey House. He knew where it was, because he had spent countless futile hours lurking around the place when he was looking for Martin the previous autumn. He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. “I’m here to call on Sir Martin Easterbrook,” he told the servant who answered the door.
Will’s borrowed clothing felt scratchy and too tight as he waited for the footman to return, but eventually the man did, and led him up a flight of stairs. Will found himself in an empty sitting room filled with furniture that he felt certain he shouldn’t be allowed to sit on. Everything was dainty, edged with gilt, and likely worth more than Will could ever hope to earn. He’d count himself lucky if he got out with nothing crashing in pieces to the polished parquet floor. On the chimneypiece stood a clock that seemed to be made of solid gold and comprised of intertwined cherubs who were up to no good. He stepped closer and squinted.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Will whipped around to see Martin in the doorway. The clock wobbled precariously and Will lifted a steadying hand, but was seized by the notion that he didn’t want to look like he was trying to steal it. Which was patently absurd—of course Martin knew he wasn’t in the business of stealing clocks or anything else. He tried to collect himself.
“I came as soon as I could,” Will said. “I told you I would.”
“You told me a good number of things,” Martin remarked flatly. He was wearing a pair of gray pantaloons that looked like they were sewn onto his body and a dark blue coat that threw the paleness of his skin and hair into relief. Will didn’t think he had ever seen Martin look so beautiful or so refined, but it was a reminder that Martin belonged to the same world as this sitting room, a world of thick carpets and impossibly delicate teacups. Will had known this all along, had known it when they were children and he had needed to tiptoe through the servants’ entrance at Lindley Priory if he wanted to see Martin. He had never not been aware of this fundamental inequality. Never before, though, had he felt like this gap between their stations could actually keep them apart. That gap was filled with gilt clocks and liveried servants and finely tailored clothes. In the country they had lived in a fantasy land where none of this mattered, but in the real world it did; even if it didn’t matter to Martin, it mattered to Will. Will hadn’t thought he had any pride left. He thought it had quite literally been flogged out of him, stripped away alongside his rank. But sitting here he felt like being among all this finery humbled him in some way that he didn’t want any part of.
They still had half the length of the room between them. Will took a tentative step to close the gap, aware that this should not have felt as difficult as it did. “You look good,” he said, aware that he was making an understatement. “All of that—” he gestured to Martin’s attire “—suits you.” It did more than suit him. It looked