so far as to thank it, but Will’s continued existence seemed like nothing less than a miracle and just looking upon him overwhelmed Martin with gratitude.
He might have spent the rest of the morning petting Will’s hair and in general behaving like a daft fool but he needed to cough. His lungs were never at their best in the mornings, mornings in London even less so, mornings after a traipse across town followed by a night in a close and dusty room even less still. He grabbed his clothes and silently shut the door behind him, then coughed as quietly as possible in the tiny sitting room. There was no blood, which was a good sign.
Feeling slightly better, he dressed and sat in the hard-backed chair near the window. The sun was out, at least as far as it was ever out in London, and he could see the room with a clarity he had not the previous night. There was a shelf with a handful of books and a cupboard that held a couple of mugs. When Martin fished his new spectacles out of his pocket, he saw that the books and cups were covered by a layer of dust. Will had distinctly said he was staying with Hartley, but if these were Hartley’s rooms he did not live in them. He certainly had not stayed in them last night, nor had Will expected him to return.
On a writing desk was a stack of papers written in Will’s familiar scrawl. Martin could tell at a glance that it was a play, and based on the names of the characters listed along the left-hand side of the page, it was a new play, not the one that was to be performed later that week. Martin picked up the sheaf of papers. Will had let him read the last manuscript, so he didn’t think this was forbidden. He took his spectacles out of his coat pocket, sat back in the chair, and started to read.
An hour later Will was still asleep, the sun was visible even through the hazy sky, and Martin placed the manuscript on the table where he had found it and walked down the stairs to a small sitting room he remembered passing through the previous day.
He found Hartley deep in conversation with the tall dark-skinned man who had been behind the bar when Martin and Will arrived. Martin vaguely remembered having seen, if not precisely met, this man in Hartley’s company last winter at the peak of his illness. He almost certainly owned this public house and—unless Martin had things entirely wrong—was the person Hartley actually lived with, the dusty rooms upstairs existing only to keep up appearances.
“Oh,” Hartley said blandly, looking up from a cup of tea. He did not look pleased to see Martin, but then why should he? “So you did stay the night. How’s Will?”
“Will’s asleep.” Martin was horrified to realize he was blushing.
“This is Mr. Fox,” Hartley said, gesturing to his companion. “He owns this tavern.”
“Sir Martin,” Mr. Fox said.
“Mr. Fox.” Martin bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I’d like to apologize to you, Hartley.”
Mr. Fox got to his feet, kissed Hartley on the top of his head, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“You needn’t look shocked,” Hartley said, his lip curled in a faint sneer, but the tips of his ears bright pink.
“I’m not,” Martin said honestly. “I just didn’t expect to be let in on the secret.”
“It’s not like you don’t know my . . . proclivities.” He stared directly at Martin, a plain challenge.
“Hartley,” Martin sighed. “I just spent the night in bed with your brother. I really don’t think we need to pretend that either of us are anything but what we are. Besides, if you’ll let me, I really do want to apologize to you.”
That seemed to catch Hartley off guard. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
“May I sit?” Hartley shrugged, and Martin sat in the chair Mr. Fox had vacated, his heart racing and his mouth dry. “I’m sorry for blaming you for my father’s squandering—” he paused, reflecting that this was not the correct phrasing “—for my father’s choices. I thought he looked upon you as a son and I envied you so much I hated you for it, but now I know better.” Hartley stared into his teacup and said nothing, so Martin went on. “We were friends once and I know I ruined it.” He really looked at the man sitting across from him,