Page 46 of Molly Boys

“He was already heavily under the influence of the pipe when he was set upon, and I believe he was further incapacitated by a dose of chloroform. I don’t think he’s injured, he probably just needs to sleep it off.”

“Still.” Henry frowned in worry. “I’ll go for the doctor. Will you stay with him?”

“Me?”

“There’s no one else, it’s just me and his lordship. He prefers a small staff, and the cook and the maid won’t be here ‘til morning.”

Archie glanced down at the unconscious man and sighed as he unbuttoned his overcoat and removed his flat cap.

Henry nodded at Archie’s obvious agreement. “I’ll return shortly.”

Before Archie could blink, Henry had disappeared from the room, leaving him with the sleeping lord.

Tucking the cap in his coat pocket, he laid the coat over the chest at the foot of the bed and moved back to Stanley’s side. He looked peaceful, laid out in calm repose, his blonde hair spilled against the pristine white linen of his pillow. His chest rose and fell smoothly, indicating that his breathing was not laboured.

He most likely didn’t need a doctor but Archie was glad Henry had suggested it. For some reason, it soothed him to know Stanley would be seen by one anyway.

Archie’s fingers itched to reach out and smooth the beautiful man’s hair back from his face and to trace the line of his cheek. Even this late into the night, his skin still looked soft and free of stubble, whereas Archie was sure his own face already showed the beginnings of a beard since his last shave at six o’clock that morning.

Instead of touching Lord Stanley’s face, Archie reached for the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. He shook it out and tucked it carefully around the younger man.

Archie rolled his neck to release the tension in his shoulders. Lord Stanley had come so close to becoming the next victim tonight. There was no doubt in his mind that it was indeed the same man the young thief Jack Lightfoot had seen dumping Charles Wakefield’s body on the frozen banks of the Thames.

When he’d first heard Jack’s accounting, he’d felt sure the boy exaggerated the man’s size; after all, he was such a tiny little thing himself, any large intimidating man would look like a giant to him.

Only he hadn’t. Now that Archie allowed his mind to replay the events at a slower pace, he acknowledged that the man who’d grabbed Lord Stanley and subdued him was of an unnatural size and build.

Where did such a man come from and, given his huge stature, how could he have not been seen before now?

Stepping back from the bed, Archie crossed the room to stand by the fire. For a moment, he almost reached into the pocket of his coarse waistcoat, only to remember the boy had stolen his watch. The thought still gave him a pang of sadness; it was the only thing he had of his father’s and now it was gone, just like the man himself.

Shaking off the memory of his father, he lifted his eyes to a small carriage clock on the mantle over the fire and noted the time. He’d well and truly missed the last train, leaving no way to reach his boarding house in Battersea tonight. Once he’d assured himself Lord Stanley was unharmed, he’d have to return to the station house in Whitechapel and spend the night in his office. It wouldn’t be the first time. Mrs McCready, the widow who ran the boarding house on the Shaftesbury estate where Archie lodged, was used to him keeping odd hours.

Tired to his bones, Archie leaned against the mantle and stared down into the flames, even though all he wanted to do was cross the room and sit by Lord Stanley. But he couldn’t give in to his wants. He’d gone nearly fifteen years denying the urges, he couldn’t give in now.

As one of ten children, six of which had survived infancy, Archie had always known he was different. He’d never quite matched up to his brothers. While they’d been chasing girls and demanding kisses, Archie hadn’t been at all interested. It wasn’t the girls, all soft and pretty with curls and petticoats that had drawn his eye, that would have been bad enough. No, it was much worse, it was the lads.

It had come as a surprise to him. When he’d felt no interest in the girls, he’d assumed it was just his nature, he’d always felt a bit removed. But when it became clear that, given his height and build, he could make a bob or two from bouts of pugilism with the local lads, he’d begun to notice his preference quick enough.

The way the sweat had gleamed on their bare torsos, the power and shift of their hard muscles, the slide and heat of damp skin as they’d wrestled and engaged in bare knuckle fighting. He knew then he would much rather have a hard male body pressed against him than a soft and feminine one.

Even then, he knew it was wrong, against the law. He’d tried to ignore it at first, to seek the company of women instead, but he could no more change his nature than he could change the colour of his eyes. Instead he’d resigned himself to his secret. There would be no wife and children in his future. He couldn’t change what he was, but that also meant he couldn’t act on it, ever.

From a very young age, he’d wanted to be an inspector. His father, a lifelong railway guardsman, had expected his sons to follow in his footsteps, which his brothers had done. Archie couldn’t bring himself to do the same. He already had to deny his true nature, he refused to deny himself the job he’d dreamed of since he was a boy.

He’d been obsessed with crime. At thirteen, he’d bunk off his job as a junior clerk to listen to trials at the Old Bailey. At eighteen, he’d joined the Met and quickly moved to plainclothes duties. He had a keen eye for details and remembering faces paired with a gut instinct that rarely failed him, and he’d risen through the ranks quickly.

Content with his career, he’d known any kind of physical intimacy with another person was not in the cards for him. He’d accepted that fact with resignation until, over the years, he’d barely given it a second thought. Until now, until him. Archie turned to glance once again at the bed.

Why him? Why now?

What was it about Lord Everett Stanley that tied Archie’s stomach in knots and made his heart pound? No good could come of it, even if he did suspect the man shared the same inclinations.

He had no proof, of course, just a sense. The way Lord Stanley had spoken of Wakefield and Perkins in such an unguarded moment at the opium den had raised his suspicions, especially knowing that Wakefield had been homosexual. But it was more than that, it was the way he’d reached up and touched Archie’s face, dragging his thumb across Archie’s lip.

As the memory ghosted across Archie’s mouth, he felt his cock harden and he looked down in surprise. He’d long ago learned to master his body, he’d learned to ruthlessly suppress his urges and his body’s reactions. It was the only way he could keep his secret.

He turned back to the mantle and screwed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists as he willed his body back under control. He wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to risk everything he’d worked for. He wasn’t going to break the laws he’d sworn to uphold.