banner by osiness

Title:  Destiny Wears A Disguise

Author: danceswithgary (danceswithgary@yahoo.com)

Pairing: Clark/other, Lex/other, Clark/Lex

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: None

Spoilers:  None

Word Count: 24710

Archive: Fine, just let me know

Summary: Three men. One destiny. 

Written for the 2007 SV Harlequin Challenge. (Cover #1)

Notes:  I enjoyed researching the Regency period, its history, its clothing and its use of the English language. I felt very fortunate in finding the very real Saffron Walden with all of its history, unique crops and a castle!  The time frames for some inventions as well as military and political history has sometimes been adjusted to better fit the events of the story, but usually by just a few months or years.

Many thanks to ladydey and magdelena1969 for looking at the storyline and keeping me going and my husband who loves to look at maps. He was quite happy to research locations for me on his laptop as I typed on mine. He is also my truest beta, always demanding my best effort.

***

Destiny Wears A Disguise

***

// April 1811 London //

The ebony-haired young man sitting against the brick wall shivered, his legs drawn up with his arms around them, as if to make himself as small as possible. His bewildered eyes darted around the lightly populated street, searching faces illuminated by gaslight, but not finding whatever or whomever he was seeking. A woman's desperate scream cut through his confusion and he was on his feet and running, searching for the source. A short distance away, the sounds of a scuffle issued from a dimly-lit alley and he headed in that direction. The three men holding a petite woman between them were quickly disposed of, one thrown back out into the street where he lay groaning on the cobbles, the others dispatched by short fast blows to their heads and midsections. The woman, who had fallen when she was released, frowned up at her rescuer and held out a hand. "Well, air ye goin' to help a laidy up or air ye nickey?"

He didn't seem to understand what the yellow-haired woman was saying, but he guessed she wanted to regain her feet. Reaching down, he pulled her up with no effort, releasing her hand immediately. He stood quietly as she tucked her ample breasts back into the stained and torn red satin gown, staring intently until he blinked rapidly and then looked away. Clothing adjusted to her satisfaction, she bent over the body of the nearest man and searched through his garments until she stood up with a cry of triumph, "A fat reader! I be no roller, but them randy swells hae no right to treat me like a tuppenny dollymop. If ye hadn't come along wi' them punishers, me skirts would hae been o'er me ears and n'er a deaner to be had."

Repeating her actions with the other unconscious man, she raised her shirts and tucked her loot away in a concealed pocket. As they fell back into place, she caught his eyes watching her and she flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Yer a pretty lad, ain't ye? I be willin' ta say thankee and no chink needed." She sauntered up to him, her hips swaying, and placing a hand on his chest, looked up. "A big 'un, too!" Her other hand squeezed the front of his breeches and started to unbutton the flap.

Startled, he stepped back, leaving himself half-unbuttoned and her mouth dropping open in surprise. "Air ye nickey after all?" As his puzzled look registered, her mouth closed and her blue eyes narrowed. "Do ye spake the King's English?" A short shake of his head and an eyebrow lifted. "Yer dusky enough ta be a Didikko, mayhap. Rom?" Another shake and a shrug. Sighing, she studied his broad shoulders and large hands. "Come wi' me. Black Pete'll know what ta do wi' a brawny muck snipe like ye. I could do a tightener meself." She re-buttoned his breeches before he could react and then grasped his hand. Laying a hand on her ample bosom, she said slowly, "Me name's Chloe." She patted herself and repeated, "Chloe." Pointing to her new friend, she tilted her head in question.

His brow furrowed and then relaxed. His clear green eyes met hers and he smiled, taking her aback. "Kal...Kal..El."

Still dazzled by the brilliance of his smile, Chloe returned it with one of her own. "Callum? Pleased ta make yer acquaintance, Callum. Come along then wi' ye." She pulled him out of the alley and they walked down the street together, his curly head nodding without comprehension as Chloe chattered like a magpie. They made quite a pair; the tall, bronzed, strong-looking young man dressed in plain country fashion and the tiny brightly-dressed blonde woman who could easily walk under his outstretched arm.

// July 1813 London //

"What about your parents? Why don't you just go back home?"

Clark looked at the dark, handsome face of his friend and shook his head. "I can't, Pete. The way I left and what I've been doing since then...I just can't." His earnest green eyes pleaded for understanding. "This is my chance to do something my father would be proud of, something he'd understand." He waited for his closest friend to reply, hoping he would accept Clark's decision.

In the rowdy streets they called home, only 'Black' Pete and Chloe knew Clark's real name and where he came from originally.  Everyone else only knew Callum Jonson, the bruiser who had never been defeated in the ring, the mysterious top man of the Fancy and protector of the lower class. He was no flash cove, although with his strength, speed and good looks he could have controlled every cracksman, screwsman and tooler from Haymarket to the docks, maybe in all of London. Instead, he was content to make sure every judy and dollymop was safe walking the streets and that the kidsmen took good care of their young charges. The nobblers and punishers stayed far away after Callum broke up a few of their jollies by breaking some bones.

Clark wasn't ashamed of what he did now, trying to protect the weak and poor when no one else would, yet he couldn't forget the first few months of his life on the rough and tumble London streets. He hadn't hurt anyone that didn't deserve it, but his thefts were renowned. Stories of the ream swag he had pulled out of the homes of the richest men in the city were still told in flash houses, rivaling the fame of El Dorado. After his memory had returned, he had refused to continue stealing, choosing instead to enter the boxing ring. Even that choice was questionable considering his unnatural advantages, but Clark worked hard to make sure each fight was as fair as possible and tried not to leave his opponents humiliated in their defeat. If the swells wanted to lay money on whether he would lose despite his record, it was their loss. Clark had never thrown a match.

"You know you could always stay here with Chloe and me." Pete wasn't giving up without a fight. "You have a good thing going. Nice lodgings, no netherskins for you, clothes that make you look like a swell and enough money to buy and sell any number of flash houses or own any of the rackets in London."

Clark shook his head again, his eyes sad as he looked at the man who had befriended a stranger on the strength of a tail's gratitude. He had taught him how to survive, a new language and a new, more flexible morality. Considering his own origins, Pete had shown a surprising generosity, one that his former owners had never displayed. After his first master had died, his heirs were left owning a slave they had no wish to keep. They immediately manumitted Pete when the slave trade was abolished in 1807, but that had left him destitute and on the streets. He was educated, a gentlemen's gentleman, and it had taken him little time to establish himself as the owner of a dollyshop, using his knowledge of the upper-class to assess the value of stolen goods. Now he owned eight shops scattered across London and was a success in his own right.

"I've purchased my colours. We set sail in three weeks time for India. Oliver and Bartholemew have got the new men trained to take over my patrols. They're good and I trust that they'll make sure the women and children are taken care of while I'm gone." He laid his large hand atop his friend's brown one. "I've left the funds in your name so you can make sure they're paid. I'm counting on you."

Pete sighed, knowing he'd lost. "We'll make sure no one forgets Callum Jonson." Withdrawing his hand, he raised his tankard in a toast. "To the man who'll bring back every last bloody gemstone from the East Indies so I can sell them to the lords and ladies of London." Clark smiled and made his own, "To Lieutenant Jerome Walden and his...my quest for fame and fortune."

// August 1813 London //

The fashionable young toff swaggered down the street, using his Malacca cane more than he would care to admit to maintain his precarious balance.  A woman's desperate scream cut through his alcoholic haze and he spun around dizzily, searching for the source. A short distance away, the sounds of a scuffle issued from a dimly-lit alley and he headed in that direction. Three men, holding a petite woman between them, were still deciding who would go first when the inebriated would-be hero slurred, "Gentlemen, I must protest. That is not the proper way to treat a lady." Startled at his appearance, the men jumped back, letting the woman fall to the ground. A knife appeared in one man's hand while the other two circled behind, holding short clubs at the ready.

Straightening at the triple threat, the young rescuer took off his top hat and tossed it away before twisting and separating the head of his cane, revealing a gleaming sword. His stance instantly changed and it was soon apparent that he was no novice and that he was not as deep in his cups as he first appeared. He was also completely bald, a startling effect above his exquisitely tied cravat and tailored black dress coat.  As he advanced on the knife wielder, he managed to keep one of the other attackers within sight, his steel-blue eyes wary.

Unfortunately, a short scream from the woman did not warn him in time to prevent the blow to his head from the unseen foe. With a choked groan, he dropped to his knees, his sword falling with a clatter. Head down, he waited for the killing blow, the sounds of combat not registering in his dazed brain. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, he looked up from his position on his hands and knees to find all three opponents tossed in a groaning heap a few feet away. A large hand was offered and he grasped it, scrambling awkwardly to his feet to stand swaying.  A tall, broad-shouldered man with black close-cropped hair stood with his back to him, gazing down at the golden-haired woman with his hands on his hips. The woman, sprawled out with legs akimbo, frowned up at her second rescuer and held out a hand. "Well, air ye goin' to help a laidy up or air ye nickey?"

Shaking his head at her words, the young giant reached down to help her to her feet. "You do seem to make a habit of this, Chloe," was the deep rumbling reply, followed by a chuckle. "What are you going to do when you run out of young men to rescue you?"

Sniffing in disdain as she rearranged her stylish blue silk bodice, the young woman complained, "I wouldn't have to worry, Callum Jonson, if you weren't abandoning us for the great wide world." Walking over to her attackers, she delivered a kick with her sturdy shoes. "These lackwits grabbed me while I was on my way to say goodbye to you at the Cock and Crown. They must be fresh off a ship, else they would have known it was foolish to try their tricks on these streets." It was apparent her diction had improved along with her dress due to long hours spent practicing under her friend's tutelage.  As a result, so had her customers and she no longer expected to encounter men of that type. "I suppose I'll have to cultivate young Bartholemew." She sighed. "It's not as if I'll miss you in my bed, seeing as you've never visited it."

A choked sound brought their attention back to the third person still standing, although it did not look that that would be the case much longer. His eyelids drooped and as he bent to retrieve his sword, he crumpled. Only tall man's speed saved the injured man from another encounter with the filthy cobbles. "Here now, take it easy." The deep voice of his savior rumbled as he swung the fainting man off his feet and into his arms. "Looks like you'll need some help getting home," was the last thing he heard before he fell unconscious.

@@@

"Master Alexander. Master Alexander, can you hear me?" A cool damp cloth and an insistent voice dragged Lex from the quiet, pain-free darkness. "I think he's coming around now, sir." A quiet rumble answered and Lex struggled to open his eyes to see who was there along with his manservant, Damian. "Lay still now, Master Alexander. That's quite a nasty bump on your head."

"Who's there?" Lex could hear how slurred his words were and could only hope they were understandable. His eyelids fluttered open only to wince when they encountered the over-bright flame of the candle held over his face by his concerned servant. He cleared his throat and was pleased to hear that the next sentence sounded more comprehensible. "Move the bloody candle away from my eyes, you idiot!"

A chuckle from the doorway indicated his unknown guest appreciated Lex's ready turn of phrase. "I'm glad to hear you've returned to the land of the living." Footsteps approached his bedside and Lex squinted to try to catch sight of the man who matched the pleasant voice. "I wanted to thank you for saving my friend tonight, Mr. Luttrell." The ill-defined shape that emerged from the shadows gave the impression of great height and strength despite the dim light and dark clothing. "It isn't often a man of your class takes the time to help the less fortunate."

Lex sucked in a breath at the sight of golden eyes reflecting the candlelight, deeply set above high cut cheekbones and beautifully mobile lips. He struggled to find the right words to keep the oddly familiar vision at his side, believing he was still unconscious and dreaming. "I'm afraid I had no idea who I was assisting, sir. I heard a woman scream. That was all that was important, I'm afraid." He winced again as the bump and scrape on the back of his head dragged against his pillow as he tried to see his visitor more clearly, the shadows still preventing a full view of his face. "And I believe I owe you thanks in return for saving me after my inept attempts, Mister..."

A faint frown passed over the man's face before he replied. "Jonson. Callum Jonson. At your service, Mr. Luttrell." A gracious bow of his head and a smile accompanied his introduction.

"Please, call me Lex, Callum. We've come a little too far to stand on formalities, wouldn't you agree?" Lex's smile was answered by a wide good-humored grin that exposed beautifully white teeth and caused intriguing changes in the shadows over the still partially-hidden countenance. "After all, I do believe I fainted like a damsel in distress, right into your arms." Lex's smile turned into a rueful grin as he admitted to his weakness.

A large warm hand passed gently over his bare crown as Callum's grin wavered. "You're fortunate you didn't end up with a split skull instead of just a lump. Three against one is never good odds, even if the one is carrying a sword and bolstered by the foolhardy bravery lent by spirits." Lex was sorry when the hand was withdrawn, leaving him feeling oddly bereft. "You need to rest now. I'll bid you a good night, Lex."

A yawn split Lex's face before he could stop it and he chuckled ruefully. "I'm afraid I can't argue with that, Callum. I am tired." His eyelids drooped despite his best efforts. "Leave your address with Damian? I'd..." The rest of his sentence was lost to a gentle snore.

The visitor turned to the manservant. "Be sure to wake him every hour until morning. I believe he'll be all right, but it's best to be certain." At Damian's nod, he continued. "I've left Mr. Luttrell's wallet on the table downstairs. It's fortunate he had his address inside so that I knew where to deliver him." He glanced at the bed. "He's a brave man. Foolish perhaps, but most definitely brave. It's too bad I won't get to know him any better." He turned and left the room, leaving Damian staring after him for a moment before returning to his master's side.

@@@

"He's gone."

Lex looked at the frowning blonde woman standing in front of him with her hands on her hips and smiled tentatively. "Can you tell me *where* he's gone?" He lost the smile the instant her face crumpled and tears began to fall. He searched his waistcoat frantically and located his silk handkerchief, which he handed over to her, fully anticipating he would never see it again.

The first flood of tears abated and she sniffed, "He sailed with his regiment first light. I couldn't even see him at the docks this morning." She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose loudly. "I'll probably never see him again."

"Now, now, Chloe. You know Cla...Callum will be back." A mahogany brown hand came down and patted the creamy skin of Chloe's shoulder. Lex looked up to see a handsome man, most likely a former slave, consoling the young woman. He had been concentrating so completely on her sobbing the he'd failed to see him approach. "Callum and I have plans, big plans. He'll be back before you know it."

"Oh Pete, I miss him so much already!" Turning around, Chloe flung herself into her friend's waiting arms and sobbed against his chest. Patting her back, he looked up at Lex and shrugged, his eyes apologizing for her histrionics. Calling to the innkeeper, he ordered three pints of ale and led Chloe to a nearby table to sit, waving Lex over to join them.

"You're the one that tried to help Chloe last night, aren't you?" Pete had shoved one of the tankards in front of Chloe and urged her to drink, while another was placed in front of Lex. "Callum said he'd taken you home after he saw Chloe safely on her way. You were hit in the head?"

Nodding, Lex took a sip of the foaming ale, grimacing a little at the bitter taste. "I took a club to the back of my head, but I'm fine now." He frowned, "I just wish I'd been here in time to give Callum a proper thank you. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a host last night." He took another sip, the second less bitter than the first as he became accustomed to the taste. "Unfortunately, I didn't wake until after noon and then it took a while before I could remember the name of the inn that Chloe..." he nodded to the woman who had calmed down and was sitting quietly with her head against Pete's shoulder, "...had mentioned to Callum." His smile was self-deprecating, "I'm afraid I was pretty deep in my cups last night and my memory was a trifle spotty at first." His brow crinkled as he pondered, the hand curled around his tankard moving it in a small circle on the age-smoothed wood. "The thing of it is, he seemed so familiar." He looked up at Callum's friends and smiled sadly. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to find out why."

Pete finished his ale and set the tankard down gently so he wouldn't disturb Chloe, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder, her breath coming in little hiccups as she dreamed. "Callum's a good man. I can understand anyone wanting to know him better," he said softly. "I'm sorry I can't help you more."

Lex sighed and rose to his feet, tossing a sovereign on the table to cover the cost of the ale and the information. "Perhaps we'll meet again after I return from the Continent." Placing his hat on his head, he tipped the brim in farewell. "Thank you for your time." He turned and made his way out of the inn, his shoulders slumped a little in discouragement.

Pete watched him leave before reaching into his coat and pulling out a thick vellum envelope. He placed it on the table before him and traced the name spelled out in a strong, clear hand.  "Jonathan Kent, Esquire. Littlebury Park, Saffron Walden, Essex," he whispered. "I wish you could have seen him this morning, Squire Kent. He was so handsome in his uniform. He stood at least a head taller than the rest and he shone in the sun." He sniffed a little and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "I tried to convince Clark to see you and his mother before he left, but he has a strong will, your son does. As much as we'll miss him here, you must miss him even more." He picked up the envelope, tucked it back into his coat, and patted it. "At least he finally wrote to you and I'll deliver it myself. I only hope you can forgive me for not being able to bring that beautiful boy back to you."

@@@

The excited voices of the young men bound for distant lands had died away in the night, those who were lucky enough to be immune to seasickness, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the ship. Clark sprawled sweating in the close air on his thin pallet, clothes neatly folded at his head, and tried not to listen to whispers that spoke of comfort and desire, cursing his acute hearing. He thought of the friends he had left behind, missing Chloe's colorful curses and Pete's gentle smile. Black Pete, his closest friend whose name reflected only the color of his skin, never his heart, would be waiting for his return and that knowledge eased his loneliness.

At least one man would remember him, would miss him in the night, even though theirs was an occasional comfort and did not prevent them from seeking out others. Chloe had never entertained him in her well-frequented bedchamber, but Pete had understood what he had been seeking and taught Clark that his appreciation of lean, hard muscle instead of soft curves was no cause for shame. There would always be those who mocked and even attacked, attaching hurtful names such as  'mandrake' and 'sodomite' to his kind, but Pete had spoken instead of the Greeks and Romans who had appreciated the beauty of the male form and insisted that Clark rivaled any of the sculptures collected in the museums of the world.

Remembering Pete's velvet brown skin, Clark's hand stroked down his chest and belly, his palm gathering sweat along the way so that when he grasped his rising length, it slid easily within a tight moist tunnel. His movements were slow and languorous; he was in no hurry to reach completion. Behind his closed eyes, his large hands caressed skin that changed from dark to a pearlescent sheen, pale against his own honey-gold flesh. Cool blue eyes read his desire, not familiar warm brown and lush full lips thinned to stronger curves, the upper bisected by a scar. Clark moaned once before biting his lip to restrain any further noise, not wishing to disturb any sleeping neighbor. Long and lean, the muscles Clark had felt as he carried Lex to his lodgings now held Clark close in his mind while that voice that spoke as if painted by golden honey consoled Clark for not remembering him from the past.

As the sweat pooled in his concave belly, he stopped to gather more only to find his hand replaced by another's, smaller and more delicate. A whisper of "please" led Clark to relax and allow the invisible other to caress and taste. A talented tongue lapped and circled, gathering up the sweet drops that had collected, and then the broad head of his cock was engulfed in wet heat. He held himself back from his involuntary surge upward, not wanting to choke his unknown companion before he had started. Clark could feel only one small hand on him and knew from the sounds he heard that the other was not waiting for Clark to reciprocate in kind. Clark was content and held his hands to the side, avoiding an accidental brush against hair that would disturb his dream of smooth hairless skin devouring him.

The thought of Lex's lips stretched thin around him, tongue dancing along his length brought Clark to his crisis and he spilled into the waiting mouth, pulsing again and again as he bit back a moan, restraining the name that he longed to shout in triumph. The lips that drank his offering did moan as he felt a splash of heat join the sweat that rolled down his side. A final gentle kiss to the sensitive head and Clark was abandoned while his tremors subsided and his breathing slowed. He listened, but was unable to determine who had joined him in the dark and he was forced to accept the gift and hope that he might return it another night.

As he drifted into slumber, his thoughts were of Lex. Seeing him the previous night had been a precious gift, despite his failure to recognize Clark. When he'd seen that pale, beautiful face, Clark had suddenly known whom he had been running to London to find and that he hadn't been running away from his home in fear. His last thought before tumbling into vivid dreams of the past was, "It was Lex. It's always been Lex."

// October 1813 Athens //

Lex resented the sun that blazed relentlessly down on his uncovered head, stabbing eyes that were still recovering from an ill-advised encounter with too many bottles of retsina and a slim-hipped Greek satyr. Leading the group of disinterested expatriates, the young guide was ignored for the most part as he chattered away in an almost incomprehensible amalgam of French, Greek and English as he pointed to the requisite sights of interest on the Acropolis. Stumbling into a patch of shadow, Lex leaned against the ancient walls of the Parthenon and closed his eyes, letting the cool marble soothe the ache in his brain.

"I thought you said you were following Lord Byron's advice when it came to Grecian pleasures, Luttrell?" The lightly teasing voice brought an involuntary grin to Lex's suffering countenance.

"What makes you think I'm not, Wyndham?" Lex rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. "I'm sure that Byron wrote about the penalties of overindulgence from experience. Who am I to miss any chance to repeat his folly?"

"If it wasn't for your unbelievable ability to drink anyone under the table and still rise from your bed the next day with just a feeble headache to show for it, you'd be returning to England with nothing to show for months abroad save an in-depth knowledge of hotel ceilings." Wyndham's tone chided his friend gently, knowing Lex would reject any strong attempt to control his actions.

Prying one blue eye open, Lex surveyed his companion blearily. "And yet again I've missed a prime opportunity to have my father rail at me about my failure to appreciate the value of his hard-earned pennies and the utter waste of time this tour is when I could be wooing some young heiress or titled lady. I vow he still lives only for the pleasure of spewing vitriol at my unprotected skull." As his friend stiffened, Lex groaned in remorse, "Bruce, forgive me. I'm an ass with an aching head and foolish tongue."

The dark-haired man with tousled curls waved away the apology. "It's been years, Lex. I should be able to hear someone complain about their unreasonable parents without wishing I had the same opportunity."

"Still, I don't know why you tolerate me and my freakish starts."

Pulling his suffering friend out of the shadows, the taller man slung an arm over his shoulders as they walked along in the wake of the voluble guide and his charges. "It must be love, Luttrell. After all, I gave up the chance to study boxing under one of the greatest fighters I've ever seen just to wander these hills with you."

"Really?"

Stepping away from his skeptical companion, Wyndham forced him to halt with a hand in the center of his chest. "Really. He had incredible control and grace, never lost a bout. He moved as if...as if Newton's laws had no meaning for him."

Lex tilted his head and frowned in apology. "Then I'm truly sorry you missed your opportunity to train under this paragon."

Wyndham shrugged his broad shoulders and started walking again. "It wasn't to be, whether or not I toured the Continent with you. When I sent Alfred to propose the lessons, he returned with the news that the man had sailed the day before with his regiment."

Lex faltered at the incredible coincidence. He asked his next question, already knowing the answer. "What was his name?"

"Callum Jonson. I can only hope he'll return from India in one piece and I'll get another chance to meet him."

@@@

"Stamato! Arketos!" Lex shoved the olive-skinned youth away and collapsed backwards across the bed, panting in the sultry midday heat. Undisturbed by his rejection, the young Greek guide licked his reddened lips as he sat back on his heels and attended to his own slim cock with lazy strokes, his greedy eyes tracing Lex's pale lean lines. Throwing a sticky forearm over his eyes, Lex tried in vain to dismiss the face that Bruce's careless words had summoned.

In a childish fit of pique, Lex had declined to share his information about Callum with Bruce. He didn't need to know that Lex had sent Damian to the Ministry of Personnel at the War Office, where he had found no record of a Callum Jonson in any past or present British regiment. Angered at the deception, Lex had returned to the Cock and Crown where the innkeeper pretended not to remember anyone named Chloe or Pete. Lex had set off on his Grand Tour a week later knowing only that the golden-eyed man had disappeared and the two people who might have known his whereabouts had vanished along with him.

His unrelenting yearning to see the mysterious man again baffled Lex. A few minutes, less than an hour really, and Lex had been left feeling as if he had missed something important. Lex wanted to believe he needed to thank Callum properly for saving his life and then he could move on, but somehow, he knew it was much more. His father would mock him for his emotions, telling Lex once again about how he'd risen from his humble beginnings as the son of a free-trader to a knighthood purchased with favors and gold.

Lionel Luttrell's marriage to Lex's mother had been about advantage, not love. Too many arguments within Lex's hearing had testified to Lillian Bakerfield's resentment at being treated as if she were a brood mare, her father's wealth having denied her any right to choose whom to wed.  There would be cries of pain each night behind bedchamber doors until his father left Audley End for weeks to oversee the mines in Somerset or inspect the London bakeries. A wan-faced Lillian would emerge from her involuntary seclusion to wander the halls of the manor house like a living ghost. Lex would read to her and coax her into the gardens that she loved and her quiet smile would return until blood and pain tore it away, just as it had so many times before. The cycle repeated until Lex's twelfth year, when he walked away from his mother's grave outside Saffron Walden's Holy Trinity Church and climbed into the carriage waiting to deliver him to his father.

In the year before he entered the halls of Eton, Lex watched his father bully, rant, threaten and curse anyone who stood in his way as he expanded his holdings. In the drawing room after eerily silent dinners, Lex would often look up from a book or set of mathematical equations to see his father's penetrating gaze fixed on him. Fearing rebuke, he would repress his shudder at the contempt Lionel displayed when he looked at his son's naked skull. Eton was a relief from that unrelenting scrutiny, but presented its own brand of torture in the shape of boys who attacked anyone different. Lex had his father to thank for his ability to absorb any threat, any pain without displaying emotion. He had learned it was the only way to deflect Lionel's wrath and to prevent him ever learning what Lex hid beneath his facade of indifference.

A world-weary manner often mixed with sly humor and biting wit masked a deep longing for affection and love, those same sentiments denied Lex since his mother's death. Only one boy had come close to filling the aching need, but Bruce had his own demons to battle and could not save Lex from his. Bruce had become the Marquess of Wyndham at age eight when his parents had been murdered before his eyes and was obsessed with fighting and control of his body and surroundings. While Lex experimented with chemicals and mechanical prototypes, Bruce studied historical battles and fencing techniques, and the two shared rooms without conflict. One fumbled caress in the dark had left Lex apologizing for the trespass and afterwards they were nothing more than friends who spoke of their interests and nothing more. Lex learned to seek physical release without affection to protect himself from the pain of rejection. His longing for more remained hidden.

Lex imagined being held in the strong arms of the man who had not only carried him to his lodgings, but also up a flight of stairs to his bedchamber without any effort. He knew he'd feel safe there, in those arms. He could stop battling for the respect denied because of his birth. He would no longer dread the laughter of strangers who looked at him and saw a pale misshapen freak of nature. He would have no need to wish for someone to desire him without money or favors required in return. He'd seen the kindness in those golden eyes, felt Callum's gentle touch caress where others turned away in repulsion. Lex's eyes moistened under the shield of his arm until he laughed in self-derision. His father had taught him well. Love was simply a financial transaction, his own birth was evidence of that.

Sitting up, filled with self-disgust, Lex reached for the sloe-eyed Adonis that still awaited his pleasure. Grasping his lank oily curls, he yanked him forward to bite and lick at pouting lips. "Omorfos, omorfos, nioti," he murmured, "beautiful, beautiful youth," and he pushed the willing head down and held tight to those curls as he thrust into a lush mouth he'd kissed without true desire and wept once more for his dream of the impossible, his tears invisible and his release bittersweet.

// February 1814 Calcutta //

Lieutenant Jerome Walden slung his rifle over his shoulder and signaled his men to precede him across the stream. He'd listened carefully and searched the surrounding underbrush using his special way of looking before issuing the command, knowing that the Indian rebels they were searching for often attacked when the British were most vulnerable, oft times in the middle of a clearing or up to their knees in water. The lieutenant used his enhanced senses to keep his men as safe as possible and to date he had lost only one, when the inexperienced boy disobeyed his order to stay off a path and stumbled into a mantrap. He mourned that loss and resolved to exercise even greater caution during their reconnaissance missions.

Seeing all of his men had crossed safely, Lieutenant Walden followed and then took point again. He smiled as he recalled watching a single sheep dog attempting to chivvy his stubborn charges into the waiting fold and felt a sudden sympathy with the panting beast. His second-in-command, seeing an unexpected grin replacing his lieutenant's normally serious expression, was curious. "What's so amusing, sir?"

Called back to the present and disturbed that he had let his guard down so easily, Walden shook his head. "Nothing important, Benton. Just glad we're almost back to Fort William." He wiped the sweat from his forehead and grimaced at the resulting mud slick on his hand. "I'll be glad of a bath and a shave, not to mention clean clothes." He straightened and searched their surroundings before resuming the march. "It's been a long two weeks."

Benson nodded grimly in agreement. "That it has, sir." A few steps further, his plain face brightened. "I heard there's to be a bout with the 183rd's defending champion, sir. Will you be fighting?"

Walden nodded without taking his eyes off the landscape ahead. "Of course. Can't let it be said the 29th can't hold its own in the ring."

Rubbing his hands in satisfaction, the sergeant smiled. "To be sure the odds won't be long on you sir, but I'll still be happy to wager an alderman or six just to see you do him down."

Frowning slightly, Walden clapped a hand on Benton's thin shoulder and shook it gently as they marched. "Just remember, never wager more than you can afford to lose." Glancing over Benton's head, he caught sight of the fort's eastern guard tower and a guarded smile split his grim countenance. "Even the best of us can have bad days, Benton. Nothing's a sure thing, not even me." Having issued his usual warning, Walden turned and signaled the other men. "Step lively, lads. There it is, all the comforts of home, straight ahead." He stood back and let them go first, regarding his sheep fondly as they entered their well-appointed fold.

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Walden's batman had been his usual efficient self and by the time the lieutenant had completed his report, a hot bath was waiting for him in his quarters. After pouring several buckets of water over his head while standing outside to wash off the worst of the muck, the tall, lean man pulled his dripping clothes off at the door. Crossing the room, he ducked behind the folding screen, sank into the large copper tub filled with steaming water with a heavy sigh, and began to scrub vigorously. Clucking his tongue at the mess, the diminutive corporal picked up the uniform and smalls and deposited them in a nearby basket for the laundryman to take away later. That chore completed, he stood behind the tub and upended another bucket of warm water over the officer's head. Sitting up with a splash and sputtering from the deluge, Walden glowered but made no protest as the older man began to wash his hair. Leaning back again, he relaxed and almost purred as the strong hands kneaded his scalp. "Bert Simms, you are a wonder," he murmured gratefully.

"Of course, sir," was the dry response as the hands moved lower and began to work at loosening the knotted muscles that Walden had ignored for days, knowing there was nothing he could do to release the tension while in the field. Seeing the younger man's eyelids lowering, Simms gently shoved forward on his broad shoulders and scrubbed his back and arms before rinsing the shampoo and soap from the exhausted man with another bucket of cooler water.  Urging Walden onto his feet, Simms quickly scrubbed and rinsed the rest of his long body and legs before wrapping a large cotton towel around his well-muscled torso. Carefully balancing the exhausted man, Simms waited as he stepped out onto the absorbent mat beside the tub. Standing on a stool, the much shorter man used another towel on the black curls that almost brushed the officer's shoulders and then pushed him gently towards the waiting bed. Dropping the sodden towel to the floor, Walden crawled across the sheets and dropped face downward, instantly asleep.

Drawing another sheet over the naked man for modesty's sake, Simms could not suppress the smile that crossed his lined features as he examined the face that resembled a dissolute angel's in sleep, long lashes sweeping across high ruddy cheekbones, stubble darkening the strong jaw. From experience, he knew the younger man would sleep the clock around after returning from reconnaissance, his concern for his men's welfare having kept him awake throughout the long nights outside the fort's walls. He would have food waiting for him when he finally awakened, for Simms knew that young giant would be ravenous and ready to down three men's rations in a sitting. After tidying up the quarters, Simms stepped outside. He sat in his customary chair by the door and polished Lieutenant Walden's boots, ready to protect his charge from all unwanted visitors.

 . .  .

A cheer went up from the men of the 29th as their unbeaten champion entered the ragged circle formed by bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder. Stripped to his trim waist and lightly sweating in the heat, his skin glistened in the sun, lithe muscles rippling as he stretched and swung his arms to keep them supple. Glossy black curls were brushed back by a hand half again as large as an ordinary man's was, while gleaming green eyes swept the faces of the men around the impromptu ring. Boxing was not encouraged by the high-ranking officers, but they turned a blind eye when necessary. More than one had chosen to attend today's bout knowing Walden would be fighting, his reputation well-established within more than one regiment in India.

An answering roar came from the 183rd as their ranks parted to let their own fighter enter. Almost as tall as Walden, the officer with hair the color of corn silk stripped off his coat and shirt to reveal a body that easily withstood comparison with his opponent. Rotating his head on his tautly held neck, the blue-eyed man grinned good-naturedly at Walden who returned one of his own. Stepping forward into the ring, the referee beckoned to the two fighters, requesting that they join him in the center.

"Lieutenant Jerome Walden, Captain Whitney Fordham." The two men were introduced to each other and they shook hands politely, Walden drawing his back with a hiss. He glanced down as a wave of nausea rolled over him and saw a large signet ring flare green on the captain's right hand. "I'll have to ask you to remove that, milord," prompted the referee.

"My apologies, I'd forgotten I had it on." Backing up a few steps, the captain pulled the ring from his finger and placed in a small pocket at his waist.  His easy grin flashed again. "I certainly wouldn't want to mark that pretty face by accident."

Walden drew a deep breath in an attempt to settle his queasy stomach. He tipped his head at his opponent and asked, "Milord?"

The fair-haired man took a bow that would have been appropriate in the most genteel of drawing rooms. "Viscount Fordham at your service, sir." Introductions complete, his fists came up to the ready as he began to circle Walden, searching for an opening.

Walden's hands flexed and curled and he too raised his fists, readying himself for the initial flurry of blows. He never went on the attack, preferring to let his opponents make the first move. This allowed the large man to assess their strength so that he could control his blows and avoid inflicting serious injuries on men who did not have his natural advantages. The blond was no exception, quickly advancing to jab at Walden's face, his blows easily blocked by Walden's brawny forearms.

At least that was how it began. Each time Fordham came close, Walden felt weak and dizzy, the nausea becoming grinding pain in the pit of his stomach. He glanced down at his opponent's waist and saw that the pocket holding the signet ring was the center point of his pain. He had to believe the green flare he'd seen was exactly what he had feared and knew that he had to end the bout as soon as possible to avoid defeat by a force he could not control. Unfortunately, the glance downward had left him wide open and a fist shot through his dropped guard, splitting his lower lip against his teeth.

The unexpected explosion of pain rocked Walden back on his heels and he shook his head, fighting to regain his balance as the dizziness increased. He raised his hands again, too late to prevent the blow that broke his nose and left him coughing and spitting blood. Each time Fordham's fists landed, it left torn and bleeding flesh behind and Walden soon found it difficult to see through the blood pouring down from a cut above his brow. Desperate, he used his longer reach to strike at his opponent only to have him dodge away at a speed Walden could no longer match. He was able to land a few blows, but without any power behind them, they caused little damage. Staggering, blinded, the end came quickly for Walden when a solid hit to his jaw snapped his head back and he crashed to the ground. He never heard the groans of despair and cries of anger that issued from his disgruntled backers as they turned away from their fallen champion.

@@@

"There now, sir, just lie still." A soothing voice made its way through the haze in Walden's head. He could feel a cool damp cloth gliding along the side of his face and across his forehead, carefully avoiding the burning cuts and livid bruising. "You'll be fine, just lie there and let me take care of you." Walden could not remember hearing such kind words from his batman before, far more accustomed to his typically brusque manner.

Another voice, stronger and peremptory, intruded. "I don't understand. What happened to him out there?"

"It was as if he took sick right there in the ring." Walden recognized his second's puzzled tones. "I've seen him use his punishers before and there was definitely summat wrong."

An intense wave of pain and nausea rolled over Walden and he curled up on his side and retched, bringing up strings of bile and blood. Several sets of hands eased him onto his back, allowing Simms to continue to bathe his face and attempt to determine the extent of the damage. As the blood was gently cleared from his eyes, he was finally able to open one and blearily look at the faces gathered around him. Simms and Benton were no surprise, but the third was a shock.

"Ah, he's finally coming around." Viscount Fordham's face swam into view, his blue eyes reflecting the concern in his voice. His right hand came up to grasp Walden's arm, causing him to hiss and writhe in pain before vomiting again uncontrollably. Fordham drew back and winced in sympathy. "You're right, he's definitely ill. He shouldn't have been fighting today." He shook his head in dismay. "I hate the thought of winning against him like that. I saw him take down Galloway of the 86th handily and I knew something was wrong from the start."

Simms had seen the odd ring on the Viscount's hand glowing as he touched Walden and noticed how the spasms contorting his body had lessened when the other officer moved back. "Milord, thank you for helping us bring the lieutenant back to his quarters, but we can take care of him now." Dipping his head respectfully, Simms appealed to the officer's intelligence. "He's very ill, milord, you should leave. He wouldn't want you to become sick also and possibly expose your men."

Nodding, the blond officer reluctantly agreed. "Please tell him I'm sorry that he wasn't well enough to give me a proper fight and that it doesn't reflect badly on his prowess in my eyes." He walked to the door and looked back, "I hope we'll meet under better circumstances one day." The door closed behind him and Simms turned back to the bed in time to see Walden relax, the pain that had racked the young officer visibly improving as he watched. Benton exchanged a baffled look with the batman as the vicious wounds began to heal and the extensive bruising faded.

Slow, even breathing signaled Walden's descent into sleep as Benton nodded and headed for the door. "I'll keep watch. There's no need for visitors. Not that there'd be any, the bastards," he growled. "They just left him laying there like he was nothing."

Taking a deep breath, Simms resumed cleaning the blood off the lieutenant's unmarked face. He never roused as the faithful batman removed his stained clothing and bathed his limbs before changing the fouled sheets. Clean and dry, he slept peacefully as Simms and Benton kept vigil, protecting him from harm, just as he had done for so many others in the past.

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Simms leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and watched as Walden prowled about the room, picking up items only to discard them and resume his pacing. "I need to get out of here," he muttered, flexing and releasing the muscles in his shoulders and arms as if trying to break free from an invisible cage. After sleeping almost two days after the disastrous bout, the young officer had awakened with a fierce hunger that Simms and Benton had barely been able to sate. Now, restricted to his quarters until enough time had passed to account for his amazing recovery, he tested his restraints repeatedly just as any other wild creature would under unjust confinement.

"My son Joseph would be about your age, if he'd lived."

Walden froze in place, and then slowly turned to regard the grey-haired man who calmly waited for his response. "You had a son?"

Simms nodded and a sad smile emerged, "Yes, I did. I made the army my life after I lost him and my wife to a fever about ten years back. He was a smart one and I would have liked to have seen what he would have made of himself. I don't know as I would have chosen the army for him, he wasn't a tall or brawny lad, he was built more like myself." Simms' eyes seemed to gaze into the past. "Even at only twelve years old, I could look at him and see that he would have made a good teacher or even a barrister."

"I'm nineteen, at least that's what my parents thought I would be." The reluctant admission seemed to be an offering, an attempt to provide solace for an old grief. "I always thought I'd be a farmer like my father, and his father before him."

"Why are you here then? Why aren't you on your parent's farm?"

Walden frowned, his eyes cloudy and dull, "It seemed like the best thing to do. I'd made some mistakes..." His voice trailed off as he lost himself in memories.

"Would he be proud now?" Simms waited for Walden to answer and when he saw that the young man was adrift in the past, he pushed himself away from the wall and touched Walden's arm gently. Waiting until he saw the green eyes clear, Simms repeated his question. "Would your father be proud of you now?"

A shiver ran through the large frame and then a smile burst through the gloom. "You know, I think he would be." He chuckled at the thought. "He liked to tell the story of a dashing young captain who captured the heart of a beautiful baron's daughter and how he carried her away to live happily ever after in his family's old country manor, despite her father's objections."

Patting Walden's arm, Simms took a seat on the stool he kept in one corner of the room. Looking up at the smiling young man, he confessed in a steady voice, "I never told you that on my last leave in London, I had the good fortune to see Callum Jonson win several bouts quite handily." He raised an eyebrow at the stricken face above him. "I made a tidy sum betting with some young dandies who hadn't any idea who Callum was." He shook his head at the memory, looking down at his loosely clasped hands. "I knew. I'd heard tales of him, but not just about his unbeaten record in the ring. The stories I was interested in told of a tall, dark man who was stronger and faster than any other, a kind and gentle man who helped where he could and protected those who needed it most." A choked sound brought his head back up and he offered a kind smile. "When my leave was over and I rejoined my regiment for our assignment to Fort William, imagine my surprise to see a familiar face, with an unfamiliar name."

"I..."

"Seniority has its privileges and the major was quite willing to assign me to the newest lieutenant, at my request." He nodded, looking into wide green eyes. "I've always believed in second chances." Simms waited patiently for the young man's clenched fists to relax and a tentative smile to appear on his disbelieving face. "I'd be proud as any father if I could help a good man start over in a new life." He stood and offered his hand as a pledge. "Sergeant Albert Simms, at your service."

His much smaller hand was swallowed inside the larger with a gentle enthusiasm. "Lieutenant Jerome Walden, formerly known as Callum Jonson, who was in turn formerly known as Clark Jerome Kent, Esquire, of Littlebury in Saffron Walden, Essex. I'm very pleased to meet you, Sergeant Simms." The large hand yanked the smaller man into a crushing embrace that only loosened a trifle with his involuntary grunt. The surprised sergeant awkwardly patted his lieutenant's broad shoulders as he felt the brush of damp lashes against the side of his neck and heard a broken whisper. "Thank you."

// July 1814 Paris //

As the tall, fashionably-dressed man exited the Hotel d'Anlezy, he glanced up at the cloudy sky before checking his filigreed fob watch. Nodding, he tucked the watch back into his vest pocket, straightened his plum-colored morning coat and placed his beaver hat upon his surprisingly bald head. Tucking his Malacca cane under his arm, he set off briskly down the Rue de Bourgogne. He seemed unconcerned about appearances, eschewing the maxim that declared 'one strolls with a walking stick and swaggers with a cane' for the simple pleasure of walking along the streets of Paris. Crossing the Seine via the Pont de la Concorde, he passed the Jardin des Tuileries to enter a side door of the Louvre.

"Ah, Faraday! I see you were able to escape the vile clutches of Madame Apreece." Removing his hat, Lex advanced on the young ill-dressed man waiting in the dark corridor. "I can only hope the chance to view DaVinci's journals is worth facing her wrath on your return."

A shy smile and nod agreed with Lex. "Indeed, it is. I think even Sir Davy might end a trifle jealous of his assistant's good fortune." He gave a short bow. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Luttrell, for allowing me this opportunity."

"Please, it's Lex to my friends. Come now Michael, I've seen the notes on your experiments with electricity." Lex placed his hand under the younger man's elbow to guide him along the corridor to the open door at the end. "I would be remiss if I failed to assist the cause of science when given a chance like this."

The elderly gentleman waiting for them accepted their hats and Lex's cane before indicating that they should take a seat and that the director would join them shortly. As they waited, they chatted desultorily on a number of scientific monographs they had read, commenting on the feasibility of proposed theories and experimental procedures. Lex extracted a small silver case inlaid with mother of pearl from an interior pocket of his coat and began to make notations on the enclosed tablet with the small matching pencil, occasionally asking Faraday to repeat a particular observation.

"Gentlemen, please excuse the delay. I'm afraid that matters of state sometimes intrude on my time." Lex and Faraday rose to greet the director who bustled importantly into the room. "Now, I'm sure you're impatient to get started." Crossing to a tall armoire, he unlocked it, withdrew a heavy metal case, and placed it on a nearby table. "I'll have to ask you to avoid touching the pages with your fingers, if you please. I have these special page turners for you to use instead." Opening the box, he extracted several leather bound journals and opened them exposing the crackling vellum pages and stood back to allow the two younger men to approach.

"Incredible," whispered Faraday, his eyes wide with disbelief as he read the words Leonardo DaVinci had penned 300 years earlier. His lips moved silently as he translated the Latin, restraining himself with a noticeable effort when he absently reached to turn the page.

Scribbling frantically, Lex paid his companion little attention, his fascination with the journals overwhelming his normally polite behavior. "It's incredible! How could he have even imagined this so long ago?" he muttered, flipping the pages with the provided tool. "How I wish I could have studied under him."

@@@

On Lex's return, the hotel's concierge delivered several letters that had arrived in his absence. Carrying them upstairs to his suite, Lex threw them on the bed, determined to finish his notes on DaVinci's journals before opening his correspondence. Tugging at his cravat as Damian removed his coat, Lex decided he would hold back the second letter as a reward for performing his filial duty and responding to his father's weekly demand for his wayward son's return.

Lionel believed a year on the Continent was sufficient grooming for his son and heir and wanted Lex to return for the London Season to begin his search for a titled wife. Lex was unwilling to enter the marriage mart as of yet and insisted that the social and scientific contacts he was making were worth the delay in his return. He hoped to convince Lionel that waiting for the next year's Season would be in Lionel's best interest. He certainly knew it was in his own. Sitting at the secretary in the suite's sitting parlor, Lex drafted several letters before settling on a final copy. He sealed it and set it aside for his manservant to post the next day. Duty fulfilled, he retired to the bedroom and sat propped against the headboard to read Bruce's letter.

Fascinated by the intense and complex training undergone by the Lipizzans at the Spanish Riding School, Bruce had remained behind in Vienna. While he understood it would take years to learn how to perform the "airs above the ground" that the white stallions were noted for, Bruce felt that it was worth attempting the 'campagne' or elementary dressage lessons that the school offered. The idea of guiding a collected horse through all of the required gaits, turns and maneuvers, while maintaining perfect balance, appealed to Bruce's temperament. Combining that with instruction from several noted fencing masters left Bruce as content as Lex had ever seen him before and his letter stated he would be remaining in Austria for at least another six months. Tossing the pages on the bed, Lex sighed, missing his closest friend. He thought that perhaps he'd return to Vienna after the Sir Humphrey Davy left Paris for his next destination, if he couldn't convince Faraday to stay behind with him.

Hands behind his head, Lex slumped lower on the bed and reflected once again on friendship. Michael Faraday, the unkempt son of a butcher, was uncomfortable in society and his sole redeeming quality was his amazing grasp of the sciences. Bruce was charming and loyal and had willing joined Lex in his travels, yet cared little about Lex's scientific pursuits. He could not help but wonder if there was a man alive that could fulfill all of his needs and desires, a companion that could be his equal. The last time he'd felt as if it could be possible was over ten years ago, before he'd been forced to leave the manor at Audley End and the local squire's son he had called friend.

// December 1814 Saffron Walden //

Bringing his rangy big-boned gelding to a dancing halt at the crossroads, Captain Jerome Walden shifted in the saddle and surveyed the countryside he used to call home. The fields were tilled and waiting for spring planting and the road was empty without any carts or cattle heading for market. Winter was a quiet time in Saffron Walden, a time to rest after the short, frantic fall harvest of fragile blooms. Breathing in the crisp, clear air, Walden smiled. He would not miss the hot, heavy air of India and was glad he was back in England for good, although he hadn't resigned his commission yet and was only on a month's leave from his regimental duties.

Two weeks earlier, London had seen Callum Jonson striding through Haymarket to pound on the door of Black Pete's lodgings. The older man had stood in the doorway, staring and speechless, until Callum had swooped down and gathered him into a crushing hug. The rest of the street heard Pete's shouts of joy and had come running to welcome back their local hero. He'd answered their questions until he was hoarse and Pete sent them all away assuring them Callum would be back later. As Pete had prepared a quick supper, he'd explained that Chloe had not been there to greet Callum because she had moved to Bermuda with her new husband the previous year. Although Callum had been pleased about his friend's good fortune, he couldn't help being saddened at her absence.

Two pints and a rare beefsteak later, Callum had pushed back from the table in Pete's kitchen and grinned at his friend. "You remember our plan?" Pete nodded without a word, eyes narrowed as he waited. Removing his bottle-green spencer jacket, Callum had hung it over the back of his chair before unbuttoning his Indian cotton shirt and pulling it over his head. A quilted linen vest was revealed and Callum had slowly unbuttoned it, grinning all the while. Taking it off he'd handed it Pete, who almost dropped it at the unexpected weight. He'd hefted it in both hands before raising a questioning eyebrow. Callum had drawn a penknife from his trousers and taking the vest back from Pete, slit open of the small quilted squares. A flick of his wrist and a stone had fallen onto the table.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, Pete had picked up a blood-red stone as large as the first joint of his thumb. "Is this...?"

Callum had nodded solemnly. "A pigeon's blood ruby from the Mogok Valley." Unable to contain himself any longer he'd grinned. "I'd guess it's about 15 carats and it's not the largest I found."

"How many?"

"Last count? 234 rubies and 47 of them are star rubies."

"Star? Do you have any idea..."

"Yes, I do. I'm not done. There's also 312 sapphires, some yellow, green and violet stones besides the blue. There are stars in a lot of those, too. Some aquamarines, tourmalines and a few I couldn't identify." Callum had shoved the vest back across the table to his awestruck friend.

Swallowing hard, Pete had shaken his head in wonder. "Callum, do you have idea how much these are worth?"

"I'm thinking...a king's ransom, but more importantly, a new life for you, me and a few friends I made in India."

The rest of that night had been spent deciding how Pete would sell the stones and what they would do with the money. Callum had explained how he had taken overnight trips to the Mogok valley using his speed and located the stones with his special way of looking. Pete had known about his speed and strength, but the change in his eyes was new and Pete wanted Callum to show him how it worked. After correctly guessing what Pete kept in the safe under the floorboards in his bedroom and how many stones he had in his hand, Callum had decided it was time to sleep and had dragged a laughing Pete upstairs to show him just how much he'd missed him.

The following day, Callum brought Simms and Benton along to meet Pete and they had handed over the vests they were wearing. Callum explained that Simms had invented the vests to make certain the stones wouldn't be lost or stolen and that both he and Benson had taken care of Jerome Walden and helped conceal his special abilities, just as Pete and Chloe had done for Callum in London. Pete was pleased to meet Callum's new friends and they were soon sharing stories about Walden's adventures in India and Callum's time in London. Pete told about Callum saving Chloe and Benton bragged about Walden saving the Governor-General's life and being promoted to Captain.

It had been decided that while Pete sold the gems, Benton would look for an estate to purchase, and Simms would handle procuring the necessary clothing, servants and household goods. They all knew that it would take months to set up Captain Jerome Walden for his entry into polite society, but being able to share the work would help. While Simms and Benton argued over which section of London to begin looking in, Pete drew Callum aside to tell him that a Mr. Luttrell had been looking for him after he'd sailed, but that he and Chloe had told Luttrell nothing about Callum's new name or destination. Callum nodded, but decided to keep his history with Lex to himself. Pete then told him that he'd delivered the letter to his parents as Callum had asked, and that they had been overjoyed to find out that he was alive and well and had joined the army. Pete had urged Callum to visit them and was finally able to convince him that all would be forgiven.

Now, he'd returned to where it had all started fourteen years ago, in flame, thunder, and fear. Bringing his horse about and giving him his head, Clark galloped down the road to Littlebury and the parents he hadn't seen for three long years.

@@@

The sound of a drawer gliding shut greeted the tall graying man as he walked into the sitting room. He sighed and walked to the secretary by the window where a flame-haired woman pretended to write in a journal. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "You don't have to hide the letter, Martha. I know you like to read it when you're missing him."

Martha set her pencil down and looked up into her husband's face, blinking back her tears. "Thank you for understanding, Jonathan. It's just been so long since he wrote it and there's never been another one." Her lip trembled as she tried to stay calm. "I can't help feeling something's happened to him, even though he's never been sick or hurt before."

Jonathan nodded before looking out the window across the extensive gardens. "That man who brought the letter, Mr. Black, he said Clark was well when he left and that the only problem he'd had was his memory, and that was just in the beginning. I'm sure he's fine Martha and just too busy to write." He turned away from the window long enough to smile down at her. "You know how Clark always needed to help people. That's most likely what he's doing right now, taking care of his men." He glimpsed a movement outside from the corner of his eye and turned his head back in time to see a horseman galloping up the drive. "Someone's just arrived in a hurry. I'd better see if something's happened and they need a magistrate." Bending down, he bestowed another kiss on her cheek before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

Martha picked up her pencil once more and began to write. She had only set down a few words before she heard shouts from the front hall and she rose from her chair in concern. Suddenly, the door was flung open and a tall, raven-haired man in a greatcoat bounded into the room, filling it with his presence. Martha looked at his tanned face and gasped in disbelief. "Clark?" The tears she'd held back before began to fall in earnest. "Is it really you?" and  then she was caught up in his arms and her face was covered with his kisses and his tears and she heard his whispers of love and mama and forgive me and she thought her heart would burst with joy.

@@@

Seated in her son's lap, Martha could not stop running her fingers through the long, wavy hair that Clark had released from its old-fashioned queue. She listened contentedly as Jonathan quizzed Clark about his career in the army as well as how he had risen from lieutenant to captain so quickly. When Jonathan began to press for Clark's reasons for leaving, Martha jumped up and insisted that her son must be famished. She chivvied him out of the sitting room, telling him that he needed to freshen up before sitting down for dinner and that his room had always been ready and waiting for his return. After the door closed behind him, she whirled about with her hands on her hips and frowned at her husband. "Jonathan, leave the boy alone. I won't have you driving him away again with your questions!"

"But Martha..."

"No!" Martha's vehemence took Jonathan aback. "He's back and that's all that matters. My beautiful boy is back and that is all I care for, not why he left, nor what he's been doing. Leave him be!"

Unwilling to distress his beloved wife any further, Jonathan bowed his head in agreement. "As you wish, my dear. No more questions."

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"...that young Viscount Fordham from out Hempstead is a captain too. Did you meet him by chance?" Martha had chattered about the births, deaths and marriages among the local farmers and tradesmen through dinner and continued after they had withdrawn to the sitting room once more. "I know there are a great many people in the army, but I thought perhaps...?"

Clark smiled indulgently at his excited mother. "Mama, there are certainly more people than I'd ever seen before. I did meet him once, though he didn't recognize me." Clark neglected to explain to his parents that he was under a different name at the time. "I daresay it was because we were both a great deal younger when we first met."

"Ah well, such a handsome young man, too. So well-mannered, and not the tiniest bit above himself when we met at Lana's birthday celebration."

Jonathan cleared his throat before interjecting, "We had a good discussion on crop rotation and he had some interesting ideas on cattle feed, too."

"You should visit the Langford's while you're here. Lana asks after you often after the church services. Such a sweet-tempered young lady." Martha patted her son's hand and smiled as she plotted how to arrange a meeting between the two young people.

Clark smiled absently as he tried to remember something about the 'sweet-tempered young lady'. A vague recollection of escorting a slip of a girl with the eyes of a fawn through the cemetery to visit her parents' graves was all he could summon. The years he spent playing with Lex in the rooms and gardens at Audley End were clear and sharp in comparison. He had been nine years old and Lex twelve when they were parted, but the four years they spent as constant companions had been the happiest days of Clark's life.

Clark supposed he couldn't blame Lex for not recognizing him nine years later. After all, growing an additional two feet and adding five or six stone would change how anyone would look. Anyone, that is, except Lex. He was unmistakable. It wasn't just his baldness, although that was certainly an important part, it was how he carried himself. It was a cool disregard for how the rest of the world viewed him; a tall, lean, and pale figure with piercing blue eyes that had persisted into his later years.

Lex's intelligence been almost frightening, easily remembering everything he'd read and applying it to 'experiments' that sometimes had interesting consequences. If Lex hadn't healed so quickly or Clark had been able to be cut or bruised, they would have spent a great deal of time being punished for setting off explosives or building mechanisms that threatened to sever limbs. There were also the meticulous records Lex kept of how long Clark could hold his breath underwater, how tall a tree Clark could jump out of without injury and whether Clark could outrun an angry badger.

"So, you'll accompany me to Waltham Manor the day after next?" Martha's question brought Clark's attention back to the present and he found that he'd agreed to visit the Honorable Lana Langford and her guardian, the Honorable Ellen Langford for tea in two day's time. He wondered if war could possibly be declared before then, to save him.

// June 1815 London //

"Lady Spencer, if I might have the honor?"

The raven-haired matron blushed and tapped her fan on back of Lex's wrist as he rose from his deep bow over her hand. "La, Mr. Luttrell, you know how people will talk as you've already led me out twice this evening."

Lex leaned forward with a sly smile to whisper in her delicate ear, "Do you and I truly care a fig about how people will talk?" Stepping back, he executed another deep bow. "You've dealt my heart a severe blow, madam. I fear I must retire from the fray. Good evening."  Making his way around the perimeter of the assembly room, Lex greeted acquaintances and shared the latest on-dits with the cream of the ton.

Although Lex's birth was outside the peerage, his father's title and money granted him recognition as one of the young lions of the Season. This in turn, allowed him to absent himself on occasion without censure, excused by the virtue of wealth. His sharp wit had earned him a place among the up-and-coming who were willing to overlook his odd appearance for the sake of his patronage. The elders found no fault in his address or clothing, which was often held up as an example against the extremes pursued by many young bucks.

Deciding that he had stayed long enough to satisfy appearances, Lex began to make his way out of the hot, crowded room. He wished to end the evening at his club, discussing the latest meeting of the Royal Society. Contrary to Lionel's wishes, Lex's real attention was on the pursuit of a Fellowship, not a bride. He had submitted several monographs co-authored by Faraday and had presented his observations on the DaVinci journals in front of Joseph Banks and the council at Somerset House. In all, Lex would prefer being known as a gentleman scientist rather than a tulip of fashion. 

He had almost succeeded in reaching the exit when there was a stir. A stripling pushed his way to the center of the floor and waited until the music died before shouting, "Napoleon has been defeated! Wellington has taken him at Waterloo!" A cheer went up as London society applauded the man who had saved them from the 'Beast of Elba'. Lex took advantage of the lull and escaped, joining his scientific peers at his club where they promptly investigated the expected outcome of imbibing far too many bottles of champagne.

Much later that evening, Lex complained bitterly to Damian that although he'd swaggered the length and breadth of Haymarket, no one, not one single person had accosted him. His long-suffering manservant merely nodded and sympathized as he continued to pry Lex out of his clothing in preparation for bed. As he helped his grumbling master under the sheets, Damian agreed it was utterly unfair that Callum Jonson had not been there to save Lex from the murderers and thieves that had not attacked him.

// June 1815 Brussels //

Walden rinsed the threadbare cloth again before using it to bathe the sweat from Captain Fordham's face and neck. It had been two long days and Walden feared that if his fever didn't break soon, he would end by burying his friend alongside too many other brave men that had fallen at Waterloo. Fordham mumbled and thrashed against Walden's restraining arms until he struck his wound and the pain left him unconscious and quiet once more. Walden looked through the bandages that covered what remained of the young man's right arm, relieved to see that despite his fever, no infection had set in and it seemed to be healing well.

The two men had met again a few weeks before, both having been promoted to Wellington's personal corps. Walden was prized for his facility in languages as well as his renowned stamina in the field while Fordham excelled in comprehending battle strategy and troop placement. Thrown together by necessity as the army advanced through Belgium in pursuit of Napoleon, they had become friends despite the persistent weakness and nausea Walden suffered when Fordham wore his signet ring. The fair-haired man had proudly pointed out the family crest engraved on the setting below the green stone he claimed had been found on his family's estate in Essex. Staying as far away as possible, Walden had admired the ring before claiming he was needed for a prisoner interrogation, leaving Fordham and his ring behind with the latest set of maps and orders.

He had lost sight of Fordham after the French were engaged at Waterloo, only seeing him once in the distance urging his men to hold against a flanking action. Walden had been shepherding his own men through the hail of cannon fire and bullets, seeing boys and men fall around him while he remained unscathed. He'd carried the fallen to the waiting wagons, his strength sustaining him through the horror of torn bodies and missing faces. The hours wore on, the noise unceasing, the blood and gore creating a gruesome mud that sucked greedily at his boots. Emotions deadened by the horror, Walden had no longer looked at faces, he simply picked up the next wounded man he found alive and carried him out of the field.

No faces that is, until his name was called out and he had turned to see Fordham under an overturned cannon. Unable to pull him free, Walden had placed his back against the two-ton cannon and carriage and forced it back upright. Fordham had fainted at the first movement and Walden had picked him up easily to carry him out. After only a few strides, it had struck him that he hadn't felt weakened and that he should not have been able to shift the cannon with Fordham there. Puzzled, he'd looked down to discover that the ring was missing along with most of Fordham's arm. The horror finally breaking through, he'd managed to deliver the wounded man safely before dropping to his knees in the vile mud, throwing back his head and screaming.

// August 1815, Saffron Walden //

Leaving the carriage and luggage cart behind, Lex let his new stallion have his head, letting the breeze cool his heated face. He was still smarting from his father's voluble and creative cursing when he arrived in London to take his insolent scion in hand. Lex had managed to stir up a scandal in the closing months of the Season by allowing himself to be caught leaving Lady Spencer's bedchamber as her husband was arriving. Only Lord Spencer's advanced age saved Lex from the necessity of defending his non-existent honor in a duel. Instead, Sir Luttrell had ordered Lex to rusticate and sent him to Audley End as his punishment. Lex felt quite fortunate that his father had not insisted he join him at the mines to learn the business.

Slowing to a canter, Lex rode along the bank of a deep, fast-flowing stream. Interested in a rock formation ahead, he slowed the stallion still further, the horse requiring a firm hand when it protested the new pace. Debating on whether to dismount and examine the outcropping more closely, his attention was caught by splashing a short distance upstream. Urging the stallion forward to the edge of the steep bank, Lex watched intently as a young man pulled himself out of the water and shook back the water-darkened hair that brushed his shoulders. He caught his breath as he admired the clean lines of the nude figure, golden skin gleaming in the sun. Turning around, he stood still long enough to display a nicely-sized member, framed by a dense mat of black curls, before diving back into the stream. Reluctantly, Lex brought the stallion around, deciding against dismounting and possibly disturbing the young man's swim.

Holding the stallion to a dancing walk, Lex continued upstream, the swimmer no longer in sight. Sighing in disappointment, Lex loosened the reins just as a hare burst out directly under the stallion's feet. Startled, the stallion yanked the loosened reins free and bolted a short distance before Lex was able to regain control. Soothing the trembling horse with a few pats on his sweat-drenched shoulder, Lex walked him back downstream in an effort to cool him down. Turning the stallion around again, Lex was preparing to send the horse into a trot when the young man appeared on the bank, just a few feet away. Reining the overexcited stallion in hard, Lex was horrified when it reared and struck the man in the chest before going over backwards on the bank and rolling into the water. Striking his head on a large rock, Lex never felt the water close over his head.

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Lungs burning with the need for air, Lex opened his eyes to a worried face above him, his lips tingling from the hard press of the other's in his attempts to force Lex to breathe. Water dripped from the ends of tangled dark locks onto Lex's face, but he had no desire to push the man with the leaf-green eyes away. Frowning, Lex took in the man's unclothed state and the absence of any cuts and bruises. "I would have taken an oath that my horse struck you!"

Answering with a slow shake of the head, the worried eyes never left his. "If he had, I would most likely be dead and so would you."

Sitting up at that declaration, Lex looked towards the nearby stream. "The stallion?"

Looking over his broad shoulder, his rescuer pointed to the edge of a nearby copse where Lex could just make out the horse's form, head down and cropping grass. "He was up and moving before I thought to look." The face that turned back to Lex held a sheepish grin, "I fear I was too busy making sure you were breathing air instead of Slade Brook."

Lex raised a hand to his head as his injuries began to make themselves felt. "Quite obviously, I was incapable of managing that on my own." A large hand reached out to steady Lex as he swayed from dizziness. "You have my heartfelt gratitude, Mr...?"

Eyes wide as he recognized his rudeness, the young man scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry, Mr. Luttrell, sir." He touched a dripping forelock in respect. "I'm..." Lex wondered at the pause. "I'm Clark Kent."

Staring up at the golden expanse presented for his enjoyment, Lex looked his fill, planning to plead a head injury if his perusal was taken amiss. The man had obviously forgotten his state of undress in his eagerness to amend the lack of introduction. Lex was treated to the sight of sculpted muscle and carved lines that would make Michelangelo's David weep in envy.  The cold water did not seem to have disturbed his pleasant proportions and as Lex watched, interest began to stir within the wiry black nest. Lex's gaze swept back up to a face stricken with embarrassment that deepened when Lex remarked with a quirk of his lips and a droll tone, "The squire's son? My sincerest compliments, Mr. Kent, how you have grown since last I saw you."

With a choked sound, two large hands descended to deny Lex the sight of any further interesting developments, while a blush spread so far over Clark's body that Lex feared there would be no blood left for his brain. He backed to the bank of the stream before turning and diving into the water. Lex was surprised at how quickly he reappeared on the farther bank and then laughed as Clark held his breeches up and stared at them, obviously in a dile