Chapter Text
Anthony Crowley grew up in a modestly grand house in the country about a day’s ride from London. The holidays were over and the household was leaving for London in the morning. He always missed the city when he was at his quiet estate and longed for silence when occupying his Mayfair townhouse. Most of the furniture was covered for his extended time away, and the household service not going to London would stay and keep the place until his return in the heat of July.
The Crowleys were well known and well sought after in the London scene. Anthony, widely believed to be a confirmed bachelor, often had ladies vying for his attention. He knew he wasn’t bad to look at, and he had money, even a title. Sir Anthony Crowley, Bt was still more impressive than Mister Anthony Crowley. His great-great-great-great-grandfather had earned the baronetcy for some service to the crown or somesuch. Anthony had never listened to his father’s boasts and claims of greatness that he had nothing to do with.
Now his father was long gone, his cousins generally stayed away, and his ward—his nephew—haunted the halls of his estate, meeting him only rarely at the dinner table.
“Uncle, must I go to London tomorrow?” the boy asked as they sat in the drawing room after dinner.
“Yes,” Anthony answered simply. “Rumour has it that you are to be my heir if I never get around to having a child of my own. Therefore, you must learn to put up with all of the shite that comes along with London society without looking as if you were in pain.”
“But if you do marry a lady and have children, I’ll be wasting all my time.”
“Adam, the chances of that ever happening are nearly zero. You’ll be in the chaise before I will be tomorrow morning. In fact, you should retire. We’re leaving early.”
The boy stood and left the room, his steps heavier than they needed to be but Anthony was used to this by now. He wasn’t anyone’s favourite uncle, and he really had no interest in it.
There was a tap at the French doors that he tried very hard to ignore. When it happened again, he rose to his feet, fetched his overcoat and hat and ventured out into the gardens.
The gardens of Rook's Fall were really the only thing worth seeing on the expansive estate. Most of it was enclosed by a high wall with a wrought-iron gate that only four people had keys to. Anthony unlocked the gate and entered the large terrace, surrounded by flora that—come spring—would be the talk of the county. Now, however, it was late January. There were no flowers to be seen.
“Did you ignore me?” a haughty voice asked from the shadows.
Anthony refused to answer until they were both sharing the dark of that particular corner of the garden. There was no surprise upon seeing the man there, waiting for him. With a long, drawn-out sigh of frustration, Anthony shook his head.
“You can’t even dress appropriately for sneaking,” he said, tugging on the man’s cream-coloured lapels. “You might as well be carrying a candle.”
The other man made a noise that sounded very offended.
“I’m not going to dress like I’m in mourning to come and speak with you. It’s morbid.”
Anthony made a face before charging directly at the man, only inches shorter than himself. With a quick shove, the newcomer was pressed against the garden wall.
“Are you angry?”
“Yes,” Anthony said, pressing into the other man’s space, brushing their lips against the other’s. He removed the man’s hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “How long will I have to wait for you in London?”
“Only a day or two, my darling. We mustn’t be too obvious.”
“And what will they do if we are, angel?”
“A long list of terrible things, I’m sure. Let’s not tempt fate, hmm?”