A dull throb echoed behind Elias’s eyes, a persistent percussion against his skull. Consciousness returned in fragments, a mosaic of discomfort. He lay sprawled across his bed, clothes rumpled, the gaslight from the street outside painting long, spectral shadows across the ceiling. A faint memory stirred: the frantic fumble for the lock, the click, the collapse. He had secured his privacy, even in his dazed flight.
“A desperate measure, even then,” he murmured, the words rasping against a parched throat.
Movement was a rebellion of aching joints. His shoulder protested with a sharp, grinding pain, as if rust had taken root in his very bones. Fingers, stiff and reluctant, explored his face. Tender spots had swollen, forming ridges beneath his skin. A soft whimper escaped him, a sound born of indignity and a profound, bone-deep weariness.
He pushed himself upright, a slow, agonizing effort. Sat on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floral pattern of the wallpaper. The silence of the room pressed in, amplifying the turmoil within him. A tear, hot and defiant, traced a path down his cheek. Then another, and another, until a quiet, racking sob shuddered through his frame.
The raw, guttural cries that followed were not of a man, but of a wounded creature. His voice, usually so carefully modulated, was a broken thing, raspy and thin. Anger, cold and sharp, ignited within the wellspring of his despair. He rose, a sudden, clumsy motion, and lashed out. A porcelain figurine, a gift from Lady Ashworth, flew from the mantelpiece, shattering against the far wall. A heavy tome followed, then a silver-framed daguerreotype of his late parents, which mercifully only clattered to the carpet.
His rage exhausted itself as quickly as it had erupted, leaving him hollow. He sank to the floor amidst the scattered debris, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle the desperate pleas clawing at his throat. Tears, unbidden, continued to well, blurring the room, tracing new paths through the dust on his cheeks.
*Damn it all to hell.*
He wanted to cease to exist. Not in death, not truly, but to rewind the clock, to erase the humiliating tableau of last night. The memory of Mr. Thorne’s summons, the chaotic scene, Lord Alistair’s chilling smile. Had anyone heard? Had a servant been stirring? His carefully constructed world, his very dignity, lay in ruins around him.
The chill of a new dread began to clear his mind. He glanced at the discreet mantel clock. Just past seven. Mr. Hodges, his valet, would be arriving soon with his morning tea. To be found like this—it was unthinkable. The shame would be unbearable, the questions inescapable.
No. He could not be seen. He scrambled, movements still clumsy, to clear the evidence of his breakdown. The shattered figurine was swept into the waste bin, the books and papers shoved beneath the bed. He righted a fallen chair, then settled back onto the mattress, feigning a sudden illness. A faint knock sounded at the door, precisely on cue.
“Mr. Finch?” Mr. Hodges’s voice was crisp, modulated.
Elias swallowed, forcing his voice into a believable hoarseness. “Come not in, Hodges. I fear I’ve caught a chill. A most inconvenient malaise. I shall not be attending my duties this morn.”
“Indeed, sir? Shall I fetch Dr. Albright?”
A bitter taste rose. “No, no. A mere cold, I assure you. Perhaps a hot toddy later, should it persist.”
“Very well, sir. I shall inform Lady Ashworth. And your tea, sir?”
“Leave it upon the tray outside the door, if you please. Much obliged, Hodges.”
“As you wish, Mr. Finch.” His footsteps receded. Elias was safe, for now.
He would avoid society today. He was in no fit state to face a drawing-room, let alone the offices of Lord Ashworth. He found a small pot of healing salve in his dressing table, usually reserved for minor shaving nicks. He smeared the cool ointment over the worst of his bruises, wincing with each touch. The physical pain was a distant cousin to the searing humiliation that consumed him.
The small pot slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His body trembled. He yearned to disappear, to burrow into the deepest earth. Pulling the heavy velvet curtains across the window, he plunged the room into a bruised twilight. Then, he crawled back under the thick blankets, pulling them up over his head, a childish attempt to block out the world. Only here, in this suffocating darkness, could he feel remotely shielded from the crushing weight of his shame.
*Sleep, Elias. You must sleep. It will be fine. Lord and Lady Ashworth know nothing. Mr. Thorne would hardly boast of such a sordid affair. It will be fine.*
He buried himself deeper under the covers, whispering the empty assurances.
***
It was not fine at all.
Beneath the oppressive layers of wool, he muttered, the words like ash on his tongue. To God, to his patrons, to anyone who would listen—he wanted to scream it, a torrent of righteous fury. *It was Alistair. Alistair sanctioned it. He humiliated me. That brute. Thorne is a viper. They are all mad. Just for Thorne, Alistair… after all these years of service, all I’ve done to maintain my fragile position… he crushed it. He crushed me. I am an idiot. I let Thorne see my pathetic desperation. And the thought that someone else might have seen it all…*
He stopped, breathless. A wave of revulsion, a self-loathing so profound it made his stomach churn, washed over him. He truly did wish to die.
The most agonizing part was the immediate aftermath of his quiet breakdown. His first panicked action, once the tears had finally dried, was to scour his room. There were no incriminating letters from Thorne, no physical evidence of the previous night’s chaos. But a torn handkerchief, soiled and damp, bearing a faint scent of Thorne’s cologne, was quickly incinerated in the hearth. The incident, a sordid stain on his existence, could not be allowed to leave a trace.
***
Elias remained sequestered for three days. Despite his ghastly appearance, his injuries seemed to heal with surprising speed. Perhaps the low light of his room, or the hurried, frantic nature of the blows, had spared him the most visible disfigurement. Only dark, hidden bruises marred his ribs and shoulders. For three days, he hid, crying in fits and starts, ignoring the occasional discreet knock from Mr. Hodges. He was certain he could hold out until all traces vanished, but fate had other plans. Lord and Lady Ashworth, who had been away at their country estate, returned unexpectedly.
“Elias, my boy, what has befallen your face?” Lady Ashworth’s sharp gasp echoed in the morning room.
“Oh, well…” He stammered, caught completely unawares.
Lord Ashworth fixed him with a stern gaze. “Hodges informed us you were laid low with a cold. This is more than a simple rheum. Did you brawl, boy?”
His mind raced, desperate for a plausible lie. “Oh, um, I was feeling quite unwell, my lord, so I ventured out to collect some papers I’d forgotten at my club…”
“And?”
“And I… I had a most regrettable tumble on the flagstones outside.”
“A tumble that leaves a young man’s face in such a state? Who was it, Elias? Speak plainly.” Lord Ashworth’s voice hardened. Elias waved his hands frantically, attempting to mollify his patron.
“No, truly, my lord, it was nothing. A mere accident. I… I misstepped on a loose paving stone.”
Lord Ashworth scrutinised him for a long moment, then released a sigh of disbelief. “You are a clumsy fellow, Elias. Do not let it happen again. Mind your footing.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course.”
His ridiculous explanation, combined with the fact that his injuries were not as severe as they might have been, seemed to appease them. The matter was, miraculously, dropped. Though a chill lingered in the room, and Lady Ashworth’s eyes held a peculiar, lingering worry.
During dinner that evening, a strange thing occurred. Lady Ashworth, ever attuned to the comings and goings of their household, suddenly enquired about Lord Alistair.
“By the by, Elias, are you still much in Lord Alistair’s company these days?”
“My lady?”
“He doesn’t seem to visit the house with the same frequency. Has his interest waned?”
The mere mention of Alistair forced the memory of his sneering face into Elias’s mind, souring his digestion. He replied with an irritable edge he immediately regretted. “It is as it always was, my lady.”
*As it always was, my ass. Damn him. Damn him for it all.* The shame and humiliation were so profound, he felt a desperate urge to flee the table.
“Didn’t Hodges mention another gentleman calling quite late, a few nights ago? Mr. Thorne, was it? Are you much acquainted with him now?”
Elias froze. His gaze, slow and deliberate, drifted towards the servants’ door, where Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, was directing a footman. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Had she heard? Could she have overheard anything that night, amid the chaos of the midnight summons? Was it possible she had been the one to witness it all?
“Elias? Is something amiss?” Lady Ashworth’s gentle query startled him. He blurted out a response, barely thinking.
“Yes. We are… we are acquainted, my lady.”
What Lady Ashworth said next, he couldn’t recall. The sudden, gripping terror rooted him to the spot, wiping all other thoughts from his mind. He only remembered the way she had looked at him when she mentioned Alistair. It was a look often reserved for unpleasant news. Why? The thought sent him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold. No. Mrs. Davies was hard of hearing and her quarters were far removed from his. She could not have heard. But why did it feel so very wrong? He could only pray to a God he often doubted.
Three more days passed. Lord and Lady Ashworth began to press him to resume his duties and social engagements. Elias desperately wished to refuse. Yet, to continue his self-imposed seclusion would only raise further questions, suggesting something more serious than a mere tumble. So, he forced a cheerful demeanour upon himself. Nothing was amiss. He was perfectly well.
The days leading up to his return to society were fraught with anxiety. What if he encountered Lord Alistair? Or Mr. Thorne? Would Alistair unleash another veiled cruelty? Would Thorne’s presence resurrect the humiliation? Would they continue to treat him as nothing more than a plaything?
The mere thought made his stomach clench.
He arrived at the Ashworth residence, where his duties as secretary awaited him, and where he was expected to participate in the evening’s small salon. He hung his hat on the hall stand, tossed his gloves onto a nearby table, and then, feeling utterly exposed, took his seat in the study. The low murmur of household activity gradually intensified. As soon as he heard footsteps approaching, he buried his head in his arms, feigning a sudden absorption in a ledger.
If he pretended to be engrossed, perhaps no one would notice his bruised appearance, at least not immediately. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: Mr. Silas Blackwood, a frequent caller and a man of unnerving bluntness, had a habit of arriving precisely when he was least desired.
Blackwood’s shadow fell across his desk. A hand, surprisingly gentle, slipped beneath Elias’s chin and tilted his face upwards. Elias had no time to resist. He was forced to meet Blackwood’s piercing gaze. Blackwood’s eyebrow arched in a slow, assessing manner.
“Good God, Finch. What in blazes happened to your face?”
“...Nothing of consequence, Blackwood.”
“Another run-in with a cobbled street?”
“Something of the sort, yes.”
“Indeed?” Blackwood clicked his tongue, a sound of dry amusement, and shook his head before abruptly letting go. Elias’s head nearly slammed back onto the desk.
“Confound it, Blackwood!” he exclaimed, startled. Blackwood merely offered a crooked grin, a thoughtful expression on his face. Whatever surmises he was making, Elias had no way of knowing.
Neither Lord Alistair nor Mr. Thorne graced the Ashworth salon that evening. A small mercy.
But during Elias’s absence, a fresh ripple of gossip had begun to spread through the fashionable circles.
“Did you hear about Alistair? That fellow actually…”
No one directly questioned Elias about his injuries. Yet, the curious, sidelong glances he received spoke volumes. The rumors, it seemed, had already found their way through the drawing-rooms and clubs of London.
Perhaps, Elias mused, he was luckier than he deserved.
***
The whispers centred around Lord Alistair and Mr. Edmund Thorne. Neither Alistair nor Thorne had been seen in the usual haunts since the rumors began. With Elias’s bruised countenance as an unspoken testament, the whispers gained an insidious momentum.
The story, as it filtered through the various servants’ halls and discreet conversations, went thus: Lord Alistair had a violent falling out with his new favourite, Mr. Thorne. And, Lord Alistair, it was murmured with a frisson of scandal, had an unnatural predilection for… *certain company*.
“That brute, I tell you, he quite lost his temper over Thorne.”
“What’s a… oh, wait. Good heavens. One cannot help but be amused, can one?”
“He utterly trampled the fellow, they say.”
The drawing-rooms were alive with such veiled conversations, punctuated by fanning ladies and discreet coughs from gentlemen.
“All those gentlemen Alistair held in his orbit… they’ve all been quite put out, haven’t they?”
Elias, overlooked and still smarting, found himself the beneficiary of this new social storm. The scandal had diverted attention, painting Alistair as the instigator, the aggressor. And Thorne… Thorne was merely a casualty in Alistair’s erratic affections. It left Elias, the quiet shadow, surprisingly untouched by the worst of it. For now.