Page 116 of In Bed with the Earl

They’d arrived.

“Of course I’m ready,” he said tightly, and not allowing another question, he made his way into the tunnel first. Giles followed close behind, dragging the grate back into place, shutting out the light and plunging them into darkness.

There’d always been a thrill in stealing under London’s cobblestones and uncovering the treasures buried below.

Except as they ventured along, slogging through the murky water, why was the thrill missing this time? Why, as he waded through muck and refuse, was Malcom even now thinking about Verity walking the aisles of Hatchards? Or wondering about the books she read? He’d venture material related to the work she did. Or mayhap she didn’t? Mayhap she sought a diversion—

Something slammed into him.

Grunting, Malcom went flying forward. He managed to bring his tosher pole up, catching himself in time before he hit the water.

Behind him there was a sharp rumble and a crash.

Heart pounding, he stared at the small pile of bricks that rested where he’d been standing. Good God. It was the height of carelessness. Underground, a man had to be even more alert than one was on the streets. Here, even the ceiling and walls represented danger. And Malcom hadn’t made a misstep, hadn’t allowed himself to be distracted from the work at hand ... since he’d started out at this life.

“I don’t ... Thank—”

Giles waved him off. “That’s what friends do.”

Friends.

You refer to Bram and Fowler as “your people.” You call Giles an “associate.” All of these defenses that you put up, these choices of words that strip away closeness from your connections, they cannot truly conceal the truth ... I know that you’re protecting yourself by pretending that they don’t matter ...

They were friends. He and Giles. And they had been since the moment he’d rescued the other man from certain death, and had been all the times Giles had been there for him. And owning that connection to another person didn’t leave him weak. Verity had shown him that.

Everything was changing.

And he’d been so damned certain he didn’t want any of it to change.

He’d been content with his life as it was and hadn’t desired anything more.

At least, that was what he’d told himself. He’d told himself as much so many times, he’d actually believed it.

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

She’d been right about so much.

“You’re out of practice,” Giles said without inflection. And at any time before this moment, Malcom would have lashed out like a wounded beast at the insinuation. He’d have driven the other man into the pavement and asserted his place in these parts.

“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice softly echoing off the bricks.

“And ... it’s all right if you are,” the other man—his friend—went on. “If you don’t want to spend your nights scrounging sewers, you could stop now.” Giles chuckled. “You could have stopped almost ten years ago, by my estimation.”

Malcom stared at the tosher pole in his fingers, the one Fowler had given him and commanded him to never let go of. And he hadn’t. “It’s all I’ve known.”It is all I want to know.

Isn’t that what he’d meant? Why hadn’t he said that?

“Aye.” They resumed their trek through the ankle-deep water, skimming their poles over the stone flooring as they went, dragging a small current in their wake, when Giles paused. “But do you know something?” The other man didn’t wait for an answer. “This.” He gestured with the place his left hand should be. “This is all I’ve known, too. But, North?” Giles held his gaze. “If someone came to me tomorrow and told me I was a damned baron, duke, or any other fancy lord, I wouldn’t spit in the face of the universe. I’d grab that chance to get out of these parts and never look back.” He jammed his tosher pole toward Malcom. “And none of us, not Bram, not Fowler, not me, nor anyone, would begrudge you leaving this shitehole.”

How easy Giles made it all sound. Only this wasn’t simply about living in the lap of luxury; it was where that lap was located. And all that went with it. And in Malcom’s case ... all that had once gone with it, too.

“And don’t be a smug, all-knowing bastard.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he muttered.

“I know you well enough. You didn’t need to. You’re thinking you don’t belong there. Well, I’ve news for you, Lord Maxwell: you don’t belong here, either.”

That barb struck.

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