A Fiery Dalliance

XXVII

"There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

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XXVII.

Joe was quite certain that he was going to send himself mad with his own wretched guilt. He had meant to leave. He had meant his words when he had proclaimed that statement to Perrie.

Leaving seemed as though it could be the only way to alleviate at least some of his sins without doing unto Perrie and her family what his own father had done to him. History had already begun to repeat itself and Joe needed to stop it.

Joe, of course, had had nowhere to run to, but anywhere would have been better than to continue to trespass upon the duke's good faith.

He had been about to tear apart his bedroom and pack his belongings into his trunk when the duke had appeared in his doorway and informed him that they were travelling to London for a short break.

"I cannot go, Your Grace," Joe had informed the duke regretfully as he prepared himself to bed Adam's forgiveness for everything that he had done and could do.

But before he could, Adam had firmly replied, "Oh, that was not a suggestion. That was an instruction. You are to accompany me to London, my boy."

That was how Joe had found himself in a carriage seated opposite Adam and his father, and beside his brother, who seemed just as perplexed at the whole situation as Joe was. Their father seemed to be in quite the jovial mood to be invited to the Duke of Ashwood's London residence for a short holiday of cards, whiskey, and no doubt, women.

It apparently was not a great distance from Ashwood to London, but to Joe it felt like the length of the Continent. Joe knew that at some point during this trip he would need to take the duke aside to inform Adam of his decision, and he would pray that he did not appear ungrateful. Joe could not have been more grateful for Adam's dedicated tutelage over the last few months.

Joe simply was not worthy.

Perrie poignant observation echoed inside Joe's mind as the carriage travelled along. Someone had made him feel unworthy, and that man was sitting only inches from him happily chatting about a club he knew of in town.

"Forgive me, Viscount," Adam said, interrupting, "but I am sitting here and admiring your two strapping boys, and I simply cannot tell them apart. I know which is which because I observed them speaking to one another as we got into the carriage, but I cannot discern between them by appearance alone. How do you do it?"

The change in conversation brought both Joe and Ed out of their thoughts. Joe met the hazel eyes of the duke and Adam offered him a warm smile. Was it knowing? It reminded him a little of Perrie's smile, only her blue eyes were far more devious when she smiled like that. Often, she was thinking of some sort of sinister prank.

But could Adam tell the twins apart? Was he playing along, like Perrie had pretended to, when she claimed that she had not known? Joe realised that he had never asked Perrie how she had known it was him. And he suddenly desperately wanted to know the answer to that.

"I have always known," John replied in a far less cheerful tone. "They appear very different in my eyes."

"What are the differences you see?" Adam probed.

Joe did not look at his father, though he could feel John's cold, steel gaze upon his face.

But John couldn't answer, at least not truthfully. Because Joe knew the answer to this question. John that proclaimed it once, many years ago, when he had been intoxicated to the point of oblivion.