Bram stifled a laugh.
Cecilia squealed. “I saw a seal at the zoo, and its face was squashed like that… and Mando does have such very big eyes.”
“I do not have big eyes,” Armando complained.
“You do.” Abaddon’s heated gaze made the coach even hotter. “And they are beautiful eyes.”
Bram had to look away, resting his burning cheek against the cool window. The tension in the carriage was awkward at best, and while he was happy for his friend to have found a good man who he clearly found attractive, he hated this journey more than any other. It was pure torture.
He snorted when Cecilia asked Abaddon if he thought Armando was beautiful, but the involuntary reflex set off a rising, acidic tide, and before he knew it, Bram had vomited all over his and Armando’s shoes.
They stopped at an inn, and while Armando cleaned off their shoes, Bram stared at his own bare feet, magnified in the shallows of the stream running behind the inn. Only Abaddon stayed dry, taking up residence on a fallen tree. Armando laid a hand on his shoulder, and Bram felt so pitiful, he couldn’t speak. Then he turned and hugged his friend, his throat tight, and tears pricking his eyes.
“He’ll think I’m even more of a whelk now,” he managed to get out.
“He doesn’t think you’re a whelk,” Armando replied.
“He feels sorry for me.”
“He does not.”
“Because I’m pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic, Bram. You just don’t have the constitution for travelling, and the road is full of holes.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better. You and I both know the suspension on that carriage is second to none. I had assumed, merely from its looks, you understand, that it would be rather like riding a camel.”
“It is rather old,” Armando agreed.
“At least we know why he clings to it. As someone who has been ferried around Hyde Park more times than I care to count, I can attest to its virtues over the more fashionable designs.”
“Will you miss it?” Armando asked.
“I’ll miss the entertainments. I’ll miss the theatre and the museums. I will miss my garden.” He didn’t tell Armando why he would miss his garden. After all, he’d never so much as whispered a word about Oliver to anyone.
“Besides,” Armando began, and Bram wondered what he’d missed this time. “Is it not my job to make you feel better? You are the best friend I ever had.”
“Better than Feltham?”
Armando pulled away. “You’ve never even met Feltham.”
“Why would I need to when you’ve told me everything about him?”
“Not everything,” Armando muttered.
“Feels like it.”
Armando smirked. “Are you jealous?”
Bram pushed Armando, who lost his footing and fell into the stream backside first, yelping as the cold water soaked into his trousers. Bram clapped his hands over his mouth, not sure if he was stifling a laugh or an apology. Abaddon was chuckling from the bank, momentarily distracting him from his friend, who rose slowly, splashing a handful of water at Bram’s face. Cecilia joined in the water fight, squealing excitedly.
Bram climbed onto Armando’s back and rubbed water all over his face from behind. “Tell me you like me better than Feltham.”
Armando laughed, loud and free. “Of course, I like you better than Feltham. I wouldn’t let him expel his luncheon onto my boots.”
Abaddon called them then, explaining his housekeeper would be waiting for them with a hot meal. The rest of the journey passed in a cacophony of animal noises and stories, and Cecilia’s favourite anecdote about a certain archangel and the elephant at London Zoo.
As the old carriage rolled through the open gates towards Abaddon’s house, he told them about his staff. Marnie the housekeeper and her alleged cat, Clover. William Thomas the butler. Owen the groundsman. Titus the stableman.
The grey stone house was more like a castle, with battlements and carved reliefs and a coat of arms etched into the stone above the arched door. The carriage circled a huge, stone fountain with four cascading pools, and large circular shrubs formed a perimeter around the driveway.
Owen, who they had passed at the gate, greeted them as they dismounted the carriage. Abaddon introduced them, faltering because he didn’t know Bram’s surname. And it was only as it left his lips that he remembered the man knew what his favourite book was.
He winced internally as he reached for the groundsman’s hand as Armando had done. “Bram Goodfellow.”
Owen held his hand for a little too long, causing the man’s eyes to widen when Bram tugged his hand away.
“My apologies, sir,” the man said. “Have me met before? You look… familiar.”
“I should not think so,” Bram said, trying to hide his panic. “Unless you have had cause to visit Mayfair?”
Owen’s green eyes shuttered as he blushed, and he looked down at his boots. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Oh goodness, he hadn’t meant to offend the man. He was terrible at this. Bram shot Armando a pleading look.
“Take no notice of him, Owen,” Armando said. “He’s sulking because he didn’t want to leave the museums behind.”
It seemed to please Owen that Bram’s comments weren’t personal. “No harm done, sir.” He lifted his cap, swiped a hand over his jet black hair, then shoved it back on again. “Though if it’s museums that he likes, he’ll be right at home in this place.”
