"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..."

― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Louis received dozens of flower arrangements: roses, tulips, carnations, daisies, China asters, lilies, cockscomb, peonies, bleeding hearts, freesias and dahlias, in an assortment of vases, baskets and urns. These were hothouse flowers, as carefully cultivated and pruned as the nobles who sent them.

Curiously, Louis never read the cards that accompanied these arrangements. In fact, he threw the cards away the moment Teddy set the flowers down in front of him.

"Don't you want to know who they're from?" Harry asked.

"No need!" he said briskly, tossing another card to the ground for Teddy to pick up. "Once you've read one, you've read them all, haven't you?"

Harry was skeptical.

He stood and looked out the window. William would be brought to the manor later that evening. He was found south of York in the civil parish of Thorpe Willoughby. It was a day away by carriage. The footman was discovered unconscious with rope around his neck beneath the bough of a tree that had snapped. A sheep farmer found the boy and nursed him back to health.

Louis had yet to decide what to do with him. If William stood accused of attempted murder he would be hanged. If Louis chose not to press charges, he could not be certain that William wouldn't harm him or someone he loved.

The doorbell chimed all morning. As the Bilsdale club left, well-wishers arrived. Harry could not picture Warwick without a parade of visitors. Louis had many friends and acquaintances. It made Harry painfully aware that he would be returning to Somerset where he had no one but his mother and the tainted memory of his father.

He was about to greet Louis' visitors on the Duke's behalf in the parlor room when he found Lady Silcox standing beside her luggage.

"I thought you left for Essex days ago."

She fiddled with her bonnet. "I wanted to say goodbye to you before my departure."

"I'm sorry." He chastised himself. "I've been preoccupied with the Duke."

They stared at each other awkwardly. She was a fine young woman and a good friend to him and he wished he could explain his circumstances but he could not.

Instead, she broke the silence.

"Harry, have I ever told you about my corgis?" She listed them on her gloved fingers. "There's Delphine, Hubert, Myrtle, Otto and my most beloved corgi, Winston. Winston was born to two champions and my father was sure he would go on to sire dozens of little champions himself. Only, when it came time for him to mate, he could not... perform. He preferred the affections of Hubert to those of Myrtle."

"Beth—" Harry tried to interrupt.

"My father wanted to shoot Winston, since he was not suitable for breeding, but I protected him and to this day he remains my cherished friend and confidant."

"Beth what are you—"

"You're like Winston, aren't you?"

Harry's stomach twisted. His first impulse was to deny it but he couldn't lie to her. "Please don't tell anyone."

She took his hand. "I can protect you, the way Eleanor is protecting the Duke."

"Beth, I can't ask that of you. Don't you want to marry for love?"

"If my father has his way, I'll be married to a stranger twice my age."

"The Duke is my lover," he stated plainly.

"I don't want to marry a lover, I want to marry a friend and I have no kinder friend than you."

Her lady's maid arrived with her cloak and draped it around her ladyship's narrow shoulders.

She kissed Harry's cheek and bid him adieu.

Harry's valet appeared beside him. "Is everything alright, your grace?"

"Charles, I think I might have just gotten engaged."

"To a woman? Splendid!" He clapped.

Harry headed into the parlor room to greet Louis' well-wishers. 

As he stepped through they door the guests turned from the fireplace, rose from the divan and put down their brandies. Something about these visitors gave him pause but it took him a moment to realize what it was: they were all young men. Beautiful young men. Then it dawned on him. These were Louis' former lovers. 

They scrutinized Harry's appearance, his mourning attire and boyish physique, as he thanked them for coming and announced that Louis was regretfully unable to receive visitors in his condition.

"Then why are you allowed to see him?" asked a tall Spaniard.

"I—"

Another broad-shouldered nobleman approached and his eyes fell to Harry's pin. "You went to Eton? I don't remember you and I never forget a face."

Harry touched the pin. "No, the pin was... given to me."

The men had daggers in their eyes.

"I'm going up," the Eton man declared jealously.

"No!"

"Who are you to tell me no?"

"I'm Louis' companion," Harry declared, chest puffed. "He wishes to see me and me alone. Now, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, it's about time for the Duke's bath."

He swiveled around to the sound of bitter whispers behind him.

As he ascended the staircase he instructed Teddy to dismiss the visitors immediately, every last one of them.

Lying in bed in his bedchamber, Louis was already naked on his side waiting patiently to be bathed. He batted at the canopy's velvet tassel and grinned. Harry was in no mood. He went to flowers resting on the chiffonier where Louis could not reach and opened the cards. He read them one by one, and just as he suspected they were all from former lovers.

"I can explain!"

"No need. I met your conquests in the parlor room."

Louis buried his face in the lace pillow and groaned. "Yes, I've bedded a few men before you—"

"A few? You mean half the men in England." Then he remembered the Spaniard. "Apologies, Europe."

"They meant nothing to me!"

"You meant quite a lot to them. They wanted to tear me to pieces!"

Louis patted the bed but Harry stubbornly refused to join him.

The Duke used all his strength to stand. Before Harry could protest he felt two arms wrap around his waist. A peace offering.

"Are you cross with me, poppet?"

"Yes."

"They were all in my past."

"I am retrospectively cross."

Louis laughed and kissed the back of Harry's neck. He softened. Louis may have had hundreds of lovers but he made Harry feel as though he was the only boy in the world.

The Duke let go, in an attempt to gallantly kiss Harry's lips, lost his balance and stumbled. Harry put his arm over his shoulder and guided him back to bed.

He removed his boots and lay down beside him. Louis' former lovers aroused jealousy in him but they also had the simultaneous effect of arousing much more and Louis was conveniently naked.

He kissed the Duke's chest, lips tracing the map of Louis' scars.

As he kissed his golden belly, the door burst open.

Teddy stood there panting. "One of your former lovers is here to see you. He's come upstairs. I couldn't stop him."

"Send him away!" Louis barked. "I don't wish to see anyone but the Duke of Somerset."

Teddy tugged on his hair with exasperation. "I tried, your grace. He would not take no for an answer."

"The impropriety! What nobleman would impose in such brutish fashion?"

"He's not a nobleman," Teddy said, trembling. "It's Pyotr. Pyotr Tchaikovsky."

"DASH IT!" Louis dove under the bed sheet.

Just then the door flung open and a Russian with a fur hat and a long fur-trimmed coat stomped into the room swinging a jeweled walking stick.

"My lisichka! I came as soon as I heard!"

Harry was shocked by the intrusion but not angry. Quite the contrary. He was in awe of the composer.

The composer was decidedly not in awe of Harry. "Who is this... boy?"

Louis peeked out from beneath the sheet. "This is the Duke of Somerset."

He looked at Harry who was sprawled out on the bed beside Louis.

"And who is the Duke of Somerset?"

"He's my companion."

His features sharpened. "What does this word mean, companion? How long has this lyubovnyye otnosheniya been going on?"

"It's complicated, Pyotr."

Harry jumped up from the bed and extended his hand. "He's loved me since I was a little boy—Hello, I'm Harry! I adore your work!"

The composer ignored him.

Louis offered the Russian a cigarette and asked how he came so quickly to York from Moscow. Pyotr explained that he was actually in London to see La belle Hélène, the same opéra bouffe Frederick was attending.

Louis awkwardly thanked him for making the journey north and explained that he was recovering quickly thanks to Harry's rather dubious nursing skills.

Pyotr turned from one Duke to the other. He could not hide his heartbreak and handed Louis a gift, a small Fabergé egg he had planned to gift to Queen Victoria. His appointment with the Queen was an honour he had cancelled when he heard that Louis was injured.

The intricacies of the inset gemstones and gold leaf moved him as all ostentatious objects did and he could not send the composer away.

Instead, he asked his valet to prepare a room for him and told Pyotr he could remain at Warwick as long as he liked.

The composer scratched his short beard, unsure. Harry insisted.

Pyotr did not stoke Harry's jealousy the way Louis' other lovers did. He stoked his curiosity. He began to prepare a list of questions he had for the composer about music theory, his process and current work. He also listed all of the concertos he would beg Tchaikovsky to play for him. He hoped the composer would recover from his heartbreak so they could all become the best of friends.

♘

Louis was not well enough to attend dinner but that did not stop him.

Teddy drew the Duke's tailcoat over his aching shoulders and handed him his walking stick. Harry walked alongside him as he descended the staircase to make sure he did not fall.

In the dining room, Roy and Frederick were already seated, feeding each other olives by candlelight. The Viscount licked the oil from his lover's fingertips. The Earl was leaving for Pembroke in the morning and they spent almost the entire day in their bedchamber making the most of their last hours together.

Pyotr was late and took a seat unceremoniously at the end of the table. As a footman floated into the dining room with a terrine of Soup a la Reine, Harry badgered the Russian with questions about the new ballet he was composing. Pyotr did not take his eyes off of Louis when he described the love between the Swan Queen and her prince.

"How does it end?" Harry asked brightly.

"Tragedy," he answered, thick Russian accent dripping with contempt.

This dinner was not going as Harry hoped. Perhaps friendship was ambitious. He would settle for civility.

They had only just cut into their bœuf au jus, when there was a commotion in the drawing room.

Harry glanced at the clock.

William.

He excused himself, as did Louis.

In the drawing room the young footman kneeled on the floor with his hands bound before two officers. There was a purple mark around his neck where the rope bruised him. His black eyes were empty as though he were dead already.

They were so haunted by his appearance the two Dukes could do nothing but stand there silently and stare.

"Well, go on then! Charge me!" William hissed. "I want my death sentence!"

Louis gripped the golden head of his walking stick.

"What are you waiting for? I slit your precious mare's throat. I orchestrated your murder. Send me to jail an' put me to death!"

The Duke turned to Harry. "Both my heart and that of Albertine belong to you. I think you should decide what happens to him."

Frederick who had been listening outside the door stormed in. Roy followed, apologising on his behalf. He tried to hold him back but the Viscount wriggled out of his grip like a snake poised to strike.

"Send him to the gallows or I will slaughter this animal myself!"

"Do it," William sobbed. "I have nothing left to live for."

Roy, the most practical of the four, who read the doubt on Harry's face said, "I know you pity him but if you let him go, Louis will not be safe. We don't know that he won't try to harm Louis again, or someone else. Press charges. Have him hanged. It's for the greater good."

But when Harry looked upon William's face he did not see all of the future crimes he might commit but rather a boy, a year younger than he, and all of the potential that might have been realized had he been born into better circumstances, a better family, a better class.

Harry cleared his throat. "My father was concerned about the greater good, as was Sir Clarence, but I am concerned about good, period. I will not let this boy hang."

William had envisioned many outcomes upon his return to Warwick none of which included mercy. This enraged him. He knew how to accept a beating but not kindness. "Why would you spare me? I tried to murder your companion."

"I forgive you."

Frederick was livid. "Forgive him? We will not replace law and order with your Catholic guilt, Duke! Louis, did I not warn you that Catholics are mad? He'd probably take the beast's place if he could! Don't listen to him!"

Louis let out a heavy sigh. "They're right, Harry. None of us are safe while William roams free. We must press charges."

They were making perfectly logical arguments and yet they all sounded false. Like the right notes played on the wrong instrument.

Instrument.

Harry had an idea.

He ran into the dining room where Pyotr sat alone staring listlessly at his plate.

Harry picked up a carving knife and asked the composer to join them in the drawing room.

The young Duke entered with the knife and Louis stumbled. "Harry, you're not going to..."

"Finally!" Frederick said.

Harry did not.

He cut the rope that bound William's wrists and guided him to the piano bench. "Play."

William snarled and spit on his boots.

Harry was determined. "Play."

"Who is this creature?" Pyotr asked.

"The greatest pianist you've never heard." 

"He seems rather coarse."

"He's an angel," Harry said hastily.

"A fallen angel," Louis corrected. "Possibly the fallen angel, the devil himself. He killed my horse and then he tried to kill me."

The composer raised his eyebrows in alarm.

William touched the ivory keys. Ashamed of the dirt beneath his fingernails, he quickly wiped his hands on his trousers. He played Chopin's somber 'Prelude in E minor, Opus 28, No 4.'

Pyotr was moved but largely unimpressed. "Is this the pretty child you brought to Moscow, Louis? I remember him well. He's a competent pianist, though this is a very simple piece."

William's nostrils flared and he switched to Liszt's dizzying Rondeau Fantastique, with flawless jumps and double notes, under the Russian's inscrutable gaze.

Pyotr tapped the boy's knuckles with his walking stick. "A difficult piece. You play it well but so can everyone else at the conservatory in St. Petersburg."

Harry dragged William off the bench and invited Pyotr to sit instead. "Play us something new. Something no one has ever heard before. Something from the ballet you're working on perhaps."

The composer lifted the tails of his coat and swooped onto the bench like a raven onto its perch. "This is an allegro from the third act. It accompanies the scene where the sorcerer's daughter Odile seduces the prince."

He played the lively piece, long fingers arched elegantly over the keys and the whole room was temporarily transported watching a genius at work. All but William, who was carefully watching the composer's hands and memorizing each note, inflection and flourish.

The room broke into applause. Pyotr rose from the bench and bowed. Harry instructed William to play the same piece, exactly as he had heard it.

"I don't have the sheet music with me," Pyotr remarked. 

"He doesn't need it."

The footman moved his soiled hands over the ivory keys once more, but his slumped shoulders and ragged clothes made the notes he played no less rich. He brought the arrangement to life with identical musicality and skill as the genius who composed it.

The room was silent.

William crossed his arms sullenly. 

He was about to deliver himself back into the hands of the officer, when Pyotr lifted the boy's chin and gazed into his dark eyes. "My Black Swan."

William blinked up at him. "My master."

Harry and Louis exchanged a knowing glance.

There was a darkness in the brooding composer that met its match in William. He was a muse and a mirror.

"Would you like to come with me to Moscow?"

"Me? Your servant?"

"As a member of my orchestra, ptichka!"

He looked around him like this might all be a dream.

"Da," the boy answered shyly in Russian.

♘

In the days that followed, Pyotr had his servants scour William's skin, trim his hair and measure him for a new wardrobe befitting his role as Tchaikovsky's protégée. He wore knee pants with stockings, a white blouse, tunic and a velvet cap. The composer doted on the boy morning, noon and night like a doll. He had finally found a boy who accepted his love and William had finally found a master who loved him.

The day they left for Moscow, Harry saw them off on the flagstone.

William and the young Duke came face-to-face, unsure what to say to one another.

"I don't know why you spared my life after what I did, but I won't forget it."

They almost embraced but thought better of it.

Harry did not want his gratitude. He wanted the boy to take this kindness that he had never been shown before and learn to be kind to himself and to others.

Tchaikovsky called to him from the carriage. "Come, ptichka! We'll be late for the ferry!"

"Coming!" the boy sang as he hopped in the carriage and rested his head on his master's shoulder.

Harry was only half-packed for his own long journey south. He kept surreptitiously removing things from his trunk as Charles packed to delay their trip. It drove his valet mad.

Louis was equally anxious and Harry suspected that he feigned sickness so Harry would stay longer and continue to care for him. He complained his fever had returned, that his back ached, that he had no appetite, though he was always hungry enough to eat Harry.

When they could deny their situation no longer, Louis walked Harry to the rotunda where they said their goodbyes.

The burned portrait of Louis' family loomed above them. Harry said a silent prayer. Nothing could bring them back but Harry vowed that the fear that governed his father's life would not govern his own. Somerset would no longer be a fortress but a home.

Harry slipped on his gloves. "It's time."

"Another day."

"The carriage is packed."

"Another hour?"

"We need to reach the Midlands by nightfall."

"Another minute then, give me that, darling. Here, let me look at you." He tugged the lapels of Harry's coat and pinched his cheek.

They would see each other again in a few short months but for lovers this was a lifetime.

Tearfully, Harry said, "Will you write me?"

"Every day."

"What if I miss your letter?"

"I'll write you another and another after that."

"How will I sleep without you beside me? How will I rise in the morning without your face to look forward to? How will I—"

He swept a curl from Harry's brow. "You need only think of me and I will be there."

Louis didn't care if the servants were scandalized. He kissed Harry. Deeply. The young Duke collapsed against his chest and clung to the back of his shirt refusing to let go until Teddy and Charles physically pried them apart.

"Wait! I almost forgot," Harry cried. "I have a parting gift for you."

His hands were empty. Louis looked around. "Where is it?"

"You have to guess."

Louis grinned. A game. He loved games. His hands skimmed the young Duke's breeches.

Charles glared at him. "This is most unseemly, your grace!"

The Duke soon found what he was looking for. Harry's lucky coin tucked snugly in the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

"Won't you miss it?"

"I'll win it back."

"You think so?" Louis wove the coin between his fingers. "You're very confident, Duke."

"Fortune favours the bold."

"Audaces fortuna iuvat!"

Louis' spotty Latin never failed to cheer him.

As he reviewed their itinerary, Harry noted a few slight changes, which was most unlike Charles, who was able to find the fastest and most efficient route almost anywhere.

"As it happens," Charles said drily, "The Viscount Greindl is travelling in the same direction and didn't want to ride alone."

A crown of blonde hair appeared out the carriage door. "Get in, Surgeon, we're going to London."

Harry groaned. So much for a peaceful trip home. Lord only knew what Frederick had in store for them in the city.

Charles unfurled the iron footplate and Harry climbed inside the carriage. The Viscount fanned a deck of cards on the leather seat as they settled in for their journey south. Frederick swore he would make a gambler out of Harry by the time they reached London.

The coachman snapped the reins and the carriage wheels rolled, down the gravel path and through the creaking gates. Harry looked out the window as Warwick became smaller and smaller in the distance, the Baroque structure swallowed by a vast stretch of forest. He felt an ache in his chest. Then, down below, he noticed something else.

"Frederick, look!"

It was a red fox running alongside the carriage.

Even the Viscount couldn't help but smile. "He's taunting us. We'll catch him next year." He shuffled the deck and dealt Harry a hand.

"I hope we never do."

A flush. Hearts.

They played and chatted, ate and slept, as afternoon turned to evening and evening to night. Every so often Harry would look out the window to see if the creature was still there, and he was. On the road, the forest's edge, in fields and over bridges, they remained together: the young Duke and his fox.

THE END

A/N: That is all.

I hope you were (pleasantly) surprised!   

I've always known Tchaikovsky would make a cameo in this fic. I also knew I could never kill William. About halfway through the story I realized they were a perfect match!

As much as I wanted Harry and Louis to live together, Harry has his own Dukedom to run. But don't fret they're men of leisure with plenty of time for travel and croquet...

I will be posting a short epilogue soon and then bonus chapters. I have a few ideas. I want to write a summertime chapter where Harry & Louis finally go for that swim in the river (yes, in the nude); another about the time Frederick & Roy first met; one with H&L, F&R playing poker (and much more...); and I'd like to write one about William and Tchaikovsky in Moscow. Let me know if you have any other suggestions!

I'd really love to know your thoughts on the story.

What was your favourite part?

Which character is most like you?

If you could invite one character into your bedchamber, who would it be???

Thank you so much to everyone who read, voted and commented! I couldn't have finished this story without you.

Special thanks to @STYLINARTS and @lachrimose2 for their work on the French and Spanish translations.

And thank you to @RoFiammettaSpark for creating the beautiful artwork above of Harry and the fox! I adore it.

Until next time, beloveds.

Read my new story here >>>> THE DEATH OF ANTINOUS <<<<