“You must stay calm,” barked Kit, grabbing Rollo’s arm.“No sudden movements.We don’t want him to suddenly turn and receive a fright.”
The front door flung wide, and Greaves came running down the steps, Berridge tottering behind.
“Thank heavens you’re here, sir,” Greaves called.“It’s his lordship.He’s been on the roof since sparrowfart, sir.Drunk as a skunk.I can’t get him down, sir.”
“I can’t watch,” sobbed Willoughby, hobbling to catch up.He buried his face into his father’s neck.“He looks as if he’s going to jump!Someone stop him!”
“No.He’s not,” interrupted a determined voice.“He’s not going to jump, dammit.He’s strong.He wouldn’t.”
As a rush of fire flooded his veins, Rollo recognised the voice as his own.“Because I won’t let him.Greaves, tell me how I get up there.”
“Through a skylight in the old nursery, sir.”
Elbowing the footman aside then barging past Berridge as if he wasn’t there, Rollo raced towards the house.Somewhere over his shoulder he heard his father snapping orders to Greaves before giving chase.Kit demanded the whereabouts of a set of ladders and sent Greaves rushing to find them.But there wasn’t time for that.
Rollo skidded across the hallway.Smashed toy soldiers turned to crumbs under his pounding boots.Paint brushes and oil pots skittered in his wake.He took the stairs two at a time, lungs swollen like overfilled balloons.
“Rollo,” the earl shouted behind him.“Slow down.For goodness’ sake.Think about what you’re doing.”
“I know what I’m doing, Papa.”Rollo rounded one corner and then another with his leg muscles straining.“I’m bringing one of best men there is down from that blasted roof!”
His breath sawed in short, harsh gasps.Please, he begged over and over,please.Wait for me.Each tortured beat of his heart bolted after the other in a messy confusion of anguish, terror, and regret.But mostly with ice-cold fury that this lovely, lovely man could, for a single second, believe that Rollo’s love for him was not constant.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ROLLO KNEW FITZhad climbed this roof many times over.And lived to climb down again.Fitz had confessed as much to Rollo himself.But surely, he’d never done it on a day as blustery as today.Hurtling up the back stairs, Rollo tripped over a second smashed decanter, the fumes racing him to the top of the house.The vibrations of his booted feet and those of his father hammered along the dark passages, beating time with the furious pumping of his heart.
As Rollo careened into the nursery, a sharp draught of air from the open skylight slammed into him.Better lit than the rest of the house, one wall of the room had been taken over by a large canvas propped against it, all grey stripes and tawny splodges.Hopeless Last Dawn.
Rollo gritted his teeth.No.Not if he had any say in the matter.
“Rollo,” panted his father behind him.“The weather.The wind.Listen to it.It’s too dangerous.Listen to sense, darling.You’ll get yourself killed.”
“No.”Grasping the stepladder in both hands, Rollo scaled it, three rungs at a time.“I need to do this, Papa.I love him.Fitz needs to know that.”
He shimmied through the narrow gap and swung onto a blessedly flat section of roof.
His father’s anguished cries followed him up.“But you’re petrified of heights.”
As the skylight slammed down behind him like a gunshot, Rollo dropped to his knees clutching at roof tiles.Bugger, he’d forgotten that part.The skylight popped open again, and his father’s blond head poked through.
“You’re scared of heights,” he repeated breathlessly.“You’ve always been scared of heights.”A note of panic crept into his voice.“This is a high roof.”
“Yes, I am,” Rollo answered weakly.“And it is.Three storeys, in fact.But losing him terrifies me more.”
“As losing you terrifies me,” his papa begged.“Let me talk to him in your stead, darling.At least until he’s in a safer spot.”
“What?Do you want him to jump?”Keep calm, and don’t look down, Rollo told himself.Keep calm.“Stay there, Papa.I’ll be fine.I’m a grown man now.I can do this.”
When Willoughby and he were small, their father had taken them to visit St Paul’s Cathedral.Rollo remembered the trip well.They’d scaled the five hundred spiralling stone steps all the way up to the Golden Gallery to peer out across the whole of London.He’d squealed with delight, insisting he could see right to the ends of the earth.He remembered feeling as if he’d climbed the inside of a magical tiered cake, as if he could raise his hand and touch the sky.
And then he’d made the fatal error of leaning over the edge, dropping his gaze to the streets far below.Whereupon, his legs had promptly dissolved from underneath him, and Pritchard and two grooms had been summoned to lug him back down all those dizzily spiralling steps to the safety of Papa’s waiting carriage.Once ensconced, he’d redecorated both the carriage upholstery and Pritchard’s coat with his earlier eggy breakfast.
St Paul’s stood over three hundred and fifty feet tall.Goule Hall was a mere three storeys.A nothing height really, or so Rollo told himself.In a second, when he’d caught his breath and pulled himself together, he’d hop across the slippery tiles, explain everything to his darling confused man, and they’d both be back down in the nursery before his papa had even rung for tea.
Daring to look up, Rollo spied his lover, one hand carelessly wrapped around a chimney stack.Fitz swayed lightly from side to side as he peered over the edge.Hot bile filled Rollo’s mouth.
“Fitz!”
