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Fourteen
Roberta Flack greeted Reginald when he opened his eyes and he knew he’d finally come back. The angelic, harp-like tenderness of her voice and the soft swelling of the strings made him cry and he was so grateful. He inhaled and smelled Paul’s basic, American soap and the roses on the bedside table.
And Reginald felt him before he rolled over and found Paul reclining with a report. His arm was folded behind his head and Paul smiled at Reginald through his glasses.
“Welcome home, your lordship,” he said with a teasing smirk. He was shirtless and hadn’t shaved for a few days but something was missing.
“I want the mustache back,” Reginald complained as he threw an arm around Paul’s waist and snuggled into his side. A large sob swelled in his chest and he gasped as he began to shed tears of relief.
“Mustache?” Paul laughed and turned so he could hold Reginald. “Shhhh… I’ve got you. I was here the whole time.”
“I know. You took care of me in my dream too but I just wanted to come home.” Reginald couldn’t resist and lifted the sheet but the wild tangle of curls at the base of Paul’s cock was neatly trimmed. “You were amazing, Paul. You had a mustache and so much hair and you smoked and punched Sir Francis!”
“Slow down! You just woke up and it sounds like you need another break,” Paul scolded and shook his head. “You were pretty happy about something but I couldn’t make much of your mumbling, except that you were looking for me and you wanted beans.”
“Oh my God.” Reginald flipped back and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “It was the most surreal experience I’ve ever had but I’ve figured it out!”
“Good. You passed out for three days but still managed to make that look exhausting. You thrashed around and babbled about Winterstone and never having a wife, I think,” Paul murmured. “I kept giving you Gatorade and telling you it was gin.”
“You have no idea! I was here but it was Victorian London. Absolutely dreadful,” Reginald said. His cheeks puffed out as he recalled all that he’d endured just to see what had been right in front of him the entire time. He swiped his phone off the bedside table. “I have to tell Lavender and then I’m passing out again. After we have a lot of sex. And this time, I’m not working while I’m out.”
“Working?” Paul asked with a snort. “If that’s what you call eating beans and toast and talking in your sleep.”
“Do you remember what you said about Speed’s ‘This one’s about me and my heart’ line before I ate that gummy?”
“I remember.” Paul nodded quickly. “He said it wasn’t about revenge and that he wasn’t playing any more games.”
“Any more games. That wasn’t a new riddle, it was an oldone. And what’s at the heart—the middle—of Speed’s riddle?” Reginald asked. His hand rolled impatiently as Paul worked through the puzzle.
“His middle name?” He guessed.
“Yes! You’re so bloody good!” Reginald grabbed Paul’s face and kissed him hard, stunning him. “Who else has a middle name that Speed wouldn’t let go and is someone we know Speed loves enough to take a bullet for?”
“Francis Michael…”
“Francis Michael,” Reginald repeated. It only took a moment for Paul to make the connection.
“Holy shit. Mickey Winterstone was Frank Leary’s father.”
“Margaret Reilly told Lavender that Leary’s mother was Winterstone’s cousin and he’d taken a shine to the boy.”
“I bet he did. He kept Leary close because he was his son.” Paul sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. “You know what this means,” he said and Reginald nodded.
“Frank Leary won’t stop until he finds out what happened and he’ll want revenge.”
“We settled one vendetta and started another.” Paul swore a string of curses and punched at the air. “Leary’s going to figure it out and he’s going to know it was Speed.”
That was almost exactly what Reginald typed in his message to Lavender. “That’s why Speed wouldn’t tell us. There’s no way we would have risked this if we had known. Lavender would have killed Leary when he killed Winterstone or the hit never would have happened.”
“No one would have spared Leary, knowing that.”
“Except Speed. And he’s just about the only one left who knew,” Reginald guessed. “Margaret knew and she hinted at it when she said that Winterstone had taken a shine to Francis Michael. And Speed had said as much in his backhanded yet direct way when Lavender accused him of being the last son of the last Irish boss. Speed said that was Leary and that he’d been more of a prodigal son.”
“How did they keep it a secret? I know you’ve been all over Leary’s records and all the testimony about Mickey Winterstone,” Paul said and Reginald threw his hands up.
“Exactly!” He said with a tap on his forehead. “Everything I’ve ever read or heard about those two was crammed in here but I saw them again when they were most alike and the resemblance was hard to miss. I imagine that Leary’s grandparents—on both sides—weren’t pleased and that the matter was kept quiet when his mother gave birth.”
“You think?” Paul snorted. “She was Mickey’s cousin. Their mothers were sisters.”
