Page 105 of By Any Means

“Raberding has more ammunition against August than you thought?”

“When you were arrested at Everard’s, what name did you give?”

“Mine own. Charles Wright.”

“And date of birth?”

“Also mine own. Thirtieth August, 1880.”

“And you’ve never given August’s for anything legal or binding?”

“Goodness, no.” He laughed a little. “I’ve been running Wright Glass since before I came into my majority. August’s takeover was social. He wanted nothing to do with the rest. They wanted nothing to do with him.”

“If Raberding’s article breaks after all, then, what’s there for you to be convicted for, if you haven’t defrauded anyone? You’re alive. You’re still the legal heir.”

“I’m not scared for myself! I’m worried for August!”

Laurie harrumphed. “Of course you aren’t. Well, I was for you, then, and now I’m relieved not to be.”

“Regardless,” Chary whispered, “these are the last threads. You have them all now. I’m not who you thought I was; that’s all. There’s nothing left.”

Laurie clutched him closer, put his nose in Chary’s throat.

“I don’t want ’em anymore. I told you so. You know? I want the man, and you’re still him. This one, whatever he’s called. However rich he is or isn’t. This body, this brain, this heart.”

Perhaps Chary would weep again.

“You aren’t utterly betrayed? I l-lied about my age, and my h-history, and inheritance⁠—”

“Yeah, you did.” Laurie kissed along his jaw. “But you told me. Betrayed? Why? You’ve always been wealthy, as long as I knew you. I knew what I was getting into here. You trusted me with this. And earlier than that, Chary, you trusted me with… ah, other things.”

“Oh, Lord.”

Laurie laughed softly. “Why would I be betrayed by any of that? When I want you to rely upon me, and you’ve done so, despite every reason not to, facing my prejudice and bias and repeated denials? My faithful brave-heart. I love you.”

“But—”

“You lied. So what? I did those things too—as a matter of compulsion, mind you, not even necessity. Do you know how old I am? Truly?”

“No,” Chary admitted. He buried his face in Laurie’s caramel-silk blond. “You’ve said twenty-six? Another time, thirty-five. You could be either. I don’t care. I love you anyway.”

Laurie squeezed him. “That’s how it works. I don’t care, either. I’m twenty-nine. Aged by the sun. Almost too jaded and biased to see what’s in front of my face. I need a good pair of eyeglasses, maybe, in my old age.”

“You and the rest of Manhattan,” Chary whispered.

29

CHARY

Chary got his afternoon picnic.

30

LAURIE

Mrs. Simon, Laurie declared to himself at Saturday dinner, deserved to own her own Delmonico’s. Another Waldorf Astoria. Come to think—did he know anyone at the Waldorf? Maybe not. But he knew cooks, and cooks were manic perfectionists, workaholics. Terrors upon the rest of the staff when bored and underused. Surely, someone would snap her up at the Waldorf if there were openings.

He looked down at his plate, teetering with boiled trout, potatoes Parisienne, buttered early beets, fresh bread…