Nathaniel was surprised when John returned to the tavern just as they closed it for the night. Immediately, he was concerned that they were going to be instructed to leave the city. Henri must have had the same thought, as he set his broom aside and gave John an expectant look.

"Should I fetch Marie?" Henri asked in a hushed voice.

John shook his head and smiled. "I came to pass on some extra payment this evening. Those in authority were pleased with the added information you gave and asked me to pass this along to you right away."

He held out three small purses and Nathaniel took them. "What information?" he asked, curious. As far as he knew, nothing urgent or unusual had come up all night.

John smiled again. "I can't tell you that. It's much safer for you not to know what we consider the most important information. Though it seemed Marie had a would-be suitor who wished for her to think of him on a future task he and his regiment will be undertaking."

Nathaniel thought back to her being danced around a table by a soldier who had then kissed her. She'd sent him away politely, then slipped into the kitchen. There Nathaniel had seen her take a drink and spit it out the kitchen door into the yard. When she'd seen him behind her she'd wiped her mouth and said, "Don't tell my father you saw me do that," before returning to the tavern room. She'd spent more time with the man over the course of the evening before passing any message to John. The soldier had clearly been smitten with her.

"I saw the man. Marie may have my payment for enduring him," Henri declared, nodding to the purses Nathaniel held.

"Thank her for us," John instructed, then nodded. "Goodnight then. Until tomorrow."

After he had gone, Nathaniel latched the door and sat down heavily in a chair by the hearth. "I was certain he was going to tell us we had been found out or that we otherwise needed to leave the city."

Henri sat down close by him. "That was my first thought, as well. I often wonder what would happen if we were to be discovered."

"In truth, there isn't much for me to lose if we were to be found out," Nathaniel told him. With only a moment's hesitation he finally admitted, "I was disinherited already, and sent away to the colonies so my family would no longer feel my shame. They have no association with me and am nearly dead in their minds already. It is only for you and Marie that I would fear."

Henri watched him intently. "You said much the same this morning. Will you trust me enough to tell me why? I take you for an honest man, not a criminal."

Nathaniel glanced at him, then at the dying fire. There was a deep need inside his very soul to finally speak to Henri about what had sent him to Boston. He had always felt he had an understanding with Henri, and unspoken connection. To speak of it, though, would be dangerous in so many ways.

"I've never harmed anyone," he replied, and was surprised by how quiet and rough his voice was. "Not knowingly, at least."

Henri touch his arm and stood. "Stay there," he instructed gently. He went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a cup.

Nathaniel took it with hands he hadn't realized were shaking and drank the contents without caring what it was. It was rum with a splash of cider. Nathaniel usually preferred it with the ratio reversed but didn't complain. He set the empty cup aside and nodded. "Thank you. I suppose I can tell you that I was forced here after my father discovered me with a servant of the house."

Henri was quiet for a moment before asking, "Did he come here with you?"

Nathaniel took a deep breath and willed himself to stop shaking. "No. He ran off before his employment could even be terminated. I was sent on the first ship my father could arrange for me. He did offer me a choice, to leave for America without scandal or stay and be publicly disinherited. I was still disinherited, but not for all to see and know of."

He rubbed the small scar on his left cheek where his father had backhanded him upon catching him with Daniel. The memory of that sting came back to him once more.

"Would that not have affected him, as well?" Henri asked.

Nathaniel shook his head. "I can't say why he would have done it. Possibly to show all of England how wonderful my brother was. Possibly to look the part of a good, God-fearing man who was attempting to save his own son from certain doom. I can't say. I was lucky he gave me money enough to set up here. And lucky I could find someone looking to sell his inn. He was an Englishman who wanted to return to London to avoid the problems here. I bought it for a fraction of what it should have sold for, he was so desperate to sell to the first man who came to him. So I changed it from an inn and into a coffeehouse and tavern. I had always loved coffeehouses. I put out a sign asking for one employee and your sister answered. When she told me she'd left France and traveled here alone I was shocked. She told me how she didn't wish to marry and wanted a place where she could avoid such expectations, I allowed her to move into one of the rooms upstairs. Of course I had to assure her I meant nothing by it, as well. I never truly told her of my preferences, but I believe must have assumed."

He ended his rambling story with a sigh. The lack of hostility from Henri eased his fears. Or perhaps it was the alcohol.

"She likely knew because of her closeness to me," Henri told him.

They were quiet for a moment, then Nathaniel shook his head. The alcohol had certainly set in. "It's such a lonely life we must lead."

"It doesn't need to be," Henri replied. His voice was gentle.

"But it does. To look at the wrong man would mean arrest, even death. And there is no affection in such a life. There is too much secrecy. How long can such a tryst be hidden by the guise of friendship  before it is obvious to others? Again, it would mean arrest."

"Yet isn't such a great affection worth risking so much?"

"What affection?" Nathaniel demanded. "There can be no affection between two men, not the way you suggest. We are allowed only to be chaste for eternity or take wives who would never know they were our second choice."

"Who tells you that?" Henri questioned. "Your blind priests and governments who wish only to populate this new land with little children who will produce more goods, more money, and more children? If it is possible that a man's body desires another man's body, is it not possible for a man's heart to desire another man's heart for everything it can give?"

Nathaniel glanced at him and noted the intensity of Henri's gaze. "Who taught you this?" he asked.

Henri shook his head sadly. "A lovely actor who hurt my very heart for a leading role in the next major production to come to Paris, though I hurt him first. I was given a role much below my abilities because of his new influence. And so I ran away much like my sister had and came to find her, hoping I would find that affection again somewhere in this new land of possibility."

Nathaniel knew there was certainly more to that story, but shook his head. "And so you find yourself embroiled in events beyond our control."

"Is that not how we all live our lives? One day to the next, hoping that mayhem does not erupt on our very doorsteps?"

"To find such deep affection would be a much happier event, were it possible," Nathaniel relented.

Henri leaned closer from where he sat and placed a hand on Nathaniel's thigh. "It is possible and it might lend you some hope. If you'll let me show you."

Nathaniel could feel the warmth of Henri's breath against his cheek, the caress of his fingers through the leg of his breeches. It was wonderful and terrifying. He didn't know where the fear came from, but it moved him from his chair and across the room, nearly colliding with a table that stopped his flight. He tried to form a coherent excuse for his actions, but words wouldn't come to him.

"I'm sorry," Henri said, his hand extended toward Nathaniel. After a moment he dropped his hand to his lap and his gaze to the floor. "I've pushed for too much. I apologize."

He stood and made his way upstairs without another word.

Nathaniel watched him go, gripping the edge of the table to his back, aware very suddenly of the ache in his chest. It wasn't mere disappointment at losing out on a night of pleasure. There was something else there that he simply couldn't understand.

It occurred to him that he'd made a mistake in fleeing Henri's touch.