Of course, every valet in London had wanted him. Lord Richard was a generous employer of immense social standing and, most important, a superb man to dress—too big for the kickshaws of fashion, granted, but his broad shoulders and deep chest carried off a plain style to perfection, and that was where a valet’s skill was best shown. Nothing hidden, everything impeccable.
“The most desirable gentleman in Town,” John Frampling had remarked enviously. He was valet to Julius Norreys, exquisite, who served as a very satisfactory shop window for Frampling’s skills, but there was no love lost between man and master. “Of course, my Mr. Norreys has the better eye and more range, if I may put it that way, but he’s a right cold-hearted prick, if you want the truth. Whereas Lord Richard is a credit to you, Mr. Cyprian, and everyone says he’s a dream to serve.”
That he was. David’s dream. David’s nightmare.
The room was ready, naturally. He moved around it anyway, making sure not a stray hair or spot of dust sullied Lord Richard’s private space. Everything should be perfect for his lordship, always. That was what David did. It was what he was for.
The bed was made, counterpane perfectly flat. He tweaked it anyway.
The bed wouldn’t creak under the weight of two men. Lord Richard disliked furniture that complained of his size, and he was far too wealthy to tolerate anything that he disliked. Lord Richard could have anything he chose.
He could have David.
He didn’t choose to.
They were always in the bedroom, morning and night, David and his master. He brought tea and hot water. Dressed his lordship, groomed him, shaved him, made him the image of a fine gentleman in the morning then took it all apart again at night, always with that bed lurking at the corner of David’s eye. Every morning, Lord Richard could have reached out a hand for him, pulled him onto the bed. Every night, he could have pushed David just a few steps back from the mirror and the marble-topped dressing table and put him flat on his back. David had never presumed to lie on Lord Richard’s bed, but he knew how the counterpane would feel, cool and smooth against bare skin, just as he knew how the bed would dip when Lord Richard’s seventeen stone came down over his own slim frame. He could feel the weight on his chest, his master’s mouth on his, those big, smooth hands cupping his arse…
Another bell. His lordship was coming up.
“Good evening, my lord,” David said as his master entered. “I hope Lord Gabriel has had an enjoyable birthday?”
“He has and is continuing to do so, with enthusiasm.” Lord Richard was not a heavy drinker, but he’d had a few glasses; David could smell it on him and see red pigment on his lips, like paint. His mouth would taste of wine.
David moved behind Lord Richard, reaching up to remove his coat. He stood six inches shorter than Lord Richard and was much more slender, a whippet to his master’s mastiff. In the mirror, as Lord Richard looked at himself, David would be invisible. He always was.
“You’re early back, my lord.” David eased the superbly cut coat off those broad, strong shoulders, feeling the muscles move as Lord Richard dropped them to make his valet’s task easier.
“Mmm. Ash and Harry were in full celebratory mood. It made me feel rather old.”
David clicked his tongue reprovingly. His master was thirty-seven years old, in the prime of life, and his dark brown hair was only just beginning to shade silver over his ears.
“Julius sends his regards,” Lord Richard added. “He asked me to convey that he’d like to steal you from my service and offered a fabulous sum.”
“It’s very kind of him, my lord,” David murmured, bringing the coat over Lord Richard’s hands. Such big, powerful hands, beautifully kept because David kept them, every nail polished and perfectly shaped.
“It’s damned impertinence,” Lord Richard said, as David took the coat to hang it up. “I asked him, if I were married, would he have me convey his messages to my wife?”
David shut his eyes. He didn’t need to see to go about his work, in any case; he could have cared for Lord Richard’s clothes in the dark and identified each coat by touch. He smoothed out the heavy cloth carefully, lovingly, taking his time.
“More to the point,” Lord Richard added, “I met Peter Arlett, and he says that cursed awkward business of his is resolved. Thank you. I trust it wasn’t too inconvenient?”
“No trouble at all, my lord.” Mr. Arlett, a lawyer and one of the Ricardians, had been careless in his cups and revealed a client’s secrets to a Grub Street scandalmonger. David had tracked down the fellow and persuaded him that it would be in his interests to forget what he’d heard. “Mason was very helpful,” he added. “He knows Grub Street well.”