A Seditious Affair(98)

Silas lifted his glass in a toast, grinning, as David scooped up his coat. “Off you go, give his lordship my love. I’ll just finish your gin.”

“I hope it chokes you.” David checked his hair in the little mirror. Impeccably powdered, none of the telltale red visible.

“Cheers to you too. ’Night.”

“Good night.” David hurried out. Behind him, Silas coughed stagily. It sounded very like a bark.

The bell was not Lord Richard, of course. That would never do. It was his warning from the footman when Lord Richard came home, so that David could be in the bedroom before he was needed. Lord Richard might have brought home a parcel of friends and intend to stay up talking for hours more, and if he did, David would simply wait rather than let Lord Richard come up to an unattended bedroom. One did not earn the reputation of the best valet in London by thinking of one’s own comfort.

The best valet in London, occupying one of the best positions. When Lord Richard’s previous valet had left his service to marry, the vacant post had been fought over with startling viciousness by men who were prepared to abandon their masters and sabotage their friends to secure it. David had made damned sure he won that silently waged war. He had wanted Lord Richard, and—professionally—he’d got him.

Of course every valet in London had wanted him. Lord Richard was a generous employer, of immense social standing, and most of all, 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 coldhearted 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 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.

It 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, and always with that bed lurking at the corner of David’s eye. Every morning, Lord Richard could reach out a hand for him, pull him onto the bed. Every night, he could push David just a few steps back from the mirror and the marble-topped dressing table, and put him flat on his back on that bed. David had never presumed to lie on Lord Richard’s bed, but he knew how the counterpane would feel, cool and smooth against his 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.

He moved behind Lord Richard, reaching up to remove his coat. David stood six inches shorter, 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 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, the prime of life, and his dark brown hair was only just beginning to shade silver over his ears.