Just a Little Wickedness

by Merry Farmer

  “The two of you make a mother proud,” their mother said, interrupting them as she came down the stairs, dressed for the ball they were all about to attend. “You are my solace in this difficult time,” she continued with a dramatic sigh.

  “Mother, you look lovely,” Darren complimented her as she reached them.

  She kissed Darren’s cheek, then turned to Alistair, who bent so she could kiss his as well. “You’re a good boy,” she said, patting the cheek she’d just kissed. “I had my concerns about you, but it seems you’re on the right path after all.”

  The look she gave him as he straightened sent a chill through Alistair. Mothers knew things. He’d always worried that his knew more than she let on. Which made the path he was on even more perilous than he’d imagined.

  “Shall we go to the ball?” he asked with a smile all the same, offering his mother his arm. It was the first time in his life that he’d ever looked forward to going to Eccles House. He would look forward to any occasion when he might be lucky enough to see Joe.

  His mother sighed and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “No, not those cufflinks, the diamond ones,” Burbage snapped at Joe with a distracted scowl.

  Joe merely nodded and walked back to Burbage’s wardrobe and the silk-lined box of cufflinks it contained. He returned the modest, rejected ones and selected a garish pair with diamonds.

  Burbage was silent when Joe returned. He stretched out one arm, then the other, as Joe fixed the cufflinks in place. Sometimes the man was silent because he had nothing to say. Sometimes it was because he considered it beneath him to converse with a servant while getting dressed. But that evening, Joe was convinced it was because his employer had something else on his mind.

  Which suited Joe perfectly. He had plenty of other things on his mind as well. Things that made it exceptionally difficult not to crack a saucy smile as he fetched Burbage’s waistcoat for the ball and helped him into it. He stepped around to do up the buttons, fighting to keep his thoughts from the way he wanted to undo every button Alistair had fastening him into his stilted, noble life.

  It was madness for him to write the letters that he’d sent Alistair in the last week. Anyone who happened to get even the briefest glimpse of them would know immediately what there was between the two of them. Or, at least, what there could be. That was why he’d been painstakingly careful to have one of the pages from The Chameleon Club deliver them, and why he was grateful that Alistair had done the same with the letters he’d sent in return.

  Alistair, his dear, sweet, viscount, had a way with words. He had a way of describing the most salacious acts in terms that were endearing and almost innocent. With each new letter he received, Joe was less certain whether he wanted to bend Alistair over a barrel and fuck him until they were both exhausted or whether he wanted to lavish him with all the tender attention of a sentimental lover and swallow his cock to the hilt.

  “What is that smile for?” Burbage snapped, startling Joe out of his thoughts.

  “Smile, my lord?” Joe played innocent as he marched to retrieve Burbage’s suit jacket from the stand where he’d brushed it earlier.

  “I don’t approve,” Burbage said, though what exactly he didn’t approve of, he didn’t say.

  “No, my lord.” Joe schooled his expression and straightened his back, attempting to become part of the furniture again as he brought the jacket to Burbage.

  Burbage slipped his arms into the sleeves with an irritated breath. “You don’t have a sweetheart, do you?” he asked in a sour voice.

  “No, my lord,” Joe answered immediately.

  “Good. Because I’ve had enough of my staff run off with their sweethearts to last a lifetime. It’s disgusting.”

  Joe’s heart caught in his chest, and all the things he’d recently let slip to the wayside leapt back into his thoughts. “You’ve had staff run off with their sweethearts?” he asked, then added, “My lord,” when Burbage glared at him in the mirror.

  “Maids are forever dashing off with milkmen,” Burbage grumbled.

  It was all Joe could do to keep a straight face as he brushed Burbage’s shoulders and stepped back as his employer studied his appearance in the mirror. Lily. In the past week, in spite of Officer Wrexham’s information at the pub, Joe had only had time for Alistair in his thoughts. And as delicious as those thoughts had been, Burbage’s words now wracked him with guilt. Was Alistair pulling him away from what he should have been doing? Had Lily run off with the milkman after all, or was she another victim of the man, Adler, that Wrexham had mentioned?

  “Balls are such a nuisance,” Burbage sighed as he turned away from the mirror and crossed to the door. “They were a necessity when I was finding a wife, but I’ve got one now. I’d rather go to my club, or any of a dozen, far more interesting parties.”

  Joe remained silent, stepping toward the wall and attempting to blend in with the wallpaper. Burbage wasn’t talking to him in any case.

  Rather than leave to attend the ball, Burbage turned back to Joe as he reached the door. “When you’re finished cleaning all this up, pack a bag for me.”

  “My lord?” Joe blinked. He was usually informed days or weeks in advance when Burbage traveled.

  “I’m going on a short trip,” his employer confirmed.

  “For how long?” Joe asked. “Should I bring formal or informal clothes?” His heart sank at the idea of being dragged away from London and Alistair for any length of time.

  But Burbage surprised him with, “Not you. I won’t need a valet on this trip. I’m going alone, and it will be for a week. Possibly more.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Joe nodded, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Plain clothes will do,” Burbage said before striding out of the room.

  Joe stood where he was for a moment, the sudden jumble of his thoughts working to resolve themselves. Burbage never traveled without notice, and never without a valet. The man was useless on his own. But Joe wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Burbage traveled alone for a week, that meant a week with far lighter than average duties. And if he didn’t have to shower attendance on Burbage every second of the day and night—especially the night—it meant he could finally spend the time with Alistair that he’d been longing to.

  That thought sent his pulse racing as he went about his work, tidying up Burbage’s dressing room and putting away all the bits and bobs he’d needed to get his employer ready for the ball. A week without waiting on the tosser would be like heaven, especially if it meant he ended up in Alistair’s bed at last. He would have to find out what sort of emergency errand would call Burbage away without a valet and make certain whatever it was happened frequently.

  There was a spring in his step by the time he headed downstairs, taking Burbage’s day clothes with him to the laundry. The jacket Burbage had worn that afternoon had a loose seam that needed repairing, but rather than getting right to it, he draped the jacket over a chair in the servants’ hall, then headed back to the main staircase as discreetly as he could. Guests for the ball were already arriving, and Alistair was meant to be there that evening. It would take him all of three minutes to let Alistair know their time was coming soon.

  “Oy! You scold me for spying on the toffs, but here you are doing the same.”

  Joe jumped within seconds of slipping through the servants’ door into the main corridor of Eccles House as Toby called out to him from behind one of the potted palms lining the wall.

  “Toby.” Joe sent the young hall boy a lopsided grin, glanced around to see if either of them had been noticed, then strode across the hall to pretend to hide behind the palm with him. “You’re going to get far more than a scolding if Mr. Vine catches you.”

  “He won’t catch me,” Toby whispered. “He’s too busy telling Ned and the rest where to put the nobs’s coats.”

  Joe laughed and tousled the boy’s hair. “You’ve got the makings
of a right good spy, Toby,” he said. “Where’s Emma tonight?”

  “Not sure,” Toby went on. “She had stuff to scrub in the scullery, but I ain’t seen her for hours.”

  Joe nodded, continuing to glance down the hall. Guests had been arriving for at least half an hour, so for all he knew, Alistair was already in the ballroom, or one of the side parlors.

  He stood a little straighter as the unmistakably glamorous figure of Lady Matilda Fairbanks swept through the foyer and into the front hall. Joe’s gut tightened with irrational jealousy at the sight of her. Irrational, because no matter how beautiful, well-placed, or sought-after Lady Matilda was, and no matter how likely it was that she would end up as Alistair’s wife, she would never have Alistair’s heart. That was all his, bold as it was of him to make that assumption. Still, the woman was competition, of a sort. And if she was there, Alistair couldn’t be far behind.

  Joe straightened and stepped out from behind the palm to walk casually down the hall. Maybe he would be seen and called out for being where he shouldn’t be, but maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he had to find Alistair and share the good news of their upcoming torrid affair with him.

  Chapter 10

  Alistair arrived at Eccles House already on edge, but walking up the steps and into the grand home, knowing that he would be under the same roof with Joe for the entire evening, had his heart dancing a jig in his chest and his stomach flipping. That, coupled with the sure and certain knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to recognize or acknowledge Joe in any way, that he probably wouldn’t actually see him—but perhaps, if he were lucky, he would—had his emotions in a complete muddle.

  “Careful on the step, Father,” he said distractedly, practically lifting his father the last few steps into the house.

  “Be on your guard, my boy,” his father said in return, glancing around the front hall like a terrier in search of a rat as they entered. “There are enemies around every corner.”

  Alistair shared a look with Darren, though he fully intended to follow his father’s advice to be on his guard. The ball was a bad idea. He would have begged the whole family not to attend if the ball hadn’t been a chance to see Joe.

  They deposited their coats with the footmen, then made their way into the ballroom. Already, the ball was in full swing. Lord Chisolm had hired one of the most sought-after orchestras to play waltzes for his guests, and they were already earning their keep. Alistair and Darren steered their parents to a suitably free spot between a potted palm and a bust of Pericles, where they could watch the proceedings in relative peace, but within minutes, Darren graciously offered to dance with their mother. Alistair grinned as the two headed to the dance floor, a dozen or more envious mothers watching them and likely wishing their handsome, young sons were so dutiful. If Darren was attempting to win the place of most favored son, he was doing a good job.

  At least, on the surface. If the contest were about which son made the greater sacrifice for the family, Alistair would win that hands down, a point that was punctuated by the arrival of Lady Matilda. She spotted him quickly, burst into a smile, and strode over to him in a way that drew attention to her approach.

  “Lord Farnham.” She greeted him with the widest of smiles, extending her hand in a clear command for Alistair to make a show of taking it and lavishing affection on her.

  “Lady Matilda,” Alistair said, playing his part expertly, as he knew he had to. He grasped her hand and bent to kiss it lingeringly, then straightened and stood closer to her than was strictly proper, closer to her than he truly wanted to. “You look stunning this evening.”

  Lady Matilda laughed modestly, though the sly look she sent him said she knew exactly how she looked. Her striking, blue gown was the height of fashion, with a cinched waist, full, short sleeves, and a swooping neckline that any other man would find exceptionally intriguing. Her hair was styled with a pin that matched her glittering necklace, making her appear as valuable as she was beautiful.

  “Lord Farnham, you are too kind,” she said, tapping his arm playfully with her fan. “But no ball gown is complete without the ultimate accessory.”

  “Which is?” he asked, knowing she expected him to.

  “Why, a handsome beau, of course.” She grinned wolfishly at him, shifting to his side and slipping her arm through his. “Would you care to take a turn about the room?” she asked, already searching the guests, likely for people she knew or who she wanted to see her on Alistair’s arm.

  “Alas, I cannot leave my father unattended,” Alistair murmured, leaning close to her ear to do so. That much might satisfy her, even if she were disappointed by his refusal to show her off.

  Her expression soured for a moment as she glanced over her shoulder to Alistair’s father, whom she hadn’t greeted yet. She hesitated, peeking at Alistair for a moment, before plastering on a false smile and turning. “Lord Winslow. How lovely to see you this evening,” she said, as if it were an afterthought.

  “What?” Alistair’s father snapped, looking as though someone had fired a shot near him. “Have the slave ships set sail already?”

  Heat flooded Alistair’s face, and he glanced sideways at Lady Matilda, anxious of what she thought. “Lady Matilda is saying hello to you, Father,” he said, repositioning Lady Matilda so that his father couldn’t help but look right at her.

  “My lord.” Lady Matilda curtsied, shooting Alistair a worried look as she straightened. “I cannot tell you how gratified I am to see that you are well enough to attend tonight’s ball.”

  “Yes, yes,” Alistair’s father answered. “Our work isn’t done here yet. We must defend those who are weaker than us whenever we can.”

  Alistair’s face grew hotter. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sit down, Father?” he asked.

  “No, no, boy. Go about your business,” his father answered, squaring his shoulders and returning to his observation of the room.

  There was nothing Alistair could do but leave his father be and turn with Lady Matilda to face the swirling crowd in the room instead. “As soon as my brother returns from dancing with my mother, I’ll take you out for a waltz,” he said.

  “Thank you, Lord Farnham. You are too kind.” Lady Matilda inched closer to him, resting against his arm. “I’m certain that by the end of the evening, half of London will be buzzing with rumors of our impending union.”

  Alistair glanced down at her, one eyebrow raised. He should have been happy about her assumptions, but they only filled him with dread.

  “Just think,” Lady Matilda went on. “In a short time, I’ll have more than fashion and fortune to lord over them all, I’ll have position too. Won’t my sister be green with envy when she sees me making a splash in society as a countess.”

  Alistair tried to smile, but his gut churned. Anyone who glibly assumed the man standing not more than ten feet behind her would be dead soon, and in a way that would work to her advantage, was not someone he would have wanted to associate with. Under normal circumstances. But he needed Lady Matilda. He was trapped by that fact.

  The feeling of being squeezed by a vise of duty and propriety intensified acutely as Alistair spotted Joe stepping unobtrusively into the ballroom through the door the footmen were using to carry refreshments in and out of the room. Alistair’s heart immediately knocked against his ribs, and the heat of embarrassment over his father flashed to the flames of desire. He knew full well he should do everything in his power not to look at Joe, but his gaze was fixed and immovable within seconds.

  Better—or perhaps worse—still, Joe found him staring a few moments later, locked eyes with him, and smiled far more boldly than was good for either of them. Alistair’s heart thumped harder. Joe’s smile dropped slightly as he gestured toward the door with an appealing look. He wanted to meet. Alistair had no earthly idea how that would be possible. He inclined his head toward Lady Matilda and his father, then nodded. Joe nodded back, as if he understood the complications involved in Alistair getting away, th
en slipped back out of the room once more.

  Alistair let out a breath, and his shoulders dropped. Whatever else happened, whatever mischief Lady Matilda wanted to get up to and however troublesome his father’s behavior was, he had to find a way to break away from them and find Joe.

  It was no easy task. The second Darren returned with their mother, Lady Matilda all but demanded Alistair lead her out to the dance floor for not one, but two dances. Two dances in succession was more than enough to set every society gossip in London talking about the connection between the two. As much as Alistair loathed the idea of being whispered about that way, there was no getting around the fact that the gossip would work to his advantage. His and Joe’s advantage.

  Once the string of dances was over, Alistair found himself dragged around the room by Lady Matilda, showering attention on her as she gloated to her friends about how lucky she was to have a future earl as a beau. She made no secret of her satisfaction at snagging a man who would have a respectable title someday soon. So much so that Alistair wondered if he could have handed her a marionette made to look like him to carry around and show off instead of accompanying her himself.

  After the turn around the room was finished, he began to look for an excuse, any excuse, to leave the ballroom and seek out Joe. But instead of finding an excuse, he ended up mired down in a conversation with Burbage.

  “Of course, I detest balls like this,” Burbage said, eyeing Alistair as though he were expected to agree wholeheartedly. “It’s such a bore to have so many people invading one’s home.”

  “It’s my home as well, dearest,” Lady Burbage said with a tight smile.

  “One would think you would be happy to have so many people come to see how plump and adorable your wife has become, Lord Burbage,” Lady Matilda said with a smile, sending her sister a sneer.