The Price of Temptation

by M. J. Pearson

  “At first?” The earl’s tone was dangerously soft.

  “Yes. Well. Then we got to know Jamie better, and like him. And we thought if you could just spend more time with him, um...”

  The earl paused to digest this information. “Are you saying there was a backstairs conspiracy to make us lovers?”

  “We... um... thought it would be good for both of you.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Stephen sat back down at the desk, putting his head in his hands. “From now on, let me handle my own affaires de coeur, all right?”

  “Since you do such a fine job of it,” murmured the valet.

  Stephen whipped his head up, stung. “Maybe without your help—oh, hell. This is getting us nowhere. There’s just no way to find him, is there?” He stared down at the account book, trying to imagine himself taking his aunt’s advice and becoming the sort of man Jamie would want to come home to. Totting up these bloody accounts, taking responsibility for the people under his roof.

  Another knock on the door. “My lord?” Symmons had returned to the lands of frost: if his nose were any higher in the air it would brush the chandelier. “A Mr. Jeffries to see you.”

  “Tell him I’m not—wait.” Stephen closed the household account book and put it face down on the desk, not looking at Charles. Who was he fooling? He would never be the sort of man Jamie wanted, not when all he wanted right now was to go out and get stinking drunk with Julian, and stagger home unable to remember his own name, much less the responsibilities the fates had been so foolish as to put in his way. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

  e e e

  At precisely that same moment, in a tiny, unheated bedroom in Bloomsbury, Jamie Riley sat on his bed and stared at the floor. There was a grate set in it, in case any warm air wanted to rise up from below, but none seemed to be taking advantage of the opportunity. Apart from that, there was nothing else of interest to look at beneath his feet, just bare boards, naked of rugs or even paint. The walls were a little better, although they had been painted at some time in the distant past. From the squares of different colors where the pigment had faded unevenly, someone had once hung a few prints or paintings to liven the room. He tried to imagine anyone finding pleasure in such a dreary place, humming to himself while he decorated his surroundings. Dreaming of a better life, no doubt.

  Jamie shivered, and not just with cold. The worst thing he had to face about this room was that he couldn’t afford it. He’d had only a few shillings in his possession when he’d fled the townhouse this morning, and technically, they belonged not to him, but to the earl’s household money. Either way, they wouldn’t go far. He’d been able to pay in advance for a week’s lodgings, but if he didn’t find employment within that time he would have to seek out a much cheaper room than this. The mere fact that they existed depressed him enough.

  “You should have taken your payment,” he jeered to himself. Even rebound, that Book of Hours was probably worth over a hundred pounds. He could be sleeping at a fine hotel tonight. Or in Stephen’s arms, of course. He wrapped his own arms about himself now, in a futile attempt to stifle the longing that wouldn’t go away. The urge to go back to the warm, safe townhouse, to say he was sorry, that he wanted to be with Stephen no matter what the cost in self-respect, in pride. No matter if it left his soul in tatters, and his mother sobbing in her grave.

  He looked at the window pane, cracked and dirty. Today, when he’d barely left and still had coins in his pocket, it was easy to resist the hateful temptation to creep back to Stephen. But tomorrow? Time would tell.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jamie smiled at the man behind the desk early the next day, trying to emit an air of calm competence. If nothing else, the two months he’d spent at the earl’s had given him practice in hiding his feelings, and he was fairly certain now that no hint of desperation was visible. Haskins Employment Agency was among the most respected in the City, and he had hopes of making a favorable impression on its proprietor. He glanced around the office while he waited, liking it very much. The furniture was solid and practical, but well-built and not unattractive, and he felt he could search the shelves and cabinets for hours and not find anything out of place.

  Mr. Haskins adjusted his own spectacles as he perused Jamie’s qualifications, plump fingers twirling the ends of a ginger moustache. “You’ve had little in the way of paid employment, Mr. Riley.”

  “That’s correct, sir. But I did act as secretary of the Eboracum Antiquarian Society for several years.” He leaned forward and pointed at another paper on the desk. “It’s in the letter of recommendation from the head of the society, Mr. Caswell, who was also the vicar of my parish.”

  “He describes you in quite glowing terms.” Mr. Haskins regarded the letter again. “We do confirm recommendations, of course, so if we think we can place you we’ll be writing to Mr.—ah—Caswell ourselves.”

  Jamie’s stomach tightened. “I’m afraid Mr. Caswell has passed on.”

  “Oh, dear. How... inconvenient. Have you other references?”

  The current chair of the antiquarian society had been the vicar’s bitterest enemy, long covetous of the post. He’d be unlikely to recommend Caswell’s protégé to anyone. Jamie shook his head. “I do have a letter from... from a high-ranking gentleman, offering me employment as tutor to his sons, but I was unable to take up the post.”

  “I do have a gentleman seeking a tutor. Let’s see your letter.” Mr. Haskins frown suggested that he was wondering why Jamie hadn’t produced this credential at the start. He scanned the letter briefly, finding his answer almost at once. “Ah. The last Earl of St. Joseph. He, too, seems to have been impressed by you. But coincidentally, he, too, is unavailable to confirm his impressions, isn’t he?” The employment agent read the missive more carefully, his eyebrows slowly drawing skyward. “Mr. Riley, when did you say you arrived in London?”

  “I...” Jamie felt warmth creep into his face.

  “I was under the impression that you’d recently come here, but it wouldn’t have been as far back as October, would it?”

  The date he was supposed to have begun working for Robert Clair’s family was clear in the letter. Mr. Haskins’ eyes narrowed. “Let me put it another way, Mr. Riley. If I were to write to the Eboracum Antiquarian Society for information about you, when would they tell me you’d left Yorkshire?”

  There was no sense in lying now. “I did come in October, sir.”

  “To St. Joseph House?”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t know that the former earl and his family were gone. His lordship asked me to stay for a bit, to catalog his library.”

  “The current earl. Ah.” Mr. Haskins gathered Jamie’s papers together and collated them with a brisk snap, his moustache bristling. “Mr. Riley, I don’t believe I have any openings that would suit you at all.”

  Jamie stood. “Please, sir—the gentleman you mentioned who is seeking a tutor—”

  “For a young and impressionable son. I’m sorry, but I have other appointments to prepare for. Perhaps you can see yourself out?”

  “Then perhaps you know of someone without children—a single man?” Too late, he realized how that must sound.

  Mr. Haskins’ face turned to stone. “I do not make placements of that sort. Good day, Mr. Riley.”

  Jamie retrieved his documents, his hands shaking. You’re wrong about me, he wanted to say. But Mr. Haskins was all too right, wasn’t he? He had succumbed to the earl’s seduction, quite easily, in fact. What could be winked at among the aristocracy was intolerable in a servant.

  “Good day, Mr. Haskins,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

  There was no reply.

  Outside on King Street, Jamie stood for a moment, trying to regain a sense of confidence that he would soon procure employment. Watching the steady stream of traffic, on foot, horseback, by cart and by carriage, it was impossible to think that among so many people there wasn’t someone who would hire him. He looked down at his
meager sheaf of references. Mr. Haskins had certainly not been impressed.

  “Meat pies! Who’ll buy my pies?”

  Jamie’s stomach rumbled at the street vendor’s cry. It had been hours since the cup of tea and small bun he’d allowed himself for breakfast, but with the few coins he had, he’d best tighten his belt and hold off until evening. He could make up for it when he found employment.

  If he found employment.

  “More brandy?”

  Stephen shook his head, but Julian filled his glass anyway. And since it was there, why waste it? The liquor burned its way down his throat, settling uneasily in a molten pool in his stomach. He had talked the actor out of a more athletic evening with the rent boys at Madame Novotny’s, but even this quiet card room in his club was too public, too noisy. At another table, there was commotion as someone won an enormous pot, and he closed his eyes, wincing.

  Julian reached to pour another measure, but Stephen put his hand over the glass to forestall him. “Please. I have a headache.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with your servants, would it?” The actor topped up his own drink. “When I came by for you tonight, that young maid of yours was crying, and your valet—what’s his name?”

  “Charles.” As you should bloody well know, after all these months.

  “Whatever.” Julian waved his hand in dismissal. “If I were charitable, I’d say he was too preoccupied to give me the respect I deserve. And your butler! Not that the man hasn’t always walked as if he has a stick up his arse, but today he stalked off as soon as he opened the door, and left me to your valet. It was intolerable, Stephen. You should do something.”

  Stephen changed his mind and poured himself another brandy. “I’m afraid we’re at sixes and sevens since Jamie left.”

  “Jamie? The mousy little secretary?” Julian smiled with pleasure. “Did you frighten the wee rodent away?”

  The earl’s hand tightened on his glass. “It seems I did.”

  “Ha.” The actor leaned close, tickled Stephen’s neck. “Tell me all about it. What did you do to scare him, put your hand on his bum?”

  “Rather more than that.” He met Julian’s eyes. “I slept with him.”

  Contrary to all expectations, Julian wasn’t angry. His eyes softened, and he placed a hand on Stephen’s forearm, squeezing gently. “Some men don’t take to it, darling. They think they might enjoy being with another man, but when, um, push comes to shove,” he raised an eyebrow at his own cleverness, “they just don’t.”

  Stephen ran fingers through his dark curls. “It’s not—not a question of enjoyment.” He struggled for a way to describe Jamie’s reservations to someone like Julian, but the actor was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation whether he understood it or not.

  “Physically and mentally, he just wasn’t right for you. Perhaps he took all that fire-and-brimstone nonsense to heart, or just thought himself less of a man. Or...” Julian’s cat-like eyes glowed clear green in the candlelight. “Or perhaps he just doesn’t appreciate you the way I do.”

  Less brandy, less hurt, and Stephen might have laughed. Instead, he blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a better man than you get credit for, Stephen. You know, you have a wonderful heart. That unusual mish-mash of servants you have. It was so good of you to give them a chance when no one else would. And darling...” Julian lowered his eyes, artfully long lashes brushing his cheek. “I’ve been watching you grow these past few months. You’ve been trying, really trying to learn to take responsibility for your household.” He laughed, looking back up with mischief in his eyes. “I know, we behaved badly when you first came into your inheritance, but Stephen—you were so upset I felt you needed the diversion. Together, I’m sure we can do better in the future.”

  Stephen stared in bemusement. “You’ve never spoken like this to me before.”

  The smile he received in return was uncharacteristically tentative. “I—I’ve had to think about it, Stephen. I was afraid I was losing you.”

  “I didn’t know you felt like this.”

  “I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve,” the actor said. “I can’t. I’ve been hurt so badly in the—but now I’ve got you.” His voice dropped an octave, and his fingers, playing along Stephen’s thigh beneath the table, made the earl’s blood course. “Come home with me now, and let me show you how I feel.”

  “Yes,” Stephen whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Now what?” Jamie said it out loud as he descended the stairs of Montague House three days later, rejected for a position at the British Museum. His credentials weren’t good enough to even assist in the Antiquities Department, and when he’d tentatively mentioned that he’d be content to sweep floors, Mr. Peake had tut-tutted that such a thing was no job for a gentleman. He’d spent every available hour searching for employment since Friday, and it had been the same story everywhere. Too inexperienced for clerical work; too refined in appearance to be taken seriously as a menial laborer.

  Outside the Museum, he paused, looking wistfully at the temporary structure that had been built to house the Elgin Marbles, purchased last summer by the Museum and scheduled to go on display next month. Although workers must already be busy preparing the exhibit, right now the shed was quiet, the men probably at their luncheon. He wandered close enough to set his hand against the door, a huge padlock barring him from the merest glimpse. On the other side were magnificent sculptures from the frieze of the Parthenon herself, just feet away yet as inaccessible to him as if they’d been on the moon.

  “Here now, what’re you up to?” The voice was rough, the man large and glowering.

  Jamie flushed with consternation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any harm. I just... I just...”

  The worker’s eyes flickered with understanding. “Bloody marvelous, they are. Care for a peep?” His hand curved, palm up.

  Jamie jingled the few coins in his pocket, tempted beyond reason. “I can’t,” he said at last. “I don’t have a job. There’s nothing to spare.”

  His misery must have been clear on his face; the worker hesitated, then said, “Bloody hell, what’s the harm? Come on, then.”

  He unlocked the shed and waved Jamie in, cautioning him to be gone before the other laborers returned from lunch. Inside, the work of Phidias cast its two-thousand-year-old spell. The fluid grace of the battling soldiers and centaurs; the stately magnificence of the seated gods in council; the sensuality of the nude, reclining Dionysos inspired him nearly to tears. The Museum had done nothing as yet to restore the statuary, but its rough condition, pitted and scarred, only served to remind Jamie of its antiquity, that these were no modern copies but the very stones gazed upon by Plato and Euripides.

  If only Stephen were here to share this. The longing came out of nowhere, and he smiled to himself ruefully. The Earl of St. Joseph was no scholar. Such an exhibit would only bore him. Then Jamie’s smile broadened to a grin as he considered the beauty of Dionysos, and the soldiers’ physical strength. Stephen would enjoy the Marbles after all.

  His smile faded. The exhibit would open in January, and was already the talk of London. Stephen would almost certainly go, perhaps in the company of the classically-handsome Julian Jeffries, who might himself have been one of Phidias’ lesser works. It was pure conceit to think that if Stephen were with him today, Jamie could lead him to a finer appreciation of the sculptures’ beauty. He dragged his eyes away from a headless youth, perhaps a river god, wet draperies clinging to one arm. There was no denying their erotic appeal, either, despite the artistic convention that left their genitals seemingly underdeveloped. How Julian and Stephen would snicker over those.

  The mood broken, Jamie was somber as he walked back to his lodgings. With no employment yet in sight, he would be forced to move to worse within a few days. He shivered in his overcoat, despite its warmth. It had been given to him for his birthday by the Symmonses, replacing the one he’d sold to hel
p pay for his passage to London from Yorkshire. He supposed he could sell this one, too, but the winter cold made that prospect unappealing. Yet what else did he have? The portrait of his mother was very well done, but it was unthinkable to let it go. He thought of his books, worth at least a few shillings, and had to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  No. He would bury his pride first, and go back to the earl’s townhouse. Not to stay, of course, and at a time when he’d be unlikely to run into the master of the house. But Charles would lend him a pound or two, wouldn’t he? There were only two things wrong with this plan. First, Charles might be willing to help him, but the valet didn’t have any money of his own, and wouldn’t until (and if) Stephen paid him his quarterly wages at Christmas time, still over two weeks away. He might be able to procure a loan from Sam, but Jamie was reluctant to involve people he barely knew in his difficulties. Second, he was afraid that if he visited St. Joseph House, his resolve would crumble.

  Stephen, he thought. Oh, God, how I miss you. I wonder if you even think of me.

  “His aunt refuses to help,” Charles said, picking apart one of Sam’s finest rolls at lunch that day in the kitchen at St. Joseph House. “And he’s spending more time with that blasted whore.” He cast an apologetic glance toward Mrs. Symmons. “Sorry. I meant to say ‘that perfidious actor.’”

  “But why?” Rebecca appeared ready to fling her soup spoon in frustration.

  Charles shrugged. “Jamie’s gone, isn’t he? Stephen is hurting, and Julian’s been sweet and smooth as custard. I think he realizes how close he came to getting the boot this time, and isn’t about to let Stephen get away.”

  “Yes, well, Julian’s bad temper is legendary,” Rebecca said. “There’s no way he can keep that up for long.”

  “But he doesn’t have to, does he? Just until he’s sure his contract is renewed on quarter day.” The valet dropped all pretense of eating, leaning forward over the table. “Julian’s got that charity performance tonight, and his lordship sent me out for tulips for him.”