“Less of it, Mary,” Silas told her. “Go get Will or Jon or both of ’em, there’s a good girl, and let us in somewhere I can get this one sat down.”
David was slumped on a chair in the study, shaking hands clasping a tumbler of gin he didn’t want, when Will Quex and Jon Shakespeare came in. They were both wearing Lord Richard’s green, of course.
“Foxy?” Jon demanded. “What’s happened? Is he all right?”
“No idea,” Silas said. “Found him like this, can’t get any sense out of him.”
Will snatched the tumbler from David’s hand. “Oh, for God’s sake, not gin. Get someone to make some tea, with lots of sugar. Look at him, he’s shaking. David?” He crouched to snap his fingers in front of David’s face. “Oi. Wake up.”
“What’s the bag for?” Jon asked. “Why’s he here with a bag?”
“He’s left Vane,” Silas said. “I think.”
“Bollocks,” Jon said. “You wouldn’t get him out of there with a winkle pin. You didn’t resign, did you, Foxy?”
David had no idea what had happened. Had he been sacked? Lord Richard’s words were already lost in the fog of panic and humiliation.
If he hadn’t been sacked, it was just a matter of time. He’d damned well earned it, and the thought of how angry Lord Richard must be now, of what he’d ruined, was freezing out everything else.
“I can’t go back,” he whispered.
“Why not?” Will demanded. “What the hell did you do?”
“Or, what the hell did his lordship do,” Silas said. “He’s hurt, I reckon.”
Jon took David’s face in his hand and tilted it up. It wasn’t wrong; they’d fucked in the past, since Will and Jon liked a third and needed someone to keep their secret, and Jon was a good man, but David pulled his head away. He didn’t want to be touched by anyone. “David? Did he hurt you?”
“It was my fault,” David jerked out. “I shouldn’t have…It was my fault.”
“I don’t much like the sound of this.” Jon’s voice was hard.
“Nor do I,” Silas growled. “Why don’t I go back and ask his lordship what the fuck he’s been playing at?”
“Hold your horses,” Will snapped. “Oi, Foxy, make some sense. What happened? And you’re going to have to tell us, one, because if you’ve fucked things up, we’re all neck-deep in turds, and two, because Silas is about to march on Albemarle Street and accuse his lordship of outraging your virtue, such as it is. Which I’d pay good money to see, but not if he’s barking up the wrong tree. Now.” His voice gentled. “Did the fucker do anything you didn’t want, sweetheart? Did he hurt you?”
He’d done everything David didn’t want, and there was a painful bruise coming on his back where he’d hit the dressing table, so it took a few seconds for Will’s meaning to sink in. As it did, David sat up sharply. “No! He did not. Don’t say that.”
Glances were exchanged over his head. “Are you sure about that?” Jon asked. “Just because he’s a gentleman—”
“He didn’t touch me.” David stared at the floor. “It was me. I—Christ—I tried to kiss him. My fault. He said no. He said— And he pushed me away, and I…fell.”
David felt Jon’s hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Foxy. You stupid sod. Playing rantipole with a lord, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I thought we could. But I’m his valet. I’m his inferior.” The word came out with such force that he startled himself. “He wouldn’t listen.”
Will snorted. “Well, no. What did you expect?”
“Aye, but Silas is fucking a gentleman, and he couldn’t get more inferior if he tried. How’s that go?” Jon’s voice slid into a Ludgate rasp. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Frey, but might I trouble you for a buggering, sir?”
Silas glowered. “Up your arse, Shakespeare.”
“The point is,” Will said, “you made your try, and he didn’t want it, and he’s turned you off. So now what?”
“I don’t know.” A mug was shoved into his hands. David gulped tea, closing his eyes.
“You can get another position, right?”
He could, of course, but the idea was sickening. To dress another gentleman, to be reduced to simply valeting—because he wouldn’t make the same damn fool mistake twice; he wouldn’t put his soul into the job ever again—to see Lord Richard under other hands…
“He’ll give you a reference, won’t he?” Jon said. “I mean, he won’t give you trouble finding another gentleman, right?”
David’s eyes snapped open. “He wouldn’t do that. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”
There was a knock on the door, and a footman poked his head in. “ ’Scuse me, gents, but Mr. Shakespeare’s needed upstairs.”
Jon straightened. “On my way.”
“I’d better go too,” Will added. “I’ll get you a room made up, Foxy, but if Lord Richard’s in a temper with you…”
“I’ll be gone tomorrow,” David said. “Thank you.”
They left. Silas squatted on his haunches looking into David’s face. “Well, this is a muddle. You got anywhere to go?” David shook his head. “What about money?”
“Plenty.”
“That’s all right, then. I’ll pack your trunk and get your stuff here tomorrow, and we’ll put our heads together if you’ve not decided what to do for yourself.” He grimaced at whatever he saw in David’s face. “You hauled me off the gallows, mate, I can pack you a bag. And, Foxy? You’ve made a bloody awful mess of this, no question. But you’d as much right as any man to give it a go.” He clapped David on the arm. “Best off not bothering, mind. Bloody gentry, they’re not worth spit.”
“You’re fooling nobody but yourself,” David managed.
Silas snorted. “Aye, well, there’s always an exception proves the rule.”
A maid showed David up to a small room some while later. He blew out the candle, lay on the truckle bed knowing he would not sleep, and was astonished to find Will Quex nudging his shoulder in the golden light of a well-advanced spring morning.
“All right, Foxy. Silas brought your trunk over. Want some tea?”
David muttered his thanks, sitting up. Silas hadn’t packed him a nightshirt, so he had slept naked, but Will had seen it all before.
“Here you go, ginger-pate, get that down you. Sounds like you’ve left a right mess back at Albemarle Street. His lordship’s raging all over, demanding you found urgent-like. Silas reckons he’s on for a billingsgate when he gets back there. He’s gone for a nice long walk first to let his lordship get his dander up.” Will grinned evilly.
“He’s going to quarrel with Lord Richard?” David said. “If he gets himself dismissed—”
“That’s his problem,” Will interrupted. “His, or Lord Richard’s, or Mr. Frey’s, or whoever wants it. Not yours. The gentlemen are going to have to look after themselves now.”
“But—”
“Oi.” Will gave him a pat on the arm. “You need to go away. A long way, so you can remember who you are, which ain’t Lord Richard’s man, and what you’re for, which ain’t his service. I know what I’m talking about here. You carry on being the one who does everything for other people, you’ll end up with nothing left of you.”
Will had been born Susannah, with four loutish brothers and a drunken father. He’d stolen a set of clothes at the age of thirteen, when his father began considering what he could get for his daughter’s body; fled Southwark forever; and crossed the river to claim a life of his own that was not at any man’s command. As he’d observed more than once, it was a shitty life as a woman.
If anyone found out that Mr. William Quex, owner of a gentlemen’s club, had women’s parts, he and Jon Shakespeare could be disgraced, ruined, maybe even prosecuted if the gentry felt vindictive. In their turn, they could reveal enough to hang half of Lord Richard’s set. David had kept that delicate balance to everyone’s benefit, and now he had a terrible sense that the whole edifice might topple without him.
He should have
bloody listened to me, then.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Will was asking. “Family?”
“I thought I might visit my mother. I’d like to see her.” And she’d understand. There was nothing he couldn’t tell her, no shameful stupidity he could commit that she wouldn’t respond to with a throaty laugh and a hug. Whatever it was, she had, after all, done worse.
He wanted his mother, and that was an absurd admission for a man of thirty-four. Still, there was something nagging at him, and contemptible though it was, he had to ask. “Did you say Lord Richard was looking for me?”
Will rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a prick. If he’s angry, it’s probably because nobody else can find his boots. And even if he’s missing you, that don’t change a thing. You need to get this”—he tapped David’s forehead—“straight. He’s a lordship, he’s way above you, whatever Silas Mason says, and mostly, you’re not his valet any longer, so stop moping like a maiden in the play. I want my cunning ginger sod back.” He gave David a quick hug. “Breakfast in the kitchen, and then piss off before you get us in trouble.”
Chapter 6
If the night that Richard threw Cyprian out was bad, the next morning was far worse.
Richard had lain awake in bed for hours, seething with anger and shame. At himself, at Cyprian, at the whole accursed, stupid situation. He’d had to stop himself going down the corridor, knocking on his valet’s door. Are you all right? he wanted to say, and I’m sorry, and then other things, pleas and promises that he could whisper in his imagination and never speak in life.
This was why you kept your damned hands off the damned staff. His weakness had led his perfect servant to use Richard’s first name and ignore his wishes. Led him to presumption. To desperation.
I will accept his apology, he told himself, which, as the hours passed in darkness, became Of course he won’t resign, and then I won’t accept his notice, and at last I’ll tell him I’m sorry. We’ll talk about it. He was wide awake well before the time Cyprian always came in with his morning cup of tea, waiting for him. But Cyprian didn’t come.
Richard allowed a full quarter hour to elapse before he rang the bell. He rang again a couple of minutes after that, impatiently, but it was still longer before the door opened to reveal Tallant, the undervalet. It was a position exclusive to Richard’s household. Cyprian had so many other duties to perform that he needed an assistant for the routine tasks.
Morning tea was not a routine task, and if this was Cyprian’s idea of a statement…
“Where is Cyprian?” Richard demanded.
“I don’t know, my lord. Mr. Cyprian is not in the house.” Tallant placed the cup of tea carefully by Richard’s bedside.
“What do you mean, not in the house? Where the devil is he?”
“I don’t know, my lord. He left last night, and it is not clear if he returned.”
“What? Where has he gone?”
“I don’t—”
“Stop saying you don’t know, and find out!” Cyprian would have had an answer, and if he didn’t, he’d have been looking for one already, instead of repeating witless responses.
“Yes, my lord.” Tallant fled in a controlled way.
Richard fumed until the undervalet returned. His manner did not seem optimistic.
“Ah, my lord…” Tallant met Richard’s eye, quailed visibly, and spoke. “Mr. Cyprian’s room is in some disorder, my lord. Mr. Schooler knocked on his door earlier and ventured to look in case he was unwell. Mr. Schooler believes he has left the house.”
“Obviously he has left the house if he is not present. Get Schooler. No, wait. Get my clothes.” Richard had to be dressed. He could not do this in his nightshirt.
Tallant was no substitute for Cyprian, but he did his best. Richard hurried him through the dressing and sent him off to fetch Schooler.
Cyprian could not have packed and left. No matter the previous night’s appalling episode, he would not have gone. That was absurd.
Schooler knocked and entered, stately as ever, and one look at his grave expression gleaming with suppressed enjoyment made Richard’s heart plummet. Clearly the man knew something. “Where’s Cyprian?”
“It seems Mr. Cyprian was witnessed by several staff leaving last night in the company of Mr. Mason, my lord. Mr. Mason carried a large bag. This morning, I was concerned that Mr. Cyprian had not risen as usual. I ventured to knock on his door and discovered that his room was in disarray and his bed had not been slept in.”
“When was this?”
“An hour ago, my lord.”
An hour. Richard could have been looking for a full hour. “Fetch Mason,” he said through his teeth, holding back You pompous imbecile. “Have him wait for me in the book room if he is not already there.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Richard hurried downstairs to the book room. Mason was not there, a fact that caused Richard disproportionate irritation, which flamed to anger when Schooler finally appeared alone.
“Well?” Richard demanded.
“My lord, I beg your pardon, but it seems Mr. Mason has left the house with Mr. Cyprian’s remaining possessions.”
“What?”
“His property has been removed since I inspected his room, my lord, and it appears Mr. Mason requested that one of the footmen help him with a trunk not twenty minutes ago. I conclude—”
“Where did he go?”
“James could not inform me, my lord. Mr. Mason left with the trunk on a hand cart and did not vouchsafe his destination.”
“When he returns, I shall see him at once,” Richard ordered, jaw aching from maintaining control. “Get me breakfast; get me coffee; and if you find out what the devil is going on, I wish to be informed immediately.”
Breakfast came. Mason did not. Richard scrawled a furious note to Dominic at the Board of Taxes. He’d given Dominic his word that Mason would have shelter in his house for as long as was needed, but that didn’t mean the fellow could do as he pleased and particularly not if it meant helping Cyprian—
Help him do what? Escape?
A good hour passed before Mason came in with a cursory knock. “Your lordship.”
“Where is Cyprian?” Richard demanded.
“Couldn’t say.”
“Don’t give me that,” Richard snarled. “You left the house with him last night and cleared his room of his possessions this morning.”
“Aye, I did that,” Mason agreed. “He asked me to. His possessions, he can do as he pleases with ’em.”
“Then where is he?”
Mason shoved his hands into his pockets, a disrespectful gesture that made Richard’s temper leap. “Couldn’t say.”
“Where did he go?”
“Ah, well, I could tell you that,” Mason said. “But it wouldn’t do you much use, because he’s not there now. Went off as soon as he got his trunk.”
Richard slammed his hand on the table. “You will tell me what the devil is going on. Where he is, why he left—”
“Well, that one’s easy.” Mason was infuriatingly calm. “You turned him off, remember?”
“What?”
“You dismissed him, your lordship. Last night. Slipped your mind?”
“I did not.”
“Sounded like it to me. And I’ve an inkling he’d remember.”
“No, damn it. I told him— He must have misunderstood.” Richard had to bite back an urge to beg the radical lout for more information. Cyprian surely could not have thought Richard had meant permanent dismissal. He could not have left without farewell, without giving Richard a chance to speak. “It is a misunderstanding. Where has he gone?”
“Still don’t know, your lordship.”
“Then you will be well advised to find out,” Richard said savagely. “Go wherever you last saw him, and ask, damn it.”
Mason blew out a noisy breath. “There’s something you’re missing. He doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t want you finding him. So, no, I’m not going
to help you do it.”
Richard stared at him. “But—why would he—”
“Couldn’t say. Maybe he’s put up with enough from your lordship.” Mason shrugged with deliberate insolence. “Don’t blame him.”
It was pure relief to lose his temper. Richard did not do it often, because a man in his position who indulged a bad temper became a tyrant. He lost it now, spectacularly, bellowing his anger and frustration in Mason’s face with a shameful awareness at the back of his mind that he was doing it because Mason could take it. The radical had withstood hours of interrogation at Bow Street on a charge of high treason; he’d been flogged and gaoled for seditious libel and had not stopped for any threat short of hanging. He stood unmoved as the storm of Richard’s futile fury raged around him.
“You will damned well tell me what I want to know, or I will have you thrown out of this house and delivered to the gaol you should be haunting, you gutter-blood democrat!” Richard was shouting when the door opened without a knock. “And what the hell do you—” He stopped abruptly, seeing that the uninvited entrant was Dominic.
“Morning, Dom,” Mason said. “Join the party.”
“Good day, Silas, Richard. What the devil is going on?”
“Cyprian.” Richard’s throat felt sore. “He’s left me.”
“Cyprian? Why is that Silas’s responsibility?”
Richard set his teeth. “If you could request your damned insolent werewolf to inform me where I may find my valet—”
“He ain’t your valet, your lordship,” Mason said. “You gave him his marching orders.”
“I did not!”
“You dismissed him?” Dominic asked. “Why on earth—”
“I did not. It was a misunderstanding. I need to explain. I need to speak to him.”
“I should damned well think you do,” Dominic said. “Are you insane? Have you considered how much he knows? You put your entire faith, all our safety, in his hands, and now you have had some sort of quarrel, and you don’t even know where he is? What if he’s at Bow Street laying a charge against us?”
Richard stared at Dominic, appalled. “He would not. I am quite sure he would not.”
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