A Gentleman's Position

by K. J. Charles

  David collapsed over him, shoulders heaving, and Richard held him as though he wept.

  Chapter 14

  David stared at the mirror wondering whether to powder his hair.

  “Why?” Jon asked. “It makes a mess everywhere, and it feels like chalk. You don’t like it, do you?”

  “Hate it. But then, most masters hate red hair.”

  Richard didn’t hate it. Richard said it was beautiful; he’d kissed David’s hair in handfuls, whispering praise.

  Richard was not his master.

  David hadn’t seen him since that glorious fuck; he’d been too damned busy for the last two days and nights. He would see him that evening, and it was enraging how much he wanted to report a success.

  “They can’t hate it that much,” Jon said. “I mean, I don’t want to see it, and I still fucked you.”

  “Yes, but you’ve no standards at all. Just look at Will.”

  “Twat,” Will said without heat.

  “I was turned away on sight three times when I started service.” David adopted a foppish tone. “Oh, Lord, sirrah, I can hardly be expected to contemplate that dreadful hue. Give me my smelling salts. Take it away.”

  “Sodding gentry,” Will said. “Sack of arseholes. You think Maltravers will care?”

  “In the circumstances? I could probably get the place with green hair.” His lordship had sent three notes now, each more insistent than the last, demanding David should arrive for an interview at once. Lord Gabriel had done sterling work in dropping hints about the untouchable leader of the Ricardians; Lord Maltravers was desperate to get his hands on Lord Richard’s erstwhile valet. “But…no, I’ll have to, I think. I need to look as though I want the post.” He reached for the powder box.

  “You can sweep up, then,” Will said. “How’s it all going?”

  “Well enough. Mr. Harry’s had two people already tell him they were present when Lord Maltravers made his remarks about Lady Beaufort.”

  Will grinned unpleasantly. “You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you, Foxy?”

  “All of one. How’s the word in the clubs?”

  “Getting round,” Jon assured him. “And Zoë’s doing a fine job with the buttocking shops. She says that thing of Silas’s is spreading like the clap.”

  Silas had written a particularly scurrilous pamphlet on the sexual peccadilloes of various gentlemen of the ton. He had good connections among the Grub Street scribblers and scandalmongers, a turn of phrase that was vivid to the point of being legally actionable, and a biting if unsubtle wit, so David had been confident the sheet would circulate quickly. They’d made sure there was a certain amount of truth in there, bits of gossip that David had been keeping for a rainy day; a few flagrant inventions, including one of Silas’s that David suspected would come back to haunt them; and plenty on Lord Maltravers. It began, We hear Lord M— of the duchy of W— has a thirst for Vanbutchell’s Nostrum, then renamed him Lord Dropmember, and went on to list cures for impotence and a hint about his temper. Some readers would take the inference David intended.

  Word was spreading about his lordship’s manner too. Mr. Norreys reported that the appalling gossip Lord Bunbury was busy assuring everyone he met that he could not give any credence to the reports about his lordship. Why, have you not heard? Well…He would not be the only one, and to David’s immense satisfaction, many of the reported remarks were either other people’s invention or, far better, things Lord Maltravers had actually said.

  Will and Jon had talked to the staff in the clubs and gambling hells. David had spent two days and nights circulating among servants, meeting valets and ladies’ maids, butlers and grooms, murmuring scandal to be repeated in dressing rooms and boudoirs and carried to drawing rooms and clubs. By the time Lord Maltravers accused Lord Gabriel of anything, so many people would have repeated his extraordinary comments about some of the most blameless people in society that it wouldn’t matter they hadn’t actually heard him make them. Nobody would believe a word he said.

  That was, of course, if David could retrieve the damned letter. While Lord Maltravers held that, all the rest of David’s work was worthless.

  The letter. Lord Gabriel had twice asked his brother to show it to him, and twice Lord Maltravers had refused. It is not on the premises, he’d told Lord Gabriel the second time, in case you’re hoping to get your hands on it.

  David stared at himself in the mirror. White hair, black coat, pale face. He looked like a servant’s ghost, and he felt no enthusiasm at all for what he was about to do.

  “You’re beautiful,” Will assured him. “Get moving, Foxy, you’ve got lords to fuck. One way or another.”

  —

  He had to spend a mere hour kicking his heels in Lord Maltravers’s study before the interview began. Evidently his lordship was in a hurry.

  “So. You’re Richard Vane’s man,” Lord Maltravers said.

  “I left his lordship’s service some few weeks ago, my lord.”

  “Why? Dismissed?”

  “I resigned, my lord, with immediate effect.”

  “I asked you why,” Lord Maltravers grated. “Answer the damned question.”

  “I regret extremely that I am not at liberty to disclose that, my lord.” David gave a deep bow. “Lord Richard demands that his private business is never discussed by his servants—”

  “But you’ve left him,” Lord Maltravers put in. “Hey? You’re not his valet any longer. And if you’re to be mine, you’ll obey my orders.”

  “I shall do so without hesitation, my lord, if I should be so fortunate as to obtain the position.” It was as blatant as he could be, short of writing Will exchange secrets for salary on a piece of paper.

  “Well, now. Hmm. I suppose you saw something of Lord Richard’s friends in his service, did you? My brother Lord Gabriel and Mr. Francis Webster, for example.” Disdain twisted his lordship’s face.

  “Yes, my lord. The gentlemen have both been Lord Richard’s guests at his country home on numerous occasions.”

  “I suppose you’re an observant fellow, hey? Got to be. Loose buttons and whatnot. And I dare say servants gossip. Don’t they? Chat, chat, chat about your betters.”

  “I never gossip, my lord,” David said calmly. “A valet is in a position of great trust, and it must be respected.” He let that hang for a couple of seconds, watching Lord Maltravers redden, then went on just before the man spoke. “Gossip may be repeated in the servants’ hall, my lord, or by other valets. I may even overhear conversations by accident. But if I become aware of the private business of gentlemen, that is a matter for nobody”—a tiny, taunting pause—“but my master.”

  “You’re a damned slyboots,” Lord Maltravers remarked. “Ain’t you?”

  David bowed again. “It is necessary for me to find a post with a master of greater standing than Lord Richard. Once that is secured, I shall spare no effort to make myself indispensable.”

  There was clear anger on Lord Maltravers’s face now. He did not like bargaining with a servant. If David’s true aim had been to secure the position, he would have offered only a flattering mirror in which his lordship could see his own greatness. He would have reminded Lord Maltravers that David was here obeying his will, as a supplicant.

  David did not want him to think of it in those terms.

  Lord Maltravers needed a victory, and that was David’s biggest advantage of all. There was little more than a week before the Cato Street trial began, and Lord Gabriel had still not capitulated to his brother’s threats, blaming Lord Richard’s obstinacy. A spy who held the secrets of Lord Richard’s household, where Silas Mason sheltered and Lord Gabriel and Mr. Webster were such frequent visitors, would seem a gift. David had to make that gift sufficiently unattractive that Lord Maltravers was not suspicious.

  His lordship worked his jaw, a sign of anger. His stock was just a touch too tight and too high for either comfort or flattery of his incipient jowls. Clearly his valet did not like his master.


  “I expect total obedience,” Lord Maltravers said. “You’ll do as you’re told and jump to it, sirrah. I shall have questions. You won’t understand them, I dare say, or my reasons for asking, but no matter. You’ll answer them, and you won’t repeat anything I say to you.”

  “My master may place the utmost confidence in me,” David assured him, and watched it dawn on Lord Maltravers that if David would betray Lord Richard, he’d do the same to anyone.

  He saw that, and he saw the hardening of Lord Maltravers’s lips that spoke of determination. Lord Maltravers would not be a soft-hearted fool like Richard Vane. He would break an insolent valet’s will and satisfy his own dented self-esteem at the same time. David had no doubt that if he took up the place, Lord Maltravers would make him pay for that forced bargain.

  And the angrier Lord Maltravers became, the sooner he’d start taking out his resentment. David gave his slyest smile. “May I presume I have the great fortune to be offered the place?”

  “You’ll start at once. The first thing I—”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” David interrupted, and saw his lordship’s eyes bulge. “There are a few small matters first. My salary.”

  “I told you. A hundred and twenty.”

  “Three hundred, my lord.”

  Maltravers went a pleasing shade of puce and indicated that he would be consigned to perdition if he’d pay any such sum. David pointed out that the exceptional wage would purchase exceptional services. Lord Maltravers cursed David’s insolence; David bowed and reminded him that he had been approached by other gentlemen who lacked his lordship’s birth but would not have difficulty finding the money. The words Francis Webster did not have to be spoken. Lord Maltravers, trapped between a natural reluctance to do as he was bid and an equally natural disdain to lower himself by haggling, made gobbling noises and informed David that he’d damned well better earn it. “Starting with answering my questions.”

  David gave him a wide, toothy smile. “I shall be delighted to assist your lordship as soon as the contract of service is signed.”

  He thought Lord Maltravers might strike him. “That is a formality,” his lordship spluttered. “You have my agreement. You need nothing else.”

  David let the smile drop away. “I would not dream of contradicting your lordship. Once the contract is signed, I am entirely at your lordship’s service.”

  It was a courtship. Women withheld themselves for as long as possible because their power lay in denial. Once a woman gave in to a man’s wants, she had nothing left to bargain with. If she did not have a marriage contract before she gave up her sole advantage, she could be left with nothing at all; if she did, she became subordinate to her new master. This was just the same. Lord Maltravers’s contract would trap David in his service, and he could then avenge the humiliations of this interview at leisure.

  His lordship nodded. “Wait here. I’ll have it drawn up.”

  “If you wish me to enter your service at once, my lord, may I suggest that I use the time for your benefit?” David had surrendered; time to be humble and eager to please. “Might I take the opportunity to learn the ways of the house from your lordship’s current valet while he is here?”

  Lord Maltravers evidently hadn’t considered the man he was about to dismiss on the spot. “Oh yes.” He rang the bell and gave orders for his man of business and for his valet. In a short time, the latter arrived, a man named Standish whom David had met before. Standish’s face tightened at the sight of London’s best-known gentleman’s gentleman.

  “You’re dismissed, Standish,” Lord Maltravers said without preamble. “I’ve taken on Cyprian. You’ll show him the…” He waved his hand irritably to indicate a valet’s tasks. “There will be something for you in lieu of notice. Go on.”

  Standish bowed. He took David up the stairs to Lord Maltravers’s magnificent chambers, where he shut the door. “Well, thank you very much for that, Mr. Cyprian. Thank you so much for coming in here and losing me my place. I wish you joy of him.”

  “Now wait. Is he proposing to turn you off just like that?” David asked. “Mr. Standish, I had no idea—”

  “Why, you heard he was the best of masters?” Standish snorted. “Tight-fisted vat of pickled pork rind, he is, and if he wasn’t a duke’s heir, I shouldn’t stay. Not that I’ve the choice now. If I left his service, he’d have me haled back here, he had the law on a footman who’d had enough last year, but if his lordship wishes to break contract, well then.” He sniffed angrily. “I could tell you how his lordship likes things, but it makes no difference, because you’ll never get it right anyway. You want to watch the mornings most. If he’s got a sore head or a sore belly, he’ll throw things. Caught me a nasty one with a snuffbox.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, yes,” Standish said with glee, and proceeded with a litany of abuses and insults that had been heaped on him in Lord Maltravers’s service.

  “Well, that sounds…eccentric,” David said as the flow of reminiscence dried to a trickle. “This isn’t what I’m used to, I can tell you. I was very happy with Lord Richard, till he started to poke his nose into politics and employ radical wretches with Bow Street Runners after them and goodness knows who else. Like that Mr. Skelton. You see a lot of him here as well, I suppose.”

  David’s reputation for omniscience was a useful thing. Standish didn’t even blink. “The Home Office gentleman? He’s here daily at the moment. If you don’t like politics, you’ve come to the wrong house.”

  “I don’t like radical politics. Every man to his place, I say.”

  “Well, his lordship is as far from a radical as you’ll see in a month of Sundays, but he’s hand in glove with Mr. Skelton, and he’s nosing around the gutter every day,” Standish said. “There’s a fellow who doesn’t know his place, if you ask me. Butters his lordship up one minute and shouting at him the next.”

  David raised a brow. “Really? I shouldn’t think he’d dare.”

  “Oh, yes,” Standish insisted, ruffled by the hint of disbelief. “ ‘You won’t let me down again,’ that’s what he said, and ‘No, I won’t take your word for it,’ just like that. To his lordship, if you can believe it, shouting like a barrow boy. If you don’t like that fellow, you’ve made a mistake coming here, Mr. Cyprian.”

  “Is that so? Well.” David looked around the bedroom. “Do you want to show me round or leave me to it?”

  “Whatever you like.” Standish propped himself against the bedpost and continued complaining about Lord Maltravers. David took another cursory look around, thinking furiously, and was relieved to be summoned downstairs before he had to waste time learning about a bedroom where he had no intention of serving from a valet he wouldn’t have let near Richard’s third-best riding boots.

  The contract was ready, ink still wet on one copy. David read it over, taking his time; Lord Maltravers did not bother to conceal his impatience. The document specified the terms of employment, which were not generous and obliged David to give three months’ notice. Failure to do so would render him liable to an action at law.

  David stared at the paper. Now that it was time to sign, he felt rather sick. He knew what hell a bad master could wreak on his servants, and Lord Maltravers was as bad as they came. The thought of signing himself into servitude with this man should have been terrifying. The only thing more terrifying was the discovery that he wasn’t afraid.

  Because Richard would deal with it. Where David’s cleverness hit a brick wall, Richard’s power and wealth could smash through it and would. He felt it as an absolute, unquestioned certainty. Richard would throw money and lawyers at it, buy him out at any cost of time or trouble. No matter how things went, with his schemes or between them, if he never touched the man again and refused every offer of lovemaking, employment, or anything else, he knew in his soul that Richard would not let him down.

  Perhaps he came running at Richard’s whistle, but David could whistle too.

 
“Well?” Lord Maltravers said impatiently.

  David signed both copies. Lord Maltravers applied his seal, and David folded the paper he was given and pocketed it.

  “Very well.” Lord Maltravers rubbed his hands together. “You work for me now, Cyprian. And I’ve some questions for you.”

  Chapter 15

  Richard felt as though he’d done nothing but pace and fret all day. He’d put in several hours at Angelo’s fencing academy on Bond Street with Julius, which had at least been a distraction. Julius was a vicious opponent; one could not afford to think about anything else in a bout with him. By the time they were both exhausted, Richard had a number of small, painful bruises testifying to his failure to concentrate.

  “Is there any progress on Ash’s business?” Julius asked as they headed to Quex’s for a restoring drink.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in two days, and I’ve no idea what he’s up to. I should see him tonight.”

  “By ‘he,’ you mean Cyprian?”

  “Who else should I mean?”

  Julius raised his hands. “My dear chap, you are preoccupied to the point of absentmindedness. I’ve been wondering if this could be all Ash’s trouble.”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Julius shot him a glance. “Yes, I suppose it is. I like that man, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Cyprian.” Julius twirled his cane, looking the picture of an unconcerned exquisite. “Intelligent. Shrewd. Quite as ruthless as you but not encumbered by noblesse oblige.”