Hidden Paradise

by Janet Mullany

  Rob rose to his feet. “Everything okay upstairs, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. Fine, fine. Please, don’t let me disturb you,” he added, as others laid napkins aside and reached for discarded coats and wigs. “We’ll be ready for tea and coffee in the drawing room in about ten minutes, and Chris will ring when it’s time. But I wanted to thank you all for a splendid job thus far tonight. Well done, everyone.”

  “Thank you,” Rob said. A few others murmured thanks but Peter winced as he caught a few sideways glances and sniggers. Silly old queen. Well, that’s what he was, but it hurt, that these young men couldn’t be more grateful for what he and Chris provided. He’d even hired Alex and Dejan, from Russia and Serbia respectively, despite their poor English, because he’d had a fit of guilt about their countries’ sufferings—and they were both really hot, as Chris so often reminded him. Wasn’t this better than working on a construction site or whatever else their options might be?

  “I thought we might talk about the schedule for the ball, Rob,” Peter said. “If this is a convenient time, that is.”

  “No problem.” Rob stood and shrugged his coat on, adjusting the heavy, gilded cuffs. Peter winced as he saw Rob give his team a warning look, anticipating the chorus of suggestive comments that would arise, and that now might be delayed until they had left the room.

  “So how do you think things are going?” Peter asked as the Servants’ Hall door closed behind them.

  “Okay,” Rob said.

  “That’s good,” Peter said with a touch too much enthusiasm.

  Rob retied his neckcloth as they walked through the kitchen, an incongruous figure among humming, top-of-the-line dishwashers and all the other paraphernalia of a commercial kitchen. He nodded at the chef, who sat tapping at a laptop as they passed. “They’re still giving me grief about having to leave their mobiles in their lockers.”

  “Too bad,” Peter said, remembering the first night with guests when the raucous shrill of a cell phone rang out in the dining room. “The guests don’t even have access to their mobiles unless it’s special circumstances, and then they have to get them from Viv. Is everything okay with Viv?”

  “She bitches about spot cleaning our coats all the time,” Rob said. “But it can’t be helped. Spills happen when you’re a waiter, which is what we are. And we sweat a lot, running up and down the stairs.”

  Peter cleared his throat. “I guess.” He produced his ring of keys and unlocked the office door. Business, he reminded himself, not fantasies of clean young male sweat. He ushered Rob into the office and clicked to the footmen’s schedule on the laptop.

  “Oh, please, sit down.” Peter pulled forward a second chair. The poor kid had been on his feet for hours, after all. “I’m thrilled that you’re our head footman. I couldn’t have chosen better. Now, on Saturday I see that two of the footmen have the night off. Is there any way we could do some rescheduling? I need as many staff as possible.”

  “Sorry, Paul’s sister is getting married and I promised Ivan he could have the day off to play cricket. He’s on the village team and they have a big match. He said he’d try to make it back by ten, and maybe sober.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, we’ll make do, I suppose.” Rob’s elbow was inches away from his, his hand on the desk.

  “It’ll be fine. Keep dinner simple and fairly light, according to Chef, right? No problem with the buffet supper if we can serve it on the terrace....”

  Peter’s mind wandered as Rob talked. He found himself staring at Rob’s hand, the red scar of a healing burn across the knuckle, fine golden brown hair on the fingers. Before he could stop himself, he touched the burn.

  “That looks rather serious.”

  Rob moved his hand away, frowning. “Nah, it’s nothing. We burn ourselves all the time, but not as bad as the cooks. But that reminds me, we need to put in an order for the first-aid supplies. We’re running low on gauze and antibiotic cream. Okay, how many for breakfast after the ball?”

  “You remind me so much of myself when I was young,” Peter blurted out to his embarrassment.

  Rob regarded him calmly. “Thanks, I think.” He removed his hand from the desk. “Do you…fancy me?”

  Peter wanted to weep with mortification. He took a deep breath. “I guess I do. I’m sorry. I find you very attractive.” Oh, shit. He was about to lose his head footman. Chris would never forgive him, on so many levels. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was entirely unprofessional.”

  “I’m not dumb,” Rob said, and the kindness in his tone almost undid Peter. “None of us are. It’s a bit of a joke downstairs that you hired us for our looks, but you know that. And I’m flattered and all that but I play for the other team. Sorry, mate. I mean, sir.” To Peter’s relief, he switched back to business again. “Okay, I’d calculate twenty guests for breakfast, right? I’ll let half the lads off at ten so they can get a bit of sleep and then they’ll be on duty at five for breakfast.”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “Yes, that sounds fine. Thanks. Thanks for everything, Rob.”

  “I’ll get back to the Servants’ Hall,” Rob said. He stood and straightened his coat. “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes, fine.” Peter forced a smile.

  As the door closed behind Rob, Peter sank his face into his hands, elbows on the desk. Dear God. Was he out of his mind? What if Rob’s brisk, matter-of-fact tolerance was skin-deep and he went back to the Servants’ Hall and told everyone how the old fag had made a pass at him?

  He rushed out after Rob and took one painful moment to bask in the young man’s beauty as he walked away—the straight back and broad shoulders, the curve of his muscled calves.

  Rob turned. “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Rob.” He grasped his sleeve. “This is just between us, right? No hard feelings, I hope. Look, I know you’ve got some problems at home. If there’s anything I can do, just say the word. I can…” His voice died away at the look of contempt on Rob’s face.

  “You don’t need to bother.” Rob shook his hand off and walked away.

  Oh, God, he was such a clumsy fool. He blundered back into the office, tears rising to his eyes. The other door, the one that opened to the yard stood open, and a couple of moths circled the overhead light, making rash bursts of flight and falling away from the heat.

  Chris sat at the desk and, from the expression on his face, Peter knew he’d overheard at least the end of his encounter with Rob.

  “Just what the hell is going on?” Chris said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rob

  He came back into the Servants’ Hall as the drawing-room bell jangled.

  “All right, mate?” Ivan asked.

  “Yeah, great.” He looked around. “Dejan, where’s the tray of cups and saucers?”

  “Cups and…?”

  “Yeah. For upstairs.”

  Dejan frowned and gestured to the table where the remnants of dinner lay. “Tea?”

  “I’ll do it, you berk,” Ivan said, and ran to the adjoining room where the china was stored.

  Rob rushed to the kitchen—it was always the same, however well prepared they thought they were, everything always happened at the last moment—and hefted the tray laden with a huge teapot and coffee jug, sugar and cream. He snatched a handful of teaspoons, loaded the cake stand with tiny cakes and dried apricots and chocolates decorated with gold leaf, and carried it all out, narrowly missing Ivan and his tray. They eyed each other.

  “Wig’
s crooked,” Rob said, and thrust the tray at Declan.

  “Bugger.” Ivan laid his tray on the table and adjusted his wig.

  Rob armed himself with a couple of smaller trays and a cloth for spills, and opened the door for them. They began the trip up the narrow winding servants’ stairs.

  “Why the fuck didn’t they put in an elevator,” Ivan wheezed.

  “Architectural integrity.”

  “Archi—what? Did the old guy make a pass at you, then?”

  “You know what he’s like.” They paused on the landing at the first floor.

  “I had ten quid on it,” Ivan said in disgust. “Couldn’t you give the old sod a pity blow job?”

  “Sorry, mate. Wrong team.” They emerged from the servants’ staircase and paused to catch their breath. From the drawing room, they heard the sound of a piano and a woman singing.

  “Wait,” Rob said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you and Dejan are all red and she’s still singing. We go in when they clap.”

  The pianist played a final chord and during the applause Rob opened the door and ushered in Dejan and Ivan and their trays. Neither Peter nor Chris was present, which was unusual, and the guests looked a little drunk, which was not unusual at all. At least Lou was pretty much sober tonight. She was sitting next to one of the guys who messed around with the plaster and paint, talking to him with great animation. Mac, meanwhile, across the room, gazed at her, and Rob wondered why he didn’t just go and talk to her. Like poor old Peter had done, clumsily touching him and gazing at him like some sort of pathetic spaniel. It wasn’t the first time a gay guy had propositioned him—it happened, no big deal—but it was a big deal when it was your boss and he looked so sad and scared. Hell, he was even older than Rob’s dad, and he felt more pity for Peter than he could for his own father.

  “Tea, ma’am?” he said to Lou.

  She took a cup from the tray without even noticing him. “Sixteen layers!” she said to the decorating guy. Jon Nesbitt, that was his name.

  “You’ll have to come and look at my samples,” Jon said in his plummy posh voice. Would Rob talk like that, too, after Cambridge?

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  Christ, she was practically having an orgasm about looking at paint layers or whatever she was planning to do. He moved the tray away before Jon could take a cup and went to the next guest, the one Downstairs voted most likely to put out. Unfortunately, she also tied for the honor of most annoying and demanding.

  “Hi, Rob.” Sarah took a cup of coffee. “Is this organic?”

  “Absolutely. And fair trade. Tastes nice, too,” he said vaguely, staring straight into her cleavage. He couldn’t help it. It was just there, all ripe and pillowy and gorgeous with its mysterious deep shadow, and she was sitting and he was standing, and if he wasn’t careful he’d tip half a dozen cups of tea and coffee into its depths.

  Dejan nudged him and Rob tore his gaze away and stepped aside. Sarah smiled at Rob, took one of the small cakes from Dejan’s tray and flicked her tongue out to capture the sugared rose petals adorning the top. Rob stood transfixed, his limbs immobile—except for his cock, which was moving around rather too much—and wondered if he had some sort of hormonal infestation that made everyone come on to him. Even he, inexperienced as he was, knew Sarah, gorgeous, very silly Sarah, was all but inviting him to bed. It was so fucking ironic that a woman he fancied only in a general tits-on-parade way should proposition him. What was wrong with liking a woman you fucked? Something must be, because the women he did like—Di, for instance—didn’t invite him to bed and they put up some sort of invisible wall that stopped him inviting them. How did you resolve this? Maybe you never did, maybe all guys were like this. All their lives.

  Back to business. He nodded to Dejan to move on to the next guest.

  “I might need some help later, Rob,” Sarah said in a soft whisper. She licked her lips.

  “Okay,” he said, trying not to let his face stretch into a huge, stupid grin. Sometimes tits on parade was enough. “I’ll be around, ma’am.”

  “Sarah,” she said. “Call me Sarah.”

  “Not my place, ma’am. Not in company.”

  She smiled and he, sensing that the other guests were interested in the contents of his tray, left the view of Sarah’s splendid cleavage to serve them.

  “Nice teats,” Dejan said, nudging him.

  “Which ones?” Rob said. It was true, the room was full of nice tits, because that’s how all the women were dressed and he was doing his best now to ignore them, since he was standing, the guests were sitting, and he was self-conscious about his excitement. He was glad Peter and Chris weren’t around, because they’d certainly be aware of his condition.

  The woman went back to the piano and rustled some music around and everyone stopped talking, giving Rob the chance to move back into the shadows, holding the small tray in front of himself. Things were getting pretty uncomfortable down there and he really wanted to adjust himself, but not in public. He could do that only by unbuttoning the flap and once he’d done that he knew the adjustment would need to turn into something providing a different level of comfort, and he’d have to wait until he was alone for that.

  To take his mind off it, he tried to listen to the music, which was the sort of stuff his mum liked. She’d love this sort of thing, the culture and everything. To get his good mood back, he thought about Sarah and exactly how he was going to hook up with her when he was off duty. And what about her husband? Rob didn’t fancy getting beaten up by him, but he didn’t look like the sort of guy who’d get into a fight over his wife. He wouldn’t want to mess with Alan, though, and he and Cathy were all over each other, occupying a small sofa in a corner, and not paying any attention to the music at all, only to each other. Lou sat fanning herself, obviously all steamed up about plasterwork and layers of paint, and Mac continued to watch her from the other side of the room.

  At the end of the next song, Chris and Peter came into the room, and Rob wondered if he was the only one who could sense the tension twanging between them. But they went into their usual genial hosts act and, as Rob expected, Peter kept his distance, approaching Dejan for a cup of tea. More standing around, more tedious music—Cathy and Alan had the right idea; they’d slipped quietly from the room when Peter and Chris had come in.

  Sarah didn’t give Rob another glance. The whole situation reminded him of being caught in the middle of some complicated game where everyone except himself knew the rules. Where was he supposed to find her after? Had she been serious? He sent Dejan and Ivan to the kitchen for more tea and coffee and refreshments and leaned against the wall, tired of standing, and immensely relieved when the singer announced that the next song would be her last. After that, the guests, yawning and gathering up fans and gloves, left the drawing room in couples or groups. Rob watched Sarah for some sort of sign but she left in a group of people that included her husband without another glance at him. Or maybe she did, but there wasn’t enough light in the room, other than where the candlesticks were massed, to see. So it seemed as though the next move would be up to him. Great.

  * * *

  Lou

  “CAN I HELP?” SHE SAID TO Peter as they left the drawing room.

  He paid her no attention but stared at Chris, who had an avuncular—possibly—hand on Ben’s shoulder and seemed to be sharing a joke with him and Sarah.

  “Honey?” she said.

  He
turned to her, and she saw how drawn and tired he looked, the lines in his face etched deep. “Lou, there’s no fool like an old fool.”

  “How would you know?” She tucked her hand into his arm. “Want to talk about it?”

  He nodded. “Let’s go…not into the office. The dining room.” He plucked a candlestick from a table in the hallway and they made their way through the dark house. “I’m beginning to wonder about you and Mac,” he said.

  “There’s not much to wonder about,” Lou said. “I think I’d be better off sticking to the footmen.” His silence told her she’d blundered. “Oh, shit, Peter, I’m sorry.”

  He pushed open the dining-room door and set the candlestick on the sideboard. “I’ve rather screwed things up, I think.”

  “How?” She sat opposite him, the polished surface of the mahogany table cool to her fingertips and elbows.

  “There’s a lot of stress in this endeavor,” he said. “Lots of worry and details and…well, things haven’t been too hot in the bedroom recently. We’re both tired, we talk shop all the time and it’s not exactly romantic, you know? And…”

  “And you don’t fuck the help,” Lou said.

  “If fucking the help was a problem, I think we could deal with it. I’m in love, Lou. I’ve fallen in love and I still love Chris and he can’t understand it and I can’t, either. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” In the near darkness, he swiped at his face and she saw him attempt the semblance of a smile. “They all know downstairs, of course. He—that is, the one I— Well, he’s been pretty decent about it. He turned me down very tactfully. Shit, Lou, I don’t even know him, and I’m sighing and fantasizing over him and I can’t get him out of my mind. It’s Rob.”

  “Well, he seems a sweet kid,” Lou said.

  “He is. And Chris found out, about an hour ago. Maybe I wanted to get found out. Adulterers often do. He overheard part of a conversation, heard me coming on to Rob, and…well, it’s a mess, Lou. Chris and I have pretty much been faithful to each other—he’s flirted a lot, I’ve flirted a little, but this time I’ve done damage.”