A Gentleman's Position (Society of Gentlemen) (17 page)

Richard released the ear with some reluctance. “Did you mention fucking me?”

“I think I did. In due course.” David tilted his head, inviting attention to his neck, which Richard gave, kissing his way down until obstructed by the shirt. They stripped slowly, David declining to touch Richard’s boots or buckskin breeches with oily hands so that Richard had to undress them both, until they lay together on the great rug in front of the fire, kissing long and slow, with David’s slick fingers sliding over Richard’s thighs and beginning to delve between.

“When you say a long time…?” David asked.

“Seven years.” Richard saw the red brow tilt and turned up his palm. “Two since I have had anyone at all. I don’t, can’t bed men for whom I don’t care. I dare say that’s unusual, but honestly, I feel I have deprived myself of nothing but the pox—oh, God
damn
it.” He could have kicked himself for saying such a thing to David. “I beg your pardon.”

David’s fingers had stopped briefly, but now they moved again. “I cannot be too sensitive on the subject. It is how it is. And I don’t want the pox either, truth be told.”

“It wasn’t that, really. My brother says I am sentimental, and perhaps I am, but I simply cannot find joy in rutting for its own sake.”

“I used to,” David said. “And then I entered your service, and even that was taken away from me, because every time I fucked, it was not you.”

“It is now,” Richard said, and saw the smile in David’s eyes. Richard allowed himself to be pushed onto his back, and David climbed over his body, settling between his parted thighs with an intent look that made Richard shiver.

“Let me make it you.” David’s fingers were rubbing and pressing between Richard’s legs in intimate touches, slithery with oil. “Can you tense yourself for a few seconds?” Richard did as bid and, as he relaxed, felt David’s finger sliding in without resistance.

“Clever,” he said breathlessly.

“The muscle can only stay tight for a little while, then it can’t help loosening. It’s a—an old trick.”

A whore’s trick,
Richard would have wagered he’d meant to say. It didn’t matter with David gently working him, dipping his mouth to Richard’s prick, rolling his balls, creating a blinding flood of sensation. David served him and commanded him at once, and Richard surrendered to his ministry, gasping out his praise and pleasure and then, urgently, his need. “Please. Now.”

“At your pleasure. Tense up for me now. Or—are you happy like that, on your back?”

“Extremely,” Richard assured him, and they were both smiling as David pushed into him. Between the muscle trick and the oil, it barely stung, and that proof of David’s care brought a painful tightness to Richard’s throat. “God, that’s good.”

“I told you.” There was something disturbingly intent in David’s eyes, something hungry. “I told you I’d make it good.” His fingers closed on Richard’s shoulders, digging in, still slippery with oil. “I want to make you remember me.”

As if he’d ever forget. David’s smell; his hair, loose strands lit to wild vividness by the firelight that shone through it; his eyes, fixed on Richard’s as though to look away would be to end the dream; his body, taut with urgency, muscle and bone and sinew picked out by shadows. The feel of his back, smooth under Richard’s clutching hands. And the way he fucked, with a careful, controlled precision to the movement of his hips while his betraying fingers dug desperately into Richard’s skin.

“More. I won’t break.” Richard curled upward, angling his neck so he could reach David’s mouth. It was an awkward position, but David’s hand was supporting his skull, the other on the floor bracing them both. David thrust with an upward motion, and Richard felt the internal pressure send pleasure jolting through his nerves. He made a muffled noise into David’s mouth, and the lips on his pulled away.

“I want to hear you,” David rasped, and plunged down to press his sharp teeth where Richard’s neck met his shoulder. An actual bite, a sharp pulse of pain, and David was moving harder and faster now, over and in him, so that Richard felt absurdly cradled.

“Christ. David, my fox, my flame. Please.” He didn’t even know what he wanted except more of this, more of David, more of them together with no barrier between them but skin.

David bit again, then pushed himself up so he could get a hand to Richard’s prick. “I want to see your face. I want to see you spend.
Make
you. I want…” He was moving carefully again, playing Richard’s body, and Richard stared into his brown eyes and groaned his pleasure, feeling David shift and respond as though his only goal in life was Richard’s joy.

He had no idea if he was being served or mastered now. Both, or neither, it didn’t matter. His red fox was in his arms and between his legs, where he belonged, and Richard gave himself up to the mounting sensation of David inside and over and around him, stroking and fucking and kissing at once until Richard could no longer hold back the pleasure. He arched so hard he lifted David off the floor with the movement as he spent against David’s belly. David hissed through bared teeth and shoved him back down, thrusting with a clumsy urgency that suggested he’d finally run out of control, and the raw need in his face triggered a final unexpected pulse of climax in Richard that almost hurt. He took a brutal grip on David’s arse, urging him on, and watched his face distort with what could have been pleasure or agony as he cried out.

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

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.”