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There was a handsome man in the snug.
He was sitting by the fire, long legs stretched out, boots in need of a polish but hugging his calves in a way that suggested they’d cost good money at some point. The caped coat that hung by the wall added to the impression of a man with funds, even if he was travel-stained and unaccompanied.
Toby watched him out of the corner of his eye while he waited for his tankard of ale and exchanged some saucy words with the landlady’s daughter. Then he strolled over.
“Evening. Mind if I...?”
He indicated the other chair. The man gave a nod, raising his tankard in salute, and adjusted the angle of his knees so Toby could sit facing him.
He was perhaps thirty or a little more, with dark brown hair and a complexion that suggested he’d spent a lot of time in the sun. The Peninsula, Toby would bet: he had a military air and looked in good condition. He also had all his limbs, which was more than many Peninsular veterans could boast, and he was very handsome. Well-shaped mouth, dark brows, impressive cheekbones, blue-grey eyes. Plenty of faint lines around both eyes and mouth. He looked tired. More: he looked worn.
The man cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”
He’d been staring, Toby realised. Oops. “I beg your pardon. Have we met, sir? You look familiar.”
The man raised a brow. “I can’t say the same, but I’ve been out of the country for five years. We could resolve the question by exchanging names, perhaps? I’m—uh, Miles Carteret.”
Toby politely disregarded the little stumble of uncertainty: these things happened. “Toby Porrit.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, I fear.”
Toby wasn’t offended, since he’d never seen the man before in his life and that wasn’t his name anyway. “Pleased to meet you. Have you travelled far?” He aimed for casual confidence and a gentlemanly tone, something to place himself as an equal.
“Far enough. I was in the Peninsula.”
“And back safely? That’s surely worth celebrating. Let me get you another. Or a brandy?”
“I’ll take a brandy.” Miles gave a nod of thanks.
Toby obtained the drinks—he hadn’t yet worked out how he was going to avoid settling his account, but that was tomorrow’s problem—and they clinked glasses. “So are you back for good, now it’s all over? Have you sold out?”
“I have indeed. I’m on my way home.”
“Here’s to your safe return.”
They both raised their glasses again. Their eyes met, and this time Miles smiled. He had a very good smile, one that did interesting things to the planes of his face. Toby smiled back, and let the moment stretch just long enough to be sure. Eyes meeting, lips curving, not an offer, but a definite readiness for action. And no dancing around the subject, either. He did like a military man.
“So are you going back for a girl you left behind?” he enquired, just to be sure. “Or were the long years of fidelity a bit much to ask?”
“It would have been a bit much to ask of me,” Miles said with a grin.
Toby arched a brow. “Really? There’s nobody pining for you?”
“No. No. Actually I was coming back to see my father, but it seems he died last week. I had the news when I landed.”
“Oh.” Toby kicked himself. “That’s dreadful. I’m very sorry. Were you close?”
Miles grimaced. “Not really. We weren’t on good terms when I joined up. He wasn’t the easiest father, and I wasn’t much of a son. I had hoped, when we met again— But we won’t, and that’s that.”
“I’m sorry,” Toby said again. “Fathers are difficult. Mine was.”
“Did you resolve matters with him?”
The honest answer was, He caught me with the potboy at the Green Man, so I stole ten pounds he had stashed and ran away, and with any luck I’ll never see the foul old sot again. That wasn’t what Miles would want to hear. “Yes. Yes, we did. I left for some time, and I think my absence helped us both realise what mattered. I came back to ask forgiveness, and learned I’d been forgiven long before.” A tiny widening of Miles’s eyes told him he’d pitched that correctly. He ventured to add, “I’m sorry yours didn’t have the chance to tell you as much. I’d hazard he would have wanted to.”
“Thank you. I hope you’re right. And I think he would be pleased that I’m claiming my place now.”
“Your place?”
“Well, my family name. I didn’t do much for it in my youth. I wasn’t what you’d call responsible.”
In Toby’s world, family names were changed more frequently than linen, but he nodded in a serious sort of way. “Five years of service to your country—that sounds responsible to me.”
“Yes, I think I’ve grown up at last. Time to go home and do my duty.”
“When you get home, absolutely,” Toby said. “I feel one’s allowed a bit more leeway when travelling.”
“There’s that.”
“And one can’t always be dutiful,” he added, meeting those blueish eyes.
Miles held his gaze. “Oh, I don’t know. I rise to the occasion as a soldier should.”
Oh, yes, Toby could take a hint when one was being thrown his way. He tilted his glass, let the brandy moisten his lips, licked them slowly, and saw Miles’ gaze follow the movement of his tongue.
It was academic after that. They finished the brandies, one or the other enquired the way to the privies, and they collided in the dark outside, hands frantic, pulses thumping. Miles pushed Toby against a wall, rubbing against him, groping for his prick through his breeches; Toby wrapped a thigh round him, grabbing his firm arse for balance.
God, this felt good, better than anything had done for a while. Touch, the promise of mutual pleasure, the simple fact of connection with another body. He looked up at Miles, his face barely a dim oval in the darkness, and had just time to think I wonder if he kisses? when Miles’s mouth came down hard on his.
Oh, perfect, perfect. Toby kissed him back with fierce joy, lips urgent, tongues tangling. Biting and gulping at each other with the hunger of desires that needed to be sated, kissing as passionately as lovers who cared, straining into each other.
Perfect, but doubtless not what Miles had come out here for. Toby pulled back, ignoring a touch of reluctance that he had no business feeling, and they both fumbled buttons, then Toby slid down to his knees, and took Miles’ substantial cock at a swallow.
“Christ,” Miles said, barely audible. “God, yes, so good. This is good for you?”
Toby made a quietly enthusiastic noise, since he’d been taught not to talk with his mouth full. Miles gave a soft laugh. “Damnation. I’m glad I met you.”
Say it again tomorrow morning, Toby thought, and then pushed that aside. No point spoiling this interlude. He sucked and licked, worked his own prick while he did it, felt a strong hand gripping his hair as Miles thrust between his tensed lips with flattering enthusiasm, but not excessive force. A gentleman. And God, it was wonderful, the hand caressing his scalp, the tense muscle of the thigh he clutched, the scent and taste and feel of a man in his mouth, all with Miles’s stifled sounds of near-agony—
Toby moaned round him, sucked harder, and came on the ground with a rush, pleasured and pleasuring, as Miles spent in his mouth in three fierce thrusts.
They were both still for a long moment, letting breath return to normal, then Miles released his grasp on Toby’s hair and bent to extend a hand. “Here,” he murmured, pulling him up.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you.” There was a laugh in Miles’ voice. He didn’t release Toby’s hand. “I must say, England’s a great deal better than I remembered. I should have come back sooner.”
“Anything for our brave soldiers,” Toby assured him, and relished his chuckle.
They made their way separately back to the snug, for discretion. Miles already looked heavy-eyed when Toby came in, and his eyelids sagged closed after a couple of moments. Perhaps he was one of those who always dozed off after spending; perhaps it was the brandy and the warmth of the fire.
He looked younger as his face relaxed. Maybe care and the Peninsula had aged him more than his years. Handsome either way. Toby took a moment to appreciate his face as his temporary lover subsided into deep, restful, peaceful sleep.
Then he stole Miles’ watch and pocketbook. He felt quite bad about it, though.
***
THE MONEY RAN OUT FAR sooner than Toby liked, if no later than he expected. He spent most of it on a pair of good boots. Extravagant, perhaps, but if he’d learned anything in his wanderings, it was that a man’s morale was directly linked to how warm and dry his feet were.
He needed to find work again. Last year, he’d wangled himself a perfectly good place as a second footman, being trained in valeting duties to help guests who didn’t have their own men. That virtuous occupation had lasted for a full six months before he’d had to leave without a reference, without goodbyes, and indeed without waking anyone as he crept out of the window, silver forks clinking in his pockets.
So here he was, needing to start afresh, and not for the first time either. Drifting from place to place, trying to keep himself tidy and not look desperate. He wasn’t desperate, not yet, but with the wars over and times so hard, there were a lot of men in search for work, most of them prepared to do harder toil for less money than Toby thought reasonable. And it was summer now, when a man could sleep under a hedge if he had to. In winter, everything would be a great deal more difficult.
He was trying not to think about winter when a man walked into the coaching inn, looked round with an expression of frozen disgust, and very carefully wiped off the seat with a handkerchief before he parked his arse on it. Toby recognised those finicky movements, if not the man making them, and waited for a master to follow him in. Nobody did, which was interesting, so Toby sauntered over.
It took him five minutes to get past Good morning, and after that he had the fellow’s entire life story laid out for him. Mr. Edwin Harrowby was a valet from London, as if that hadn’t been obvious, and had left his last post due to irreconcilable differences with his master. The differences boiled down to Mr. Harrowby saying ‘perquisites’ and his master saying ‘stealing’. It was a common cause of difference.
(Outrageous, Toby assured him. Of course valets had rights to old or discarded or unconsidered or just-left-lying-around clothes. His previous gentleman could hardly have been a gentleman if he didn’t know that.)
But the wheel of fortune had turned once more, this time in Mr. Harrowby’s favour, since he was on his way to take up a position with no less a grandee than the Earl of Arvon himself. Toby applauded, admired, cooed, flattered, and finally begged: Could Mr. Harrowby see his way to letting Toby come with him? Not that he’d ask him to put a word in, he wouldn’t presume anything of the sort, but just in case the Earl was looking for staff? He laced his request liberally with promises of soul-deep allegiance, indicated his willingness to be patronised within an inch of his life, expressed his own humble aspiration to some day reach the foothills of the dizzy summit at which Mr. Harrowby stood. And within two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he was on the coach with a starchy London valet, feeling decidedly pleased with himself.
The coach took them to Great Gilling, a small market town. Mr. Harrowby clearly expected to be met, and looked around with growing outrage as a liveried carriage failed to arrive. Eventually, a carter agreed to give them a lift to Arvon Hall, though he looked surprised at the request.
Mr. Harrowby sat rigidly upright next to the carter, bristling with indignation the whole long way through winding country lanes. That was not good. Toby wouldn’t be thanked for having witnessed this little humiliation, and Harrowby would very likely want to make himself feel better about it at his expense. He’d been on the receiving end of spiteful upper servants before, and it was not a comfortable experience.
He stopped worrying about that when they reached the house.
“Arvon Hall.” The carter spat in a ruminative sort of way. “Pity, ain’t it?”
Toby gaped. The house in front of them was...old. Not old in the sense of ‘ancient stately home’, although it probably was that, but old in the sense of ‘decay’.
Several of the leaded window-panes were broken. The front crawled with ivy. There was an obvious hole in the roof where tiles had slipped, the gravel drive was so overgrown it might be a disused farm-lane, and there were heaps of old crates, boxes, and extremely broken furniture in front of the place. It looked abandoned.
Harrowby found his voice. “What...what is this?”
“Arvon Hall.”
“It’s derelict!”
“Aye. Wondered why you wanted to come ‘ere.”
“But the Earl—”
“Oh, ‘e’s ‘ere,” the driver assured them. “Inside. You want me to wait?”
“No, I do not,” Harrowby said. “I want you to return me at once to the inn so I may take the next stagecoach. At once, do you hear! I have never been so mocked—”
Toby hopped out of the cart, not bothering to listen. “I’ll stay, thanks. Good journey, Mr. Harrowby.”
“You must be mad,” Harrowby said. “Do as you please. Get along, fellow.”
Toby watched while the carter went through the laborious business of turning the cart around. Nobody came out of Arvon Hall while that happened. Maybe it was abandoned.
He went round the house, looking for the servants’ entrance. There was an area at the back, also full of broken chairs and heaps of rubbish—bits of wood, rags, piles of unidentifiable lumber. It looked as if someone was clearing the house by throwing everything into the garden.
They weren’t going to be looking for a second footman here. But they might have use for a willing worker who’d labour for a roof over his head and a bite to eat, not to mention an opportunity to help himself to anything that might be valuable, although that last was seeming less likely by the minute
As he was looking around, wondering if he ought to have taken the lift back to Great Gilling after all, a door opened, and a man emerged. At least, Toby assumed he was a man from the trousers. The rest was obscured by a pile of boxes, which teetered unnervingly as he made his staggering way forward.
“Sir? I beg your pardon?” Toby said. “May I help you?”
“What the devil— Who’s there?”
“My name is Edwin Harrowby.” If they didn’t actually need a valet here, and clearly they didn’t, Toby might be able to wring compensation out of the Earl for ‘his’ wasted journey. “Lord Arvon engaged a valet, which is myself—”
“Damnation,” the man muttered from behind his boxes. “All right, just a moment—hell!”
Toby jumped forward as the pile swayed, and pushed it back. “I’ve got it.”
“Keep holding. Just—the heap to the left, my left—there!”
Toby took a step back, out of the way, as the pile crashed down in a cloud of dust. Hopefully that intervention had earned him this fellow’s goodwill, whoever he was—footman, groom?—which might put him in a better position with Lord Arvon.
He put on his best smile and looked round at the box-carrier.
It was Miles.