Eight

Thomas stabled the horse with the un-asked for assistance of the cumbersome Ukrainian, while Silas was made to wait in the carriage. When Tripp was satisfied that the animal was well bedded, he addressed Silas with a click of his fingers and ordered him out. Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he followed the others to a door set in the back of a house that towered over his head. Craning his neck, the brickwork faded into darkness before it reached the roof.

‘Pay attention.’ Tripp gathered them in the porch. ‘I will inform His Lordship that you are here.’ He spoke to Silas. ‘You will both wash your face and hands in the scullery and ensure your shoes are clean. Thomas will escort you to the servants’ hall where you will await His Lordship.’ He turned to Fecker. ‘You will remain outside.’

‘Nyet,’ said Fecker. ‘I stay with Banyak.’

‘Are you insinuating against His Lordship?’ Tripp blustered. ‘How dare you insult a man of honour.’

‘Oi, keep you skiddies on, Tripp,’ Silas said, wading in. ‘Me mate is worried about me safety, that’s all.’

‘And you only speak when you’re spoken to,’ Thomas ordered.

‘Oh, sorry I saved you from a beating, Ginger,’ Silas sneered like a child. ‘No, don’t mention it.’

‘I go with Banyak, or we feck off.’

‘And we shall have none of that kind of language from either of you,’ Tripp insisted. ‘Very well. The foreigner can wait in the kitchen, and Thomas can explain his presence. Now, check your shoes, all of you.’

Silas liked to learn, and his mother encouraged him to take what lessons he could, going without new shoes, so she could pay for them. Scraping his own worn boots reminded him of her, and he wondered what she would make of all this.

‘Get your hand off the wall,’ Thomas barked and knocked the arm Silas had been using for balance.

It hurt, but he said nothing. It was entertaining to watch Thomas’ behaviour. Inquisitive at first but after finding himself body to body with the renter in the trap, angry. Was he annoyed with Silas for holding him down, or with himself for enjoying it? Either way, Silas thought Thomas needed shaking up, and he looked for an opportunity to get his own back for his mistreatment.

Passing inspection by Tripp, they were led into a short passage of closed doors, past a hatstand and into a cavern. At least, that’s what it felt like. The ceiling was arched and high, and the walls tiled. The far wall was taken up by a recess that housed a fireplace and ovens, a row of barred windows lined the top of another and beneath these stood huge dressers displaying pans that glinted the colour of Thomas’ hair. It was all set around a massive table with a central avenue of jars lined regimentally from one end to the other. It was hard not to swear in awe, and it suddenly occurred to Silas that he was warm. It was the first time in weeks.

He was made to wash his hands in a sink and do what he could to tidy his face and hair while Thomas stood over him and Fecks waited for his turn. It took Silas a full five minutes to scrape the crud from beneath his fingernails. Luckily for him, the kitchen smelt of pie and herbs, and it masked the smell of his clothes. He was grateful that he’d not been made to take his shoes off.

Thomas gave Fecks instructions to wash and wait at the table before he beckoned Silas to follow him through to another room.

‘You pissed off with me, Tommy?’ Silas asked, when they were alone in the servants’ hall.

‘Do not speak until you are…’

‘Yeah, I heard you.’

Silas helped himself to a chair at another long, worn table, but Thomas told him to stay standing facing a passageway and a staircase.

‘I thought we got along fine last night,’ Silas said, doing as he was told, but choosing to stand directly beside Thomas and close.

‘Be quiet.’ Thomas took a step forward and away.

‘Your dick was happy to say hello.’

‘I said, be quiet.’ It was more of a hiss than a sentence.

‘Why you being mean to me, Tommy?’ Silas inched closer.

‘Please, shut up.’ Thomas took another step.

Silas caught up. ‘At this rate we’ll be in the front garden by the time you tell me what’s pissing you off. Is it ’cos you fancy me?’

‘Be quiet.’

‘Or is it ’cos you find my kind… What was the word? Disgusting.’

‘Shut up,’ Thomas insisted. ‘Now kindly…’ He was interrupted by a sensation completely new to him and gasped. ‘Get your hand off my backside.’

‘Want it on your cock instead?’

Silas slid his hand towards the front of Thomas’ trousers, but the footman turned on him, grabbed him by the throat and held him against the sideboard, rattling crockery.

‘What are you playing at?’ Thomas whispered through gritted teeth.

Unconcerned by the hold Thomas had, Silas grinned. A swift kneeing and the man would be in agony, but instead of raising his leg, he raised his hand and cupped Thomas’ crotch.

The footman’s green eyes bored into him, and their anger intensified.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Thomas pleaded. His cock was hardening, his cheeks flaming, and his grip tightened.

‘What do you want?’ Silas croaked.

He searched Thomas’ face, but found no answer. He didn’t want to hurt the man, he just wanted to know where he stood, but there was only one way out. Silas pulled Thomas to him by his cock and pressed their mouths together with a clash of teeth.

‘Oh.’ Fecker appeared in the doorway. ‘I hear noise, but it is only you fucking.’

Thomas immediately released Silas and pushed himself away. He straightened his hair and wrestled with the front of his trousers.

‘You safe, Banyak?’

‘Go on with you, I’m fine,’ Silas said, gasping for air as he stared hard at Thomas.

‘I wait in here.’ Fecks returned to the kitchen and Thomas returned to being a footman.

‘You are His Lordship’s guest,’ he said with great restraint. ‘You will not behave like that again.’

‘Thought you’d like it, Tommy.’

‘And stop calling me that, you guttersnipe.’

Whatever Silas had been trying to achieve, he forgot about it when footsteps overhead suggested Fecks had intervened just in time. Sexually charged though he was, Silas stood behind Thomas and left him alone. It was only fair.

Whoever was coming was taking their time, and the footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs where a muffled discussion took place. It gave Silas time to clear his thoughts, but it was in vain. He couldn’t move them on from Thomas, what had just happened and how it left him trembling. Where had the need to kiss him come from? He thought that he had picked up from Thomas a possibility of something new, perhaps something physical that was outside his normal boundary of sex for money. Thomas had potential for… for what?

Silas was confused. Maybe he wanted more than sex, but he had Fecks for companionship, he didn’t need anything else. Thomas was someone new, an unknown quantity and gave an impression of being amenable to Silas’ advances, but what did that all mean? What was this incomprehensible longing gnawing his insides? It wasn’t just physical attraction to other men, it went deeper and was far more disturbing. The conundrum occupied him until the mumbling upstairs stopped, and Thomas stood to attention. The click of the footman’s heels broke Silas’ thoughts.

He looked up into the eyes of the most striking man he had ever seen and, at that moment, knew his life would never be the same.

The viscount was the same height as Thomas, an inch or two taller than Silas, but he seemed larger. His clothes were a surprise. Silas had expected shining gold and silver, but he wore plain, white breeches, buttoned over at the front, with silk slippers on his feet. A cream waistcoat began at his middle and spread to broad shoulders, parting to reveal a shirt with no collar whose sleeves barely constrained the muscles beneath. The man’s costume might have given him the appearance of a soldier, had he not been in the process of adding to the uniform a long, black smoking jacket on which was embroidered gold dragons. He left it casually open at the front, rubbed his hands together and held one out.

‘Viscount Clearwater,’ he said.

Although he had taken in the man’s body in a heartbeat, the face deserved a more studied approach. The soft chin, prominent cheekbones and shadowing of stubble showing a white scar on his jawbone were captivating enough, but it was the eyes that Silas could not let go. They were brown, compassionate and glistened in the gaslight.

Thomas, who Silas had instantly forgotten, clicked his fingers and Silas pulled himself together. He had let his guard down again, but this time felt no remorse. Somehow he knew he was to be well treated.

He thrust forward his hand but was not close enough to reach the viscount’s.

‘You may step forward,’ Thomas whispered.

Silas did, and his hand was grasped before he had a chance to put his foot down.

‘It’s so good of you to come,’ the viscount enthused, pumping Silas’ arm. ‘I’ve sent Mr Tripp to his rooms for the evening, Thomas,’ he went on without pause. ‘It wasn’t easy, but it means you are in charge. Good Lord! Did you have an accident?’

His hand was finally released, but Silas wasn’t sure who the man was talking to. He remembered Thomas’ command and kept his mouth shut. He had thought that he would meet an old duffer, effeminately dressed and easy to manipulate, but his assumption had been wrong. The viscount wasn’t much older than Thomas, was just as fit, and had left Silas’ legs trembling. His presence had sucked Silas’ confidence, leaving him too empty to speak.

‘A skirmish, My Lord,’ Thomas replied. ‘I apologise if my appearance is a little off, and I shall pay for any repairs necessary to your coat.’

‘Last of my worries.’ The viscount dismissed the offer and, to Silas’ surprise, took Thomas by the shoulder and led him to a chair. ‘Sit there,’ he said. ‘And tell me where Mrs Baker keeps whatever she uses on scrapes.’

‘It’s nothing, Sir,’ Thomas insisted as he was gently pushed into a chair. ‘I shall attend to it.’

‘Easy, Thomas,’ was the viscount’s reply. ‘It’s one of those times.’

Silas didn’t know what that meant, but the words unnerved the footman who smiled weakly, swallowed and pointed to the dresser.

His Lordship fiddled in several drawers while Thomas related the story of the unrest and the journey, and Silas waited, irked that the footman had made no mention of Fecks in their escape.

The viscount returned to Thomas and handed him a bottle and a cloth.

‘Are you injured?’ he asked, and Silas realised he was being spoken to.

‘No, Sir.’

‘If you’re sure, good, but let me have another look at you.’

Being examined was strangely stimulating, and Silas wondered if slaves sold at market had felt the same. A weird combination of apprehension and excitement. He was sure they wouldn’t have experienced the same growing interest in their would-be master as he did.

‘It’s remarkable, Thomas,’ the viscount said. ‘So similar to my drawing.’

‘I thought so, Sir. Oh…’ Thomas stopped administering to himself and stood. ‘I must inform you that we were forced to bring another street… another young man with us. He is waiting in the kitchen.’

‘I was going to ask,’ the viscount said, heading that way. ‘I saw the trap come by. Hello?’ he called, and a second later Fecks appeared, filling the doorway.

His greatcoat reached the floor a long distance from his shoulders which were covered by hair left uncut for a year. Silas was concerned that the viscount would feel threatened by Feck’s bulk as most people were, but if he was, he showed no signs of it. Quite the opposite. He shook Feck’s hand as if they had known each other for years and showed him into the room. Seating Fecker, he indicated that Silas should take the opposite chair.

‘Tell me your names,’ the viscount beamed, clasping his hands on the table when they were seated.

His affability left no excuse for falsehood, and Silas gave his real name, something he never did at a first meeting.

‘And you?’

‘People call me Fecker.’

‘Why is that?’ His Lordship enquired.

‘I feck hard with big cock.’

Thomas coughed angrily, to which Fecks gave one of his noncommittal shrugs, but the smile the viscount had applied to his lips remained. His dark eyelashes flickered, and he narrowed his stare towards Silas.

‘His name is Andrej,’ Silas said as if it explained anything.

‘Thank you. And you are of Irish descent.’ His Lordship sat back, folded his arms and thought. ‘I can hear it, but you have a second-hand accent.’ He held up a finger as Silas opened his mouth to give him the story. ‘I would hazard that one or both of your parents were Irish, but you were brought up… Tell me your name again?’

‘Silas Hawkins.’

‘You were brought up in the north-west. Westerpool, I should say, or nearby. What are you? Twenty-three? Four?’

‘You are right about the accent, Sir, but I’m twenty in two weeks.’

‘I am sorry,’ His Lordship said. ‘Perhaps it is your hair that makes you appear older. I understand it must be difficult to find good barbering in your…’

Silas would have forgiven him for saying poverty, because it was true. The viscount was as unused to entertaining a street boy as Silas was out of place in his house, even the kitchen.

‘It’s alright, Sir,’ he said. ‘You’re right. We don’t have money for food half the time, let alone barbers. Now, if you don’t mind me getting down to it, we’d both be happy to know what we’re doing here, only me mate there thinks it’s for sex, but Tommy says you only want to talk.’

The viscount was unphased by Silas’ directness, in fact, he appeared reassured by it. He paused Silas with his finger again and addressed Fecks.

‘You’re from the Ukraine area of Russia. Am I correct?’

Fecker beamed with delight. ‘Da!’

‘South, perhaps, and I am looking at your stature rather than your accent. Let me guess at Odessa, or nearby.’

Fecks was amazed for a second, but fell suddenly serious, if not a little scared. ‘How you know this? You gypsy?’

‘Come on, Fecks,’ Silas said. ‘You can talk better English than that. Show some respect to the gentleman.’

Thomas looked at him in surprise and, Silas thought with a little admiration.

‘Sorry, Lord,’ Fecks said, lowering his head in shame. ‘I am not education like you.’

‘Let’s get over this divide right now,’ the viscount sighed. ‘Andrej, I can tell where you are from, only because I have been fortunate enough to travel there, to the Black Sea mainly, and I know they build fine figures of men. Your language skills, considering your position, are to be applauded, and thank you for taking the trouble to converse with me in my own tongue. Silas, you are more of a mystery, and I imagine you feel intimidated. The reason for this is simple. Thomas, or more likely, Tripp, has told you to ask no questions and yet has told you none of my intentions.’

He spoke fluently, and his tone was reassuring. Within a sentence Silas found himself admiring the man. The unusual attraction he had for Thomas — the need for something more than just a grapple of his dick — shifted to the viscount and intensified. The man commanded the room just by being in it and filled it with his good nature. He was handsome for sure and would have been a prize for any street boy, but the moment Silas thought of him as a potential trick, he knew the viscount was above that and, more worryingly, he knew that he didn’t want to see the man as just another shilling in his pocket.

He had no more time to ponder what that meant because His Lordship continued.

‘The lack of information concerning your visit is not the fault of my staff, but is mine alone,’ he said. ‘They are doing their duty, they have done it well, and I shall explain in time. Firstly, however, I am not one for distinctions when below stairs unless necessary, as Thomas may attest. It makes him uncomfortable to know this, but I hope he will adapt.’ The last part was added with a smile at the footman, who while remaining po-faced, nodded. ‘Which is my way of saying that I am aware you two live a wretched life whereas we don’t. We couldn’t be further apart, and you must both excuse me if I speak disrespectfully, or out of turn, or in ways that embarrass you. If I do, it is purely because this is a new experience for me, and I have no understanding of your lives. And that is the reason I asked you here.’

He had finished what he wanted to say and rose from his seat.

‘What that all mean?’ Fecker asked.

‘He can’t help being a snob,’ Silas clarified.

‘Do you mind!’ Thomas was outraged, but the viscount was laughing. ‘My Lord?’

‘Disarm yourself, Thomas,’ he said. ‘The man is quite correct and much more succinct.’ He turned at the dresser, holding a bottle of wine. ‘If I may offer you gentlemen a drink, I will explain my purpose while we take it. What say you?’

In the dumfounded pause that followed, Fecker’s stomach rumbled, mimicking the sound of a passing carriage, but he showed no awkwardness.

‘And after,’ the viscount said, a smile breaking on his face. ‘We shall eat.’