by Merry Farmer
He could see in an instant by Alistair’s expression that he hadn’t. “Do they find wives for men like us?” he asked with a self-deprecating smirk.
“They might,” Joe answered with a shrug.
Alistair’s brow pinched into a frown. “What kind of organization are they?”
“A social one,” Joe said. “For men like us. Of all classes. Not a brothel or anything like that,” he rushed to clarify, knowing too well that many of the clubs and groups of men like them were for the purpose of finding a warm body to pass the night with. “In fact, that sort of thing is discouraged on the premises of the club.”
“They have a club?” Alistair stepped closer, his expression intrigued.
“Yes. It’s on Park Lane, facing Hyde Park.”
“And are you a member?” A look of hopeful curiosity lit Alistair’s eyes.
“I am.” Joe nodded. “But not a very active one. I’ve only been to the club once. It was nice,” he said, feeling as though the word were entirely inaccurate for the peace and relief of a place where he didn’t have to worry about what he said or how he behaved. There were precious few places in the world where men like him and Alistair could take a deep breath and be themselves.
“You believe this Brotherhood would have a solution to my problems?” Alistair took another step closer.
“At the very least, I’m certain you would be able to find someone to talk to who has been in your position and could advise you,” Joe told him. “The one time I was there, I noted several married men of the aristocracy among the members. Men who have been in the position you are in now. The Brotherhood is not limited by class or wealth, though. It welcomes everyone from high to low.”
“How very modern of it.” Alistair’s smile returned, as did the spark in his eyes. “I suppose if you recommend the place—”
His words were cut off and he jumped back, spilling some of the wine from the glass he still held, as a sudden swell of noise and conversation rose up in the hall. At the same time, his father stirred and mumbled as he awoke. Supper, and the intimate moment, had ended.
Alistair took another step back and a last swig of wine. “Thank you, Joe,” he said, keeping his voice down. As soon as he set the glass on the table with the wine bottle and glanced out into the hall as guests filtered out of the dining room, breaking into male and female groups to continue the socializing, Alistair’s entire demeanor changed. It was only then that Joe realized how much tension had drained from his new friend’s shoulders and how soft his voice had become. All that vanished before Joe’s eyes, leaving a sharp pain in his heart.
“What’s going on in here?” another gentleman, who bore a resemblance to Alistair, said as he stepped into the room with a grey-haired woman.
“Mr. Logan here has been helping tidy up Father’s jacket,” Alistair said, crossing to the couple. “Is it safe to assume you would rather go straight home than take tea with the ladies, Mama?” he asked the older woman, kissing her cheek.
“Yes,” the woman said, looking as though she’d had a miserable time at supper.
Alistair smiled weakly at her, then turned back to Joe. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Logan.”
“My pleasure, my lord.” Joe snapped into a formal bow, throwing the imaginary mantle of service and deference around his shoulders to protect both him and Alistair from any hint of what they’d shared being picked up by the others. He marched to the door, back as straight as any good servant’s.
“I’ll have the carriage brought around,” the man who must have been Alistair’s brother said.
“And I’ll see to Father,” Alistair said with a nod.
As Joe walked past him, their eyes met one last time. Neither betrayed so much as a hint of what had clearly ignited between them. As Joe left the room, he vowed to himself that, no matter what it took, he would find a way to spend time in Alistair’s company again.
Chapter 3
Alistair Bevan refused to leave Joe’s thoughts, even after the gentleman and his family left Eccles House, the supper party broke up, and the Eccles family parted company to go to bed. Joe’s head had been turned by handsome men before, but there was more to Alistair than a pretty face. The conversation they’d had would stick with Joe for a long time. Duty was a heavy load, and it seemed to be harder to carry for men like them.
“Careful, Logan,” Lord Burbage grumbled as Joe unbuttoned the starched collar of his master’s shirt. “What is the point of having a valet to help me undress if you do it in such a ham-fisted way.”
“Sorry, my lord.” Joe took greater care with the collar, unbuttoning it in the back, then carrying it over to a side table as Burbage unbuttoned his shirt. He returned to Burbage to remove the cufflinks from his sleeves.
“What a disaster of a party,” Burbage continued to complain, though it was unclear whether he was addressing Joe in particular or talking to himself. “Palmerston is an ass, no matter what the topic of conversation. If I had to listen to his self-aggrandizement for one more minute, I would have exploded like a shell on the battlefield.”
Joe nodded, knowing his commentary wasn’t necessary, and reached out to receive Burbage’s shirt as he removed it.
“And what is the point of inviting a woman like Lady Alice Norton if she turns out to be such a cold fish?” Burbage went on.
Joe fought to keep his expression neutral. What business did Burbage have sniffing around a young woman like Lady Alice when he had a wife of his own who was in the family way?
“There’s nothing worse than a blushing debutante,” Burbage continued. “All that false modesty and pretend innocence. Women are three a penny, and I defy you to find even the most stalwart nun who won’t part her legs for a pretty bauble or a few whispered words.”
Disgust coursed through Joe, but he hid it by taking Burbage’s shirt aside, then returning for his trousers once those were off. As Burbage sat on the edge of his bed to remove his socks, Joe fetched his pajamas from the wardrobe.
“At least dear Lady Alice didn’t seem the least bit interested in taking Lord Winslow’s bait and panting after his dreadful bore of a son,” Burbage said. Joe’s ears pricked up and his pulse quickened at allusion to Alistair. “As if Alistair Bevan could win the daughter of a marquess like that,” Burbage sniffed.
“As I understand, my lord, Lord Farnham is a peer in his own right and may soon inherit an earldom,” Joe said, taking Burbage’s dirty socks in exchange for the pajamas.
Burbage snorted. “It will be a case of one embarrassment passing the torch to another embarrassment. Lord Winslow is as mad as a March hare, and his son is as incapable of catching the interest of a woman as an Amazonian frog.”
The hair on the back of Joe’s neck stood up at the comment. He glanced at Burbage out of the corner of his eye as the man stripped off his underclothes to put on his pajamas. Burbage couldn’t possibly know Alistair’s nature, could he? Men like Alistair were generally careful to a fault.
“No,” Burbage went on, buttoning his pajama top, “Farnham is most likely to end up with some social-climbing young miss from the country, the daughter of a clergyman, no doubt, with dreams of being a countess. He’ll be brow-beaten and harried, like any middle-class husband, and he’ll deserve it.”
Joe kept his lips pressed tightly shut as he fetched Burbage’s underthings from the floor, where Burbage had tossed them. He hoped, for Alistair’s sake, that he didn’t end up in that sort of marriage hell. Though he supposed the best Alistair could hope for was a quiet, innocent woman with a sweet disposition who wouldn’t question his inevitable lack of passion.
The tragedy was, Joe believed Alistair was capable of a great deal of passion. The sparks that had flown between the two of them made that much obvious. Given the right circumstances, Alistair would likely be fiery and imaginative. Images of the two of them locked in a carnal embrace, enjoying each other to the fullest, filled Joe’s mind. He would show Alistair a thing or two, if given half a chance, and he had
no doubt that the gorgeous nobleman would return the favor energetically.
The fantasy was so potent that Joe’s prick stiffened in response. That in itself, while still in the process of helping Burbage to bed, was enough to startle Joe out of his thoughts and back to his duty.
“By the way,” Burbage asked as he pulled back his bedcovers and slid into bed. “How did that old madman, Winslow, get on? Did he manage to spill anything else on his wretchedly-tailored dinner jacket after leaving the table? Vine told me you attended to him.”
“Lord Winslow recovered well enough, my lord,” Joe said with a bland smile that he hoped betrayed nothing of the disapproval he felt for Burbage’s spiteful attitude, or the instant fondness he felt for Alistair.
“What a joke.” Burbage laughed and shook his head as he sat with his back against his headboard, reaching for the novel he’d been reading for the last few nights. “Winslow should do us all a favor and die as soon as possible. As it is, I’ve no doubt he will continue to embarrass us all with his madness. Why my father insists on keeping company with him is beyond me.”
“Your father and Lord Winslow have been friends for some time, haven’t they, my lord?” Joe asked, stepping just outside of what was proper for him as he gathered Burbage’s dirty clothes.
“Hardly,” Burbage huffed. “Father despises the man. But he is useful for seating next to old codgers and boring dowagers at a dinner party.” He paused for a moment before continuing with, “Father seems to think that old fool would be more dangerous if he were cut than by keeping him around.”
Joe nodded, standing with his back straight, waiting to be dismissed.
“I suppose Father knows what he’s about,” Burbage sighed, opening his book but not looking at it yet. “And I suppose I shall have to keep company with that dullard son of his once the old bastard kicks up his heels.”
Burbage said nothing more. He turned his attention to his book, seeming to forget Joe was still standing there. Joe tried not to seethe at his apparent insignificance in Burbage’s eyes. Frustration was making him restless, and not just because of the callous things Burbage said about a pair of men he found fascinating. He was wasting his time, and not just by standing silently by while Burbage read.
Joe had been employed by Burbage for too long without finding a shred of evidence that might lead him to Lily. The first few months that he’d spent at Eccles House had been filled with inquiries and investigations at brothels that had led nowhere. After that, he’d found a way to question every servant in Eccles House he could about Lily’s disappearance without revealing to any of them that he was her brother. In any other household, he would have let everyone know immediately that Lily was his sister. But there was an undercurrent of nastiness, both upstairs and down, in Eccles House that prompted him to keep his business to himself. Enough to make him wonder if Lily had fled to escape it. But if she had simply found another, nicer position, she would have written home about it.
Whatever Lily had been thinking, in the last few months, Joe had grown complacent in his search. Comfort and a salary that he could send home to his parents had jostled Lily to the back of his mind. That and the number of dead ends he’d run into. And now Alistair had turned his head. He had no business letting a man who had problems of his own occupy so much of his thoughts. And yet, he couldn’t abide the idea of never seeing Alistair again. Perhaps, if Alistair took his advice and sought the help of The Brotherhood to solve his marital problems, they would encounter each other again at The Brotherhood’s club.
A new thought jumped into Joe’s mind as he contemplated the idea of spending more time at the club. If someone among the membership of The Brotherhood had the experience to consult with Alistair about his problems, perhaps someone else might also have experience in tracing a missing family member. Someone there might be able to help him with Lily. It was true, The Brotherhood’s concerns ran more along the lines of helping men like him out of sticky legal and financial situations. He had never heard of anyone at the club concerning themselves with missing persons. But if The Brotherhood’s network was as extensive as he thought it was, help that he hadn’t considered before might be right around the corner.
His thoughts were still rolling over each other when Burbage jerked his head up in surprise. “Are you still here, Logan?” he snapped, his face pinched in annoyance.
“You did not dismiss me, my lord,” Joe said, rushing to soften his words with, “I was concerned you might still need something.”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Burbage said, turning back to his book. “You may go.”
“My lord.” Joe nodded and turned to leave. He paused at the door, though, twisting back to say, “My lord, I have an errand to run tomorrow. There are several items I need for repairs to your winter coat. If there is a time when it would be better for me to run this errand—”
“Whenever you’d like, once I’m dressed,” Burbage said without looking up at him. “I have no plans for tomorrow, other than to spend the afternoon at White’s.”
“Very good, my lord.” Joe bowed once again, then turned to go, a smile touching his lips. After months of inactivity, he felt as though he might just have stumbled across something that could bring him closer to Lily. And if he happened to meet Alistair again in the process, he wasn’t about to complain.
By the time their carriage pulled up to the front door of the Bevans’ stately house deep in the heart of Mayfair, Alistair’s headache had returned.
“Why did we leave the supper so early?” his father asked, irritated. “The fish course hadn’t even been served yet.”
“Supper ended ages ago, Father,” Darren informed him, stepping out of the carriage first to help their mother down.
“You slept through most of it,” Alistair told his father, climbing down next to help the man.
“I did not,” his father growled, bristling as Alistair slipped his arm around his back, practically carrying him to the front door. “I would never fall asleep during a formal supper party, particularly not one hosted by that snake, Chisolm.”
Alistair exchanged a flat look with Darren over their parents’ heads. “I’m sorry to inform you, but you did.”
“Nonsense,” his father huffed.
Alistair nodded to their butler, Travers, who rushed down the stairs to take Alistair’s place supporting his father as they entered the house.
“I’ll see that Lord Winslow finds his way to bed, my lord,” Travers said.
“Thank you,” Alistair replied from the bottom of his heart.
He watched from the foot of the stairs in the front hall as Travers helped his father upstairs, his mother hovering just behind, her face lined with sorrow. There was nothing else he could do but feel stupidly helpless.
“I think this calls for a drink,” Darren said, thumping his back as he moved forward, walking down the hall.
Alistair followed him to the family’s private study at the back of the house and straight to the cabinet that held their father’s liquor. In theory, Alistair and Darren had been forbidden from touching any of the bottles there from the time they were boys. In reality, they had been the ones to drink most of it for the last decade without their father noticing.
“It’s a terrible business,” Darren said, handing him a tumbler of scotch. “But what can we do?”
Alistair grunted and took a swig of the scotch. It was a damn sight more potent than the wine Joe had brought him from Lord Chisolm’s cellar earlier in the evening.
That thought instantly brought Joe’s dark eyes and tempting smile to Alistair’s mind. There was no way to measure the danger of reacting to the young valet as he had. If Joe hadn’t been of the same mind as him, there was no telling what sort of disaster would have occurred. But Joe was like him, and if Alistair was any judge of things, Joe had experienced the same instant attraction.
Which only made the situation worse.
“Father was clumsy about his methods,” Darren said after
a drink of his own, eyeing Alistair seriously, “but he was right in his conclusions.”
“About what?” Alistair asked, walking to one of the bookcases in the hope that movement would push the memory of Joe’s fetching smile, trim waist, and long legs behind him.
“Speaking the way he did at the supper table was crass,” Darren said, following him, “but he is right when he says you should marry, and soon.”
Alistair winced as he glanced to his brother.
“I know you’re shy.” Darren approached him with one hand raised, as if Alistair would protest. “Especially around women. They don’t bite, you know.”
“I am not shy,” Alistair protested, though he was fairly certain he blushed as he said as much, which would give Darren the wrong idea entirely.
Darren made a face of complete doubt. “You avoid social events whenever you can. You barely dance when you attend balls. And I can count on one hand the number of close friends you have.”
Alistair was surprised that he could count any. Friendship was a liability when his secrets could be uncovered at any moment. “None of that means I’m shy.”
“Whether it does or not,” Darren went on, shaking his head, “the fact of the matter is that you need a wife and an heir. So do I, for that matter.”
“You do?” A glimmer of hope lit in Alistair’s chest. If Darren married and had a passel of children, perhaps he could avoid the same fate. It was all the same to him if the Winslow title passed from him to Darren and Darren’s sons once he was gone.
But no, as the eldest son, that burden fell squarely on his shoulders.
“I’ve already got a few ideas,” Darren admitted. “And I’m not averse to the idea of a wife and babies. Every man meets his match eventually, doesn’t he?”
He was close enough to thump Alistair’s arm. Alistair grinned at the gesture and finished his scotch. What would it look like for him to meet his match? Was such a thing even possible?
