“Now, if you are quite finished, I have matters requiring my attention,” said Thomas.
Watching his face in the slightly gloomy, dimly illuminated room, Lee wished things were different. Had been different. Really, it was Father’s iron grip on the two of them that had caused one to become so rigid and brittle that one was broken by some alluring tables, and the other became lost and battle-scarred.
No matter how hard he strove to, he could not entirely blame Thomas.
*
Lee was about to return home to reassess, when he came across a most dramatic and puzzling scene. An older woman dressed in attire Lee most often associated with maids or charwomen was sobbing near the servants’ entrance to the house. Two young footmen, both wearing grim expressions, set a trunk down next to her. Lingering a small distance away, he tried to suss out what was happening. It looked like the woman was being dismissed, but he’d not witnessed such hysterics during a dismissal before. Before he could step closer, Clements joined the woman. He appeared bewildered.
Then the serious-faced footmen returned bearing another trunk, which they plopped near Clements’ feet, and Lee understood. These must have been the matters Thomas needed to attend to.
Not only was he cutting Lee off, which he knew he could navigate, and that was more than elderly servants could say—Thomas was also letting go of his staff. In and of itself, that might be expected when one was indebted, but to dismiss the longest running without so much as a kind word upon their departure struck Lee as keenly insensitive. Clements’ expression was what motivated him to go forward.
“Oh, Lord Emilian,” Clements said. He was flustered, distinctly embarrassed at being seen in such a state.
“Did you know you were to be dismissed?”
The answer to that was already obvious, thought Lee, but he wanted confirmation before he went back inside and offered his older brother a sound slap about the head.
One couldn’t go offending a duke without due cause.
Clements hesitated before his countenance broke. “No,” he said, “I’d no idea.”
Lee tilted his head toward the maid, who was still crying in a messy fashion. He could surmise why: she was not young, so it was possible that unemployment could stretch a long time for her. She might never find another position. “And you?”
The woman, whose nose was red as a ruby as her eyes watered, had to come nearer to him. His voice did not carry over her snuffling. “No, my lord, nor did I. I knew that matters were not…” she went quiet and seemed to think better of speaking ill of her employer. “The duke, we all knew he was encountering…”
“Difficulties,” said Clements. “Mr. Clyde has been here often, and he has been to the estate.”
“Yes, difficulties,” said the woman.
“What’s your name?” Lee said.
“Mrs. Yarrow, my lord.”
“And you are… a maid?”
“No, my lord, the cook.”
“Mrs. Yarrow was hired originally by your late father,” said Clements. “After you went…” he sighed. “Away.”
Working to keep the infuriation out of his voice and face, Lee thought, Of course Thomas would think he doesn’t need to keep a cook. The man hardly ate save for breakfast, preferring instead wine and spirits. If he’s doing away with the cook, it… giving a great sigh, Lee realized that this probably meant Thomas was doing away with the majority of the servants.
It was rare for a duke to give up all of these trappings, as he was expected to participate in the ton’s society round.
Had Thomas cared so little for keeping up the Valencourt family name and status that he’d run the Welburn dukedom into the ground to satiate his desires? Lee would have to ask Paul if he knew of any other duke who’d comported himself so badly within recent memory. But right now, he needed to do something.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Yarrow.”
Mrs. Yarrow curtsied as best she could while shivering with little sobs. “Thank you, my lord. We’ve not had the opportunity to meet, and I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
So was Lee. His family apparently had a history of turning people out on their ears to make their own ways in the world. “Neither of you are to leave the property until I return and give you my leave.” He softened the order with a smile. “Is that understood?”
Mystified, Clements said, “Yes, my lord.”
Turning on his heel to find Thomas, Lee went back inside the house, brushing past the footmen lingering in the servants’ entrance. He knew it well, having used it many times in the past to sneak out at night.
He discovered Thomas in the study, drinking what smelled like fortified wine as he glanced through a sheaf of papers on his desk.
“I see you cannot be bothered with human decency,” said Lee.
Thomas did not flinch as he downed the entire glass, at least two servings’ worth. “And you can be? You are a pinnacle of the bleeding heart. I should not be surprised.”
“Have you at least supplied them with references?”
“I don’t see why I should.”
“Because you are depriving them of their livelihoods!” Lee could not shout, not any longer, but he wanted to. His voice ended on a rasping sibilance.
“That is hardly my concern.”
Mouth agape, Lee stared at his brother. “What of everyone else?”
“I shall retain the minimum number of staff.”
That was barely an answer, but Lee doubted he would get anywhere along this line of questioning. “Very well. Your Grace, may I have your leave to have Mr. Clements and Mrs. Yarrow accompany me?” Disgusted with his brother’s cold, careless attitude, he thought that he could at least do something for those two. He could hardly find work for every servant Thomas was going to dismiss, but he could not turn a blind eye to the two he’d just spoken to. Doing something was better than doing nothing.
“Why do you care what happens to them, Emilian?”
“I have no answer that will make sense to your views of the world,” said Lee.
“I believe you’re correct. Very well, take them. I care not what you do with them, although I fail to see how a man of your means will support two servants.”
“I shall think of something.” He did not need to explain himself to Thomas, although the man was right about his inability to materially provide for anyone. He could barely support himself now, much less two other adults. That wasn’t quite in his shadowy, vaporous plan. As so much of his luck did, these days, it relied on the generosity of others.
Lee had been ill-treated, but he had not quite lost faith in the goodness of most humans. The day he did was the day he knew he’d be lost. He was no fool, but neither did he think most individuals were like Thomas. And even Thomas had, in large part, responded to how he was treated. Like a prized pony.
Worse than a prized pony.
“You are very enterprising.”
“I don’t know if that is a compliment or not.”
“I won’t start complimenting you now, you know.” Thomas’ dark eyes glowed almost feverishly. “Now, if you will be so good as to leave me, I should like to have some peace.”
With all of his replies dying before they could be said aloud in the room, Lee nodded and went silently from the study. This place felt like a tomb already, the quiet falling heavily on his ears, the sweet, sick scent of dust filling his nose.
Lee went down the stairs and traced his way back to the servants’ entrance. Both Clements and Mrs. Yarrow were still there, as he’d requested, each sitting on their trunk. At least it was not raining.
But he hated this kind of cheery, blustery weather. It always made his head ache something fierce.
“I have spoken to the duke, and you’ll both be coming with me, if you so choose,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Mrs. Yarrow, her eyes wide and red-rimmed from crying. She sounded far too grateful, and Lee knew it was because she assumed that he had th
e means to support staff. “You won’t be disappointed.”
But Clements knew the truth of Lee’s situation. He eyed him not without gratefulness, but with a little shrewdness. “Anything is better than being turned out without references, my lord.”
At the very least, Lee could write them references. His title and station still counted for something. He might be straddling two worlds and feeling ill at ease in both of them, but he was neither useless nor heartless. And he was always, always resourceful.
“I cannot condone my brother’s churlish behavior.”
Mrs. Yarrow gasped, but Clements dimpled in agreement.
How different things might have been if Lee were the duke. He, at the minimum, cared about the household. It was long ago, but he’d once been the favorite of the staff and servants, who perhaps felt badly for the curious, gregarious little boy who had no mother and only a father and a brother who rather openly disdained him.
“You are nothing like him, my lord,” said Clements. “Shall I have the carriage brought? I may not work here any longer, but they’ll still listen to me.” That was Clements, all good-natured, gallows humor. Lee nodded. Clements gave some sort of nonverbal signal, a little movement of his hands that might have looked like a tic to an untrained observer. One of the lads hanging around the footmen went for the stable.
Thus it was that Lord Emilian Robert Valencourt found himself accompanied by two of his brother’s dismissed servants in a carriage rattling toward the Strand, with just an extremely vague idea of how he was going to help them.
He had an even sketchier idea of how he was going to help himself. But years of facing increasingly bad luck meant that he would rather solve others’ problems than his own. At his core, he felt neither worthy of the investment nor brave enough to turn his attentions inward. It was, perhaps, a mistake in thinking that led to well-meaning, but strong and irrevocable, impulsive actions.
Chapter Two
It was early morning and he should be asleep, but he was fixing some loose boards and nursing a headache because he’d had too much to drink.
Lee disliked all of those things separately, and utterly reviled them together. Maybe the morning most of all. While he could craft illusions that would trick an audience into seeing almost anything, he had little interest in carpentry despite being decent at it. Had it not been Slim who’d called in a favor, he would simply have gone from The Wilted Rose to his bed. Still half-drunk.
He would not have gone from The Wilted Rose to an empty theater where sounds echoed terribly due to the emptiness. The yeasty smell of alcohol still permeated from the night before, and so did the scent of rotten food. It was enough to turn one’s stomach. No one apart from Slim, Paul, Lee, and a woman paid to clean the premises was present. He didn’t mind it, normally, when things were empty like this. In fact, he usually found empty venues peaceful. They were serene and a touch eerie, like a quiet churchyard at dusk.
But night was only several hours ago, he thought, full of self-pity for the state of his head and self-loathing for having caused it to hurt. He should know better. He was experienced enough in drinking dens.
At least he was getting paid. This might take only another half-hour. He didn’t want the stage to be unsafe and it would not take long to ensure his work was complete.
Slim had been performing roles and writing plays and managing theaters or companies since he was in his twenties. He was past sixty, now. Give or take a few years. No one could state how old he really was—but all could assert that he was not slim. Almost as wide as a broad door, Slim was cheerful and wily. If he needed Mr. Judd, whom he familiarly called “Gordon”, Mr. Judd appeared.
Were it not for Slim, Gordon would have given up trying to be a player when things grew thorny, which they often had. As such, Gordon had a fondness for Slim. It was a mark of how seriously Slim took his own code of honor that, although he was aware of Gordon’s identity, he had never once uttered Lee or Emilian.
“Pass me those nails.”
On his knees, Lee waited for the little can of nails to appear under his nose while he studied the offending board. It didn’t.
He tried again. “Paul? Nails?”
Lee glanced to his left to see him sitting, asleep, against a false column with a garish finial meant to be spotted even from the back of the house. His legs were outstretched, his arms hung at his sides, and his mouth was slightly open.
Shaking his head, Lee reached for the nails himself, stretching until he had them. Is he actually asleep? He probably was. Because he’d accompanied Lee during so many of his stage engagements and often tagged along for his newer stagehand duties, Paul felt as comfortable in a theater as Lee.
Paul even went by John in the same way Lee went by Gordon. Some knew they each took a nom de guerre. It was just easier; all of them knew to abstain from using true names if the occasion demanded subterfuge. Luckily, since many had stage names for various reasons, it was not at all out of the ordinary.
Originally, Paul thought that claiming Saul for his own use would be clever. Then Lee pointed out it was a little too on the nose, and people might assume that Saul knew Hebrew. Paul did not.
Keeping the slightly religious theme, but allowing that Lee might be correct, he settled on John. There were plenty of men called John.
Thoughtfully, Lee wondered if Paul had told Bowland about any of this. He didn’t know purely because he hadn’t asked. Lord Hareden did not seem as though he would hate the notion. When Paul spoke of him, he spoke affectionately.
But then again, he was a duke and might think his younger brother should adhere to a certain kind of respectability. Although Paul was known as a libertine, he was also genteel and courteous. It was not as though he toyed with anyone or hurt them. Being lascivious was not the same as hanging about theaters with your best friend who’d somehow managed to become a very minor darling of the stage—without his aristocratic family being any the wiser.
That was rather more unusual than a spare son galivanting with whoever he chose.
And it is not as though my situation set a great example for where telling the truth might lead. Not that I even told the truth.
John and Gordon had had rather a full evening of drinking before receiving word from one of Slim’s boys, one of the lads he paid to help sell beer to his patrons, that Slim needed an experienced hand at repairs. They were, really, too predictable in their habits. Slim knew exactly where to find Mr. Judd. When Lee asked the boy if he’d been searching long, the imp said, “No, not at all.” Then the boy, who might have been fourteen at the most, sauntered out of The Wilted Rose, completely unfazed by the drunken rowdiness.
And no one was ever surprised if Mr. Judd had Mr. John Fell in tow. Generally, they were inseparable. Mr. Fell was notably less handy and was, in fact, not to be trusted around tools or raw materials if one wanted them to remain in good working order. He had a reputation for ruining whatever he tried to do, despite trying to help in earnest.
But he was wonderful at helping actors read through lines, and he was an amiable Lothario—excellent to have around if they needed to drum up business. Put him outside a venue and more women were likely to take up tickets. Even, on some occasions, men of a certain persuasion. As long as everyone paid their way and didn’t cause too much trouble, most managers didn’t care who they were. The boxes were for the affluent. The floor or the pit were theoretically for those who were coarse or less monied. Collectively, this place and others like it were an intricate experiment in humanity.
Lee struck a nail with a hammer, expressly intending to jar Paul from dozing.
It worked.
“Pardon?” he said, coming to with a gasp.
“Nothing.”
“Do you need me to hold something?”
“No,” Lee said.
“Are you certain?”
His involvement was a recipe for the failure of whatever project he was contributing to, but at least Paul was good-natured enough to ask. With
no success, Lee had tried to teach him rudimentary building skills. He was equally hopeless with mixing paint colors. It was not what Lee would have expected, considering his sense of style was impeccable. He could find clever solutions to costumes, props, and the decorations, but this was not one of those conundrums.
“Yes. I thought I needed you to hand me the nails but, in the end, I prevailed alone.”
“Well, wake me if you need help,” said Paul, closing his eyes and laying a hand on the top of his hat. He let his other hand rest on the stage itself.
“Gladly.”
“Wonderful. Your enthusiasm is most appreciated. Makes me feel included,” said Paul.
“Lord Emilian?” An unknown voice echoed through the theater.
It took Lee an instant to remember that was him. He glowered.
Paul cracked open one eye and gazed in the direction of the man’s voice. He remarked, “There are two strangers with Slim.”
Lee, whose back was to the doors, said, “Perhaps I can pretend it isn’t me.”
“If they’re with Slim, I should think they know who you are,” said Paul, gone from dozy to alert in the space of his sentence.
“I can’t think of any reason why anyone would either know or care to seek Lord Emilian out here.” Stubbornly, Lee continued hammering. When he finished that, he started plotting out where the new wood would need to be sanded.
He liked being Judd, the mysterious, well-spoken—if soft-spoken—man who’d once had a lot of promise before he went off to war. It was, he said, to make ends meet. Then he came back to London with a ghastly wound on his throat, his golden voice quieted for no one knew how long.
He was a tragic figure, but still an esteemed one.
Lee didn’t really know who Lord Emilian Valencourt was. Wasn’t even close to understanding who Lee was.
“Perhaps your brother has sent them.”
“Why the hell would he? We did not part on good terms.” He’d explained all of the regrettable encounter to Paul and was irritated that his friend would suggest that Thomas could be at the root of these interlopers being present. Thomas did not care for anyone.
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