The Gilded Mirror
Page 21
“Not too bad.” He patted his flat stomach, wishing his abs were visible. He twisted, trying to get a view of his arse. The role specification for the post at The Retreat had been very clear. Full or partial nudity would be required. They hadn’t asked for a nude photo with the application, just a head shot, so Rowan hoped they wouldn’t be disappointed by his physique—or lack of it. He didn’t want to miss out on his dream job because he had no money for a gym membership. Working at the hotel kept him trim because he spent most of the day running up and down stairs, fetching and carrying, but it didn’t help build muscle mass. There was nothing he could do about that. Hopefully The Retreat was seeking a short, skinny houseboy with uncontrollable hair. He sighed, his buoyant mood a little deflated.
Rowan finished his morning routine, tidied the bathroom then dressed in his hotel uniform of black trousers and collarless shirt with the hotel’s logo on the pocket. Black socks and polished brogues completed the ensemble. There was still time to check that his flat was immaculate before dashing downstairs to the kitchen in the main part of the house. Just like the rest of Briar Rose Cottage, the kitchen was an eclectic mix of traditional country style laced with a liberal helping of bohemian psychedelia. The units were littered with crockery—spots and stripes clashing with rose-patterned bone china. Photographs in a variety of frames fought for space with trailing potted plants, jars full of shells and sea glass and a collection of china owls. The table in the middle of the room was covered by a bright green tablecloth and stacked with piles of paperwork, a laptop and three partly full coffee mugs. Rowan’s aunt, seated in front of the computer, gave him a limp wave.
“Morning, sweetie.”
“Morning, Rory. You’re up early.” Rowan set about making a fresh pot of coffee.
“Haven’t been to bed yet.”
“Aurora Stanton! You’ll get bags under your eyes.” Rowan examined his aunt. “Too late. There’s already a full luggage set in situ.”
“Brat. Give me coffee.”
“It’s not ready yet. Give it a chance to brew.”
Rowan gathered the discarded mugs, placing them in the sink to be washed later. He found two clean ones. “What are you working on?” His aunt, despite coming across as a scatty artist with a penchant for gypsy-style clothing, was a solicitor specializing in family law.
“Will dispute. Old lady left everything to an animal shelter. Daughter’s challenging it, claiming her mother was senile.”
“Was she?”
“Nope. Sharp as a tack.”
“Well, good luck with that.” Rowan tapped his foot, waiting for the coffee machine to finish hissing at him. He poured two mugs, putting one in front of Rory. “There you go. Instant revival.”
“You know you’re my favorite nephew, right?”
“I’m your only nephew.” Rowan poured himself a bowl of Coco Pops, drowned them in milk then waited for it to turn brown. He didn’t bother to sit, but ate leaning against an oak dresser that had probably stood in the same place since the 1700s.
“That’s not a healthy breakfast for a growing boy. I’m obligated to tell you that as your older, wiser relative. Now pour me a bowl too. A big one.”
Rowan snorted. “I think I’ve reached my growth limit at five feet nine. You’re only eight years older than me and I dispute the ‘wiser’ bit.” Rory was his dad’s sister. A late baby, she was fifteen years younger than her brother.
“You’re twenty-one—just a baby.”
“A baby that has an interview.” Rowan couldn’t help grinning.
“For The Retreat? Wow! Go you. Come here and hug me. I’m too tired to get up.”
Rowan put his bowl on the table before leaning down to receive his hug.
“You’ll have to tell me all about it tonight. We’ll celebrate with a Chinese takeaway. Now get me my cereal then skedaddle—you’re going to be late.”
Rowan glanced at the clock. “Oh, nuts!” He delivered Rory’s breakfast, grabbed his coat then ran for the door. Briar Rose Cottage was at one end of the picture postcard village, Fordingby Manor was at the other. Once the home of the local squire, it boasted a carriage arch, leaded windows and extensive gardens. A review in a national newspaper had described it as ‘a Cotswold beauty’—Fordingby Manor is an ultra-chic and immensely relaxing retreat for grown-ups, with magnificent gardens, contemporary rooms, superlative food and an ultra-luxurious spa. It lived up to the hype. Rowan jogged along a road lined with golden stone cottages, any of which could grace the lid of a chocolate box. Not that he’d ever seen a box of chocs with a picture on the lid. In fact, Rory’s chocolate addiction ensured the lid of any box that made it to Briar Rose Cottage was discarded and the contents scoffed in record time. Rowan only got a look in because Rory thought strawberry creams were created by the devil in a moment of down-time between torturing the damned. He giggled at the thought, tripped on a loose paving slab then lurched into an ivy-clad garden wall, banging the same hip he’d bruised in the shower. A large gray cat eyed him with disdain from the gatepost. There was no time to stop and feel sorry for himself. He rubbed at the sore spot but kept walking—well, limping.
Five minutes later, Rowan slipped through a side gate into Fordingby Manor’s walled garden. He wove a path through the rose beds, skirted a manicured lawn where Elton the peacock was showing off to his harem of uninterested hens, then rounded the fountain. He paused to toss a penny into the water, muttering a wish under his breath. His donation joined hundreds of other glittering copper discs and Rowan wondered how many of the wishes attached to them had been granted. He shrugged—he’d take a chance on anything that might help him at the interview. He shot through the staff entrance with two minutes to spare before the start of his shift. He used the precious time to hang up his coat, check the shine on his shoes and run a hand through his tousled hair. He walked toward the concierge desk in reception just as the ornate grandfather clock on the far wall struck seven.
“Good morning, Mr. Hoyte.” Rowan assumed a stance with his feet a shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back and awaited the critical scrutiny of his boss. It was a routine he was familiar with. Alvin Hoyte was a formidable figure. Six feet four, he had fast bowled for the West Indies in his youth, regularly decimating England’s best batsmen—a fact he reminded Rowan of at least once a week. Now he held court as the chief concierge at Fordingby Manor and considered it his God-given duty to turn Rowan into a first-class assistant. His philosophy for staff training consisted of ninety percent stick and a few meager slivers of carrot.
“Mr. Stanton.” Alvin’s deep, lyrical tones relayed his displeasure. “You are supposed to be here five minutes before your shift starts, not five seconds.”
Rowan didn’t bother trying to defend himself. He stood still while Alvin picked a couple of bits of hedge from his trousers.
“Have a run-in with some foliage on the way here, did you?”
“I kind of tripped. The wall I hit had stuff growing on it.” Rowan examined the shiny toe caps of his shoes.
“Hmm. We can discuss standards of appearance later. In the meantime, a bouquet has arrived for the Sapphire Suite, Mrs. De Witt in the Coach House has requested tickets for The Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford tonight, and there are four copies of The Times awaiting your attention with the iron before you deliver them.”
“Yes, Mr. Hoyte.” Rowan fought back a sigh and prayed that the four hours until his morning break would go by quickly.
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About the Author
Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.
She loves the English weather, es
pecially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She’s fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
L.M. Somerton loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website details and author profile page at https://www.pride-publishing.com