His Valet (Victorian Decadence Book 2) Read online

“Hello, darling.”

  Jo grinned. “Well, this is my lucky day. I’d ask how you were doing, Jane, but I can see that for myself.”

  Jane reached out, took Jo’s hand, and pulled her inside. “Come on, there’s somebody new here I think you’ll like. Her name is Marie.”

  Chapter Four

  Even in his private car with every convenience—well, almost every convenience—Stephen was still knackered when he stepped onto the platform in Glasgow at nine-thirty the following morning.

  As tired as he was, it was far too early to go to the hotel so he left Leather to deal with the baggage and took a carriage directly to Scott’s, the shipyard where he was to look at the first of several prospects.

  An unhealthy brown pall hung over the industrializing city but nothing to compare to London. The chill in the air, however, was something else entirely and Stephen was glad Leather had thought to bring along both his heaviest coat and wool muffler because it was bloody freezing for all that it was almost spring.

  Stephen had liked his new rail car very well. He was ashamed to admit that he’d sent it out for refurbishment after seeing Edward Fanshawe’s car. Edward’s proclivities ran parallel to Stephen’s when it came to sexual activities and his private car had been equipped as a moving pleasure palace. The bedchamber had subtle additions for restraints, as did the sitting area. There was also a larger than average compartment for bathing and personal needs.

  Edward took his wife along on his trips and Nora Fanshawe was a fascinating woman who indulged and encouraged her husband’s unusual tastes, so he was getting excellent value from his investment.

  Stephen, on the other hand, hadn’t wished to take along a companion on a trip that was only business—so it was just he and Leather.

  Business had been hectic for him lately and it had been two weeks since he’d last enjoyed a woman. As much as he’d enjoyed his evening with Sharon, it was his practice never to go to the same woman more than once every four or five months. He didn’t want to feel any sense of attachment to the women he paid and he didn’t want any of them attaching themselves to him.

  Besides, as beautiful and skilled as Sharon had been, the small amount of conversation he’d had with her afterward had made him realize the only worthwhile thing she did with her mouth was suck cock.

  It wasn’t that she’d been stupid; it was that she’d been acquisitive and full of artifice, which had dulled his ardor for a repeat performance.

  Stephen reminded himself that Sharon had delivered on what she’d promised—sexual release—and that he was a fool to expect more, especially when he never gave anything of himself. He was sure Sharon hadn’t liked him much, either. No doubt she’d found him brooding, domineering, and remote, which was how he always behaved with these women.

  Stephen stared at the grim Glasgow streets as he considered how jaded he’d become.

  No doubt part of that was the inevitable result of being so wealthy he could buy anything he wanted, including people. It had warped his view of humanity to know that any woman was his if he was willing to pay for her.

  Stephen wasn’t stupid; he knew using whores was lazy and, quite frankly, a power imbalance that mitigated against developing anything other than a master-servant relationship.

  But whenever he started to question the wisdom of paying for physical gratification, he just reminded himself of Louisa.

  He grimaced just thinking that name.

  Whoring might leave him feeling empty, but feeling empty was far better than feeling gutted and betrayed.

  The cab shuddered to a stop and Stephen looked out the hazy window: he’d reached the Clyde River. He picked up his satchel and put sex and women and pleasure from his mind; it was time to get down to business.

  ***

  Jo counted the money yet again: two hundred and ninety-two pounds. Although it wasn’t her life’s savings—she’d always sent the bulk of her wages to Mr. Withers, the solicitor her and her brother had used to manage their father’s small estate—it was still a goodly chunk of money, which she’d been saving for years.

  She’d been working since age seven, when she’d started as a page for the Duchess of Tarland. When she turned ten, she’d begun to work under her father’s tutelage. Albert Leather had been the head valet for the Duke of Tarland for almost fifteen years by the time Jo started to work for him.

  She hadn’t actually waited on His Grace until she’d turned fifteen, when she’d become her father’s chief assistant.

  At eighteen, she’d replaced her elder brother Ben as valet to His Grace’s heir, the seventeen-year-old Marquess of Staunton.

  Jo had served the marquess for a little more than a year before leaving the duke’s employ at nineteen to accept a position—almost unheard of at such a tender age—with a mid-level banker who’d not been able to afford a more seasoned manservant.

  Jo had stayed with her first master two years before accepting an offer from the colonel.

  She’d saved a good deal of money over the years, rarely needing to spend any on herself. After all, a valet had their meals and housing paid for and Jo’s masters had always allowed her access to their books for her entertainment. Her only real expense was clothing. Her father had taught her and Ben to buy only the best, which meant rarely having to replace anything.

  It wasn’t until Jo discovered Cecile’s that she began to spend anything at all on herself.

  Jo stared at the money in her hands, as if it would tell her what to do. As if she didn’t already know what she was going to do, despite how wrong it would be.

  Jo couldn’t help thinking about the message Mr. Chatham had given her before he’d left this morning: a message addressed to Frau Meisen in Possilpark.

  It had to be some sort of sign that Mr. Chatham was contemplating going to the very brothel Cecile had mentioned? Or perhaps it was just because Frau Meisen’s was the best and Mr. Chatham never took anything less?

  Either way, it was exactly what she’d hoped for.

  But if she acted on her impulse and got caught then she would likely be a twenty-seven year old valet in need of a new position. Well, if Mr. Chatham left enough of her to find a new job.

  “This is a sickness, Jo,” her brother Ben accused the last time they’d met for their monthly dinner. “What you are has always been dishonest. But to lust for a man unbeknownst to him?” Ben’s expression had brimmed with disgust after he’d somehow guessed Jo’s feelings toward Mr. Chatham. “You must leave him now Jo, before you do something unforgiveable.”

  Jo had busied herself with her roast beef, hoping he’d leave the subject alone if she ignored him long enough. But that had been wishful thinking.

  When she’d not answered, Ben had leaned across the table and hissed. “Jo. Are you listening to me?”

  She’d put aside her fork and knife, no longer hungry. “I can hardly not listen to you, Ben.”

  “This is a bloody mess.” Ben eyed her in a way that was comprehensive—a way that let Jo know that he didn’t just mean the fact she was infatuated with her employer, but that everything about her was a mess. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but our father should’ve been horsewhipped for what he did to you.”

  “He only did it to save me from mother’s fate.”

  “It didn’t bloody work, did it?”

  Jo stiffened at his cold, mocking tone. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “You need to do something about this, Jo. It’s—it’s bloody unnatural!”

  She’d shoved her chair back so hard it hit the wall. Heads turned in their direction and Jo could see her brother cringe at her behavior. Their father’s very first rule: never draw attention to yourself, strive to be invisible.

  Jo threw some coins on the table and snatched up her hat and cane and left. She walked a block before she heard the sound of feet pounding behind her. “Jo! Dammit, Jo. Hold up.”

  Jo chewed the inside of her mouth but stopped and swung around. “What do you want now, Ben?
To insult me more?”

  “Why is it insulting to tell you the truth?” He grimaced and leaned close enough to hiss in her ear. “You’re a woman, Jo. You’re not a man and you never will be. It’s time you accepted it.”

  “And do what, Ben?” she didn’t bother keeping her voice down and people on the sidewalk glanced at them. Jo knew they’d be having a difficult time matching what they saw with how she was behaving: a gentlemen’s gentlemen who was apparently drunk and ready to fight another gentlemen’s gentleman. “What would you have me do?” she repeated. “Take a job as a char woman? Wait,” she said with exaggerated comprehension, “I won’t even be able to get that position with the recommendations I have.” She got right up in his face. “Just what would you have me do?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at her. They looked so much alike, Josephine and her elder brother Benjamin. So much alike that their father had never had any difficulty passing Jo off as his younger son—except that one time.

  “Good God, Jo didn’t you learn anything from what happened with Staunton? What will it take to teach you a lesson?” When her jaw dropped Ben lifted his hands in a placating gesture, as if he were blameless for the words pouring out of him. “Somebody has to say it, Jo—Father certainly never did. What his lordship did was wrong, but do you really believe you don’t deserve your share of blame?”

  “I cannot believe you’re saying this. Is this what you’ve thought all along? That I caused all that?”

  “I don’t blame you for what happened—I blame our father for that, after all, he drummed his motto into me, too: The perfect valet exists, first and foremost, to serve all his master’s needs. All his needs. Do you think I don’t know what he meant?” Ben demanded and then shook his head. “But none of that matters—I’m talking about what you’re doing now. I’m sorry to have to say it, but—”

  “Save your apology. And also save your advice. I love my work and if the way I live doesn’t bother me, why should it bother you?”

  “Because Father is no longer here, Jo. Who will have to clean up after you, this time?”

  “Not you, Ben, don’t worry. Nobody even knows I have a brother. You can just pretend like I don’t exist.”

  “I wish it were that easy. But we are related and as much as you don’t want to accept it, we’re linked in name, if nothing else. God, Jo, you’re my sister. Are you happy to live your life never having a family? Children?”

  Jo probably should have told him the truth at that point, but she’d just been too bloody angry. “I don’t have plans for either, not that that’s any of your concern.”

  “But about me, Jo? What if I marry? Do I tell my wife about my younger sister or my younger brother? Do I tell her I have a sister pretending to be a man lusting for the man she’s deceiving daily? Have you ever once considered how your behavior affects my life? Have you—”

  “I’m leaving, Ben,” Jo had said. “Don’t contact me again if this is all you have to say.” She’d left him standing there, too hurt and furious to speak without saying something she’d regret.

  That argument had been six months ago and they’d not spoken since—the longest she’d ever gone without talking to her only remaining relative.

  Jo missed Ben so much, even though they’d argued more often than not these past years. But once, when they were children, they’d been as close as two peas in a pod. Once Ben had not cared that Jo wore trousers and they competed for the same household positions and their father’s praise.

  But as much as she missed her brother, she could not give up who she was and what she wanted to please him. Indeed, in the months since she’d last spoken to Ben her feelings for Mr. Chatham had only become stronger. Every day with him was an agony of lusting and wanting and, yes, loving. She was tired of subjugating her desires; she was going to do something about it even if it ended in disaster.

  So today, when she delivered Mr. Chatham’s message to Frau Meisen’s, she would deliver a message of her own at the same time. Who knows? It was entirely possible that Mr. Chatham would want something completely different at the unusual brothel. Perhaps Jo would spend all that money and end up with very expensive whores. But she had to try—when would she get a chance like this again? Never.

  Jo drew a deep breath and then carefully folded up the banknotes and tucked them into the inner pocket of her black sack coat. The looser style of coat was not as popular among valets, but if she wore it rather than a more fitted coat then she didn’t have to bind her breasts at all—not that there was hardly anything to bind.

  Jo looked around Mr. Chatham’s room one last time to assure herself everything was the way he liked it. When he’d left the Glasgow station he’d told her not to expect him until just before dinner, but she liked to have his room perfect in case he came back on a whim.

  Once she was finished in his rooms she went to her own and picked up her gloves, hat, and umbrella.

  It was drizzling lightly and Jo opened her umbrella and headed north. She would hire a carriage once she was far enough away from the hotel. The brothel was a few miles away, on the fringes of the industrial area known as Possilpark.

  If everything went as she’d planned, she’d be returning to the hotel in a few hours a great deal lighter in the pocket.

  Jo smiled to herself and then caught her reflection in the plate window of a watchmaker’s shop. She stopped, arrested by her image. A man looked back at her, a gentleman’s gentleman—dressed in a sober black suit of excellent tailoring. The man was slim—some might even say too thin. He wore fine black leather gloves—one of Jo’s few extravagances— and a black bowler. His overcoat was black wool and the toes of his black boots were buffed to a mirror shine. His face was narrow and pale and overpowered by thick gold-rimmed spectacles that distorted his pale blue eyes.

  She rarely ever studied herself in the mirror, only enough to ensure her person was clean and well presented. The image she saw didn’t surprise her; this was the way Jo saw herself—as a man—and always had. But if her plans were successful, she would soon have to don her first ever dress and strive to look enough like a woman that Mr. Chatham would actually want her.

  What would she do if he saw her and didn’t want her? The thought was like a huge brick on her chest—on her heart.

  A woman appeared in the window, gesturing to the tray of watches Jo had been unseeingly staring at.

  Jo shook her head and then turned on the heel of her sensible ankle boots and resumed her journey.

  ***

  Chatham was beyond knackered when he arrived back at the hotel. He’d taken dinner with one of the higher ups at Scott’s—a casual meal at the man’s small but elegant gentleman’s club—and hadn’t returned to the hotel until after dark.

  As ever, Leather was waiting for him.

  “You must be exhausted, sir,” his valet said as he lifted Stephen’s damp wool overcoat from his shoulders. “Shall I have dinner sent up or will you be going down to the dining room?”

  “Neither,” Stephen said on a huge yawn. “I ate already. What I would like is a cup of your tea, a shoulder rub, and a soak.”

  Leather grimaced slightly. “I’m afraid the bathtub would only fit half of you, sir.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  “They do have a new shower-bath, sir.”

  “Well, I suppose it shall have to do,” Stephen said, starting on the buttons of his waistcoat. “But I still want the tea and shoulder rub—this damp, freezing weather is playing havoc with the bloody thing.”

  “Of course, sir. Did your business go well today?” Leather asked as he shook out the waistcoat, examining it. Stephen knew his valet handled a good deal of his laundry himself, not trusting his clothing to hotel laundries, or even the woman Stephen paid in London.

  “It did,” Stephen said, removing first his collar and then slipping the plain gold cufflinks from his shirt and handing them to Leather. “I looked at two of the ships they have on offer,” he admitted, “But t
hat is just the beginning as there are another dozen or so scattered at the various shipyards.”

  Leather deposited the cufflinks in the small leather box he kept for such items. “The city appears to be bustling, sir. I understand the ship building trade has caused rather a drastic shortage of housing.” Leather took his shirt, laid it on the growing pile of discarded clothing and then knelt in front of the bench where Stephen sat.

  “Yes, ship building has created both excess and shortage, a good and bad problem to have. I think my business won’t keep me here the full two weeks—more like ten days,” he added as Leather unlaced his shoes.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Leather was sensitive enough to Stephen’s moods that he always seemed to know when to ask Stephen about his day and when to be quiet, never bothering him with questions or comments if Stephen was tired or distracted. His questions were always intelligent and Stephen often found himself discussing business matters at some length without realizing it. More than once he’d solved some problem or other after verbalizing the issues to his attentive valet.

  Now that he thought about it, he conversed more with Leather than he did with his business partners. In general he preferred to conduct his communication with the members of the syndicate in writing. He liked letters and the clarity and control they afforded.

  Leather removed his stockings and then stood, the stockings in one hand and Stephen’s shoes in the other. It was the same thing he’d done hundreds of other nights but for some reason tonight Stephen was suddenly curious about his reserved servant’s activities in this strange city.

  “And what did you do today, Leather? Did you see any of the city?”

  Leather could not have looked more surprised if Stephen had broken into song and dance. His eyes, already enlarged by the thick lenses, appeared to double in size. And his cheeks—so pale and hairless Stephen doubted he needed to shave more than once a fortnight—striped with dark red slashes. Good God, who knew Leather could be so discommoded by such a simple question?

  “I went for a walk to Buchanan Street, sir, which is accounted the finest shopping area in the city.”