His Valet (Victorian Decadence Book 2), page 21
Stephen lost the small bit of interest he’d developed. “I’m sorry ma’am, but—”
“But it wasn’t Benjamin who was responsible for what happened. It was that younger son of his—Joseph—he just broke his father’s heart. Poor Jonathan died less than a year after Joseph was banished. Yes, it killed him, it did.”
“Banished?” Stephen asked, not bothering to keep the skepticism from his voice.
Her mouth pursed and she glanced around again, scooting closer to the end of her seat, until her boney arse was barely touching it. “I only tell you because Joseph is valeting you, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“This is just between us, sir, it was only by mistake I heard even a tiny snippet about it.” Her cheeks colored and Stephen could picture her with her ear to a keyhole. “Mr. Joseph was sent off for,” she made a choking sound. “Well, he was valeting the young master—His Grace now, but back then just a lad of seventeen, Marquess of Staunton he was called.” She swallowed several times, her face becoming alarmingly red, and then hissed, “Joseph tried unnatural acts with his master.”
Stephen blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m not saying it twice!” she snapped.
Stephen almost laughed, but wisely repressed it. “I see,” he said, thinking that he just might. “So this happened and the duke turned him off. Yet I saw a letter of recommendation from His Grace—the current duke’s father. That seems rather odd if what you say is true.” He gave her a hard look. “Perhaps you misunderstood?”
What Stephen really wanted to say was: Perhaps what you heard is that the young master and his valet were going at it like rabbits and were caught, a much more likely scenario than bland, boring Leather physically attacking his employer. Perhaps that’s what you heard, you spiteful old cat.
But of course he didn’t.
She frowned, as if she could see his thoughts on his face, which was likely. Stephen disliked moralizing gossips.
She sniffed and shrugged. “Yes, well, I don’t know about that. I just thought you should know.” She gave him a nauseatingly virtuous look. “It’s my Christian duty to protect against such ungodliness.”
Stephen stood. “Thank you Missus—?”
She clutched her bag to her chest and shot to her feet. “It’s Miss, Miss Bindon.”
“Thank you, Miss Bindon, your duty is done. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but rudely strode out, leaving the door open behind him, fuming that he’d wasted his time on such a mean-spirited bitch. Only an idiot would believe what she was intimating. Stephen already knew how amenable Leather was, and it sounded like he’d always been that way. No doubt the old duke had looked askance on his son’s valet fisting him. Stephen’s lips twitched at the image of an eighteen-year-old Leather. The man was skin and bones now, he’d probably been a bloody waif ten years ago. He would have been the one punished, not the duke’s get—no matter that his master had taken part, as well.
That was the way of the world, as he knew all too well from the first fifteen years of his life. At least the duke had given Leather a positive letter of reference, that was unexpectedly generous when the man just as easily could have squashed him like a bug.
Stephen shook his head, dismissing the matter from his mind. The concierge saw him and almost came vaulting over the desk. “Mr. Chatham, how can I—”
“I want a carriage, immediately.” He paused, considered the evening ahead, and then added, “I’ll take it for the rest of the night.”
Chapter Eighteen
J o only waited until Mr. Chatman disappeared down the stairs before running back to the room, catching up her hat, coat, and stick, and darting down the servant stairs.
She walked several streets over before flagging a cab. “The Royal Scot Hotel,” she told the driver, her heart racing a million miles a minute and not from physical exertion.
It if had just been the clothing at the hotel, she would have left it. But the bracelet Stephen gave her was there. She had to take that with her.
As the carriage rumbled along, she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to cut his trip so short. Was it really a business matter? Or was he so distraught he could no longer bear being in the city?
Well, it didn’t matter, did it? They were going, and it was just as well. Her visit to Meisen’s yesterday had been rewarding in the sense she’d discovered Mr. Chatham had received the message. Still, it had hurt to be in that place without him and without any expectation of ever being with him again. Oh, she could serve him, be near him, and maybe even do what she’d done last night again. But they could not be together as lovers.
The carriage jolted to a halt and Jo jumped out before the driver had to open the hatch.
She nodded to the desk clerk, the same fellow who’d been here most evenings.
“Good evening, Mr. Brown,” the young man said cheerfully. “I hope everything is up to standard for you and Mrs. Brown?”
“Yes, thank you. But I’m afraid I’ll be leaving early—tomorrow in fact.”
“Oh, nothing bad, I hope?”
“No, nothing bad. Mrs. Brown has gone on ahead, but I’m going to fetch my things and when I come down perhaps you would have my bill ready?”
“Of course, of course.”
Jo left him looking rather perplexed and she knew he found it odd that his wife had left without him.
Her room was on the third floor and not much bigger than the tiny room she had at the Cameron. She’d been in a hurry the last time she left so it took a few moments to gather everything up and pack it into the locking suitcase.
She took one last look around to assure herself she’d not left anything, and then closed the door.
Jo couldn’t help feeling sad as she descended the steps. Once she left this hotel, her adventure was officially over. While it was true that she’d not had her final night as planned, the experience had been well worth the money.
But, as good as the memories were, she couldn’t help wondering if they’d be enough to sustain her for the rest of her life.
***
Stephen simply couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Leather, bloody Leather walking out of the Royal Scot Hotel with a suitcase in his hand.
Stephen had just started to open his door and step out when he saw Leather leave the rather ratty looking little building and go to the street. He waved down a hackney without any waiting, climbed in, and drove away.
The vent opened. “Is this not the right place, sir?” the driver asked.
“No,” Stephen said, still stunned. “It’s definitely the right place. Just wait here for me.”
The driver nodded, hesitated, and then closed the panel.
Stephen had to catch his breath—he felt dizzy. Either from shock or anger or dread—he didn’t know.
You never should have opened that message.
No, he bloody well shouldn’t have. He didn’t even want to consider just what the hell was going on.
Julian had been engaged when Stephen showed up at the brothel, but that turned out to be a good thing. The tall blond footman knew who he was right away.
“Julian said you might be coming by, sir.”
Stephen had given the man a stare that usually left people a quivering mass. He rarely used the advantage of his height to bully people, but he stepped close to the younger man and towered.
Charles swallowed noisily. “Er, you’ll be wanting the name of that hotel.”
Stephen smiled and could tell by the way Charles’s face blanched it was not a nice smile. “Among other things.”
“It’s the Royal Scot Hotel, sir.” His eyes shifted to Stephen’s hand, which was reaching into his coat to extract his wallet.
“What did this servant look like?”
Charles shrugged. “He wasn’t much to look at—the sort of bloke you’d never notice but for his glasses. Thickest things I’ve ever seen.”
Stephen had felt sick inside after he’d handed the young man the money and climbed back into the waiting carriage.
“Back to the hotel, sir?”
He’d been bloody tempted. But it was too late for that now. He had to see this thing through. “No, to the Royal Scot.”
And there was Leather, as bold as you please.
Stephen took a deep breath and opened the door. A young clerk stood at the front desk. “Good evening, sir,” he said, his eyes widening as he looked up and up to meet Stephen’s eyes. “Do you have a room with us?”
“No. I’m here for information.” Stephen took out a five-pound note and the young man gaped, his eyes bulging like a frog’s.
“Tell me everything you know about the gentleman who just left—the one with the thick glasses.”
The boy gulped, his eyes still on the money—a fortune to him and nothing to Stephen. He almost felt bad about how easy it was going to be to get what he wanted. Almost.
“That’s Mr. Brown,” the boy said, his flushed cheeks saying this did not sit easily, but how could a man possibly resist?”
“I see. And how long has he been staying here?”
The boy flipped through his ledger. “He was scheduled to stay another five days, but he checked out tonight—so . . . that’s a week he’s been here.”
“Did he give an address to make his booking?”
The clerk’s jaw moved from side to side in uneasy deliberation before he finally answered. “Number twenty-seven Dunn Street, London.”
Stephen didn’t immediately recognize the number, but something about Dunn Street tickled his memory. He shrugged it off and slid the bill across the counter.
He was almost to the door when the clerk said, “Sir?”
Stephen stopped and turned.
“He’s not in trouble with the authorities, or anything?” He looked guilty now that he had the filthy lucre in his hands.
“No, he’s not in trouble with the law.” Not yet.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” the clerk said. “Because he and Mrs. Brown were such nice people.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Chatham buried himself in reports and papers the moment they boarded his private railcar and had only barked at Jo twice—once for tea and a second time for his luncheon.
Jo had very little to do aside from cooking, cleaning up after, and waiting until Mr. Chatham wanted to go to bed. She was curious why Mr. Chatham hadn’t waited until later, when the direct train ran, but it wasn’t her place to question him.
As a result of all the stops, the journey was almost six hours longer.
Most were rather brief, but there was one coming up at five o’clock that was almost an hour.
Jo was glad she’d purchased a book in Glasgow, Mr. Blackmore’s latest, Lorna Doone, because she was getting plenty of time for reading.
But as good as the story was, it couldn’t hold her attention.
She felt uneasy and had done since Mr. Chatham had returned last night—frighteningly close on her heels.
He’d had her undress him, told her when he wanted to be woken in the morning, and gone straight to bed. He’d even decline her offer of a tea tray, so she assumed he’d had a late dinner.
He’d let her dry his body this morning, but there’d been no more massages. And Jo was not going to be the one to broach that subject.
“Leather.”
Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice and she immediately stood, her heart in her throat at his abrupt tone. “Yes, sir?”
He was giving her a speculative look, his reading spectacles sitting down his nose so his eyes were not obscured. “We’re going to have a stop in Lancaster—almost an hour. I want you to fetch a few things for me while we’re there.”
“Of course, sir.”
It felt like he held her gaze for a long time before he turned to his work.
Jo sank back onto the black leather settee, her legs wobbly. What was wrong with her? Indeed—what was wrong with him? Because he was not behaving normally.
Jo gritted her teeth at her idiotic dithering and picked up her book, reading the same page for the hundredth time.
***
Stephen pretended to stare at his work but really watched Leather disembark and walk across the platform, his black-clothed, slender figure walking with rather more haste than normal. Stephen knew Leather hadn’t liked the idea of going so far from the station. He’d also not liked the fact the items Stephen asked for—brandy, cigars, and a bottle of blue ink—were already on the train.
“Yes, I’m aware we have brandy, but I want something different,” Stephen had said when Leather made that point.
He could see the other man was rather flustered, but he didn’t give a damn. The moment his back disappeared Stephen locked the doors to the rail car and went to where his valet slept. It took him longer than it should have done before he found what he was looking for: the small case he’d seen Leather carrying away from the Royal Scot Hotel.
It was tucked behind a mop, dust bin, and large bucket of cleaning cloth. Why the devil would a person put their luggage in such a place unless they had something to hide? Because he did have something to hide.
It was too bad the bloody thing was locked—and a sizeable lock, as well.
Stephen sat with the case on his lap, staring at it, as if he could open it by pure will. He should have been able to—because he had a bloody lot of will to learn what the hell was going on.
But his will failed him and the case remained locked and closed, its secrets secure inside.
Stephen stood and put the case back in place, covering it with the other items as nearly as he could remember. Knowing Leather, there had probably been a bloody hair on it and he’d immediately know it had been moved when he came back.
He snorted, amused, angry, and embarrassed by his behavior. He should have confronted the man last night when he’d come back. He’d meant to confront him. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized Leather had utterly and completely fooled him for almost two years. The last person to deceive him—Louisa—had only managed to pull the wool over his eyes for a mere eight months.
If not for Julian’s competitive greed, Leather’s and Josephine’s little ruse—whatever the hell they were up to—would have gone undetected.
It had been easy to get the hotel clerk to describe Josephine once Stephen had learned that Leather hadn’t been at the Royal Scot alone.
Stephen couldn’t describe her face well as he’d only seen from beneath her nose to her chin, but that had turned out to be unnecessary.
The younger man had a vivid recollection of a glimpse of her red gown—Stephen just bet he’d recalled that—and of course there was the fact she was always hatted and veiled. And she’d worn a particularly stunning bracelet on one leather-clad arm.
That was perhaps the worst moment so far: hearing some stranger describe the gift he’d bought a woman that he’d—well, to be honest—a woman he’d come to adore. He could recall his idiot description of her in the jeweler’s like it was yesterday. Had Leather and Josephine laughed together about that? As they’d lain naked and entwine and sweating and—
“Christ!” he muttered dropping his head to the wall behind him.
Stephen had believed his mind was a morass of confusion while he’d been anticipating his nightly visits with Josephine. Lord had he been wrong!
He simply could not seem to find an end in this basket of tangled yarn that was Leather and Josephine’s machinations. Were they going to blackmail him? Was that it? Were they hoping to accuse him of sodomy?
His lips curved into an unpleasant smile and he raised his head, staring blankly at the table full of papers. The problem with accusing another man of homosexuality was that one could easily find one’s own neck on the line.
And if that was the case, why hadn’t Leather simply managed the affair alone? Why bring in Josephine?
Were they hoping she would become pregnant with Stephen’s child? Or was she already pregnant by Leather and the two of them had conceived of this plan as a way to feather their nest?
It seemed like a bloody lot of work to make a small amount of money.
Stephen’s eyes widened as something occurred to him. Perhaps the plan had been to lure him to offer marriage.
If that was the case, then how very, very close he’d come to trapping himself into marriage with that woman.
Stephen stared at the cupboard where Leather’s mysterious suitcase was hidden. He needed to get into that case and he wanted to do it without letting Leather know that he was onto to him.
Why not just have him thrown in jail for some infraction or, barring that, have him disappear forever beneath the murky waters of the Thames?
Because Stephen didn’t need anyone else’s help dealing with this matter.
Then why sneak around? Why not just get the truth out of the man?
His lips twitched into a smile. Beating the truth out of Leather—which he thought about every half hour—would offer some satisfaction but resorting to force would mean the man had been cleverer than Stephen. As much as he hated liars, he hated losing battles of wits even more.
His wits were all he’d had for a very, very long time—they were what first brought him to the attention of Edward Fanshawe and his partner, Mr. Smith, so many years ago.
At the time, Stephen had been nothing but a drudge who worked in the counting department of a manufactory that built farm machinery. He’d been with the company for eleven years. In all those years, he’d only been given a few small raises in pay, although he’d gradually taken on more and more of the work, until he was doing all the chief accountant’s work except for his embezzling.
