Chapter One
Vernon Fortescue Cassian George de Vere Crosse, the fourth Duke of Severn, the Earl of Harmsford, Baron Crosse of Wotton, and Baron Vere walked into an inn. They were all the same man.
He did not announce himself by all of his titles, or any of them. Nobody did it for him, either. Nobody slipped in front of him to open the doors, or bowed to greet him. In fact, nobody paid him any attention at all. A couple of heads turned at his entry, but their gazes slipped over him without interest and away: he was water off a flock of ducks.
That might have been rather lowering if he’d believed that the usual stir and attention his arrival created was due to his good looks and imposing presence, rather than his slew of titles. However, the Duke was all too aware of his moderate height, nondescript features, quiet ways, and general sad lack of ducal authority. He was nothing without his titles, and he knew it. Nobody would pick him from a crowd; nobody would look twice at him without the trappings he’d been born to.
Well. One man had.
The Duke took a deep breath of the smoky air in the inn’s parlour, ripely fragranced by spilled beer, insufficiently washed bodies, and the ghost of a pork joint that had spent too long at the fire. It smelled like freedom.
He probably ought to have a drink, he thought. He hadplenty of money, but he wasn’t sure how to apply it. Should he expect to be shown to a table, or seat himself and wait to be attended? There were men standing at an elbow-high bar receiving ale: did one purchase it oneself? Was one meant to join in with the friendly banter they exchanged with the buxom woman at the bar, or would that be a solecism? If one did join in, what did one say?
The Duke of Severn knew to a nicety how to judge a bow to people on every rung of the aristocracy including his equals (all twenty-five of them) and superiors (the Royal Family). He knew how to behave at a rout, a soirée, Almack’s or White’s. He might be personally negligible but he had never put a foot wrong socially, in large part because he kept to the limited, elevated circles considered appropriate to his station. In the public bar of the Bird in Hand, he was suddenly and terrifyingly uncertain.
‘Mr Wotton,’ said a voice at his ear. It took the Duke a second to remember that was himself. He turned to see the man he’d come to meet.
‘Good evening,’ he said, and forgot all about public house etiquette in the rush of relief.
The Duke had been on an informal visit to a school friend in Gloucester, accompanied only by his valet, two footmen, groom, and outrider. He’d shed the lot of them to take the air in a park one evening, and there seen a man in a mulberry coat: a dark-haired fellow with a roguish sort of look. Eyes had met. There had been a little casual conversation, the brush of a hand, a tempting smile.
Very tempting indeed, and the Duke had duly fallen. Not under his own name, or names, of course: he’d called himself George Wotton, enjoyed a brief but very satisfying fumble in the darkness, and agreed to meet a few days later at the Birdin Hand inn. That had meant ridding himself of his retinue by underhand means that involved letting them believe he was meeting a woman, and the sense of release was exhilarating. Just for tonight, he would be an ordinary man, without the weight of rank, his behaviour scrutinised by nobody except his partner. Just for tonight, he would be with a man who was attracted by his person, who didn’t need to be paid to be there, who wanted the man, not the duke.
He couldn’t wait.
John Martin, his companion, had secured a private parlour to dine, saying it was his treat. The Duke had never had a man spend money on him before. That was his role in the few encounters he’d had, and he didn’t resent it: he knew very well he was paying for the company. Now he found himself stunned by the little kindness, which seemed like more than was necessary, more than an assignation. It felt like courting, and it made him warm all over. And John Martin was a witty, amusing man with a lively manner, and the Duke found himself wondering, if things went well, whether he might dare to propose a third meeting.
That was dreaming. He was here for a night’s illicit pleasure; he really couldn’t have more. But all the same he tingled with anticipation, and ate the stringy boiled fowl with more enjoyment than he took in his own French cook’s roasted quail.
They moved upstairs, to a small bedroom. John pulled him over, and kissed him.
And it was . . . good. Not perfect, because his head was a little clouded by two mugs of strong ale, followed by a glass of gin which he’d tossed back with unwise abandon, seeking Dutch courage or perhaps just wanting to be roguish and reckless for once. He was unquestionably rather drunk, andalso John had very decided views on what he wanted which weren’t precisely in step with the Duke’s own preferences.
That didn’t matter. If he wanted his desires fulfilled to the letter, there was always that discreet London house where he could have whatever he wanted supplied with a smile. He was here incognito precisely because hedidn’twant to be pandered to; he wanted to discover what it was like when the goal was mutual pleasure, not his alone. Which meant that when John said, uncompromisingly, that he wanted to be buggered, the Duke obliged him.
It was good enough. John certainly seemed to enjoy it, though the Duke was starting to feel more than a little dizzy by the end. John suggested another drink before the second bout, and the Duke accepted another glass of gin because he’d already had too much to be sensible, and he didn’t remember anything more.
He woke up with a headache like knives and a nasty taste in his mouth.
He blinked his throbbing eyes open and sat up carefully. He was alone in the bed, which was good – discreet, sensible – but also regrettable. How had he fallen asleep so early and foolishly? He hoped John wasn’t offended. Maybe he was downstairs; maybe he’d waited.
The Duke cast a glance around the room to see if John had left his things. It was bare of the clothes they’d strewn around, and of the Duke’s travelling bag which he’d carried himself. Had Waters, his valet, come in and tidied up? The Duke had a pulse of alarm at that before remembering that Waters wasn’t here.
He sat up again, too sharply for his head, and got out of bed, realising he was naked. His clothes were nowhere to beseen. He turned to the single chest, wondering if John had put them away, and saw a sheet of paper on top of it, with a couple of lines of scrawled writing.
You really ought to be more careful. Don’t put temptation in people’s way.
I won’t trouble you further if you don’t trouble me.
The Duke stared at that. Then he checked the chest, which was of course empty, looked under the bed in one last desperate hope, and sat down on it, hard.
He’d been robbed. John Martin had stolen his clothes, his money, his silver hairbrushes, everything. And that second line – was that a threat? If he made a fuss, if Martin was tracked down and the Duke prosecuted him, would the villain make counter-accusations? The Duke imagined himself the subject of a prosecution for sodomy, the newspaper reports, his family’s reaction. Surely it could not come to anything: he was the Duke of Severn. But the shame alone was a prospect to make his whole soul cringe.
He felt sick to his stomach with bad gin and mortification and crashing disappointment. It wasn’t that he’d cared for John Martin, but he’d briefly imagined a world in which he might one day come to care for him, just as he’d imagined that Martin had seen something appealing in his own nondescript person, picked him from a crowd and liked what he’d seen.
Clearly his imagination was overactive. Because he’d also imagined that he could manage one single evening without a regiment of people taking charge of his life.
He put his face in his hands as if that could hide him from the humiliation, and felt something wrong in the touch ofhis skin. Something missing. It took him a second to realise what, and then it hit him with the force of a slap.
