A Gentleman's Position Read online

  A Gentleman’s Position is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by K. J. Charles

  Excerpt from The Ruin of Gabriel Ashleigh by K. J. Charles copyright © 2015 by K. J. Charles

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9781101886076

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: © Period Images

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By K. J. Charles

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from The Ruin of Gabriel Ashleigh

  Prologue

  FEBRUARY 24, 1820

  Lord Richard Vane and his valet stood in the book room, waiting. The clock on the mantel ticked.

  “What the devil is keeping Julius?” Lord Richard demanded, of David or of the empty air. “He should surely have the man here by now.”

  “Conspiracy to murder and high treason.” David made a face. “It may not be that easy to secure his bail. Mr. Norreys has an authoritative manner”—Lord Richard gave a short laugh—“and your name has a great deal of power. Nevertheless…”

  “Indeed. Oh, damn Dominic and his accursed democrat. What will we do if Julius can’t get him out?”

  Silas Mason, a radical bookseller and writer of sedition, had been arrested that morning. He was one of a group of gutter revolutionaries that had plotted to murder the entire British cabinet the previous night, and although the conspiracy had been thwarted, an officer had been killed in the melee. Everyone involved would doubtless hang.

  That was not David’s problem and certainly not Lord Richard’s, except for the matter of Dominic Frey. Lord Richard’s best friend was conducting an intense affair with Mason, and when the radical had been arrested, he had been wearing Mr. Frey’s coat. If people started asking what linked a murderous seditionist to a gentleman of the Home Office, Mr. Frey could find himself in very deep trouble indeed.

  Lord Richard had fallen out badly with Mr. Frey over his disgraceful affair, but they had been lovers once and friends since boyhood. Lord Richard would not see him suffer if he could prevent it.

  Or, rather, if David could prevent it. Lord Richard gave orders; it was David who carried them out.

  To the world, he was a valet, nothing more. A servant who wore Lord Richard’s livery and obeyed his commands; even his offensively red hair was powdered away to white on his master’s orders. But when he had Lord Richard’s will to enforce, David Cyprian was silently and secretly one of the most powerful men in London. Unknown, unseen, and in charge. The pleasure of it tingled in his veins.

  “It depends, my lord,” he said now. “We’ll have to play the hand as it’s dealt to us, but we can play it. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I do,” Lord Richard said. “I depend entirely on you. Otherwise I suspect I should have run mad after the last few months, and as it is, I can feel Bedlam beckoning. Cyprian, what the devil do I do if Mason is not innocent?”

  “Mr. Frey insists he is.”

  “Dominic may not be the best judge at this time,” Lord Richard said grimly. “If the man is part of murder and treason— But he had Dominic’s coat, curse it. What if saving my friend requires saving a traitor?” His voice was strained. David knew how deeply he loved Mr. Frey, how heavily he bore his responsibilities, and his master’s dilemma was a stab to his own heart. “God rot it, how can I decide that? What can I do?”

  “You can leave it to me,” David said.

  Lord Richard’s eyes widened, as well they might. David went on before he could speak. “You should not have to make a choice between duty and friendship. Nobody should. If it happens—and it may not; Mr. Frey is no fool—but if it does, my lord, I beg you, walk away, and let me deal with it.” He offered his master a smile. “That is what you pay me for.”

  “It truly isn’t,” Lord Richard said. “Golden Ball himself could not pay you enough to do that. I can’t ask you to take on that responsibility for me.”

  You can ask me for anything you like. The words hovered on David’s lips. He wanted to say them; God knew they were true. But this was his master, and he couldn’t do it.

  It was enraging. David balked at nothing, from burglary to blackmail, to achieve his ends; he had certainly never struggled with something as simple as approaching a possible bedmate. He usually just asked, because it was astonishing what he had won for himself by daring to reach for it. It had always surprised him that others were so afraid to try.

  And now he understood why they were afraid. Through almost four and a half years of service, of growing alliance and trust and even friendship underpinned by the persistent heartbeat of desire, David had never yet dared ask for the one thing he wanted most, because he could not bear to learn he could not have it.

  He could not ask now, but at least he could give. Lord Richard needed him, and that was better than nothing. “You carry burdens for all your friends, my lord. Someone has to do it for you now and again.”

  Lord Richard’s lips parted slightly. He was a big man, absurdly wealthy and infinitely privileged, but at that moment, his expression was so painfully vulnerable that David’s heart contracted with the urge to make all well.

  He began to say, “My lord,” raising his hand open-palmed. Lord Richard started to speak at the same time, turning toward him and gesturing as well, and their hands collided in the air.

  David couldn’t move away, couldn’t beg his lord’s pardon for the clumsiness. Could do nothing but stand and feel the pressure of Lord Richard’s fingers against his, because his master wasn’t moving either. They should have pulled away, one or both of them, but neither did, and every tick of the clock as they stood and stared at each other, hand to hand, was a hammer blow that nailed the unspoken thing irrevocably into place between them.

  The unspoken thing, the forbidden hope, the one point that made David’s service feel like servitude because he could not even ask. But Lord Richard still wasn’t moving, his deep blue eyes locked on David’s and wide with shock, and now they knew. Now they both knew, and there was no pretending otherwise.

  David could feel the blood thumping in the ends of Lord Richard’s fingers, unless that was his own pulse. He licked his lips. “My lord?” He cursed himself that it came out as a question.

  “Cyprian.” Lord Richard’s arm shook a little, but his fingers didn’t move. “Cyprian—I—”

  Footsteps echoed in the hall outside. They both snatched their hands away at the firm knock at the door and were standing in separate silence as Mr. Norreys entered with the radical gaolbird Mason.


  David listened to the subsequent argument with about a third of his mind, sorting the details into advantageous, usable, disastrous, while the important thoughts pounded through him. You want me. You know I know it. What will we do? What did that change?

  Mason was, it seemed, rather more involved in the conspiracy than Mr. Frey had let on. David mentally consigned the pair of them to perdition as he watched his master’s control slip. He could feel Lord Richard’s fear for his friend, though it was well hidden behind his anger at Mason and the whole damned stupid business.

  “Get him out of the country,” Lord Richard ordered, gesturing at the radical. His choice was made. Of course he would not let David take the decision to save a traitor from the noose; he would bear his own responsibility, even if it cost him endless self-reproach and probably Mr. Frey’s friendship.

  David wasn’t having that if he could help it.

  “This man is guilty of treason,” Lord Richard was saying. “And Dominic will accept an end to this insanity, all of it, or I will make him.”

  “You won’t,” Mason said flatly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The radical took a step forward rather than back, glaring up into Lord Richard’s face. Mason was unshaven, gaol stained, and utterly unintimidated. David felt mildly impressed. “I said, you won’t,” Mason said. “You’ve hagridden Dom for fifteen fucking years, and I won’t have you giving him another dose of what’s wrong with him.”

  Oh, you shit. That would have hit Lord Richard right in the guilt. His bitterly ended relationship with Mr. Frey had been a running sore for most of their adult lives…

  And David could use Mason to burn it out. He could use this calamity, twist it to his advantage. The idea exploded in his head as Mason went on, his tone savage. Lord Richard stood apparently unmoved by the tirade, but David knew that stony expression and what it hid, and he was quite ready when Lord Richard threw a single desperate glance at him.

  David met his master’s eyes, conveying a message. Let me do it. Let me work. Trust me.

  Lord Richard looked back at Mason as he spoke. “Cyprian.” Brisk and brief. Only David would have known it was a plea.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Deal with this for me. Whatever seems necessary.”

  Lord Richard turned on his heel and stalked out, back very straight. Mr. Norreys’s lips parted in silent astonishment, but David had no time to deal with the dandy, or with Mason. He murmured an excuse and followed.

  Lord Richard stood alone in the hall, rigid with anger, and as David closed the door behind him, his master slapped a palm with brutal force against the expensively papered wall. “God damn it. Damn him.”

  “I’ll need free rein,” David said urgently. Nothing else mattered for the moment, not even that touch. He had to do this. “I will make it go away, my lord. I will make Mr. Frey happy. I will deal with it all. Just let me.”

  “Do it,” Lord Richard rasped. “That accursed, bloody— Do whatever you need.” He turned jerkily and strode off.

  David took a single deep breath before letting himself back into the book room. I will do exactly that. What we need. I will save Mason’s neck and get Mr. Frey out of your way for good. And then, my lord…we’ll see.

  Chapter 1

  MARCH 8, 1820

  “Bear off,” Silas said smugly. “And that’s you gammoned.”

  David sat back with a sigh. It had not been one of his better performances, and Silas, a bludgeoning, brutal opponent at the backgammon board, was developing a knack for strategy too. “Blast you,” he muttered, and totted up the points with a wince. In their ongoing contest, Silas’s score was definitely creeping upward.

  “Another round?” Silas suggested.

  David glanced at the clock. It was only half past midnight, but he shook his head. “I think not.”

  “Thought they were on a spree. You can’t be expecting his lordship back before two at the earliest.”

  “No. Well.”

  Silas shrugged and topped up his glass as David began to pack away the counters. He tilted the bottle toward David’s tumbler in invitation; David shook his head again. “No? It’s probably best. With you on a losing streak and all.”

  “Two games don’t constitute a losing streak,” David objected. “Unlike the seven in a row you lost last week. That was a streak.”

  He had taken a strong and unexpected liking to Silas, rough-tongued lout that he was. David’s position isolated him from the rest of the household, since valets were outside the hierarchy of servants. He was Lord Richard’s man, answering to nobody else, and it set him apart. He would have tolerated more than solitude for his place, but over four years and more, it had become tiresome that nobody would even give him a game for fear of beating him.

  Silas spoke as he liked and not only tried his best to trounce David at backgammon but crowed about it when he did. David was slightly startled at how much he enjoyed having a friend in the house.

  Silas took a swallow of gin. “Here, I was reading something the other day that’ll interest you. Philosopher fellow, writing on whether animals have souls.”

  “You think animals have souls?” David asked incredulously.

  “Me? I don’t think people have souls.”

  David winced. “Keep that to yourself. No atheism on Lord Richard’s time, thank you.”

  “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know. Anyway, he had a story about dogs who know when their owner’s on his way. They’ll jump to the window or the front door for no reason, couldn’t have heard anything, and five minutes later he arrives. Animal instinct or some such, I don’t know. Point is, they can sense when their master’s coming home.”

  It sounded plausible enough, but Lord Richard did not own dogs, and therefore David didn’t care. “Well, and?”

  “And what?”

  “You said it would interest me. I’m waiting to find out why.”

  Silas gave him an evil grin. “No reason.”

  David returned a suspicious look, then shut the backgammon box and put it on the shelf. They were playing in his bedroom, since it was more comfortable for everyone if they both avoided the servants’ hall. As Lord Richard’s valet, David had a room big enough to accommodate a table with two chairs, more space than he’d ever had before in his life, but he’d spent too long arranging gentlemen’s rooms to tolerate anything less than perfect order in his own.

  “If you’re going to bore me with pointless tales—” he began, and then his head snapped up as the bell rang.

  “That’ll be Lord Richard coming home,” Silas observed with immense satisfaction. “Lucky you were ready for him, eh?”

  David was momentarily lost for words. “Go shove your mother,” he managed at last. “You blasted gutter-blood.”

  Silas lifted his glass in a toast, grinning, as David scooped up his coat. “Off you go. Give his lordship my love. I’ll just finish your gin.”

  “I hope it chokes you.” David checked his hair in his little mirror. It was impeccably powdered, none of the telltale red visible.

  “Cheers to you too. Night.”

  “Good night.” David hurried out. Behind him, Silas coughed stagily. It sounded very like a bark.

  Lord Richard had not rung for him, of course. That would never do. The bell was a warning from the footman that Lord Richard had come home so that David could be ready before he was needed. Lord Richard might have brought a parcel of friends with him and intend to stay up talking for hours more, and if he did, David would simply wait rather than let Lord Richard come up to an unattended bedroom. One did not earn the reputation of being the best valet in London by thinking of one’s own comfort.

  The best valet in London, occupying one of the best positions. When Lord Richard’s previous valet had left his service to marry, the vacant post had been fought over with startling viciousness by men who were prepared to abandon their masters and sabotage their friends to secure it. David had made damned sure he won th
at silently waged war. He had wanted Lord Richard, and—professionally—he’d got him.

  Of course, every valet in London had wanted him. Lord Richard was a generous employer of immense social standing and, most important, a superb man to dress—too big for the kickshaws of fashion, granted, but his broad shoulders and deep chest carried off a plain style to perfection, and that was where a valet’s skill was best shown. Nothing hidden, everything impeccable.

  “The most desirable gentleman in Town,” John Frampling had remarked enviously. He was valet to Julius Norreys, exquisite, who served as a very satisfactory shop window for Frampling’s skills, but there was no love lost between man and master. “Of course, my Mr. Norreys has the better eye and more range, if I may put it that way, but he’s a right cold-hearted prick, if you want the truth. Whereas Lord Richard is a credit to you, Mr. Cyprian, and everyone says he’s a dream to serve.”

  That he was. David’s dream. David’s nightmare.

  The room was ready, naturally. He moved around it anyway, making sure not a stray hair or spot of dust sullied Lord Richard’s private space. Everything should be perfect for his lordship, always. That was what David did. It was what he was for.

  The bed was made, counterpane perfectly flat. He tweaked it anyway.

  The bed wouldn’t creak under the weight of two men. Lord Richard disliked furniture that complained of his size, and he was far too wealthy to tolerate anything that he disliked. Lord Richard could have anything he chose.

  He could have David.

  He didn’t choose to.

  They were always in the bedroom, morning and night, David and his master. He brought tea and hot water. Dressed his lordship, groomed him, shaved him, made him the image of a fine gentleman in the morning then took it all apart again at night, always with that bed lurking at the corner of David’s eye. Every morning, Lord Richard could have reached out a hand for him, pulled him onto the bed. Every night, he could have pushed David just a few steps back from the mirror and the marble-topped dressing table and put him flat on his back. David had never presumed to lie on Lord Richard’s bed, but he knew how the counterpane would feel, cool and smooth against bare skin, just as he knew how the bed would dip when Lord Richard’s seventeen stone came down over his own slim frame. He could feel the weight on his chest, his master’s mouth on his, those big, smooth hands cupping his arse…