His Client

“There ye are.”

Jasper Reed looked up from his plate of chicken. A maid stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand on her slim hip and the other holding the door open. Tendrils of her mousy brown hair had escaped the confines of her white cap. Her round cheeks were flushed with exertion, and her eyes narrowed on him.

“Yes, here I am,” he replied before taking another bite.

Her eyes narrowed even farther. “You’ve been requested. Second floor. Number five. Client’s waiting.” With that, she turned on her heel, and the door swung shut behind her.

Ignoring the maid’s pique of temper, he glanced at the clock on the wall. Just after four o’clock in the afternoon. The house usually wasn’t busy that early. A few clients, yes, but the ones who sought men typically did not present themselves until much later. As if the night sky alone could hide what they did while at the house.

He shrugged. The time of day truly mattered not to him. If someone requested him, he worked.

Pushing from the wooden table, he grabbed his teacup and swallowed a quick gulp of tea. Dinner would have to wait until later. He took his cup and plate and set them beside the basin sink.

“Ye want me to save it?” Cook asked, glancing over her shoulder to the barely touched chicken breast.

Jasper shook his head. “Could be hours until I can get back to it.”

Long accustomed to the inner workings of the house, she simply turned her attention back to stirring the contents of the large iron pot on the stove.

Using the narrow servants’ stairs, he made his way up to the fourth floor, taking the stairs two at a time. He only had to flatten himself against the wall twice to allow maids to pass, their arms laden with piles of freshly laundered sheets as they worked to finish righting the house before dusk descended. Most of the other employees were either having dinner in the servants’ dining room or preparing for the evening ahead. Something he had yet to do, so he would need to be quick about it. Clients parted with hefty sums at Madame Delacroix’s, and they did not appreciate being kept waiting. Nor did they appreciate unkempt whores.

He went through the door at the top of the stairs and along the barren corridor, his long legs making quick work of the distance. As the fourth floor held only employee quarters, it lacked the understated grandeur of the rest of the house. No plush rugs to cushion his footsteps, no crystal sconces to provide soft, welcoming light. A few doors were open, revealing glimpses of women clad in white shifts chatting with each other or contemplating gowns laid out on beds.

He whipped his shirt over his head and entered the last door on the left. Spartan and barely bigger than a broom closet, the room wasn’t much, but it was his, and most important, he did not have to share it. He threw the shirt onto the narrow bed and toed off his shoes. A flick of his wrist and his comfortable brown trousers were pushed down his legs. After leaving his trousers and shoes in a heap on the floor, he crossed the short distance to the washstand, grabbed the soap from the cracked saucer and the cloth from the hook on the wall, and bathed as thoroughly as time allowed.

A few minutes later and he was clad in black trousers and a freshly laundered white shirt, his cravat tied in a simple knot that would take just a tug to undo. Coat and waistcoat…unnecessary. Delacroix insisted the women dress in fine gowns to project the proper image for the house. But as the men never graced the receiving room, the only requirement when they moved about the main areas of the house was that they were dressed just enough so any guests they came upon would mistake them for another patron wandering the corridor on their way to another of the bedchambers. Delacroix’s was well-known for its beautiful women, but its handful of accommodating men like himself were only known to those who had need of them.

Jasper dunked his hands in the washbasin and ran them through his hair, pushing the dark waves back and off his forehead. A glance in the small oval mirror above the basin confirmed that the client should find him presentable enough not to suspect he had rushed overmuch. Then he left the room, the door snapping shut behind him.

After emerging from the servants’ stairs on the second floor, he paused briefly in the softly lit corridor to gain his bearings. Number five. Third room on the left. The doors weren’t marked. That would be vulgar. One need only remember the even numbers were on the right, the odd on the left, and then count the doors from the main entrance to the floor.

He reached up to check the knot on his cravat. Reassured he’d centered it, he stopped before the appropriate door and took a deep breath to settle his pulse from the race from the kitchen.

Please don’t let it be a bloated, impotent old man.

The thought of sucking a flaccid cock until his jaw ached and his knees hurt, in an effort to get it hard enough to fuck him… A shudder of revulsion skipped down his spine. The possibility of what the next few hours could hold loomed before him. Clients who were more determined than capable made for a very long night.

His heavy sigh echoed in the quiet corridor. Definitely getting too old for this. The lure of money was no longer enough to wipe away the distaste already forming on his tongue. But those in his profession did not possess the luxury of refusal. His job was to please anyone who requested him, not to please himself. Delacroix wouldn’t allow him to work for just certain clients -- or rather, one client in particular. If he was being brutally honest with himself, that one client was the reason he continued to tolerate all the others. Yes, he had chosen this line of work. Had gone into it with his eyes open and could walk away whenever he chose. But a bastard from St. Giles without any family or connections to speak of did not possess many options, and no other where he could earn in a decade what others would count themselves fortunate to earn in a lifetime. And in order to one day leave this house behind, to never have to serve another again in any capacity, he needed to work. In any case, Delacroix’s certainly wasn’t some molly house in the stews.

Good food, a room of his own, very nice pay, and clients who usually had enough manners not to try to vent their frustrations with their fists. Could be much worse.

With that reminder fresh in his mind, he forced a welcoming smile, pulled his spine straight, and lifted his knuckles to softly rap twice on the door. An ever so brief pause and he turned the knob.

The door swung open. On the navy brocade couch situated in front of the gray marble fireplace sat Nathaniel Travers. The man was already in his shirtsleeves, the brown coat discarded and draped over the back of a nearby armchair.

His heart leaped at the sight of Nate. Then his stride faltered as he entered the room.

Jasper shut the door and turned the lock. Why was Nate at the house at such an early hour? A part of him could not be happier at Nate’s unexpected appearance, but another part did not know quite what to make of it.

Nate pulled his attention from the almost empty glass of brandy in his hand and looked to Jasper. Misery, desolation, grief. Jasper read it all in the slump of the usually straight broad shoulders, in the lines bracketing his firm mouth drawn in a straight line, and in the complete and utter sadness filling those familiar deep blue eyes.

Hell. Peter Edmonton’s wedding.

Somehow he kept the wince from twisting his lips. How could he have forgotten?

Jasper didn’t say a word and neither did Nate as Jasper crossed to the squat bowfront cabinet. Ignoring the fold of pound notes on the polished mahogany surface, he grabbed the decanter of brandy from the silver tray. After refilling Nate’s glass, he set the decanter on the end table and settled beside him.

“The wedding. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Jasper’s gaze traced Nate’s profile as he waited patiently for a reply. The man was the farthest thing from bloated and old. Everything about him brought the word rugged to mind. His jaw defined yet blunt. His nose marred by the many breaks it had sustained; three Jasper knew of, and that nose had certainly not been straight when he had first made Nate’s acquaintance five years ago. Even his short, light brown hair always strayed toward untidy, as if he could not be bothered to do more than pass a careless hand over it before leaving his apartments. Definitely not classically handsome, yet the man somehow embodied the very essence of masculinity.

Nate took a long swallow of the brandy. “Yes, it’s tomorrow.” He sighed as he gave his head a slow, weary shake. “It’s not like I haven’t known for weeks. Hell, Peter even told me he was going to ask for her hand before he asked for her father’s consent. Still…why does he have to marry her?”

The desolation, the confusion in his voice grabbed hold of Jasper’s heart and gave it a fierce tug, wiping away every trace of jealousy the name Peter Edmonton never failed to spark.

Jasper was a year younger than Nate’s eight and twenty, yet at times he felt a decade the man’s senior. Nate was so physically strong and capable. Five feet ten inches of blatant muscle and power. The type one would want at his side when traveling down dark alleys at night. But when it came to matters of the heart, it was as if he was still the same adolescent boy who had fallen in love with his best friend. The blinders of youth firmly in place, heart stubbornly fixed on the first individual who had roused those feelings within him, unable to see the man sitting next to him would give anything for even a piece of his loyal heart.

That familiar pain began to wrap around Jasper’s chest, but with well-practiced effort, he pushed it aside, focused on Nate, on being the willing ear the man needed.

He had known today, never mind tomorrow, would be hard on Nate. No way could it not. An unavoidable pain and one Jasper hoped beyond hope would provide a measure of closure. But Nate clearly could not see it in that light yet. Understandable given Peter Edmonton was the only man he spoke of with more than a casual, passing reference. Jasper doubted that Nate had ever had a relationship with another man who returned his affections, something more than a random fuck to sate his needs or a paid playmate to indulge his whims.

“Perhaps it is better this way.”

A frown creased Nate’s brow. “Why would you say that?”

“Edmonton doesn’t have an older brother who has already produced two sons, or a younger brother with a distinct affinity for the fairer sex,” he explained, using Nate’s family as an example. “He has only the one sister. He’s his father’s only son -- of course, he would marry. If the two of you were lovers, I would think it would hurt a hell of a lot more than it does right now. Even if he would have been amenable to continuing the relationship, you would have left him. You’d have never been able to encourage him to stray from his wife. At least this way, you don’t run the risk of losing him as a friend.”

“Perhaps,” Nate grumbled. He drained the rest of his glass, then shook his head. “It’s just…” Mouth pulled taut, he dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck, resistance etched in every line of his body. “He’s going on a wedding holiday. Ireland of all places. Will be gone for weeks.”

That bit of information wasn’t what held Nate back from agreeing with him. But instead of pressing his point harder, Jasper asked, “You’re losing your sparring partner?”

“Yes,” Nate said on a heavy sigh. Then he lifted his head and looked to Jasper, considering him for a moment. “You could take his place.”

Jasper blinked. Had he heard Nate correctly? “Me?”

“Yes. You have the build for it. I’m certain you could hold your own.”

“These muscles are for show,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. At Delacroix’s, clients expected as close to physical perfection as could be found. One did not part with a fat fold of pound notes for anything less. “I can fight -- any man can throw a punch -- but pugilism? No.”

“If that’s your concern, I’ll teach you. It’s not difficult.”

What Jasper wouldn’t give to spend time with Nate outside the house. To just be with him and not have it be about sex. But at Gentleman Jackson’s?

“Thank you but no.” Leaning left, he reached for the decanter on the end table to refill Nate’s glass. “I can’t afford to walk out of the ring with a cut lip or a broken nose.”

The solid body next to him stiffened. “I would never hurt you, Jasper,” he said, low and grave, as if pledging a solemn vow.

Nate held his gaze. The depth of sincerity, the true worry over Jasper’s implication that he would deliberately hurt him… Jasper caught himself just in time, dousing the hope before it had a chance to spark. Nate’s concern was that of one friend to another, nothing more.

“But isn’t that the point of pugilism? To hurt your opponent?” Jasper asked, a teasing smile on his lips, trying to alleviate Nate’s worry. Nate opened his mouth, his expression still serious, perhaps even more so. Before he could respond, before he could say something else to prod that spark of hope, Jasper reluctantly admitted the real reason behind his refusal. “In any case, it wouldn’t do for you to be seen with me at Gentleman Jackson’s.” Or anywhere outside this room. “God forbid if someone recognized me.”

And the possibility was definitely there. He had made the acquaintance of a number of gentlemen who would frequent such an establishment. By choice, Nate did not usually move in the highest circles of Society, preferring his clubs and sport over strictly formal balls and routs. But he was from a solid, well-respected family -- his father’s eldest brother was a viscount. Jasper could not risk Nate’s reputation, never mind his life. Sodomy was against the law. Where else would a man such as Nate meet someone like himself, except at a brothel?

Nate gave him an odd look, one Jasper could not quite define. Then he shook his head as if dismissing a thought, and turned his attention back to his glass.

The fire in the hearth crackled, the flames beginning to sputter. He should get up to tend to it, but instead he remained exactly where he sat. Nate’s contemplation of the contents of his tumbler indicated tomorrow still pressed heavily on his mind. Pushing him to proceed beyond a conversation wasn’t what Nate needed right now.

Content to give Nate time to think over their discussion thus far, Jasper let silence descend between them. He shifted, settling more comfortably against the back of the couch, legs casually spread with a knee resting against Nate’s. The house had many different types of rooms, all with their own distinct intention, and Delacroix had designed this room to make its aristocratic guests feel at home, comfortable, and at their ease. The furnishings and fabrics were all of the highest quality. The rich mahogany wood and subdued yet saturated colors spoke of wealth in just the perfect inflection. But the room’s true purpose was still clear in the choice of a couch and not merely a pair of chairs, each only designed to fit one, composing the sitting area before the fireplace, and the large bed with its ever versatile four-posters that took up most of the space on the other side of the room.

They would eventually either make better use of the couch or relocate to the bed. Nate did not visit just for Jasper’s conversation skills. Before Nate left this room, they would play. The game…well, that would be left up to Nate. But regardless of which game Nate selected, it would involve those strong, calloused hands on his body, the man’s thick cock in his arse, and those beautiful deep blue eyes focused fully on him.

A low hum of anticipation began to build in his body. He took a deep breath and detected the faint hint of starch from a cravat, male skin, and that unique scent that made Nate different from all the rest. Spicy yet not exotic. Closing his eyes, he took another deep breath, let the scent sink into his senses. Sandalwood? No, not quite. Perhaps it was his shaving soap. One of these days, he needed to gather the courage to ask Nate what variety of soap he used. Though Nate might find it odd if he started using it himself. Only a lovelorn fool would do such a thing.

But that you are.

“I sucked him off once,” Nate stated, breaking the silence.

The statement jolted Jasper from his thoughts. He blinked his eyes open. “When?”

As soon as the word left his lips, he wished he could yank it back. Hell, why had he asked? There was no question to whom Nate referred, and Jasper certainly did not need to hear details of such an incident.

“Years ago. We were adolescents. It happened at school. Our beds were next to each other, and one night when I heard him stroking himself off, I climbed into his bed. I had only intended to lend him a hand, but he let me take it further.”

He couldn’t help but find the information interesting. From what Nate had told him, he and Edmonton had been the best of friends since their school days at Eton. But there was a line even best friends did not cross, unless said friends shared a particular interest in each other. He had assumed Nate had been stubbornly pining for a man who could never return his affections, yet if Edmonton had once allowed Nate to suck him off…

“How did he react the next day?”

“As if nothing had happened. At first I thought that meant his interests aligned with mine. He didn’t shun me, and he didn’t look on me any differently than he had the day before. He still called me friend. But no matter how hard I looked for it, he never gave me that opening, that nudge to indicate he would welcome me in such a way again. He must have brushed it off as one of those things that tended to happen at night in the dormitories. Such play was not entirely uncommon. Still, he had let me and I couldn’t help but wish…” He let out a snort of disgust. “Foolish of me.”

Jasper reached out, laid a comforting hand on Nate’s thigh. The heat from his body penetrated the fine wool trousers, warming Jasper’s palm. “No. Not foolish. You were young.” And you love him. He could well understand that instinctive need to hold on to hope, no matter how thin.

Nate let out a self-deprecating grunt. “But I’m not anymore.” Another long swallow of brandy. “It’s just…we are such good friends.” He looked to Jasper, as if seeking confirmation. Jasper did not need to ask for clarification to know Nate did not refer to himself. “So alike in our interests.”

Not entirely, Jasper was tempted to point out, but he held his tongue.

“It would have been nothing at all to hide our relationship. He’s slept on my couch countless times when the evening ended closer to my apartments than to his town house.”

“And you did not get a wink of sleep on any of those nights.” Whereas thoughts of himself certainly had never once disturbed Nate’s slumber.

“Indeed,” Nate said, tipping his head in weary acknowledgment.

Nate drained the last splash of brandy in his glass. He did not put up a fight, did not even glance at Jasper in question when he pulled the empty glass from his hand.

“Why does he have to marry her?” The question, even Nate’s tone, down to the desolate confusion in his voice, was an exact match from when Jasper first settled beside him on the couch.

But this time, Jasper did not remain silent. He set the tumbler on the end table and turned back to Nate, held his gaze. “Because he prefers women.” The crux of Nate’s problem. The man could wait indefinitely, and it would do no good. Edmonton clearly would never wake up one morning with the realization that he wanted an intimate relationship with his best friend.

A painful wince crossed Nate’s rugged features. His heavy exhale filled the room as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The sputtering flames in the hearth held his attention for a long moment, the golden light flickering across his face, caressing the line of his jaw and those knots on the bridge of his nose. And then his shoulders sagged. In defeat, perhaps?

“She’s a lovely young lady.” Head bowed, Nate picked at the cuff of his sleeve. “He seems quite fond of her. I dare say he loves her. He hasn’t told me as much, but I can tell. It’s in the way he looks at her.”

And you can’t recognize that same look in me?

The limits of Jasper’s compassion were breached. The irritation and jealousy he had somehow managed to keep at bay surged forth like water rushing through a ruptured dam, stinging his nerves with the brute force of it.

Enough.

If Jasper allowed it, Nate would go on about Edmonton until dawn. Time to turn Nate’s attention away from the man his heart stubbornly clung to.

Without a word, Jasper stood. He rounded the couch, went to the tall dresser near the bed, and pulled open the top drawer. His gaze swept over the assortment of leather goods contained within -- cuffs, a flogger, a plain brown collar -- then paused on…

Perhaps. From beneath a pair of silk stockings, he pulled the black leather corset.

It might do, but he needed another option. The corset clutched in one hand, he shut the drawer and tried the next one. He pushed aside the don’s robes, the footman’s livery with its deep green coat edged with gold braid trim, and the plain black coat, the type commonly worn by tutors. None of them would do tonight. His fingertips paused over white linen. Perhaps an even better option. The fabric was very thin and obviously new -- garments like it rarely lasted a night in one piece. Clients, including Nate, had a preference for ripping them.

He pulled out the shift, tossed the two garments onto the navy coverlet, and quickly removed his cravat, shirt, and trousers. Before shutting the drawer, he grabbed the small silver tin tucked in the corner, opened the lid, dabbed a fingertip to the rouge, and smeared a bit on his lips.

With everything at the ready, including himself, he moved to stand at the foot of the bed. “Nate,” he called.

The man glanced over his shoulder, his gaze going from Jasper to the bed, then back to him again. His posture shifted, his spine straightening, the defeat vanishing from his shoulders.

A flush of warmth rolled through Jasper at finally having Nate’s full attention. Blood pooled in his groin, his cock thickening, lengthening at the knowledge of what was to come. He quirked a brow, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Which do you prefer?”

© Ava March, January 2011
All Rights Reserved