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Wade,
Lord Barrett, was making one of his occasional visits to the house of his friend Lord Regal. Of course, a man may visit his
friend's houses as he, and they, wished, but he tended to avoid visiting William unless there was a very good reason that
the visit had to occur there.
Partly it was because he preferred his own house, who didn't, but partly it was because of how prickly
William got due to the state of his home. It wasn't William's fault as such, the family were what would probably be best described
as land-rich, money-poor, but it meant that the funds William could lay his hands on tended to be spent on the ancestral home,
and not on the town house.
The house itself was in reasonable condition, but the furniture and fittings were out-moded. Then again,
given the speed at which fashion moved these days, it would probably soon be quite the thing again.
Still, this visit was essential;
they had much to plan before Sunday. Wade admitted that he made use of his friend's need for money to feed his need for thrills.
He knows he ought not to, but this burglary lark was such fun.
Wade hadn't intended to turn thief, but Rolly Thessinger had been
such a braggart about that damned tie-pin of his, and Wade had only wanted to show him up. He'd blundered into Rolly's bedroom,
planning to swipe it, wait for Rolly to panic and then put it somewhere in Rolly's coat making Rolly appear like an absent-minded
ass to the world.
Instead of the tie-pin, he'd found Regal in full robbery regalia. There was an awkward pause; Wade hadn't known what
to do. Eventually, William turned to him and said, 'stay quiet and follow me, otherwise you'll set them on to us'. He supposes
that Regal had decided that, if Wade hadn't already raised the alarm, he never would.
Afterwards, Wade had demanded an explanation.
He'd known Regal previously; he'd used him to make his entrance into Society. They were from the same part of the world, and
with Wade's father having made his money in trade; they had been useful to each other, what with Wade having money and no
history, and William having the opposite.
William revealed that cat burglary was a highly lucrative sideline that was, at present, paying
for the renovation of the east wing. Wade asked to be included in future schemes.
'For heaven's sake, why? You can't be
that hard up for money, I know the size of the allowance your father gives you.'
Wade tried to explain how bored he was of London life,
and how he longed for something, anything, with some excitement to it. In the end, he'd almost strong armed Regal into letting
him join in.
That was
some time ago, and Regal had, hopefully, found him to be a most useful deputy.
Now they planned their next outrage. The port was good, but the
plotting was better, and Wade left the house delighted by the prospect of Sunday's adventures.
As he left, Wade could have sworn
he saw an upstairs curtain twitch. It was in the servants' quarters. That was the other reason Wade disliked visiting William's
house. As part of his economy, Regal had the barest essential staff. Wade heard rumour of a cook, and one must have existed,
for he had eaten there, but the only servant in frequent evidence was Regal's valet, Jericho. Wade swore he had never done
anything to the man, at least not as far as he could recall, and yet Jericho seemed to despise him. Wade would have suspected
that this was paranoia, were it not for little things, such as the curtain. It was an odd situation, William and his staff
seemed almost cloistered in the house. Invitations to it had gained a certain mystique in society, so few were they.
As it was, the sensation
of being watched lent speed to his removal from house.
~~~~
Jericho watched as Lord Barrett left. He would have preferred to have
been in bed an hour ago, but until the master was asleep, there was still every chance he'd be called upon. Therefore he was
presently sitting in full dress on the chair by his bed, desperately trying not to drift off to sleep. It was difficult; he
kept napping, having the most pleasant dream, involving the demise of the inventor of the communicating bell. Thankfully he
was awake when said bell was rung.
He was thankful because he knew that the master would be in a terrible temper, and not arriving
promptly would only make it worse. Then again, everything and anything would only make it worse.
It was always the same when Lord
Barrett visited. It was strange as Barrett was undoubtedly one of the few people his master enjoyed the company of, the master
was at his happiest, no, second happiest (Jericho was hopeful of it only being the third happiest his master ever was but
he had known these kind of hopes be dashed before) when he returned from visiting Lord Barrett. It was merely the reverse
which sent him to a foul state.
Jericho was at a loss to know why.
He arrived in the drawing room as fast as is possible by human locomotion.
And yet it was still not fast enough, to judge from the way his Lordship was tapping his fingertips on the table. It was a
habit he had. In his good moods, the rhythm was a popular waltz, in his bad ones, a march. This was practically a death march.
Jericho had already
guessed this would be a long night, but that was when he realised it would be very long indeed.
"If it's not *too* much trouble,
I would like some tea." Jericho had suspected that Regal would want tea and set the large pot to boil in the kitchen before
retiring to his room. If course, he'd likely hear complaints about the water having boiled for too long, but if he hadn't,
he'd be shouted at for taking too long. There was no dealing with the master when he got like this.
Jericho found himself thinking
hard upon the advantages of living in London. No matter how impossible Regal got, it was better than living at home, with
his brothers and his sisters and his parents and the small patch of land they'd worked for generations, and never had a moment's
happiness from. No, London was hope, London was the future, even if it involved learning how to keep your head down and duck
when the serving tray came flying towards you. As an extra trick, he'd even learned how to catch it while avoiding it, which
prevented an awful clatter and at least an hour's polishing the next day.
He retreated, followed by various sounds of indignation, to the
kitchen. Now he had to choose what variety of tea leaves to use. It should have been relatively straight-forward, it normally
was, except Regal was a connoisseur of teas, their flavours and their colours, and how to make the perfect cup of any blend.
And right now, only a perfect cup would do, and those were hard to make under pressure.
Jericho took his time, knowing that every
extra moment would lead to further anger, but that not getting this right would only lead to worse.
He took the final product up
the stairs, taking great care with the steps; it wouldn't do to spill any of it.
The thoughts that kept him going through the next
tirade were that London had dancing and music. There was a tea dance he had an invitation to on Sunday, and Rivade's recital
a fortnight hence, all, or most of the things he loved, he could only find them here in London.
It took three attempts before Regal
was satisfied, and Jericho had a terrible fear the price of the tea wasted was going to come out of his meagre wages. He was
dismissed before he had the chance to ask Regal if he needed his help to undress.
He beat a hasty retreat, into the welcoming covers
of his bed. He tried to get to sleep as quickly as possible because tomorrow was already here and he had to be up at five
to light the fires, otherwise the house would be icy in the morning and he was likely to get a boot up the arse if it was.
Of course, no matter
how hard he tried to get to sleep, it isn't like he'll actually get much rest, because he knew how this went. Once the master
had calmed down, and got whatever snit out of his system, he'd come up, and gently knock on Chris's door, then he'd come in,
at least as far as the doorframe. He'd stand there, looking ever so debonair with his bowtie hanging off.
Regal would look at him, a sort
of pleading, guilty look, and Chris knew that that was all the apology he was ever going to get for tonight's performance,
because saying sorry was for people who had to earn their money.
Chris would let him in, because he was a soft touch, always had been,
it was why he hadn't wanted to be a sheep farmer and had jumped at the chance when the lord of the manor said his son needed
a manservant.
Then again,
it wasn't like he would get nothing out this. The feel of Regal's hand pushing the heavy cotton of his nightshirt up his thighs,
Regal's mouth doing the kinds of things you only read about in French magazines.
Then, in the morning, after he'd woken
up feeling like death warmed over, and set the fires, and tried desperately to remember if there were any tradesmens's accounts
due and, more importantly, whether there was any money to cover said bills - with the Regal name, most of them were willing
to take credit, but there came an end even to that - after all that was done, he would wake Regal, who'd be a whole different
character than the person he was tonight.
London was worth it though, even the five o'clock starts.
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