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  “Then we should pray God that we truly have seen the war to end them all.” Hugo lifted his head, found Edward’s lips once more. As they touched, he was filled with joy, more than he’d ever felt in his life and the source of that elation was the man he’d got wrapped in his arms. Edward’s fingers started to explore underneath his friend’s coat. Hugo was taken aback by how bold the man was turning out to be, but Edward’s whole demeanour had changed now. Perhaps once they’d taken the final step over the threshold from friendship to love, he’d discovered within himself an audacity that had long been kept hidden. Hugo waited for the expected frisson of guilt to strike him now that he was lost in the pleasures of kissing and caressing. But it didn’t come, and he was thankful for being spared it at last.

  “Shall I take this coat off? It’s mild enough.” When Hugo had carelessly stripped off with Domino, it had cost him more than money. It was as if he’d bared part of his soul with each item discarded and he’d kept his losses to a minimum. It had been wrong then, that fact did not and would not change, but it felt absolutely right at this moment. Hugo regretfully pulled out of their embrace, slid off his dinner jacket and was pleased to see Edward perform the same manoeuvre. Their freshly laundered shirts were no longer as crisp as when they’d first been put on, and Edward’s bore a patch of perspiration where his friend’s head had lain. Hugo gently drew his fingers down it, savouring the slick feel of the moist material in his hands.

  “Can you stay a little while longer? People will think we’re chatting over a cup of tea. I’ll lock the door so we needn’t worry.” Edward rubbed his face in Hugo’s hair, enjoying the smell and taste of it.

  “Leave the door—it’ll only make folk suspicious. We’ll hear them soon enough on the stairs.” Hugo’s fingers began to ease themselves into the folds of his friend’s shirt, inching nearer to a spot where they might get under the material and find Edward’s skin. “I’ll stay as long as common sense and our reputations will allow.” Hugo could feel Edward’s hands tugging at the tail of his shirt, seeking to find some flesh to caress. His fingers just touching the small of Hugo’s back felt so much more exciting than anything that Domino had done for him. Perhaps he could only find true ecstasy if love were at the heart of it.

  “Will you stop thinking and kiss me again, or must I wait another two months?” Edward tried to look serious, but the twinkle in his eye belied the stern voice.

  “I will kiss you as often as you deserve and you may take that answer as you wish.” Hugo was as good as his word, kissing his lover frantically and letting his hands work on buttons and waistbands until they were both short of breath and neither of them had a shirt on their backs.

  Hugo lightly caressed his friend’s chest, drawing circles, tracing ribs, noting each line and curve and freckle until he’d memorised it entirely. Edward in his turn scanned every fraction of Hugo’s back with his fingertips, mapping each square inch and defining its properties. Only the unknown could be truly fearful—making your lover’s flesh as familiar as your own eliminated all apprehension. They placed tender kisses on each other’s skin and hair, Edward exploring the rough acres of Hugo’s mane of a chest, both enjoying the novelty of smooth flesh under fingers and tongue.

  “I must go soon.” Hugo bent to kiss the tender inward of Edward’s hand, returning to kiss his mouth once more via his collarbone and neck, each touch of skin to lips being savoured anew. “This is just the beginning, the start of many such afternoons and evenings, should that be what you want.” He sealed the invitation with a kiss so passionate it left the answer in no doubt.

  Edward nodded, and Hugo suspected he was too overcome to speak. He watched as Lamont slowly drew his shirt back on, secured the buttons, sought for his cufflinks. “No, let me.” Edward gently inserted the little gold fastenings through their holes.

  Hugo found as much delight in being dressed by his friend as he had in being undressed by him, being especially pleased when Edward remembered to take the tie and make it up neatly. He was bound to be spotted on his way back to his rooms to change for hall and they couldn’t risk giving anyone the slightest cause for suspicion, not now.

  Hugo slowly slipped on his jacket, held Edward close once more and revelled in the sensation of the man’s bare skin nestling against his clothing. He felt warm, secure and ridiculously alive, willing the minutes to crawl by while Edward was next to him, fly when they were apart. “Tomorrow? After hall?”

  Edward nodded again, head against head. “Every evening after hall. All the rest of this term. Forever.” The last word was little more than a shared exhalation—they both knew better than to tempt fate.

  “Every evening it will be, then. For as long as we’re granted.” Hugo breathed into his friend’s neck, drank in once more the sweet scent of sweat and exhilaration to better remember it once he was alone. “Kiss me once more, then common sense shall have to prevail.” A huge smile lit up his face, one that Edward mirrored.

  The lingering sense of that final embrace of the day stayed alive for them both well into the night.

  The End

  Return to TOC

  Gentleman’s Gentleman

  LEE ROWAN

  Chapter One

  July, 1880

  Maiwand, Afghanistan

  The heat was the worst of it. Major Robert Scoville gazed over the cracked earth and stark mountain range with eyes that felt baked raw. The thin air didn’t help, either, clogged as it was with a fine powdery dust raised by thousands of feet and hooves.

  And the waiting was almost as bad as the heat. Instead of being ready for a fight, with the normal anticipation of victory in battle against a half-civilised enemy, the men were quiet, almost nervous, preparing to meet their ends. And Scoville could say nothing to contradict that expectation without insulting his men’s good sense and making himself look a fool. How was an officer supposed to put heart into his men when every scrap of intelligence numbered at least ten Afghan tribesmen to every British soldier? No amount of pride and patriotism could overcome those odds.

  It was madness to attack Maiwand. They couldn’t even keep Ayub Khan bottled up in the city, much less drive him from it. If a lowly major like himself could see that, what in God’s name was wrong with the generals?

  He nodded as his sergeant came up beside him. “Darling, are the men ready?”

  “Ready as they can be, my lord,” said Sgt. Jack Darling. “Waiting to get on with it and get it over.”

  “Ours is but to do and die,” Scoville said. Their eyes met for a moment, and Scoville knew that even if his sergeant had not read the poem, they were in agreement that someone had blundered.

  “I’d like to get my hands on the bastard who thinks this mess is glorious.” Darling wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a dark streak of mud along his temple. “No offence meant, my lord, but I’d wager he never risked his poetic arse on a battlefield.”

  “No, I think Tennyson was a confirmed civilian. Ever consider a civilian life for yourself, Sergeant?”

  “On days like this, my lord—constantly.”

  That was just the reply Scoville had been hoping for, though the timing could not have been less opportune. “When I leave the service,” he said, “provided I live long enough, I shall need a man who possesses both nerve and discretion and is able to keep track of my effects—a gentleman’s personal gentleman. I’ve been spoiled by your competence, Darling, and I couldn’t dare hope for such luck a second time. Might you be interested in the position?”

  He could feel Darling’s gaze upon him, knew the thoughtful look that would be on his sergeant’s face. “Very much, my lord,” Darling said at last. “But would you give odds on our chance of seeing a peaceful life?”

  “No,” Scoville said. “Not really.” Nor any life at all, he added silently. He caught a small movement off in the direction of General Burrows’ headquarters; his spyglass revealed the General’s messenger leaving the command tent, and he knew what the message would be.
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br />   “Won’t be long now.” Scoville put away the glass. Ten minutes of quiet remained, perhaps fifteen. Another few hours of life? It might not even be that long. “Sergeant?” He ducked into his tent with Darling on his heels.

  Everything inside had been packed up; his camp-desk stood ready to throw on a pack mule. “I think we deserve a last drink, don’t you?” He unscrewed the lid on his hip-flask and filled the shot-sized cap for Darling. “Here’s to dying in our beds in 1950.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll look forward to it.”

  The brandy went down elegantly. Napoleon brandy, it was; Scoville had won the bottle from a brother officer in a card game in Herat. “Have another, Sergeant. No point in wasting it. The enemy will only pour it out if they get their bloody teetotalling hands on it.”

  “Can’t have that, my lord.” Darling did his duty, handed the cap back and straightened his shoulders. “Shall I tell the men to make ready, then?”

  “Yes. It’s time.”

  Darling gave him a crisp salute. Scoville returned it, and they both went back out into the blistering sun.

  The battle began slowly, as such things always did, men moving into position and advancing until the first shot unleashed the thunder. Scoville had never seen anything like it—hundreds, thousands of shrieking Afghans in their sloppy tribal attire, with their deadly efficient weapons raised high. The first row fell to British fire. The rest leapt over the bodies and kept coming, faster than the riflemen could reload. Within minutes the fight deteriorated into desperate hand-to-hand combat.

  And then the battle rose up like a living thing and tore them to pieces. In no time at all Burrows’ forces were outflanked, their ammunition spent, the disciplined lines splintering apart as the tribesmen came on and kept coming, a seemingly endless flow of swords and knives and fury. The heat and dust increased a hundredfold; sanity fled in the dull roar of howling attackers and screaming wounded. The only constant was Jack Darling at his side as the two of them tried to maintain enough control of their men to manage an orderly retreat, using their rifles as clubs.

  Scoville caught a movement from the corner of his eye—more Afghans cutting into their squadron from the right.

  “Major, behind you!”

  He started to turn. Then something slammed into him, and the world went dark.

  Return to TOC

  Chapter Two

  May, 1891

  The Continental Express, transiting Germany

  The sudden clash of steel woke Lord Robert Scoville from a troubled doze. His head jerked up, and for a confused moment he looked around for the enemy. Then he realised that the sound was not the clash of arms, but just his hired railway carriage rumbling over a switch point, the metallic rattle and rumble merely the wheels on the track and the links between cars. He was a decade and a continent away from that old horror, somewhere between Zurich and Salzburg, lounging about in a private car in which everything was modern and agreeable. The comfortable divan upon which he sat would, come evening, be transformed into an equally comfortable bed. His man—for not only had Darling survived, he’d accepted Scoville’s offer of employment—was in an adjoining compartment, ready to supply anything His Lordship might require.

  The newspaper he had been reading was folded neatly beside him, and a small brocade cushion had been tucked between his face and the window against which he was leaning. Obviously, Darling had found him asleep and tidied up rather than waking him, as he occasionally did if Scoville dozed off in his study at home.

  Darling was a treasure, without question. His unobtrusive competence allowed Scoville to maintain his town home with only a housekeeper and maid who went back to their families in the evening and additional hired help for the occasional party. The peace and solitude were balm for Scoville’s soul. He no longer wished, as he had in his childhood, to be poor enough that he didn’t require servants trooping through the house at all hours. One man was all he needed. The right man.

  Scoville occasionally wondered about Darling’s origins; he’d never been able to tease the secret out of the man himself. It sometimes seemed as though Sergeant Jack Darling had materialised from the ethers in full uniform when the regiment first assembled, but Scoville suspected an investigation would reveal his gentleman’s gentleman as a gentleman in blood at least. He might be a younger son disgraced or strayed, or possibly the indiscretion of some nobleman who’d had the decency to see that the boy got a good education.

  It would be possible to hire someone to investigate Darling’s past, of course, but that would be a betrayal of trust. Better to wait, observe, and see if he could eventually solve the mystery on his own. He hadn’t really made an effort in that direction, though. There weren’t many clues.

  Darling had made the transition to civilian life without so much as a blink. His careful attention to uniform regulations and placement of insignia was transformed into a scrupulous exactitude regarding what a self-respecting gentleman was required to wear, enforcing his dictates with a deference that held a touch of gentle mockery. Always inclined to comfort rather than fashion, Scoville allowed himself to be bullied in matters of haberdashery. Darling’s taste in such matters was impeccable.

  Darling himself was no chore to look at, either—strongly built without being bulky, thick dark hair neatly trimmed, eyes a surprisingly dark blue, a pleasantly shaped mouth in a pleasantly arranged face, and throughout it all a spark of intelligence and humour that belied the man’s less than lofty occupation. He moved with the grace of a dancer or an athlete; he would have looked perfectly at home sitting in Parliament or at the head of his own firm. Why he chose to devote his considerable talents to making Lord Robert Scoville’s life comfortable was another minor mystery, but his lordship was content to let that one lie. A pity he couldn’t just marry the man—Darling would have made a splendid life’s companion, without the trouble of children or feminine vapours.

  Scoville warned himself off that line of thought. Discreet Darling might be, a pleasure to gaze upon, loyal as a bulldog, even willing to turn a blind eye to his master’s occasional male guest who stayed the night and shared His Lordship’s bed. That was more than a man of Scoville’s unconventional sexual habits could reasonably expect, and Darling had never given any hint that he might be willing to consider a more personal sort of service.

  And that was just as well, wasn’t it? If that particular question were ever raised, it would forever affect their relationship, might even destroy it. The principle that Scoville always followed in the army, A good officer keeps his hands off his privates, was just as sensible a maxim in civilian life. One did not make advances to an employee whose livelihood depended on pleasing his employer.

  Lord Robert had an ingrained awareness of his own privilege—not a sense of entitlement, but the sure knowledge that he’d done nothing to earn the good fortune that was his by birth. He had seen too many working-class heroes to think that his title made him better than the soldiers who had fought and died beside him, and he abhorred slavery, whatever its disguise. He might have paid for sexual services on occasion, but only in fair trade; he had never bedded an unwilling companion and never intended to.

  Particularly not someone whose friendship he valued. If he looked at the matter squarely, Darling was perhaps the best friend he’d ever had. He could think of no one he trusted more or would rather have at his side in a tight spot. If he asked Darling for more than the man was willing or able to give, he’d lose him, certain sure—and he did not want to lose Jack Darling. How could one replace the irreplaceable?

  This would all have been so different if they had met as equals. He could give the man a look, say, “Well, Jack, how about it?” and go from there—or go nowhere at all.

  But at least that way he would know. As it was, the forces of social convention could be a straightjacket for a man with principles.

  Still, there were things one couldn’t alter, so any invitation would have to come from Darling himself, and Scoville wasn’t
about to hold his breath waiting. Darling had never given the slightest indication that he might dance on that side of the ballroom; he always seemed to have a flirtation going with some pretty housemaid or shopgirl, and he came home very late on his nights off.

  Scoville couldn’t name the girl, but he knew there must be one. Sooner or later, his comfortable existence would have to make allowances for a Mrs. Darling and possibly a brood of little Darlings as well. It was a daunting prospect, but he could hardly deny the man a chance for a normal life. Perhaps a detached cottage in the back garden would suffice to quarantine wedded bliss away from bachelor comforts.

  At any rate, Darling’s hypothetical love life and possible future were far afield from where Scoville needed to focus his thoughts. Although he was a gentleman of leisure, noblesse did require him to oblige at times by combining his genuine love of travel with the odd errand on Her Majesty’s behalf. These were usually minor chores, no real inconvenience, and this trip was no exception. Scoville had already intended to visit the newly opened conservatory at the University of Vienna. Years in the building, it was said to be the finest botanical conservatory on the Continent, and if it was true that they’d acquired tropical plants that no one in England had ever seen, he wanted to be among the first to lay eyes on them.

  Half his duty to his country would be discharged when he had assured an unreliable member of a foreign court that England very much supported him even though the political climate required that the Queen’s public attitude was one of disapproval. Of course the Baron knew perfectly well that Her Majesty would chuck him under the train if necessary. Everyone knew their steps in this little dance, but the steps must be performed nonetheless. He could attend to that in a single afternoon.