His Client

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Chapter One

May 1822

London, England

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. He was 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 side 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 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