Fiction: Patient Wolf

[kethni]

Name: Patient Wolf

Pairing: Matt/Adam, Adam/Various

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Explicit sexual scenes

Word Count: 7590

Authors Note: For arunicenroll



A gentleman is simply a patient wolf. – Lana Turner

It is a truth well established that any man of sufficient wealth, breeding, and social connections will be considered a gentleman. Where he has wealth without breeding or social connections he might consider himself a gentleman, but no one else will. Where there is breeding and connection without money a man might be considered a gentleman, but he will be unable to live in an appropriate manner as one. A small defect of breeding or social connection can be partially offset by a sufficient excess of money. However to a certain frame of mind there is little more aggravating than a man of dubious birth with a great deal of money.

There are, of course, certain things expected of a gentleman, certain accoutrements that are an ornament to his standing. Clothing is not one of them. Excessive interest in expensive clothing betrays a sense of novelty in in the finery available. The so-called “true” gentleman is bored of clothing. In fact boredom appears to be the ground state of the “true gentleman”; they have everything in the world and affect to be completely jaded by it. Anything approaching excitement or pleasure smacks of the parvenu. On the other hand, a gentleman’s club, if properly chosen, is an ornament to his social crown. A gentleman’s club is a home away from home, a place where a man can be among his peers, and a sign of his having arrived in society.

They’re also an absolute bastard to get into if the blue bloods decide you’re not “the right sort”, take it from me. Oh there are newer clubs for nouveau riche types, but who the hell wants to be lumped in there? No, no. When one has arrived, as I most certainly have, there is no point paddling in the pond. The only option of merit is to jump into the lake and hope one grows up to be a pike. The clubs are social hubs for men of similar political leanings, economic interests, or philosophical bent, and clubs like Red’s guard their membership jealously.

Although of course there’s always a way where there’s a will. In this case the way is through Nathan Petrelli, the club officer in charge of membership. He’s currently examining my paperwork slowly and thoroughly. Ridiculously slowly and thoroughly, does he honestly think I don’t know when someone is being deliberately obtuse? He’s not unpleasant to look at so I’m not about to make much of a fuss just yet. He’s handsome in a heavy featured way. Manly. I like my men masculine and my women feminine. Call me old fashioned if you like. If it is I should fit in around here. The furniture is gorgeous, but old, and the furnishings likewise. The whiskey on the drinks’ cabinet is older than I am and must go down like nectar. I haven’t been offered any yet because Mr Club Membership Director is enjoying the delusion that he’s putting me in my place. I can be patient.

‘These seem to be in order,’ he says eventually, giving me a cool smile. ‘The death of your…’ he checks the paperwork again, ‘… your second cousin twice removed was a terrible blow all of us here at the club too.’

‘It was crushing,’ I agree, ‘although he’d apparently only visited the club twice, but I’m sure they were momentous occasions.’

His lips twitch almost as if he were trying not to smile. Oh goody, it’s always nice to have your judgment proved correct. Mr Petrelli doesn’t care a fig more for the fossilized rules and regulations than I do. He’s not here for love of the club. He’s here for the yummy, yummy taste of power, for the chance to be in smoky rooms sipping brandy and smoking cigars while unelected men make decisions that change the empire. Good.

He steeples his fingers together on top of the oak desk. ‘So, you as a sole male relative inherited the title, land, money…’ he waves a hand, ‘and associated paraphernalia. You believe that makes you eligible to join this establishment?’

‘I believe, and am advised by legal advice, that as the new Marquis I am automatically a member under your charter,’ I say.

‘Quoting the rules is the last resort of the scoundrel,’ he says dryly.

‘Let’s not quibble, Mr Petrelli,’ I say, reaching over to pat his hand, ‘it’s so undignified. Why don’t we agree that I, the lowly son of a doctor, am now a member for life, and, as a new member, I am filled with enthusiasm for my new club, so enthused that I feel the desire to contribute materially to my new club.’

He smiles like a barracuda. ‘If you had to put a figure on this enthusiasm what would it be?’

‘Oh say… ten thousand guineas.’

His smile widens and I wonder if there is an incipient danger that the top of his head might fall off.

‘That seems to be an entirely appropriate amount of enthusiasm,’ he says as I hand over the bearer bonds.

‘Since I’m automatically a member there will be no unpleasant black balling or anything of that nature.’

He gets up and walks over to the drinks’ cabinet. ‘No blackballing, certainly, Lord Monroe,’ he says, pouring generous measures of whiskey into two tumblers. ‘But I can’t promise you’ll be accepted by the other members.’ He walks back to the desk and hands me one of the glasses. ‘There are some members who won’t speak to other members because their great, great grandfathers were in trade.’ He sits down opposite me, on the edge of the desk. ‘My brother was blackballed for having a profession.’

‘Isn’t it the done thing to resign your membership if you propose someone and they’re consequently blackballed?’

‘It is.’ He takes a sip of his whiskey. ‘Oh, I see your point. Good lord, I didn’t nominate him! That would’ve been social suicide.’ He gestures at me with his glass. ‘You might find yourself eating alone a great deal.’

I sip my whiskey. It slips down my throat like honey. ‘I’m sure a friendly person making introductions for me could help ease that.’

‘Oh? Do you have a friend to do that for you?’

‘Not yet, but I’m very friendly,’ I say and put my hand on his knee.

‘That might put your “friend” at considerable risk of social approbation,’ he says.

‘Isn’t one of the marks of being a gentleman that he doesn’t feel any need to scurry for the approval of anyone else?’

‘Believe me, nobody here scurries for anything,’ he says dryly. ‘But I’m sure a gentleman of good breeding would be happy to introduce a friend.’

I walk my hand into his groin. ‘How friendly would the friend have to be?’

‘A little friendlier than that.’

I unbutton his flies and slide my hand inside and into his underwear. He’s a good length and a decent thickness. As I take him in hand his fingers curl around the edge of the desk.

‘It’s so good to know I can rely on your friendship,’ I say as he starts to rock. ‘Hard friends are good to find.’

He barks a laugh and strains against my hand. ‘Jumped up little slut.’

‘Now, now! Less of the “little” please.’

Just for that I make sure he soils inside his clothing, which will be a pretty mess for his servants to deal with. No doubt he has a change of clothing here so there’s no chance of him having to cross London in such a state, alas.

‘Well then,’ I say wiping my hand on his trousers and then finishing my whiskey, ‘now that you and I are firm friends, I trust that we will be dining together this evening where you will introduce me to the members of my new club.’

‘It won’t help you;’ he says cheerfully enough as he buttons himself up, ‘but it should provide some entertainment at least.’



Nathan shows me around the club, which is relatively quiet since it is early afternoon. However in the Members’ Bar my eye is caught by a large bow window and, more to the point, by the man lounging in front of it in what is clearly the seat of honour. His clothes are well-cut and good quality but sober in design and colour. He has shapely calves and thighs, a strongly built body, and a handsome profile. He’s clearly a gentleman as, despite his clear possession of money, a table heaving with food and drink, a crowd of fawning sycophants, and the best seat in the club, he is bored, bored, bored.

‘That’s Lord Parkman,’ Nathan says, ‘and it’ll be a cold day in hades before acknowledges me, let alone you.’

‘He needs to learn to widen his social circle.’

Nathan barks a laugh. ‘From you? He’s more likely to include his dog, far likelier.’

‘This puppy knows all kinds of tricks I promise you, and I’m always open to learning more. Naturally a man like that won’t respond to a direct assault but I much prefer subtle battles. When I’m sat at his right hand I’ll remember all of my friends, naturally.’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘Then you’ll have an amusing anecdote on the fall of a jumped up little tit won’t you?’ I give him my sweetest smile. ‘It’ll be fun.’

He sighs like a put upon uncle. ‘I can’t introduce you to Parkman or have him dine with us tonight.’

‘Naturally not, it’s a hierarchy and he’s at the summit but who’s left at base camp? There’s always someone at the bottom of the pile doing all the grubby work in the hope someone more important will take a shine to them.’

Nathan purses his lips as he regards me. ‘You’re quite serious about this?’

‘I’m never serious, but I am determined.’

‘I can probably get Doyle and Linderman tonight,’ he says. ‘Doyle is… well I’m sure he’d sell his mother for a lick at some firm young flesh and it’d be cheap at that. Linderman might be a little more cogent but he’s still got a taste for a pretty face. That doesn’t mean you’ll be able to get more from this evening than a good meal.’



Doyle is an oleaginous, glutinous creature. He’s spread out at a table in the Member’s Dining Room like a toad lurking at the bottom of the pond. His eyes bulge from his bald, jowly head and stare around dimly. He breathes through his gaping mouth, so that when he crams a morsel into his cavernous maw his face turns purple as he struggles for breath. His thick, stubby fingers rip apart a quail as he stretches rubbery red lips over tombstone teeth to form a rictus grin. He’s already attempted to grope my leg, despite my sitting on the other side of the table. I’m feeling rather more kindly to Linderman than I might otherwise since he’s sat next to me and therefore blocking Doyle’s access.

Linderman is a wryly amusing patriarchal type; you know the sort, they twinkle baby blues at you as if butter wouldn’t melt, and then they offer you twenty bob to let them paint you naked. They probably won’t try to take it further but the option is left hanging in the air, if you care to take them up on it. A dirty old man of the finest calibre.

‘Such a shame you’re not more our sort of man,’ Doyle oozes. ‘Breeding always tells.’

‘Evidently not,’ Linderman says, winking at me. ‘You aren’t married, Lord Monroe?’

‘Hell no, a wife has little value beyond the ornamental. There’s nothing a wife can do that can’t be done by either a good valet, a tender rent boy, or a talented whore.’

‘What about an heir?’ Nathan asks.

‘Oh phooey, my sister has a boy.’

‘A rent boy?’ Doyle asks.

Oh good grief how stupid can one person be?

‘A son, Mr Doyle, for an heir?’

Nathan disguises his laugh with a polite cough. ‘But you’re under no obligation to pay for a wife.’

‘My dear sir, a man with a wife does nothing but pay: if it’s not dresses then it is balls, if it’s not that then it is ladies’ maids, new carriages, and redecoration. The company of a wife is fixed and inescapable, is that not another price?’

‘It has its compensations,’ Nathan suggests.

‘Not enough to keep you at home from the club I notice,’ I say.

‘If it did how would we have been introduced?’ Linderman asks with a smile.

‘Excellent point.’

‘And if we hadn’t been introduced then I shouldn’t be able to ask you to make up a four tonight.’

‘You’re exceedingly gracious, Mr Linderman, and I am very pleased to accept.’ I squeeze his thigh and his eyes sparkle. ‘I am deucedly partial to playing cards. Will there be many gentlemen present?’

‘Twenty-three ladies and fifteen gentlemen, plus you and I, it’s a damnable thing but the ladies are all in such a flurry to be wedded that inviting one inevitably results in having to invite another four. They’re like packs of wild animals when they scent new meat.’ He rubs his foot along my leg.

‘I might my taste a little gamey for their palates.’

‘Yet you look so sweet and tender.’

‘I don’t know anything about a card party,’ Doyle rumbles.

Trouble in paradise! Oh goody, always so much easier to exploit enmities than friendships.

‘That’s because the last time I had you at my home you assaulted the maid, insulted the cook, and relieved yourself all over the dining room table,’ Linderman retorts. ‘That kind of behaviour might be excusable in a handsome young man but in a man of your years and aspect it’s beyond the pale.’

‘Oh, so if I was a pretty slut like him then I would be welcome?’

‘Sounds like you’re going to have a busy evening fighting off ladies before assaulting the staff and baptising the furniture,’ Nathan remarks as a fight breaks out between the two of them.



It is a busy evening, beginning when I arrive at seven and find everyone else arriving at eight. My host is a horny old goat who spends a ridiculous amount of time buttering me up before playing my flute in the music room, and barking up my tree in the garden. He’s not the worst but honestly at his age is a little more skill and proficiency too much for which to hope?

Ah well, no matter, the hour is upon us and the rest of the guests have begun to arrive. I’m whisked about from party of ladies to party of gentlemen without a sight of my prey, the illusive Lord Parkman.

‘We’re having a shooting party at the weekend,’ says the female of the species currently courting my attention, ‘I’d love you to come.’

She’s attractive in an equine sort of way. You know the type; blonde hair, long legs, and carnivorous teeth. She is also clearly Nathan’s mistress, and if I had not divined it for myself then I’d have been informed by the gossip at more than a dozen conversations. Young ladies, once they have assured themselves you are their sort, are capable of the most wonderfully venal viciousness about their fellows under the guise of “a little harmless chitchat”.

‘That’s most kind of you, Lady Sanders. I should be delighted. What shall we be hunting?’

‘We’ll be shooting pheasant,’ she says. ‘As for what everyone will be hunting, well people are only after one thing as these kinds of events,’ she says with a saucy smile. Ooh I like her. Nathan appears to have quite excellent taste.

Then, without a single angelic trumpet as herald, my quarry sails into sight. He’s a handsome man of the very masculine sort with a Grecian body. One could imagine him marching into battle with a sword and shield. He’s staring across the room at another gentleman to who I am not considered important enough to introduce. Some kind of Indian royalty this one, and if you thought “Indian” alone should be enough to banish him for this sort of society then you underestimate the power of snobbery. Indian prince beats English noble without breaking a sweat.

‘I hope there isn’t going to be a scene,’ Lady Sanders says, raising her eyebrows. ‘I enjoy gentlemen in passion as much as any woman but Parkman easily has the best of Prince Mohinder in physical combat and Prince Mohinder easily has the best of Parkman in argument.’ She shakes her head. ‘Either mode of battle would be woefully uneven.’

‘There’s love lost there I take it?’

She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, ascertaining my merits, by which I mean how likely I am to return gossip in the future, and then nods. ‘Considerably, yes, Parkman is the wounded party by common custom and Prince Mohinder is aggrieved partly by his own guilt and partly at not being forgiven. It seems men of distinction expect their lovers to be as silent, faithful, and endlessly forgiving as they demand of their wives.’

‘Seems rather impolitic of Linderman to have invited both men,’ I suggest.

She laughs and sips her wine. ‘He must invite Parkman or risk social stigma but he is so desperate for a sniff of Prince Mohinder’s… coattails that he’d follow the man to hades.’

‘And perhaps he thinks that given Prince Mohinder’s… emotional frame of mind he might have more success than previously?’

Lady Sanders tips her glass to me. ‘You are a clever man, Lord Monroe; I’ll watch your ascent with interest, and hope I don’t get in your way.’

‘Is Lord Parkman coming to your shooting party?’

Her eyes dance as she nods. ‘He is indeed.’

‘Then you have my eternal thanks for the invitation.’

‘Do you have a man? I realise that your elevation is quite recent and it can take time to find a good servant. We have footmen who can look after you if necessary.’

‘You are excessively kind, my Lady, I do have a valet.’

‘Splendid!’ she says, ‘but I mustn’t monopolise you all evening.’



Lord Parkman is staring at me across the room. I am seated at a table enjoying a rather costly game with Nathan, Lady Sanders, and Lady Sanders’ ward Claire, and when I look up I see Lord Parkman’s gaze fixed on me. I’m not quite so egotistical not to look around to see if someone of his acquaintance is beyond me but all I see is the fire. I turn back and he is still scowling in my direction. I give him a cheering wave and he raises his eyebrows and looks away suddenly.

‘I hate him,’ Claire mutters.

‘Don’t say things like that in public, it’s extremely rude,’ Lady Sanders says firmly.

‘Well I do. He pushes people around and he’s grumpy,’ she says firmly. Her foot, and I’m certain it’s hers, strokes up my calf. ‘You’re not grumpy are you Lord Monroe?’

‘He’s not rich enough to be grumpy,’ Nathan says. ‘A little irritable perhaps.’

Lady Sanders rolls her eyes. ‘Talking about money is a little gauche.’

‘I heard that Lord Parkman caught Prince Mohinder with one of the serving staff!’ Claire says, far too loudly.

I glance across and see that either Lord Parkman heard every word or has decided that purple is the colour of skin to try modelling for the next few minutes.

‘Oh dear lord,’ Nathan says, covering his eyes with his hand. He gets up from his chair, walks over to Parkman’s table, and whispers to Linderman, who whispers to Lord Grey, who whispers to Lady Daphne, who whispers to Lord Parkman, who nods once without at any time looking at Nathan or over here.

‘You’re going to be the social ruination of everyone who makes the effort to be your friend,’ Lady Sanders says sternly to Claire. ‘I didn’t agree to take you in so you could embarrass me in public.’

‘I’m sorry, I guess being illegitimate, I’m used to it,’ Claire mutters. ‘I forget Lord Petrelli has such a good reputation.’

‘I am so terribly sorry that you had to see this… display,’ Lady Sanders says to me.

‘We were all young once,’ I say. Besides which it has been quite the illuminating evening and I’m feeling generous. I would bet good money that Claire is Nathan’s bastard although clearly not by Lady Sanders. That little snippet, if widely known, must be considered too old to be worthy gossip. He clearly cares for the brat, or at least is attempting to do the honourable thing by her, and that’s worth knowing.



Prince Mohinder is quite astonishing in close proximity. I thought him handsome when I saw him halfway across the room but scarcely a few feet away he’s almost blinding. Quite why he’s lurking outside while the rest of us are getting in our carriages is a mystery. After all Lord Parkman has departed; it was that which started the mass exodus. Apparently it is quite shocking to quit anywhere before he does.

Prince Mohinder is looking up at the stars and then, without warning, looks across at me. ‘You’re the doctor’s son.’

‘That’s me, but don’t ask me to take your temperature as I haven’t a blasted clue.’

He smiles and it light his face up. ‘My father rules over a million people. I’ll be damned if I can do that either.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Mohinder.’

‘Adam.’

‘Be wary,’ he says quietly. ‘These people will eat you alive and then spit out your bones. The only crime is to be found out. Anything you do that remains hidden will be winked at and excused, no matter how terrible. But anything publicly exposed, no matter how trivial, will be held up as proof of your low birth and lack of respectability.’

It would be good advice to the naïve, although they of course wouldn’t listen, but I am anything but naïve. It is a kindly thought, or at least a bitter one engaged in something other than vengeance, and I appreciate it.

‘You are very kind, sir.’

‘Perhaps I’m ill,’ he says, and smiles again.



The nobility are quite amusingly myopic when it comes to the other classes. I had a valet before I was elevated, I was a member of the comfortable middle classes, and although my father had a profession I had only messed about here and there and lived comfortably on my allowance from the money he left me in trust. My valet, Sprague, is hardworking, organised, and efficient. He’s also surly, monosyllabic, and unfit to be seen in public. It’s no end of amusement to have him mingle with the other servants. There’s something about him that inspires them to be as rude about their masters as they have a mind to be and then he tells me all about it. I do not like to ask what he gets up to on his evenings off but I know he is oddly popular with the female servants about town. Not to my taste but not one I would decline to anyone else.

He has my clothing washed, pressed, and packed early but not placed in the car.

‘It’s the wrong kind of car,’ he says.

‘What the deuce do you mean?’

‘It’s a shooting party. They’re all going to be in Rolls Royces' and the like, not little race cars.’

The man does have a point but I can hardly nip down the road and buy a Rolls Royce can I?

‘They don’t expect me to fit in completely,’ I decide. ‘If I match too well they’re damned likely to accuse me of aping my betters. It’ll have to do.’

‘Suit yourself, Sir,’ he sniffs.

‘I suppose you’d rather drive a Rolls Royce?’

He shrugs a lugubrious sort of shrug and holds the door open for me. ‘I wouldn’t get my hair blown about I suppose.’

Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I put up with him.

‘Here’s a flask for the trip, Sir, and I’ve booked us lunch at the Lamb Inn which is about halfway there. I’ve given them a full menu and it’ll be ready when we arrive.’

Oh yes, that’s why.



Lunch is pleasant, perhaps a spot heavy but then there’s no reason I have to stay awake the whole journey. Sprague cheers somewhat after he’s had a bottle of brown ale with his lunch and I fall asleep to the sound of him whistling.

Lady Sanders’ home is rather nearer the encroaching town then I expected but it does appear to have some dashed pretty grounds and a lovely lake. Of course the fish I’m hoping to catch will have to make do with rod and bait in one sweet smelling package. The shooting party will be considerably smaller than Linderman’s card party and I will have to be introduced to Lord Parkman; that doesn’t mean he will acknowledge me but it is a step closer. The house is the usual chaos created by guests arriving and servants trying to run the world while their betters get in the way and underfoot. Sprague is sent to park the car somewhere and to unpack the bags while I am offered a brandy before I go to change. The man might be unkempt and uncouth but he has never steered me wrong in the way of fashion. Embarrassing as it is to admit it I would likely have arrived in a good suit and then found myself surrounded by tweeds. As it is, I am as tweeded as the best of them and in fact attract some rather flattering comments. Sprague’s attempts to age my country clothes have managed to avoid “tattered” and for that I am very grateful. The truly rich and well-bred may stomp about in trousers with the arse hanging out but that is their prerogative. If I did it I would be merely an oik.

In total there are ten of us, including Lady Sanders and Claire. Myself, Nathan, Nathan’s charming wife Heidi, Lord Bishop, Mr Rains, Lady Daphne, Lord Gray, and Lord Parkman. Those seem decent odds to me, particularly given that Lady Sanders, Claire, Nathan, and Heidi will likely be concerned with their own… affairs. In the evening before dinner we meet in the drawing room for drinks and I am introduced to the rest of the party. Heidi is brittle but gracious, and shows no intention of revenging herself on her husband with me; Lord Bishop is an avuncular snake; Mr Rains is pleasingly bitter, an acerbic can so cleanse the palate; Lady Daphne is flighty and friendly with Claire; Lord Gray is dismissive and arrogant, and Lord Parkman… acknowledges me. Nathan nearly drops his drink. Granted, such acknowledgement was a bow and a greeting before turning away, but it is an acknowledgement. I feel quite bucked up!

‘Must be quite strange for you to be in a house with servants,’ Lord Gray smirks. ‘One word of advice, the bath is for bathing in, not storing coal.’

‘It’s kind of you to share the benefit of your recent experience with me,’ I say. ‘Tell me, how long were you storing coal in your bathtub before someone informed you of your folly?’

‘For God’s sake, Gray, the man’s father was a doctor, not a damn labourer,’ Nathan says.

‘Either way they’re scarcely our sort of people.’

‘He should count himself bleeding lucky then,’ Rains says. ‘Come the revolution you’ll be up against the wall first.’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be lawyers?’ I ask.

Rains snorts. ‘Them too!’

I hate it when a Shakespeare joke falls flat, don’t you? But there’s something about revolutionary zeal that seems to suck all the humour out of radicals. It doesn’t seem to matter which revolution or which cause they support, the one thing they always seem to share is a lack of humour.

‘Have you read much Shakespeare?’ Lord Parkman asks me.

The room seems to freeze. Could he really be addressing low born, ill bred, little me?

‘Not as much as I’d like, Lord Parkman; I have read most of the comedies and some of the history plays.’

He scowls. ‘Not the tragedies?’

‘Not yet, Sir. Would you recommend the tragedies? I have heard that “King Lear” is particularly fine.’

‘I prefer “Othello”, but “King Lear” is also worth your attention,’ he says. ‘The comedies are full of romantic rubbish. Don’t waste your time on them.’

‘Do not the tragedies equally consider love?’

He glowers at me. ‘Explain yourself.’

From the corner of my eye I see Nathan cover his face with his hand.

‘I do not have the quantity of familiarity that you do,’ I admit, ‘but Romeo and Juliet die because of their love, Lear’s daughters fight in part because he has crippled then with his lack of love, and Othello murders his wife because his love for her is soured into hatred.’

‘I would rather see a play of love driving men mad then any amount of rubbish in which all love ends in marriage and dancing,’ he sneers, and walks away.

‘I hope you had your fill of conversation with him,’ Nathan says, as all the rest follow Parkman, ‘because I do not think he likes you very much.’

‘I think he does not like his current state very much.’



‘My father dislikes women reading,’ Lady Daphne says at dinner. ‘He says it softens women’s brains.’

‘Your father is a fool,’ Lord Parkman says flatly. ‘The other ladies here are educated, even Miss Bennet. They betray no symptom of softened brains other than, perhaps, their choice of men.’

Nathan reddens but apparently daren’t reply.

‘My husband is a good provider,’ Lady Petrelli says with dignity, ‘he is not violent or abusive and he is not boorish.’ She gives a tiny shrug as she continues to speak to Lord Parkman. ‘We ladies are by social convention limited in choice to the men who choose to pursue us.’

Lord Parkman inclines his head to her. ‘It is a pleasure to hear the sensible and coherent speech of an educated woman. Lord Petrelli, you have my congratulations on your most excellent judgement in your choice of wife.’

‘I… thank you.’

‘Where do you stand on the education of women, Lord Monroe?’ Lady Sanders asks.

‘All women, Lady Sanders, or merely ladies of the nobility and middle classes?’

‘How dare you lump the nobility in with the bourgeoisie?’ Gray demands.

‘They both leech off the working classes,’ Rains suggests with a twisted smile.

‘Educating the peasant class is ridiculous; worse, it’s dangerous,’ Lord Gray says.

Lord Parkman shrugs his massive shoulders. ‘You’re being preposterous, Gray. The working people now know how to read. Do they read revolutionary tracks on overthrowing the government? No, they read penny dreadfuls.’ He turns to me. ‘You miss my point, Lord Monroe. Working class women are already educated. They learn how to work. They learn how to cook. They learn to keep house and home. They learn to feed their children, know when their husband’s fists are about to fly, and know how to keep enough money from him to avoid starving. Whether they should know other things is another matter for another time. My point is that noble women are often taught nothing but how to look pretty. It would not be appropriate for them to learn how to cook or clean or dress themselves any more than it would be appropriate for you to know how to shoe a horse or mine for coal. Noble men are educated routinely. Noble women should also. All noble women. Not merely those whose fathers have the sense to allow it.’

‘You have no argument from me there, Sir. A stupid wife is a burden only eclipsed by a stupid husband.’

Lady Sanders chokes on her wine.

‘Stupid men have no excuse for it,’ Parkman says. ‘Miss Bennet, you have the misfortune of birth encumbering you, but I charge you, whatever else, do not marry a stupid man.’



‘I had no idea he was a zealot for the education of women,’ I remark to Nathan as we gather in the billiard room for port.

‘Neither had I. He does have these odd passions that one never knows about until it comes up in conversation and then it is too late.’

‘Does he have sisters perhaps?’

‘None, nor brothers; he is an only child,’ Nathan says. ‘I must raise my glass to you, Monroe; I didn’t think you’d finish the weekend with an acknowledgement let alone having been addressed directly.’

I sip my port and lean back against the wall. ‘I am deucedly attractive.’

‘His last lover was Prince Mohinder; most men would be darkened by that shadow.’

‘True enough.’



‘You serve yourself at breakfast,’ Sprague says as he dresses me in the morning. ‘So don’t be looking for a servant or you’ll look idiotic.’

‘What an odd custom. Good to know. What was the gossip?’

Sprague runs his fingers through the tangled thicket of his hair. ‘Lady Daphne wishes to ensnare Lord Parkman but he is generally regarded as far beyond her reach. Lord Gray has asked for permission to make suit to her but has been refused. He has also attempted to take Miss Bennet for a mistress.’

‘Oh? What happened?’

‘The young lady kicked him.’

‘Where?’

‘In the ivy bush,’ Sprague says straight-faced. ‘She’s pretends to be rather prudish. Best not to get too saucy around her.’

‘Yes, yes, what about Parkman?’

‘He has been asking questions about you.’

Oh. Now. That could be a double-edged sword. ‘What kind of questions?’

‘Where you went to school, who your people are, who vouched for you to enter Reds, what you’re worth, and what your relationships with the other members are.’

Damn it! Damn it! Blast it to hell!

‘He’s got wind of me,’ I say. ‘He has me pegged as being a social climber.’

‘It would appear so, Sir,’ he says.



I am early to breakfast but not quite early enough. My quarry is already there, quite alone, contemplating the eggs.

‘It would appear I am too early.’

‘If that is the best wit you can muster at this time in the morning I will have to agree,’ he says without looking at me.

‘I considered a pun along the lines of the early lord getting the eggs but decided it might be considered presumptuous.’

‘It would be rather lacking in invention.’ He spoons eggs on to his plate alongside his bacon and grilled tomatoes. ‘I suspect you’re very imaginative.’

This is a distinctly unpleasant situation and no mistake. I’ve clearly made an impression on the man and it’s of completely the wrong sort. There is only one response not guaranteed to make the situation worse.

‘Have I offended you, Lord Parkman?’

He blinks at me. The direct approach is always the one they never see coming. It’s clearly not one he’s used to but then I don’t imagine anyone’s ever tried it before.

‘I don’t trust you.’

‘I haven’t asked you to.’

He sits down at the table and pokes at his food. He doesn’t speak again until I sit opposite. ‘You are an intelligent man, attractive, and worst of all you’re ambitious.’ He finally looks at me. ‘That’s a potent blend.’

‘I must confess to still being unsure why you would be concerned. With respect Lord Parkman, what am I to you? We share the same club but that’s all,’ I say.

He smiles tightly. ‘Come now Lord Monroe, you are being disingenuous. You must know I have taken a fancy to you. I like you. Alas I do not trust you.’

The sun rises and larks sing in the heavens.

‘I had no idea,’ I say honestly. ‘You have hardly given me cause to think you particularly fond or affectionate towards me.’

He laughs lightly and chops his bacon into small pieces. ‘Lord Monroe, you have no right to expect me to converse with you. You are entirely beneath my notice. Yet I notice you. You are an intelligent man, Lord Monroe, and you are clearly aware of your charm and physical attractions.’

He’s a quick learner. I’m surprised at that, although I suppose I ought not to be. The direct approach worked on him and he’s wasted no time in returning the favour.

‘All of those things are true,’ I admit, ‘yet I am surprised. Tell me, am I supposed to promise you that you can trust me? Ought I to be flattered that you find me attractive or panic that you don’t consider me worthy of your acting on attraction?’

‘Well I…’

‘Because I don’t believe that I’ve given you any cause to think that I have the slightest romantic interest in you.’

Lord Parkman looks genuinely flummoxed. It’s a little cruel of me to pierce his bubble but consider: I’m neither an old maid desperate to marry nor one of his acolytes, so he has no reason to consider me easy prey.

‘I… if I given offense then I apologise,’ he stammers.

‘I don’t find you unattractive,’ I allow.

‘Oh then I suppose I should be grateful for that!’ he says, throwing down his cutlery.

I keep my temper and lean back in my chair. ‘Lord Parkman, you have told me that you mistrust me and I have been honest with you. For you to respond to my honesty with a childish tantrum seems dishonourable in the extreme.’

Lord Parkman reddens slightly but sighs and bites his bottom lip. ‘I apologise once more. I seem to be making a complete fool of myself.’

Poor baby, a little sugar would seem to be in order. I lean over the table and gently cover his hand with mine.

‘How would it be if we were a pair together at shooting? We could get a little better acquainted.’

He looks at me wryly. It’s an expression that suits him surprisingly well. ‘I’m not sure that I would improve materially on more intimate terms.’ He shrugs and suddenly looks surprisingly young. ‘I am not the most socially astute, if we are being honest.’

‘I’m not sure that social graces will be that called for when we are crashing around in the woods hunting pheasants,’ I say, sitting back. ‘That’s if you’re interested in pursuing me, if I’m not too untrustworthy.’

He reddens again. ‘Is it your intention to prick at me with that repeatedly? Even bees only sting once.’

‘I apologise, it is most unmanly for me to act out of injured pride,’ I say meekly as possible.

‘Are you… are you a good shot?’

‘Dreadful,’ I say cheerfully. ‘I mean to warn everyone to stay far away from me. I do enjoy it though and the experience of crashing around through the woods.’

‘You would likely improve with some assistance,’ he says, poking his food. ‘I would be happy to provide what aid I can during the shoot.’

‘That would be most gracious of you, Lord Parkman, and I would be exceedingly grateful.’



As we tramp to our starting position I have time to reflect that I know Lord Parkman is still embarrassed but his coterie clearly assume anger is keeping him quiet. When they gossip to their lovers, friends, and yes even servants, how many erroneous conclusions and faulty assumptions will spring from this one mistaken interpretation? How many have already been drawn, communicated, and propagated?

‘Are you all intending to clump around here in this stupid fashion?’ Parkman asks. ‘Perhaps we can beat the damn birds to death.’

Nathan, who has sensibly set up some few hundred yards away, watches in amusement as the rest wander away like chided children.

‘Sometimes I feel like a schoolmaster,’ Parkman says, shaking his head. ‘Do you read much, Lord Monroe?’

‘I prefer novels to poetry,’ I admit.

‘Singular,’ he says, and then smiles. ‘I envy women the art form. Poetry seems entombed by the traditions and attitudes that have gathered around it. The novel seems to be open to every conceivable possibility and I have no doubt that there are countless more of which we cannot begin to conceive. Do you have a preferred writer?’

I take a moment to prepare my gun while I consider my answer. ‘I particularly enjoy Swift and Voltaire.’

‘Satirists!’ he turns to the distant beaters and bids them to do their best. ‘I feel you are dangerously intellectual,’ he says, but his voice is warm.

‘Who do you prefer?’

His cheeks colour a little and he brings down a bird before he answers.

‘I enjoy novels more for amusement and sensation than intellectual stimulation.’ He looks at my stance and shakes his head. ‘Not like that. Like this.’ He gently adjusts my grip on the gun. His breath is very warm against my neck. I begin to think that Lord Parkman might be quite the pleasant bed mate.

‘I find myself intrigued by what writers you might mean. Fielding perhaps? Poe, Radcliffe?’

He misses the bird he was aiming at and scowls at me. ‘I suppose you think that makes me terribly gauche?’

‘I think it’s wonderful!’ I say and grin. ‘Which is it, Poe or Radcliffe?’

‘Both,’ he admits. ‘There you have my darkest secrets. I hope you will be responsible with them.’

‘Naturally! Do you have a favourite novel?’

‘Yes, do you know Frankenstein?’ he asks.

I take a shot and bring down a bird. ‘Hurrah!’ As the dog fetches the bird I wrack my mind. ‘I believe I saw the play.’

‘Read the novel. It is far superior,’ he says.

‘What is the subject matter?’

He scowls in what I begin to recognise as his thoughtful expression. ‘Obsession, the terrible price of loneliness, and the cost of living without love.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Why do you smile?’

‘I have noticed that when we discuss literature it seems to be inevitably the literature of obsession or love.’

Parkman smiles and shrugs. ‘What else is worth reading about, Lord Monroe?’

‘It occurs to me that you might address me by my first name. Which is Adam.’

‘Mine is Matt, although if you use it in public people will assume intimacy.’ He gives me the sweetest little smile. ‘That might be embarrassing if we aren’t intimate.’

I lead him a little away from the others into a little alcove out of sight. ‘I think I can control the urge to use your name if necessary,’ I say.

He puts both of our guns down safely on the ground and leans over me. ‘Are you disappointed now you have spent more time with me?’

‘Not at all. Are you?’

‘I’m concerned that I am in grave danger of making a terrible fool of myself,’ he says.

‘What do you want from me, Matt?’ It is all I can do not to bat my lashes, but that would be taking the thing too far.

‘At the moment I would very much like to kiss you.’

I lean back against the tree. ‘What do wish me to do about that?’

‘I wish you to indicate whether kissing you would engender encouragement or violence,’ he says.

I haven’t had this much fun in an age. ‘Which would you prefer?’

‘Encouragement, of course,’ he says, and touches my hand.

‘Then you shall have it.’

It’s tentative and uncertain, asking rather than demanding, but that doesn’t stop his hands from creeping along my trousers.

‘You presume, Matt.’

‘Don’t say I have to marry you first,’ he laughs into my mouth.

‘Certainly not, but I do say that I am far more Hadrian than Antinous,’ I say.

Matt purses his lips. ‘You are full of surprises.’ He steps past me to lean against the tree.

‘As are you,’ I say, surprised at his easy capitulation. I kiss his neck and he sighs and rests his forehead against the tree.

‘Do you have bear grease?’ he asks, as he unbuttons his trousers.

‘I have a small pot here and a larger pot at the house,’ I say, pushing down my trousers and underwear.

‘That was suspiciously good fortune,’ he says dryly.

‘I use it to maintain my skin.’ He has an agreeable form; without excess hair, smooth, firm, and, when entered, pleasingly tight around me.

He makes a curious but not unpleasant sound as he rocks back on his heels and forward against the tree. Our waltz changes to a tango and finally a tarantella, before disengagement.

‘All hail Hadrian,’ he says, with a wry smile. ‘You said you had more bear grease?’

‘As much as might be required,’ I say. I kiss him and he closes his eyes. I think he might be rather fun, at least for a while.

The End.

It's the 19th century and the age of gentlemen's clubs. Suave and ambitious, Adam is new money, and he enters the scene of one of London's most selective clubs, intent on making a splash. But despite his practiced charm and wit, Adam finds himself shunted between the established social circles of the club, with no one keen on welcoming a parvenu. Setting his sights on the most powerful clique, populated by old money and club officers and led by the rich and domineering Matt Parkman, Adam turns to his other talent - seduction - to make his way up the social ladder. (I'd love to see Adam use his skills to end up topping Matt in some way!)