THE PROFESSIONALS - Clandestine Intent: A Regency Romance

[fajrdrako_fic]

Title: Clandestine Intent: a Regency Romance
Author: fajrdrako
Fandom: The Professionals
Characters: Bodie/Doyle
Genre: AU
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims. Property of ITV and Brian Clemens.


Clandestine Intent: a Regency Romance


"Bodie!" shouted Lord Cowley.

Years of military service had given him a bellow like a foghorn, and the assorted servants on his household staff at Kingsfield were accustomed to hearing it. This included especially his valet Bodie.

Bodie appeared immediately in the breakfast room, quiet, quick, impeccable as always. "My lord?"

"Has that damned scoundrel Doyle turned up yet?" The coming midsummer house party had everyone scurrying in a high state of excitement. For reasons known to none but himself, Lord Cowley had invited the Earl of Doyle to arrive a day early.

"We are expecting him within the hour, my lord."

Cowley nodded and bit into a bun. Though Bodie had dressed him, neatly and with precision, not half an hour gone, Cowley was already rumpled by the stress of the morning.

Bodie, on the other hand, was as trim as the model infantryman he once had been. Although he did not dress above his station, he often gave the impression of doing so. There was something about him -- a subtle arrogance, perhaps -- that more befit an officer than a man of the lowlier ranks. It was not that there was any hint of flash or foppery in his dress or manner. On the contrary, his clothes were unadorned and he tended to wear plain browns and blacks. It was his straight back and his muscular stature, his straightforward manner and his amused blue gaze which made people look twice at him.

That and his looks, of course. He had charm, but Cowley had always dismissed that as a factor in his assessment of this man. Charm was easy, it could be learned by anyone, it could come and go like the wind. What Bodie had was more important.

Patience, for instance. He waited to be given leave to go and Cowley, watching him, thought of another matter to raise. But perhaps the time was not right.

Whether it was the right time or otherwise, Jessop the footman arrived in the doorway. "My lord, the Earl of Doyle has arrived."

"Bodie," said Cowley. "Show him into my study."

"My lord," assented Bodie, and went to do so.

* * *

It was therefore Bodie who saw Doyle first, in the vestibule of Kingsfield House, on Cowley's summer estate. Panels of glass around the main entrance gave the hall a bright air, enhanced by the peach Italian tile on the floor. The paintings in the hall were by Gainsborough.

Since Bodie moved silently, Doyle did not at first notice him appear. He was examining, with the rapt attention of the connoisseur, a painting in which a smiling couple sat outdoors on a bench, a spaniel at their feet. This gave Bodie the opportunity to study the Earl unobserved.

His hair was a mass of curls. If he had worn a hat, it had been given to the footman. He must have ridden, or perhaps come in an open phaeton or curricle, since his hair was disarranged beyond what a gentleman should allow. It gave him a wild, boyish look. A farm lad might have hair like that.

His clothes, on the other hand, were of the type that no farm lad would ever see. No man of discernment would mistake this nobleman for a rustic. Bodie was a keen observer, and clothes were one of his specialties. He could guess to within four names which London tailor had fashioned that dark blue coat, which fit like satin skin over the muscular shoulders and around the trim waist. He would be willing to commend the man who had fitted those cream-coloured trousers, luxuriantly tight, covering buttocks and hip with neither wrinkle nor strain. The gloves matched the trousers; Doyle absently, impatiently, peeled them off and put them on Cowley's polished table. The boots had been shined to a military gloss and showed no wear and tear from his travels.

The Earl of Doyle was both famous and infamous as the only son of an aged peer, whose career was--depending on the source of the gossip--that of a conscientious philanthropist and dilettante, or that of a wastrel and a rake whose sins would catch up with him.

It was Bodie's habit to listen to gossip and then make his own conclusions. The small waist and well-muscled thighs did not imply either that the man was a drinker or given to indolence. The casual, elegant mode of dress indicated an artistic eye, although his barber should be shot: even were it a windy day, there was no excuse for hair like that. Bodie itched to have scissors in one hand and the Earl's head under the other. The results could be stunning.

Bodie cleared his throat, and the ill-tonsured gentleman turned quickly. One glance at his face, and Bodie understood the mixed nature of the talk about him. The body was that of an angel, but the face held a spark of mischief, perhaps even danger, the hard truth of a hard man. A demi-demon, then, with cherubic curls and the eyes of a predator.

"Lord Cowley wishes to see you now," said Bodie.

Doyle smiled, and it was the angel back again, with a touch of spice in the sweetness. He said lightly, "Lead on, then," and followed Bodie. His voice was mellow and musical and held traces of many accents; Bodie couldn't place his upbringing. Not Scots, like Cowley; not a Londoner either. Bodie knew which schools Doyle had attended (Harrow and Oxford); he knew his lineage and even some of his secrets. He did not know yet what to make of the man.

They went to the door of Cowley's study, and Bodie discreetly knocked.

"Come in, Doyle," said Cowley.

Bodie held the door. Doyle glanced at him, mouth twisting in a smile of thanks as he walked into the inner sanctum to discover what Cowley wanted of him previous to the arrival of his other guests.
With regret, Bodie went back to his private duties. Cowley had not told him precisely the matter for which he had summoned Doyle, although Bodie had a few private guesses as to what his reasons might be, some of them mutually contradictory. If Cowley had not seen fit to give him the details this time, he could not object to whatever conclusions his valet might make.

When Doyle entered, his lordship was standing at his window, looking out over the ornamental garden which was, rightfully, the pride of its owner. He turned. "Doyle!" he said, as if his presence were a surprise, or something unforseen, unexpected, treasured. This was odd because his invitation to come to Kingsfield House had been a summons and a command, expressed forcefully, perhaps even desperately, in a letter which explained nothing but its own mysterious urgency.

"You called for me, sir," said Doyle, who was known to show little respect to anyone, not excluding the Prince Regent himself. This was not to say that Doyle and Prinny did not get along famously, but it was the royal sense of adventure Doyle appealed to, not the royal vanity.
"Sit," said Cowley, gesturing to a chair.

Doyle sat, gently. He was aware as Cowley walked from the window to his desk that his limp was more noticeable than usual, and there were lines in his face of weariness or pain. Was his wound more painful? Doyle had hoped it would heal with time.

But whatever was disturbing him was something new. "Linstead is dead," said Cowley abruptly. "He was set upon by footpads on his way from Reading to London."

"Thieves, sir?"

"No. They knew where to find him. They killed him because he was working for me. They knew he had certain documents ... and they took them. No other valuables were stolen. Not even his pistol."

Doyle frowned. "How did they know he was working for you?"

Cowley said, "This was pinned to his body."

It was a paper on which was written, in clear dark ink, six names: "Cowley. Linstead. Doyle. Jarvis. Whitby. Bishop."

Doyle did not touch the paper. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the steady grey eyes of the Scotsman. "That's all of us," he said. "All of your agents."

"All of my secret agents," amended Cowley. "I have reason to think the killer thought I would be with Linstead. So I might have been, but my plans were changed."

"Why would they know here you intended to be?" asked Doyle. "Your association with Linstead is not well known."

Cowley shook his head. "Easier to show you than to tell you. Follow me." He led Doyle through the corridors and up the polished oak stairs of the central hall.

Doyle's mind was on Linstead. Sandy Linstead, who lived and worked in Oxford. Alexander Linstead, whose relationship to Cowley had been much like that of Doyle's. He and Linstead had written to each other from time to time, sharing information about cases, or passing on instructions. It had seemed better if they did not meet face to face. Now they never would.

Cowley led Doyle into his own bedroom and shut the door behind him. The room was elegant and sparse, the bed impeccably made under its canopy of blue brocade, the walls dominated by art, the floor almost bare of furniture.

But there was a small table, with a polished mahogany box on it. He handed the box to Doyle. "Open it," he said.

The Earl did so. "It's empty," he said.

Cowley smiled. "Examine it," he said.

It took some effort, even for Doyle, who loved a puzzle, and had made many such himself. After a search, he found it: the right way to pry out a box from within the interior, leaving a neat rectangular compartment below. It too was empty.

"Very good," said Cowley. He leaned against the table. "I left instructions with my valet that if I should die suddenly, he should take the letter that was in that box and contact all of the men listed. Directions to find them were included. You can guess what the names were."

"Doyle," said Doyle. "Bishop. Jarvis. Whitby. And... Linstead. Cowley's Cabal."

"My agents," said Cowley drily. "My five intrepid irregulars.... All of you unknown to anyone except myself, each other, and a few highly placed officials in the government."

"Someone stole the list?" Doyle sat on the bed, staring unseeing at the empty wooden box.

"Someone read the list. I have since removed it myself. Along with it is this letter, in which I made arrangements to meet Linstead on the Reading road." He took the papers from his pocket, and handed them to Doyle.

"How do you know someone read it?"

"There is a place on the bottom of the box, to press to reset the mechanism which locks it closed. Ingenious design. It had not been pressed. No, I had not simply forgotten to press it. Linstead's death clinches the matter. There is no sign that anyone broke into my house. Nothing else was stolen. This was no random thief out for a few jewels, snatching movables from a bedroom. This was done by a man who knew what he was looking for, and where to find it."

Doyle reflected that no man who knew Cowley would dare to steal from him. "Does anyone besides you know how to open and close this?"

"Only my valet His name is Bodie."

"You want me to find who stole it, and who killed Linstead," said Doyle, who had the habit of giving himself his own instructions, something which Cowley found endlessly amusing. "You think it is the same man."

"He may not have killed Linstead himself. He may have used a hireling."

"Yes, or an accomplice. On the other hand, it may be one of us. If it was one of us, he is likely to have done it himself to minimize the risks. Thanks to you, we are all competent killers."

"More than competent," said Cowley grimly. "I have reached the same conclusion. If it is one of you.... I trusted you, all of you, completely."

"But it must be one of us. Who else would know there was a list to steal? Who else knows about us at all? No one. Therefore.... Whoever he is, he killed Linstead. He wants you, but he'll go for all of us. Perhaps he has a grudge. Perhaps he is simply working for the French, or some other enemy agent."

"It is not something I have spoken of," said Cowley, "But I am negotiating with a French agent for information from across the channel. A meeting has been set up to take place shortly. Only Bishop knew of this. He made the initial contact."

"And since Linstead died.... are the names in any particular order, sir?"

"Yours was first. It was in order of birth."

"But Linstead died first. He wasn't the youngest, was he?"

"No. Bishop is the youngest by several years."

"Is it true, sir, that Whitby wants to marry your daughter?"

"My God, Doyle, how did you hear about that?"

Doyle grinned. "Understairs gossip. I always listen to what my cook has to say."

"Your cook has never been within seventy miles of Kingsfield House!"

"No, sir. But her daughter's closest childhood friend works here in your pantry."

"I see."

"It's true, then?"

"The engagement will be announced at the Midsummer Masquerade."

"They met here?"

"Aye. He came for a briefing.... It was a few months before his mission to France. They fell to talking. I saw no harm."

"Your daughter, Chloe -- does she know about your agents?"

"She knows I have an information service, with men who serves me. She has romantic notions of them as soldiers in a cause, but beyond that, she knows nothing of our services to the Crown. She believes I am merely a respectable landowner, a retired military man."

"Instead of being the most devious spy-runner in England."

"My interests," said Cowley sharply, "are those of the realm."

"Would I be here if they weren't? Does Whitby know about this box?"

"No. He knows neither that it exists, nor that its contents were stolen, unless he is the thief."

"Or consequently that Linstead died because of it. When are you planning to tell him about that?"

"Sometime after he arrives here tomorrow. You are in charge of this investigation, Doyle. I will follow your lead."

"Then tell no one about it. I'll compose something... we can put in another note. if the killer thinks you don't know that he saw this note, he will probably come back to see what else is here."

"That would take a lot of gall."

"Took a lot of gall to take it in the first place, didn't it? So the only people who know about this box are you, me, and your valet."

"And the man who took it."

"Could it be your valet?"

"No, it could not be my valet. Bodie is an honest man." Cowley moved, impatiently. "I would trust him with my life, and have done so many times."

"Clearly," said Doyle. "You also trusted him with Linstead's life, and mine, and the others."

"I see your point."

"What does he look like?"

"He showed you into my study. Dark hair, blue eyes, five foot eleven."

"Moved like a soldier."

"He was a soldier."

"Rather formidable, for a valet."

"A valet who functions, in a pinch, as a bodyguard, is extremely useful to me," said Cowley. "And don't repeat that to anyone."

"I don't want anyone to know that I am investigating, or what I am investigating. I'll just carry on in my eccentric way, talking to servants, flirting with your daughter, disrupting your household, being hedonistic and inquisitive as ever. And I shall want to be able to watch your valet at some length. Bodie, you said his name is? Lend his services to me while I'm here."

"Certainly not! I can't be expected to carry on without my valet, especially not with a house full of guests."

Doyle stood, smiling. "You can have my man, Barton. He's excellent. Used to serve the King, you know, back when His Majesty needed the services of a man who was the best. Look how elegant I am, under his care."

Cowley grunted. "Your clothes are fine enough, a damn sight better than the rags you used to wear. But you wear your finery like a waif."

"A congenital failing. With Barton, you won't even miss Bodie."

Cowley grunted, which Doyle took for acquiescence. "Make sure someone is watching you at all times -- not an obvious bodyguard, but someone who can protect you from attack. I don't mean just the one man, your Bodie. He'll be busy with me. You have such men on staff? Strong footmen? Good. You'll have to write a document," he added. "Something intended to set up the killer at a time and place of your choosing. A trap. Perhaps the time of your meeting with the French agent. We can take him then."

"Assuming the thief is fool enough to return. How could he get into my house? Into my room?"

"That remains to be seen." Doyle was pacing. "If it was one of us, have each of us been here since you wrote that note?"

"Yes," admitted Cowley grudgingly. "But how can I believe -- ?"

"Believe nothing, till I have proof. You might tell your agents, when they arrive, that there is cause for alarm. Tell them that Linstead was killed, that will be enough to make them alert. Tell them to report anything odd that happens. Don't tell them I'm investigating. I'll need a complete list of your servants and staff, and those who regularly come here from the village." He went to the window, examined it, opened it, studied the framing stone. "No sign that someone has entered this way, but that means nothing. Obviously he is good." He turned his back to the window. "Who uses this room?"

"Myself. My staff as necessary -- the chambermaid, my valet, the housekeeper perhaps."

"Your daughter?"

"I don't think she's been here in this room for years. My wife died here, as it happens. She was here when her mother was ailing, and it has bad memories for her."

"Whitby?"

"Never."

"Any of us?"

"Only you, now."

"Any women?"

"Women?"

"Surely you know what women are, sir."

"Indeed I do, and I wonder what you are implying."

"I'm implying," said Doyle patiently, "that no one likes to sleep alone and that you might have had a friend here. A female friend. Or even a male one."

"No." The reply was firm. Doyle sighed. He'd always suspected Cowley was made of iron; this confirmed it. Cowley added, "We don't all have your animal appetites." But it was said with a certain indulgence.

"Have you any other family? Anyone I don't know about?"

"Only my daughter, Chloe. My wife died five years ago, as you know. My only son died in infancy. My only brother died in the Peninsula. There are cousins, most of whom live in Scotland with the sheep."

"Are there any other family connections? Love children? Your own or your brother's?"

"If any such existed, I am sure their mothers would be petitioning the estate for a pension. No."

"All right, the schedule, then. Midsummer Fête. Your guests arrive when?"

"Tomorrow, throughout the day. Tomorrow evening we meet for dinner. Over the next few days we take part in various local events, or spend our time as we will -- on June 21 we will hold the Masquerade Ball. A local tradition. My secretary can make a list of the events for you."

"I would appreciate that, sir. And a list of all guests. Perhaps I should go now - settle in, and start being friendly with the local populace."

"Remember, Doyle, that the plain girls might have information just as readily as the pretty ones."

Doyle smiled at the prospect. "True, sir, and the plain ones are often more free with their information, too." He allowed the slightest of pauses before the word ‘information'.

Cowley gave him a glare. "You're a vexation, lad, and I don't know why I put up with you."

"Because I'm your best agent," said Doyle cheekily, "and you won't deny it to my face. I'll send Barton to you right away."

Halfway to his room, he ran into Chloe, Lord Cowley's daughter. She was no more than twenty, neither pretty nor ugly, with the same unruly red-tinged hair her father had, and a neat figure under the fashionable gown. She smiled at him. "You must be the Earl of Doyle."

Doyle smiled, bowing slightly. "You must be the Honourable Chloe." Her eyes were bold, he thought. There was something of Cowley's look about them, but they were flirtatious, too. The combination was unnerving.

She took his hand, squeezing it. "So glad to have you here. We'll meet again at dinner, won't we? I'll make sure of it."

He went to his room to talk to Barton, with the odd feeling that he had just been propositioned by a minx. He might, in other circumstances, have pursued the possibilities. But this was Cowley's daughter.

Sending Barton to Cowley proved easier said than done. Recalcitrant, Barton was still in the process of resigning for the fourth time, rather than being forced to serve the notoriously difficult Lord Cowley, who, Barton was loudly explaining, despite his military qualities, had no care for his clothing whatsoever, when Cowley's valet Bodie knocked at the door.

Doyle sent Barton out, ignoring any further protests, and closed the door behind him. He looked frankly at the valet Bodie.

A military man: yes, it showed. The polite, direct gaze which revealed nothing of the nature of the inner being except those beautiful long-lashed blue eyes. The neat, unobtrusive clothing which covered a healthy, muscular frame. Doyle said, "Lord Cowley has offered me your services while I am here."

"Yes, sir."

"Barton was engaged in unpacking my things, so you might as well carry on with it."

"Sir, Lord Cowley had given me leave to attend the games this afternoon."

"Games?"

"In the village, sir. Part of the Midsummer Fête."

"Ah. I was planning to attend myself. We can go in together, and you can show me the way."

"A pleasure, sir."

"Meanwhile, make sure my clothes are ready for each event as it comes up. If you are unsure which activities I will be pursuing, ask me. If you see anything that needs to be done, do it."

"A haircut, sir?"

"Pardon?"

"Your hair might be better if it were cut, sir. And given some -- if I may use the phrase – style."

Doyle glared. "You sound just like my mother."

"Do I, sir?"

"I don't listen to her, either. My hair is my own business. I am," said Doyle with considerably dignity, under the circumstances, "setting my own style."

"Indeed," agreed his new valet. They looked at each other, blue eyes seeing the humour in green eyes, a humour appreciated by both.



With several hours to pass before the trip to the village for the vaguely mentioned games, Doyle put his talents to work in charming information out of members of Cowley's staff. He already had a plan of attack in mind.

Of the possible suspects, Cowley's valet Bodie seemed to Doyle the most likely. He was local; he had access to Cowley's room and could have learned information about his business. Given the dangers inherent in searching Cowley's room, Doyle was inclined to believe that the guilty party lived on the premises and was fully conversant with Cowley's habits. A brief visit by an agent receiving orders was unlikely to give anyone the opportunity to learn the existence of the box and its secret, or access to Cowley's room. They all know how ruthless Cowley could be. This was not an enterprise that would be lightly taken.

More, Doyle's assessment of the valet's character made him suspect that the man was more than he seemed. A valet should not have such powerful muscles. A valet should not give them impression of an infantryman poised to the charge, finger on the trigger. However much he might be trusted by Cowley, and for whatever reasons, Doyle sensed in him resourcefulness and courage, and even a toughness of character far beyond what was normally found in men whose vocation lay in fine garments, the twist of a cravat, and the turn of a hat. Was brutality part of the mix?

Oh, yes, his money was on Bodie all right.

So he asked about the man, casually, as he cheerily chatted with the kitchen staff. Mostly women, they all had something to say about Mister Bodie -- and all of it favourable.

"A war hero," you know, said Polly the second maid, though she was unsure of the details of his war career. Bodie had never married, it appeared. He danced and even flirted with the local girls, but never picked one for a particular preference and never led girls astray the way some good-looking ex-soldiers would -- that from Hannah the cook's assistant, a large woman with strong views of how men should behave.

What are you, Bodie? wondered Doyle, contemplating him as they walked out of doors to leave for the village games, watching the long legs that moved so forcefully ahead of him.

His groom had brought his high-perch phaeton to the doors. "We're going in this," he said, and hopped up into the driver's seat, gathering the reins.

Bodie looked at the high, delicate vehicle, and the eager horses, and the man who drove them. "That's a gentleman's ride," he said simply.

"I am a gentleman. You are my guest," said Doyle. And when Bodie still hesitated, he said, "Afraid of a little speed?"

The challenge was what did it. Bodie was in the seat beside him fast enough to make the springs shriek.

Doyle set out, meaning to intimidate the serving-man with his style and his speed. But glancing beside him, he could see that Bodie loved it, his colour high, his eyes on the horses, his body braced against the motion.

On impulse, Doyle said, "Would you like to take the reins?"

"Yes," said Bodie.

I'm mad, thought Doyle. I already have reason to believe this man is a spy and a murderer with reason to want me dead. If he is, he knows I'm a covert operative for Cowley and I'm not likely to get through this ride alive.

Nevertheless, Doyle was man for a few risks himself. He handed the reins to Bodie, whose eyes were bright at the prospect, his mouth smiling. And it occurred to Doyle in that moment how extraordinarily beautiful Bodie was.

Then they were off with a speed that equalled anything Doyle might put the horses to, and a skill in driving them that made him regard the valet with increased respect. It would not do to underestimate this man.

He watched the strong hands on the reins, and found himself unable to take his danger seriously. Bodie's infectious smile, his sculpted face, his high spirits, were enough to make Doyle forget his worries, his work for Cowley, and his suspicions. To sit back and enjoy the ride, even though his life might be on the line
.
Damnation.


The village was decorated with flowers, with bows on the trees and the fences. Everyone was having a noisy good time. A number of townspeople gathered to see Bodie ride in, driving an expensive phaeton such as they had never seen, with a strange gentleman in tow, whom Bodie introduced as Raymond, Earl of Doyle. The townsfolk smiled shyly, or saluted, or curtseyed, and cast sidelong glances at him as Bodie painstakingly introduced each of them by name, leaving no one out.

Then Bodie thanked Doyle for letting him drive, and disappeared into the crowd with his friends.

Doyle felt curiously lonely without him. He realized that this was dangerous. Allowing a liking for the fellow to distract him and jeopardize his investigation might get himself killed -- or Whitby, Jarvis, Bishop, and Cowley himself. Allowing an attraction to the man to distract him was worse still. He liked to think that his judgement was ruled by something more profound than his sexual inclinations. He wished it were always true.

He bought a meat pie and watched the hog-judging, joining in with the audience when insults were hurled at the judge who picked an unpopular winner. He wandered among the horses for sale, wondering if he might find a bargain for his own stables, and concluded that there was nothing here as fine as the horseflesh he already had. He bought and ate an apple, and then bought another for the wide-eyed little girl who was staring at him as he ate it. She thanked him nicely, and ran away, bouncing in her happiness.

In the mood of frivolous festivity, it was hard to imagine that murder was close by. But Doyle had seen many things, and knew how violence and joy could dance together. He knew no place was entirely safe from mankind's wickedness, and no place entirely free of goodness.

He knew most of all that Cowley was not safe. He had wanted to physically separate Cowley from the man he thought most likely to harm him. It seemed to him now that if Bodie were not the threat, then he had removed from Cowley's side a powerful protector.

Munching his apple, he considered it. Cowley trusted Bodie, he had said. But Cowley also trusted the agents of his Cabal, and so he should, he had hand-picked them himself. Might there not be another answer?

If there was, it didn't immediately spring to mind.

Doyle wandered over to the sports field.

There was wrestling taking place in a ring surrounded by an excited audience. He watched the figures fighting, giving himself a mental bet on the dark-haired man who was struggling skilfully with the large red-haired man. It was only after he had made the choice that he realized the dark-haired man was Bodie.

Without his shirt, Bodie was no less impressive. You could see the muscles there, straining against his opponent, the clear line of his back down to the waist of his trousers glistening with sweat and motion. His skin held the pallor of the true Celt, and there were scars visible in the sunlight; one deep scar from, perhaps, a knife wound; other marks and flaws from swordthrusts or shrapnel. The wars had left their mark.

Doyle's mental choice was the right one. Bodie got his opponent onto the mat, and kept him there. The round was over. There was some cheering, as Bodie lept up, shook hands with the loser, and accepted a towel from a well-wisher to wipe his face.

Someone shouted, "Anyone else ready to take on Bodie? C'mon, lads, we can't let him monopolize the field."

There was a murmur of dissent.

"I'll do it," Doyle said. He had dressed informally, and was already stripping off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt.

Bodie said, "Sir!" in something like alarm.

Doyle grinned at him. "What's the matter? Afraid to lose?"

"Not at all," said Bodie, and their gaze held for a fraction of a second.

A man in the crowd, a gentleman, said loudly, "A pound on the challenger!" and bets were placed, with enthusiasm. Doyle glanced at the man, and nodded his approval. A gentleman, in riding boots and a striped waistcoat. Local?

Then he took on the physical challenge of Bodie.

He had learned to wrestle from a professional, and he knew his slight frame was deceiving: he was far stronger than he appeared. Those who were sure Bodie would be the winner because of his heavier weight were missing the mark. Bodie realized this quickly, and adjusted accordingly. He was trying to make a quick finish of it, but Doyle was too good for that. Though physically adept, Bodie had neither his training nor his wealth of practice with the toughest wrestler in London.

On the other hand, Doyle found his skills sabotaged from within as he strained against the hot skin of his opponent. As they fell, struggling, he felt Bodie's breath on his face and his hands on his arms and heaving chest touched him, distracting him from the purposes of the sport. "Pay attention," Braw Thomas had told him, time and again. "Pay attention, let there be nothing but the struggle, become the fight itself...."

Easy to say, easy to believe, when you didn't have Bodie's heavy breathing in your ear and the active aroma of his skin in your nostrils. Easy to let the attention lapse, as he did when the deep blue eyes held his and he thought he could read their secrets.

Then the crooked eyebrow moved and Doyle found himself on his back, on the ground, with Bodie on top of him, Bodie's elbow across the base of his neck, Bodie's strong hand holding his arm against the ground while Bodie's hip and leg pinning him down. He could not move if he wanted to.

Bodie had won.

Doyle felt a surge of reaction that had nothing to do with wrestling.

Again there was great cheering and slapping of backs, and Bodie pulled him up with a helpful hand.

"Well fought, sir," he said graciously, and Doyle wondered what the secrets were that he had thought he saw in those blue eyes: or was it all illusion? He used a towel, gratefully, and exchanged banter with some of the more vocal men in the crowd, and glanced at the man who had first bet on him. The gentleman, thus noticed, stepped forward and held out his hand.

"Morton Whitby," he said.

"I'm the Earl of Doyle," said Doyle in return. "Pleased to meet you."

"I'll be seeing you again at dinner," said Whitby. "Chloe, my fiancée, will be delighted to meet you. We've both heard some fascinating things about you."

"Not too fascinating, I hope," said Doyle lightly, and the man, laughing, went away. Doyle looked again at Bodie, who was buttoning his shirt now, talking to a crowd of friends. He looked up, past them, caught Doyle's eye, and smiled.

The smile made Doyle's heart pound, remembering the moment on the mat, with Bodie's legs over his and Bodie's hands on his skin.

Damn!



Chloe was indeed delighted to meet the Earl at dinner, and they spent some time in delightful conversation that might, by a purist, have been called improper in unrelated, unmarried young people of the opposite sex. The crowd of guests had grown, including in its number more of Cowley's clandestine band. Jarvis had arrived at Kingsfield House immediately before dinner, which left only Bishop still to arrive.

Doyle surveyed them without being obvious about it. It was the first time all -- well, almost all -- of Cowley's Five had been under one roof, or had met each other. There was no obvious sign that they had anything in common, in character or purpose. Whitby had a grave air, appearing older than his twenty-odd years. Bishop was abrupt in his movements, stylish in dress, with a loud, abrasive laugh. Jarvis was a talker, a man who moved his arms as he declaimed and used his laugh like punctuation.

The only thing these men had in common was that they were English gentlemen who had been chosen by Lord Cowley for his secret organisation, and had been trained by him, in the purposes and methods of espionage. They had been used by him. He had trusted them with totally. And now, one of the bloodhounds had slipped the leash.

Over the past few years of their association, Doyle had come to like Lord Cowley exceedingly. The man had dedicated his life to his purposes, and his purposes were all the welfare of England. He worked relentlessly and hard. More than that, he had an honour and a careful judgement such as Doyle had seldom seen in men of responsibility and authority.

It made him angry that someone would attack Cowley through the organisation he had created.

It made him uneasy to think what an easy target Cowley was.



After dinner, card games. The tables were set up in the main drawing room, and Cowley joined in with the play. Doyle, who liked to gamble and wasn't averse to Cowley's good whisky, dug in with pleasure.

He came through the play richer, though not much wiser, for all his careful listening. He learned items of gossip from the absurd to the trivial. He learned a few opinions that were probably seditious, and a few others that were unquestionably stupid. He learned that Mrs. Beresford was a poor loser and her husband had a mistress in Woodstock. He learned that Miss Upton had a fine repertoire of anecdotes about her former schoolfriends, some of them very amusing indeed.

As far as he could tell, he learned nothing of practical use.

When he finally went, tired and drunk, to his room, he found the valet Bodie waiting for him.

Standing, Bodie asked, "Can I help you, my lord?"

"Hope so," said Doyle. "I'm a li'l too far gone to help myself." He wasn't as drunk as he let it sound, but not far off. "M'boots first." He flopped on the bed, and stuck out his feet.

Bodie pulled off his boots, somewhat more gently than Barton usually did. Nor did he look disapproving. Barton had been known, from time to time, to grumble about the evils of drink -- it was the price, Doyle supposed, of having a really top-drawer valet.

Then Bodie helpfully untied his cravat. He seemed to know the knot well. Doyle could feel his fingers, warm under his chin, efficient as a sailor's with a rope. "You ever been to sea, Bodie?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I was in the navy for a bit."

"Got out, did you?"

"Lord Cowley recruited me."

"Ah. Good feller, Cowley."

"That he is."

"M'coat. Help me wi' m'coat."

Bodie's fingers, firm and capable, dealt with the buttons. Sprawled on his back, Doyle looked up at him, smiling. Since Doyle showed no signs of rising to remove the coat, Bodie had to lift him, easing it off his shoulders, so that Doyle could feel the firmness of his fingers, gentle against the hard muscles of his shoulders. He could feel the warmth of his chest as they touched, breast to breast, briefly. The coat was of such fine cut it was like easing off a glove. Doyle relaxed against Bodie's arm and was lowered back to the bed, without the jacket, which Bodie straightened and took to hang in the wardrobe. He spent some care in arranging it on the rack, just so, leaving no possibility of wrinkles or loss of shape.

"More," said Doyle.

"More, sir?" Bodie came back, his face unrevealing, but there was a kindness about him.

"Don' wan' to sleep in my shirt and trousers."

Bodie returned to the side of the bed. He raised Doyle's right hand in his, and put his knee against the bed to give himself a platform on which to rest Doyle's hand while he used the fingers of both hands to unfasten the buttons. His knee felt massive against the back of Doyle's hand. Doyle looked at it; no, it wasn't a large knee, but it was sturdy; solid and muscular. "Liked wrestling wi' you," he said. "You're very strong."

"Stronger than I look," admitted Bodie. He glanced at Doyle's face, met the widened green eyes, and looked again at the hand as the shirtwrist fell loose. He reached for the other hand, and put it likewise against his knee. Doyle used the first hand to run loose fingers along Bodie's leg.

"Nice," he said.

Bodie raised an eyebrow, slipping buttons through buttonholes with deft fingers. Doyle tried to pretend that the light touch of the fingertips against the soft skin of his wrist was a caress. It was absurdly easy to think so.

Doyle waited, watching him.

With a gleam in his eye, Bodie unbuttoned the shirt. "Sit up, now," he said.

"Can't," said Doyle, shamelessly.

Smiling, Bodie lifted him with one warm arm braced around him, with ease. "It's like dressing a tot."

"Nope. Children squirm more."

"Do they?"

"Take it from me. I 'ave a nephew. Squirms like an eel."

"You undress him?"

"Naw, his nanny does that. Stands to reason, though. He never stops squirming."

Bodie's arm held Doyle lightly as he pulled the shirt back from his shoulders, then steadied the Earl with his other arm while he shifted his hand under the shirt, along his back, his head fallen against Bodie's chest, as he pulled away the cloth and then lowered him back to the bed.

"Trousers, now," said Doyle, and grinned.

"Trousers," agreed Bodie, looking at the tight pantaloons, tightest now around the groin. He unfastened the brass buttons of the flap which fastened at his waist.

"You do this so well," said Doyle. "You do it often? Undress men?"

"Only when it is my job, sir."

"Bet it isn't like this with Cowley."

Bodie unfastened another button, and did not answer. Doyle moved under his fingers.

"You are squirming," said Bodie, without reproof. He reached under the Earl, winding his arm under the small of his back to lift him off the bed, pulling at the tight fabric of the breeches. It was too tight to move. Doyle put his hands on Bodie's shoulders, and Bodie paused.

"Stuck?" asked Doyle.

"No, sir. I am merely feeling discouraged."

Doyle raised his head, like a marionette on a string. His face was perhaps an inch from Bodie's. The heady sensation was even better than Cowley's scotch, the delicious way it made his head swim. "D'scrouraged? Why?"

"To think that after all my struggles to remove these trousers I will be forced to put them back on you in the morning."

Doyle laughed. Bodie's hand, insistent at his waist, succeeded in rolling the fabric down, getting it over his narrow hips as one might roll a piece of clay. Doyle felt the hands against his back, industriously soothing the fabric lower and lower, so that the fingers stroked his lower back and then his buttocks, along the cleft and the cheeks, across the hips, back to the cleft, and lower. Doyle's breath came faster, his head now leaning against Bodie's shoulder. Doyle never wore underwear.

Then Bodie lifted him, and pulled the fabric to Doyle's knees in one motion strong enough and smooth enough to do it without tearing the material.

He lay Doyle back on the bed, and knelt on the floor beside him, pulling the cloth over the slender and supple feet, neatly rolling his stockings off so at last the Earl was completely undressed.

Naked with an unmistakable erection, Doyle looked at Bodie's face and Bodie looked back at him.

Bodie stood. "Into bed, now, my lord."

"Come to bed with me," said Doyle, on impulse.

"No." Bodie pulled back the covers. "You don't need a bed-warmer tonight, it's midsummer." When Doyle didn't move his feet, he lifted them onto the mattress and pulled the light bedclothes over him to the waist. Doyle moved his hips experimentally, in case Bodie had failed to notice his condition.

"I didn't mean, for practical reasons."

"I know that, sir."

"You know you are beautiful."

"Yes, and I know you are drunk."

"I c'n still function."

"So I see." He arranged the pillow so Doyle's head was not at an awkward angle. "Good night, sir. I will leave you now."

"Why?"

"Because you're foxed enough to be foolish and I have other matters to attend to."

Doyle wanted to ask if he liked him, but it seemed an absurd question, and he knew he would feel hurt if the answer was no. Instead he said, "Tomorrow...."

"Yes, sir?"

"We can start again tomorrow."

Bodie left and shut the door gently behind him. For a moment, but only for a moment, he leaned his head against the doorframe, recovering his equilibrium.

Then he went to see Lord Cowley.



The master of Kingsfield was scribbling notes in bed when a light tap at the door made him remove his spectacles and say, in a voice audible only as far as the ears of the knocker, "Come in, Bodie."

The valet went in, closing the door quietly behind him. He carried a tumbler of scotch, which he brought to Cowley. "It will help you sleep."

"Thank you, Bodie." He rubbed his eyes, took the glass and looked ruefully at his notes. "Trying to work it out; it's like a damned French puzzle, all clues with no answers." He sipped the drink. "How'd you get on with Doyle?"

"Tolerably well," said the valet, and Cowley looked sharply at him, catching the dryness of the tone.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't tell me I would need to fight for my virtue."

Cowley laughed. "He's playing with you, man."

"He certainly is."

"Ach, don't tell me he embarrassed you."

Bodie smiled quickly, and shook his head. "No. It takes a lot to embarrass me."

"And him. There's not much to choose between you. Shameless, both of you." He sipped the whisky. "He thinks you stole the documents."

"We predicted that the thief would say that."

"You still think he's guilty?"

"Undecided." Bodie paced to the window, and back. "We've been over and over the possibilities. I consider him still the most likely suspect. He is the most clever, the one with the suspicious contacts in London, inlcuding French sympathizers and emigrés."

"Aye," said Cowley. His eyes held a deep sadness.

"And yet... I cannot believe he would want to harm you."

"Nor can I."

"If he takes the bait...."

"The papers in the box, you mean? Check them, Bodie."

Bodie went to the box, unfastened it with fingers that knew its secrets well and had opened and closed the box many times. He ran quickly through the documents. "All intact, sir."
"Good. Do you think he may have guessed that you are my agent also?"

"He's clever enough." Bodie shut the box, contents safe for the moment. "He may suspect. He has not admitted anything to me. Seems to think I'm just a valet.... He asked if serving him was like serving you. He was drunk."

"What did you say?"

"I admitted it was different. I never realized quite what an easy time I have of it with you. The occasional espionage, fights with villains, life-threatening action, nothing disturbing to the soul. With the Earl, it's rather more complicated."

Cowley smiled. "He's the canniest of the lot of you. If anyone can suss you out, he can. Be careful, Bodie. If he means ill to either of us, he could do great harm."

"I am always careful, sir."

Cowley put the empty glass on the table. "If he seems wilful.... It is partly an act, partly something nurtured in him since childhood. He was the youngest of six, the only boy. They pampered him, gave him his way in all things. He never lacked for a penny, never had to fight for anything. He had the intelligence to be bored with that life. Looked about for entertainment more lasting than the lightskirts and the cockfights."

"And found you and your Five?"

"Not at first. He found science, and literature. Sports and the secrets of nature. It was that enquiring mind I needed, not the physical skills."

"His physical skills are formidable, sir. I was wrestling with him in the town. He nearly beat me."

"By finding a psychological weakness?"

Bodie turned away, hiding a reaction to the memory of those green eyes staring into his. "You imply I have weaknesses?" he asked sweetly, and Cowley threw a cushion at him. "Go to bed, Bodie. You'll need to be fresh for tomorrow."

"I'll go if you'll stop taking notes. You need sleep too."

He did not stop to see if Lord Cowley obeyed him. He went to his own small bed in the servant's wing, and lay alone, thinking about green eyes and the nature of man.



Predictably, the Earl of Doyle was the last to rise the next day. It was near to noon when Bodie was called to dress him. "Is Bishop about?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Doyle could not tell from his face whether the question meant anything to Bodie or not. Did he know Bishop was one of Cowley's Five?

"My riding clothes," he said, walking naked to the windows. He leaned out, his arms on the windowsill. "What a beautiful day."

Bodie carefully brought the clothes for Doyle's inspection. Doyle did not flirt, or ask for help in dressing that was beyond the limits of legitimate need with buttons and boots. Bodie shaved him and dressed him with quiet efficiency, and Doyle felt each gentle touch of his fingers right through to the bone.

Then he was off, riding, with the other gentlemen.



Bodie searched Doyle's private valise of papers with diligence and care, and left everything exactly as it had been. He found nothing incriminating.

He was no less disturbed.



He was on hand to help the Earl change his clothes after the riding party returned. Doyle said little to him, except, just before he was leaving the room to go downstairs for dinner, "Bodie? Tonight is the villager's party. Do you attend?"

"Of course," said Bodie. "I am a villager."

"What, you came from Preston? I thought Cowley found you in the navy and made you an infantryman in his Division."

"I was a foundling here, raised in the town. I have known Lord Cowley all my life."

Doyle nodded. "I'll see you at the party, then."

"Yes, sir."



But when Doyle arrived in the village for the party, fashionably late and impeccably dressed in a waistcoat striped in various shades of green, topped off with a high-collared jacket of forest green, he did not at first see Bodie. Instead he saw Bishop, who was eating sweetmeats, looking jaded.

Doyle went over to him. "I'm deuced bored," said Bishop sulkily. His fair hair spiked over his forehead, dark with unfashionable sweat. "I thought Cowley was going to have us meet to discuss what's going on. I assume we'll have to replace Linstead."

"Is that the way it works?"

"Stands to reason. We can't be Cowley's Five if there's only four of us."

Doyle glanced around, surprised by the indiscretion. There was, however, no one in earshot, and Bishop's contemptuous glance implied that he had already ascertained that.

Doyle said, "I don't know what Cowley intends. It's more than he's told me," and walked abruptly off. He'd seen Cowley's daughter and went to make conversation with her.

Chloe looked charmingly girlish in a pastel green gown, prettily matching his own attire, though her eyes were neither young nor naive. She squeezed his hand warmly. "Doyle! Thank heavens, one of my father's friends who isn't dull as a parson. Shall we watch them doing the country dances?"

"If you wish," said Doyle, and took her arm.

They had strung lanterns from the trees, and the area cleared for dancing was filled with coloured light. Doyle enjoyed watching the light-footed girls dancing as if they'd been born with slippers on. Then the men joined in and Doyle saw, with pleasure, that one of them was Bodie. He liked the way Bodie moved. His clothes, though not pretentious, fit him as if they had been finely tailor-made. His face, as he turned to smile at someone who had spoken to him as they passed in the dance, was flushed with exertion and joy in the moment. Doyle's heart beat faster. He wished –

But Chloe had said something and he missed it. He turned to her, tearing his eyes away from Bodie, and saw Bishop staring angrily. At the girl? At him? Bishop noticed that Doyle was looking at him, and he suddenly smiled, and came over to them, so that it was as if the moment of enmity had not existed. "A charmingly rustic affair, is it not?" he asked.

"I think they have been preparing for this for some time," said Chloe.

"Perhaps you would allow me to get you a drink?"

"What a good idea!" she said. "Let's all get drinks. Come, Doyle."

So Doyle followed, though he would have preferred to stay and watch the valet dance. Couldn't very well say so, could he? So he sipped strawberry punch out of a small porcelain cup and tried not to let his eyes stray too obviously to the dancers. He stayed listening to Chloe chatter about the occasion and answer Bishop's questions about her wedding plans, until he could decently excuse himself. Chloe tried to press a second drink on him, but he refused it, and slipped away.

Much later, he stood looking up at the stars, leaning on a stone enclosure. Behind him he could heart he music of the Fête, a pleasant backdrop to his thoughts. He had found occasion for conversation with each of Cowley's Cabal, and had come up with nothing suspicious. He had furthered his converse with the staff of Kingsfield House, and with some of their friends and relatives. He felt no closer to finding the culprit than he had, and still, by logic, thought Bodie the man with the most opportunity.

Motive? Money, perhaps. The information in the packet was worth money to someone. To the French, for example.

But there could be any number of other underlying reasons. Motives for a rootless man, a foundling with obligations to the powerful man he served. Cowley could be an exacting taskmaster, he knew.

He went back to Kingsfield House earlier than the others. He went to Cowley's bedroom. There was no one there, although candles had been lit in expectation of the master's return. He went to the small table by the windowsill, and opened, as before, the fateful box.

The locking mechanism had not been set.

He swore aloud.

Then he went to his own room. Someone had thoughtfully left a drink -- lemonade, perhaps -- and a piece of cake on a plate for him. He did not like cake. He sat, looking at it for a moment. Then he went to his sachel, took out some powders, and walked down to the kitchens.

This time of night, the kitchens were empty. He prepared his concoction of chemicals in water and put a piece of the cake in the solution. Perhaps he was going mad, imagining enemies in every act of kindness. But... better to be sure. He didn't want to test it on a living animal, in case he was right.

The cloudy results in his glass told him what he needed to know.

He carefully washed the beaker (which masqueraded by day as a beer mug) and destroyed all remains of the cake. Then he went back to his room, and lay on the bed, thinking.



Perhaps an hour later, there was a tap on the door.

He was half asleep by that time, but in seconds was alert, standing at his bedside, a hand reaching for the knife concealed in a sheath under his shirt. Then he relaxed, and said, "Who is it?"

"Cowley."

He opened the door. "Come in, my lord."

"The box was opened."

"Yes," said Doyle. He went back to the bed, and sat, motioning for Cowley to do the same. Dressed still from the evening's entertainment, Cowley merely shook his head. "No, I won't take your time, Doyle, I just wanted to make sure you knew."

Doyle said, "Just before dinner the box was untouched and the papers were intact. Now -- slightly after midnight -- someone has read them."

"And who in the household has not been through the house in that time? You should have had the room watched."

"Couldn't do that without talk. Besides, whoever it is no doubt has some story of legitimate business going in there. Except me."

"Stay with it," said Cowley. He went back to the door. "Whoever it is, he'll scupper himself if he tries to sell those papers, or if he acts on the information in them. They're as false as a Frenchman's teeth. If he dares to come to the meeting place, we have him."

"I found the next murder victim," said Doyle. "Me." He briefly described the poisoned cake.

"We're on to him now," said Cowley, with satisfaction. "And he's guessing it. Someone is frightened."

"Yes – me."

Cowley didn't believe him for a second. "Get some sleep then, lad, and we'll see what transpires tomorrow."

"Good night," said Doyle.

Cowley gone, he closed his eyes, intending to doze only a moment.

He woke from sound sleep when there was another tap at the door. "Come in," he said, blinking. This time, he did not leap to his feet.

It was Bodie. "Sir. I didn't realize you had come back so early." He closed the door behind him, and stood respectfully in the middle of the room. "Do you require help, sir?"

Doyle sat. He thought with embarrassment of the drunken spectacle he had presented the night before, and how good Bodie's hands had felt on his skin. "Yes," he said. "Help me undress."

He had been wearing light shoes since his return. Bodie removed them. He unfastened the buttons at the ankles of Doyle's tight trousers, and then rose. Doyle held out his wrists, and Bodie quicky and efficiently loosened the fastenings. Since silence was making Doyle uncomfortable, he said, "The masquerade tomorrow. You'd best get me ready for it. I'm going as Lord Byron."

"Ah," said Bodie, and suddenly smiled broadly. "That explains something."

"What?"

"The pistols in your luggage."

"Thought I'd murdered m'last valet, did you?"

"You must agree you are full of surprises," said Bodie, with a straight face. If he had left the poisoned cake, and was consequently disappointed to see Doyle alive, there was no sign of it. He reached for Doyle's shirt buttons, but Doyle said sharply, "No, I can do it," and Bodie stepped back while Doyle undressed.

"I've a black outfit to wear," the Earl said, "With a white shirt, a Turkish scarf, and a copy of Childe Harold... Can you think of any embellishments?"

"Yes, sir. Your hair should be styled."

"Styled?"

"Trimmed."

Doyle made a face.

Bodie said firmly, "No English poet, however mad, would go about with hair like yours."

Doyle couldn't deny it. "Tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow you can cut it."

Bodie smiled as if he were a child who had been promised a treat.

Doyle buried his head in the pillow. He could hear Bodie moving about hanging up his clothes. He lay naked on the bed, wishing, for the moment, that he were dead; that he were someone else; that he weren't caught on the meathook of desire. That he didn't desperately want a man who might be plotting against Cowley, and ready to kill them both.

He fell asleep before Bodie had left the room.



He woke at an early hour the next day, with a clear head, a cleared conscience, and a new sense of vigour.

Bodie came at his summons, with morning tea, the Gazette, and his shaving things. Bodie appeared untroubled as well.

Doyle sat in the shaving chair, his head tilted back. He felt Bodie's fingers on his jawline, tilting his head, and as before, he felt the tingle of arousal at the touch. He'd never had such untoward reactions to a simple shave. He could feel behind him the warmth of Bodie's body, the touch of his breath on his curls, as the blade scraped his neck and cheek. Torn between pleasure and fear, he thought of the sharp razor that so easily could hurt him.... Wielded by this man who might know he was on his trail, the trail to proving him a murderer.

Why did he feel no fear? He felt undiluted, unmitigated, unflagging trust that he could neither understand nor justify.

He liked having Bodie close, the fingers touching him, wiping him, smoothing the skin alongside the blade. It did not take much imagination to consider the touch a caress. He wanted to fall into the comfort of that touch.

But it was over too soon, Bodie wiping his face and neck with the towel, Bodie saying crisply, "All done, sir."

"Thank you," said Doyle. He felt awkward, because of his thoughts. He allowed Bodie to help him with the buttons and the buckles, and managed to keep his hands to himself. He didn't usually have this problem with even the prettiest maidservants. Why had this valet thrown him into this delightful state of madness?

He contemplated the problem, walking in the ornamental garden. It was misty this morning, despite the warmth of the sun as it rose over the avenue of trees. His boots sounded loud on the flagstones. Bodie, Bodie, Bodie.... A man out of his class, who seemed classless. A man he had every reason to suspect, and of whom he could believe no wrong at all. A man who -- by God, the fact that he was a man at all made Doyle's desire of him dangerous to both of them, potentially incriminating, personally humiliating. And yet.... Faith in Bodie seemed stronger than any of these emotions. Groundless, irrational belief that this love he could neither accept nor deny was more powerful and more important than any possibility of danger, retribution or shame.

Raymond, Earl of Doyle was not a man known for taking risks for love. He had enjoyed many an affaire and some of these illicit amours had been every bit as lurid as his more outrageous detractors said in gossip. Yet even so, he had followed the path of caution, taking minimal risks with both body and heart. No men outside his own class; no women who might be diseased, or ruined by his attentions. He had thought such precautions only sensible.

There was nothing sensible about the passion he was feeling now. If he dared to guess what Bodie felt –

No: best not to tread that path.

Impossible not to hope.

He leaned against a stone railing, the coolness of the stone comforting through the sleeves of his jacket. Cowley would want his resignation if he knew what madness had overcome him. And Cowley thought him capable of finding the culprit. He felt the first stirring of shame there, not for his own sake or for Bodie's, but because he seemed a fair ways on to failing in the mission Cowley assigned him.

He turned from the railing at the same moment there was a report and something hard chipped the stonework beside him.

He was behind the balustrade in a trice. Gunfire.

From where? His eyes sought a spot, guessing at trajectory, trying to capture in memory the location of the sound. From the house... There, an open window, the curtains caught in motion. With no one standing there.

Carefully, he stood. The marksman clearly could not take time to reload and shoot again, to risk being seen or shot in turn. Bad luck for him he had missed the first time.

Doyle ran into the house, up the stairs to the hallway and into the room with the open window and the lace curtain. Aside from the aroma of gunpowder, there were no clues he could find.

He went back to his room, and rang for his valet.

"Sir?" said Bodie, appearing quickly.

Doyle said sharply, "Let me see your hands."

Puzzled but unquestioning, Bodie raised his hands. Doyle gripped the wrists, one in each hand, and sniffed the open palms. Nothing. No hint of gunpowder, nor on his garments. He might have had time to wash his hands between the time of the shot and the time of being summoned by Doyle, but not to have changed his clothes. He smelled pleasant, masculine, healthy. The smell of his skin made Doyle's desire surge back, warring with his anxiety.

He said harshly, "Someone tried to shoot me just now. I had to make sure it wasn't you."

"I see," said Bodie. Something unrecognizable flashed in his deep blue eyes.

"Don't feel like breakfast," said Doyle. "Come for a walk with me? I feel restless, and I don't know my way about. Besides, I could do with a bodyguard."

If Bodie had plans for the day himself, or work to do, he jettisoned both notions at once. "Certainly, sir," he said. "Allow me to get my walking boots and meet you at the side door."

He kept Doyle waiting at least ten minutes, and Doyle was pacing when he arrived. Doyle looked sharply at him, but the valet grinned and indicated the bag thrown over his shoulder. "A man with no breakfast might get hungry," he said. "When Mrs. Cudderwright and Mr. Crosby heard you were going out without anything to eat, they were pressing on me more food than I could carry."

"Fussy old biddies," muttered Doyle, but he was pleased nonetheless by the thought.

They headed out towards the river. "There's a good path over there," explained Bodie.

Doyle let him lead the way. He found he didn't have much to say. With Bodie going ahead of him, he could watch the way the man moved on the rough ground, with the effortless stamina of a trained soldier, with the grace and care of man in control of his physical skills.

When they got to the river, they followed the path by the riverbank. It was not necessary for Bodie to lead, here, and they walked side by side in companionable silence. Once, Bodie threw a stone into the water, and smiled like a boy when it skipped and splashed. Doyle paused in the shade of a willow, watching him. He reminded himself that this was a dark and dangerous man.
Then he too smiled, and threw a rock, which sank with a satisfying ‘plop'.

After a while, at Doyle's behest, they turned away from the river, walking across fields. Lazy sheep watched them without concern. A crow was calling insistently from a copse of trees. The sun had long since burned off all vestiges of mist; it was, in fact, extremely warm.

So when they found a large, secluded oak in a distant field, Bodie said, "Sir? Might this be a good spot to eat?"

Doyle squinted up at the sun, which was now high. "Yes," he said shortly. He had taken off his jacket, which he had tied around his waist, though Bodie had offered to carry it for him. He threw it on the ground and sat on it.

Bodie sat carefully beside him. He took the food out of his bag. He had wasted no energy in packing flatware, fine china, or crystal goblets such as might grace a real midsummer picnic. Instead it was cold cut chicken in a wrapper, a loaf of bread, and a flagon of ale. "We'll have to share," said Bodie.

Doyle wondered if the gleam in his eye was mischief, or an illusion.

"I've fared worse," he said, and swallowed deep. Then he handed the clay flagon to Bodie, who tilted his head back as he drank, throat pulsing with his gulps. Aroused by the sight, Doyle looked away. He was already breathing hard, since they had been walking at a fair pace. Bodie, ex-soldier, might be accustomed to such marches. Doyle, gentleman, who boxed and fenced and rode for his body's sake, had only imagined he was in good form.

He pulled off his boots and his stockings, let his feet feel the grass, the warm earth. "It's a fine day," he said.

"Aye," said Bodie, chewing a piece of chicken.

Doyle looked sharply at him. "You sound like Cowley."

"I would be proud to sound like Cowley."

"Really?" said Doyle, and if there was something sharper than he intended behind the tone, he did not regret it.

"Really," said Bodie, ignoring, or pretending to ignore, the nuances. "However, I find I pick up his phrases easily, holus bolus, from hearing 'em so often."

"You admire him, then?"

Bodie sat back against the tree, turning his head slowly to look at Doyle, his thoughts unreadable. "Don't you?"

The implications of the question hung heavily about them.

"Of course I do," said Doyle crossly. He played with a blade of grass.

The silence lengthened. It was like sitting with a friend, although he had not sat with a friend like this since childhood. A companion... dammit, the man was a servant, and possibly a traitorous cutthroat. Doyle said, "Tell me how you came to be in Cowley's service."

"I was born in the village," said Bodie. "Parents unknown. They found me on the doorstep of the church. It's an old one -- Anglo-Saxon, quite a remarkable antiquity. The stoop is worn with a thousand years of footsteps. I was lying in the curve of the stone, wrapped in sheepskin. So I was always here, as a child. Not that I saw much of his lordship, but I recognized him, knew when he was about. He used to give us sweetmeats at Christmas. The local orphans."

"And then?"

"He had me sent to the parish school. I learned reading and writing, a few things. He coached me himself a time or two. Gave me books to read. But I... Perhaps I was too young to appreciate it, or not of a mind. I was never the scholar he wanted me to be, or that my teachers hoped I would become. Instead, I ran away to sea."

"Never knew anyone who ran away to sea before," said Doyle.

"No? That might be because they're all on ships now."

Doyle laughed, and punched his arm lightly. "You aren't on a ship," he pointed out.

"No. I was in Portugal when I came across Cowley again. Had enough of sailing. Went into his service As a infantryman. When he left the army after the war, I came back with him. I've been his valet ever since."

"Do you regret it?"

"We all have regrets in life."

"Do we?" Doyle looked sharply at him, but Bodie made no attempt to evade his searching stare.

"So," said Doyle. "Tell me about Portugal, where you met Cowley. Is it true, what Lord Byron said?"

"What did he say?" asked Bodie.

"That Portugal is full of beautiful young people of both sexes."

"No more nor less than any land," said Bodie. He took another drink of the ale. "It's true enough," he conceded.

Doyle said, "What do you think of me?"

Bodie's right eyebrow twisted into a knot. "My lord?"

"Don't fall back on servility. Tell me honestly what you think of me. Am I a madman?"

"No more than anyone else," said Bodie. He did not smile. "My lord."

"Don't!"

"Not servility, but civility."

"Don't. Here and now, we are equals."

Bodie looked puzzled, but did not reply. Doyle turned, kneeling to face Bodie, no longer caring about the effect of mud or grass stains on the cream nankeen trousers.

"Do you want me dead?" There, that was as blunt as he could get.

"No," said Bodie, equally blunt.

The moment stretched into silence, except for the singing of a bird.

"Quite the contrary," said Bodie.

Doyle leaned forward and kissed Bodie's mouth. It opened for him with something he could mistake for eagerness, if he dared. The warmth, the depth, the intensity of the kiss sent a thrill right through his body. He put his hands to Bodie's face, holding it, holding him, wanting the kiss never to end.

As if there were no reason it should, Bodie's lips played with his, and his tongue. Bodie's tongue ran gently in and out of his mouth. The urgency of the kiss set Doyle's heart to pounding and his cock to throbbing. Bodie's fingers touched his shirt, unfastening buttons. He had unbuttoned this shirt before, and had no need to look at his fingers to do it. He untied the informal cravat, which he had fastened himself, with his hands, then ran his fingers along Doyle's neck, pushing the cloth away, pulling it down from his shoulders, pulling it down from his back, till it hung at his waist, held at the wrists by tight cuffs and at the waist by tight trousers.

Bodie released his mouth, but only to kiss his face, his ear, his neck. To run his hands over Doyle's back and down his spine.

Doyle found himself moaning. He ran his hands over Bodie's head, feeling the dark, short hair, so soft under his fingers. He whispered, "Let me--" and allowed his actions, rather than his words, complete the thought, as he pressed himself closer to Bodie's body, one hand leaving Bodie's hair to wander between his legs. Under his hand, the cock was as hot and as hard as his own. It didn't take much.

Bodie gasped, touching the skin of Doyle's arm lightly with his teeth. The gasp turned into a moan.

Doyle said, "Let me undress you."

Bodie smiled breathlessly at this reversal of roles. He leaned back, keeping his hands on Doyle's hips while Doyle unfastened buttons. He let Doyle pull off his waistcoat, and drop it behind him. He let him take off the shirt, revealing the broad and pale-skinned chest. He let him unbutton the trousers, much looser than Doyle's, easily pulled off the legs and feet once the boots and stockings were removed. And all the while Doyle was diligently kissing him, on the mouth, on the body, on the new planes of skin which were being revealed with each disappearing piece of clothing.

Skin flushed where Doyle touched it. Eyes narrowed and widened. Breath quickened and even stopped. Bodie did not speak, but at one point he said, "Doyle!" sharply, as Doyle moved his teeth on a nipple hard as granite.

He kissed and licked Bodie's cock, exploring its contours. Hot, musky, masculine, heavy. "What do you want?" he whispered, against its warmth, flickering his tongue out against it.

"Anything you will let me take." Bodie's eyes transfixed him.

"Everything," agreed Doyle. He fumbled at the buttons on his trousers. Bodie reached for them as well. His skilled fingers had learned those buttons like a lesson memorized by heart. But even so he fumbled, impatient, and ripped the cloth, so the buttons popped and scattered and Doyle's cock sprang into Bodie's eager hand.

Bodie pulled the cloth down, beyond caring about it now, tossing away the shirt as well. He pushed Doyle naked in to the grass on his back, his pelvis against Doyle's cock, his mouth on his nipples, his fingers wandering. His eyes were shadowed by the elegant lashes, narrowed and nevertheless piercing. Doyle wondered how anyone could ever have thought this man servile, least of all himself, or the perspicacious Cowley. This man was untamable.

He was not surprised.

He sucked Bodie's cock, feeling it wide and fulsome in his mouth, a feast of flesh. He ran his tongue along foreskin and veins, feeling the flowing of heat, the controlled thrusts, and he pulled back. He wanted this, but he wanted more. He grabbed Bodie's neck and kissed his mouth again, and wrapped his arms around him.

Doyle spread his legs as far as they could go, relishing the feelings rushing through him. He felt the wild lust in every extremity, felt it drive him to madness as he clutched Bodie to him, fingers raking the skin of his back. He wrapped his legs around him, pushing against his cock, trying to angle himself for penetration.

Bodie's hand fondled his balls while his other hand explored the cleft in his buttocks. He made a sound of deep satisfaction as Doyle, stretching, straining, pushed and thrust against him. "Bodie!" Doyle said as the finger entered him, wet, seemingly as hot as his cock, uncompromising. "Bodie." He smiled, relishing it, straining against the moving finger both outwardly and inwardly. "Bodie."

Bodie's free hand pulled at his curls, pulled his head till the mouth was in position for a fierce, deep kiss. And with the kiss, the first hand freed itself to guide his cock to the warm channel where his fingers had been, and Doyle murmured, "Yes, now!" as he was impaled on it.
Doyle screamed with joy and strain.

Bodie grunted, holding back, but Doyle moved in his arms like a restless beast, pumping him. Bodie thrust then, using the tree against his back for leverage.

Doyle said, "Fuck me harder," and Bodie raised himself slightly against the tree, Doyle's arms and legs tight against him, and thrust with all his strength, in and out, giving no quarter.

Doyle's cry as he climaxed was breathless and voiceless, an accompaniment to the birds in the trees about them, or the wind in the grass. His semen splattered Bodie's chest, twice and three times; and a fourth spasm, without ejaculation, wracked him in a deep noiseless groan.

Bodie held him, tight and deep, while it happened. But the contractions engulfing his cock were too much, and he too exploded in ejaculation, deep into Doyle's body.

They rolled to the ground, and lay entwined.

It was Bodie who spoke first, but he just said, "Doyle."

"Yeah?"

"You asked if I was trying to kill you. I think maybe... from this... that you are trying to kill me."

"Oh?"

"Risking an apoplectic fit, I am."

‘"Oh?" Doyle looked innocently at him with eyes as green as the leaves above them. "Too much for you, am I?"

"Too much," agreed Bodie, and kissed his mouth again. "Not enough," he amended. He added thoughtfully, "It's a little like fucking a boa constrictor."

"Never tried that," admitted Doyle, between kisses.

Bodie's laughter was genuine and free, and Doyle, watching him, wondered how he could ever have thought, even for a moment, that this man was a villain.



He was less certain three hours later, when they got back to Kingsfield House.

They had lain in relaxed and sensuous delight under the tree for another hour. Then they had reluctantly dressed, finished off the ale and the bread, and started back homewards. Bodie's belt held Doyle's torn trousers up. "Don't know why you bother with clothes," said Bodie, watching him walk. "Might as well just use paint." He caught up with Doyle, and passed him on the path.

"Woad," said Doyle. "The Picts used to use it.
"
"Couldn't've Pict a better body," said Bodie, and scampered ahead, out of the reach of Doyle's attempt to pinch his bum.



That was in the afternoon. Back at Kingsfield House, things didn't seem so simple. Bodie had long-neglected work to return to, and Doyle had to let him go, foregoing the desire to touch his hand, or his face, or to kiss him good-bye for the moment. He let his eyes do it for him, and Bodie turned away with the impassivity of a servant.

Their time of equality was over.

"Oh, there you are, Doyle," said Jarvis, appearing from the other doorway. "Care for a game of billiards?"

"I have to get changed," said Doyle cheerfully, indicating the stains on his knees and his general dishevelment.

"Good lord, man, have you been climbing mountains?"

"Exploring the territory," said Doyle, and escaped to his room. He did not call on Bodie to attend him, or help him change his clothes: it seemed it would be an intrusion after what had happened, coming close to destroying the brief pact of friendship (or something more) that had consumed them for a few brief hours. That equality was a dangerous and expensive reality: Doyle had no illusions about his fellow man, and knew how thin the veneer of polite deference was in his lover. He respected that. He was not going to abuse the power he had over Bodie, whether over the obedient servant or the free man within.

He changed into clean trousers with buttons still on them, and left the muddy, damaged trousers for Bodie to repair. He could still feel the sensitivity in his backside where Bodie had entered him. He loved the feeling, the memory and the sensation. His excitement was not abating. He wondered when he could be with Bodie next, and what the danger might be to each of them. He could hardly wait. If Bodie had come to attend to his dressing now, he would not be leaving the room unmolested.

Trying to shake the thought, he went to the billiard room.

He stopped in the doorway. Bishop, Jarvis and Whitby were playing, but what caught his attention was the large portrait on the opposite wall. It was of a woman: dark-haired and stately, she had a bemused smile and intelligent eyes. For a brief moment, he thought it was Chloe, but the woman in the portrait was too old, and her elegant dress a style that had been fashionable a decade ago. It was, then -- it must be -- Lady Cowley, Chloe's mother, long since dead. Doyle had never met her.

He thought her eyes could see right through him. Such a combination of insight and accusation he had never seen, captured with such intensity by the artist. He thought she might say to him: "Will my husband die because you are beguiled, in lust and love, to trust his servant?"

He wanted to deny it aloud. Instead he grinned at the others, picked up a cue, and asked, "What are we betting?"

"Our lives," said Whitby, shooting a ball into a pocket.

"Melodrama," said Jarvis, pretending to be disgusted. Whitby lost his turn. Doyle chalked his cue.

"So? Who keeps us safe?" asked Bishop.

Bodie, thought Doyle: he'll keep me safe. He knew he couldn't afford to believe it. Instead he said, "Lady luck, gentlemen. I will now show myself your superior in this game."

He promptly flubbed his first shot, to much laughter and jeering from the others.

They're like mates, he thought. But if Bodie isn't a killer, one of them must be.



Cowley was meeting Bodie in his study.

"What I put in those papers," he said, "was a clandestine meeting."

"With whom?"

"Myself and a French agent."

Bodie frowned. "So it will look as if you are a traitor?"

"You aren't thinking, man! So it will look as if I am setting up a French agent for arrest. Waiting for him--this mythical being--in the garden, I will be the perfect target for assassination."
"You have made arrangements for your funeral, I hope," said Bodie dryly.

"Not at all. You will save me, and catch the assassin."

Bodie did not reply.

"You look displeased," said Cowley.

"You have a great deal of trust in me, sir."

"So I do, Bodie. So I do. You know that."

"Misplaced, sir."

"You have never disappointed me."

"Nor do I wish to. But... my judgement is flawed."

"In what way?"

"If the killer is the Earl of Doyle... Sir, I cannot bring myself to destroy him or to arrest him. Even if he should attempt your life."

"You think he is guilty?"

"I don't know!" Bodie, normally so controlled, had an edge of desperation in his voice. Normally fair-skinned, he had turned a degree more pale. "I have no reason to think so, but I have no judgement where he is concerned. If he were guilty... even if he should succeed in killing you, I would help him to escape. And I would have failed you."

"Your faith in him makes me confident of his innocence. I trust your insight, Bodie."

"I don't. Is isn't faith in his innocence, sir, it's misplaced admiration."

"I admire him too." Cowley smiled. "Always have. It was why I chose him for my Cabal. He has been my best man for years."

"You have not let your admiration cloud your judgement, sir."

"Or my faith in yours. Be that as it may, I will be in the garden at the appointed time. You will be there as well, I hope. And the killer."

"Yes," said Bodie. "And what is the appointed time?"

"What time is it always? The witching hour, the hour of midnight."

"Suitable," said Bodie sourly.

Cowley took pity on the man for the stark expression on his face. He had never seen Bodie show fear before. "It may not be Doyle."

"I pray not."

"Aye," said Cowley. "I pray it is not. Or another of my lads. Yet if not them, who?"

"Perhaps Tall Mary the chambermaid has a pipeline to French soldiers."

"I can only hope so. Unless you have an affection for the lass?"

Bodie shook his head. "My affections lie elsewhere."



He sat in the Earl's bedroom, waiting for him to return with something like despair. The light from the windows shone over the smoothness of the bedside table, the softness of the coverlet, the pile of the Persian carpet.

I want to know all your secrets, he thought. I want to tell you all of mine. And yet... and yet.... It is madness you have affected me with, and Cowley's life hangs in the balance.

Doyle passed Chloe in the hallway. "I'm looking forward to tonight," she said. "Katrina is going to curl my hair, and I have a new gown."

But he thought he glimpsed a bitterness in her face that belied the light tone of her words. He looked sharply at her, but saw only the artless smile she turned on him. Perhaps something had put her in a temper earlier.

"I look forward to seeing it," said Doyle. "Bodie will be doing my hair, but I do not, I am sorry to say, have a new gown."

She laughed, and went on up the stairs.

Doyle went to his room.



He saw Bodie standing by the window, his own mended trousers in Bodie's hand. Bodie raised his head as he entered. The valet's face was drawn, and tired, and seemed to have aged since the afternoon. And in his eyes was a spark of something that Doyle could not identify, but it went deep in his psyche.

So might a man look, if he had plans to kill his master.

Doyle closed the door behind him and strode to Bodie. He pulled the curtains closed with one hand, wrapping his other arm around Bodie, pulling him close to his body, kissing him. "Time," he said, "to dress me. And undress me first." His lips made a dance of the kiss, with the intent to tease and arouse. His tongue touched Bodie's. He ran his hands up and down the light fabric of Bodie's jacket.

Bodie said breathlessly, "If we... if I... you must be ready on time." But Doyle could tell he was already caught in the spell.

"We have hours." Doyle nibbled on his neck, working his way to an ear.

"But it will take hours to--" Bodie gasped and did not finish the sentence as Doyle sensuously and slowly moved his body against him, and dropped his head onto his shoulder, so that his lips touched the skin and caressed it.

"To what?" said Doyle then. "To cut my hair? To button my trousers? To find my gloves?" He let go of Bodie, moving away, his fingers pulling at his already-disarranged cravat so it fell casually to the floor and left his shirt-neck open.

"No," whispered Bodie. His face was still white, except for a spot of colour on each cheek.

"Well, then," said Doyle, as if that answered something. He stood by the bed, smiling. "Well, then." He held out his hand.

Bodie moved. It was not the respectful valet who pushed Doyle backwards onto the bed, dropping on him with a strength that might have belonged to an enemy; to a wrestling partner; to a man in the grip of despair.

He kissed Doyle without tenderness, quick random kisses that might have bruised his lips and burned Doyle's skin. Doyle threw his head back, gasping, his hands groping at Bodie's back. Bodie ripped open Doyle's shirt, lips and teeth catching on his nipple, tormenting it as his hand found the waistband of Doyle's tight, dark trousers.

Without pausing for buttons, he tore the fabric with one sharp movement. Doyle moved against him, whimpering. Bodie ran his hands over Doyle's buttocks, baring them, palming them, kneading them. "You have enslaved me."

"I like this above all things," whispered Doyle. His voice was hoarse. His eyes, as he opened them, looked drugged.

"Do you want me?"

"I want you," said Doyle, "as I have never wanted anything else." His hand reached tenderly to Bodie' cheek. "Can't you tell I'm mad with desire for you?"

Bodie did not answer, and his eyes blazed no reciprocal tenderness. Instead he ran hard fingers over the top of Doyle's cock, tweaking and teasing it. Doyle groaned and whispered, "Let me suck you."

Bodie looked at him for a moment with those dark, unfathomable eyes. He rolled onto his back, and reached for his own buttons.

Doyle, smiling, shook his head, moved Bodie's hands to his sides. "Let me," he said. He ran the back of his fingers down Bodie's chest. "Wouldn't want you to waste any of that energy." He lifted and kissed, Bodie's hand, then put it back at his side. He unbuttoned the cotton of the trousers, and pulled back the cloth. "My goodness." He touched the large erection with the gentlest of touches. "You always like this?"

"When you are nearby," said Bodie, through gritted teeth.

Doyle smiled. He dropped to his knees onto the floor between Bodie's spread legs, which he spread further with his hands. "Beautiful," he said, on a breath. His hand on the shaft, lightly, he kissed the soft spot between balls and cock, and pressed his tongue to the skin. Bodie made a noise.

"More?" asked Doyle, sweetly.

"Damn you, you're killing me!"

Doyle chuckled, his fingers rubbing. His hands were wet, now, with Bodie's fluid, which he smoothed over the straining skin. "Always liked playing soldiers."

Bodie reached for Doyle's head, but Doyle, turning, defused the gesture by grabbing the wrist and kissing the palm, licking the fingers in soft, methodical strokes, sucking on fingertips and tonguing the skin between finger and thumb. All the while his hand played with the cock, holding, rubbing, tickling in turns.

Bodie's left hand clutched at the coverlet, rucking the fabric between his fingers. "Doyle!" he gasped.

Then Doyle plunged his mouth over his cock, sucking, pulling back then plunging deep, pulling back, half-choking, then doing it again.

Bodie groaned, trying to prolong the sensation. Doyle's fingers on his balls and his hand on his belly and the soft tension of his throat defeated him. He bucked with the strength of his release, and Doyle held his hips with strong, unfearing arms, neither allowing Bodie to hurt him nor to evade him.

When Bodie's spasms subsided and his organ was empty, Doyle slowly lifted his mouth, and wiped its exterior wetness against Bodie's arm.

Bodie lay, breathless and motionless.

After a while, thought came back to him, and the knowledge of their situation. He looked at Doyle, who knelt still beside the bed, watching him.

He said, "Let me take care of you."

"Later," said Doyle briskly. He rose, and sat on the side of the bed, ignoring his state of undress. He pulled off his torn shirt, and wrapped himself in his red banyan dressing gown, covering, Bodie was sorry to see, the interesting condition of his body.

Bodie pulled his own trousers on, and fastened the buttons swiftly. He dropped to one knee before Doyle, pulling at his boot, and after it came off with a satisfying momentum, the other. The torn cloth of the trousers were easy to remove. He glanced at the dressing gown which was all that now covered Doyle, but Doyle said firmly, "My hair. You were going to cut my hair."

Without arguing, Bodie rose, and went to the cupboard, and took out his box of hair-cutting tools. "You will have to sit in this chair," he said, moving a straight-backed wooden chair to the centre of the room.

Doyle walked over to it, and sat in it. He kept his knees casually apart. Bodie let his leg touch Doyle's knees as he circled him. "You trust me to get it right?"

"I trust you for anything," said Doyle. His glance held promises.

"Don't," said Bodie. "Don't!"

"Too late," said Doyle. He stretched his neck back, accentuating its long, vulnerable line. "Cut as you wish."

Bodie's throat went dry. He took the scissors, and waked around behind Doyle again. With his hand, he straightened Doyle's head, judging with his eye how me must cut, and where, and how much. Looking over Doyle's shoulder, he could see his erection, less than half hidden, partially covered only by a loose draping of cloth. He ran his fingers under Doyle's jaw. "I will make you," he said, "the most fashionable man in England."

"I always set fashion," said Doyle self-confidently and erroneously. "Together, we will be legendary."

Unsmiling, Bodie took a lock in his fingers, and cut.

Then another.

He ran his fingers around Doyle's ear, gently caressing. He cut again. The scissors made a cruel, metallic sound as they cut.

"Snip?" said Doyle, and the question was answered by the shears: Snip.

Bodie's hand touched his forehead, grazing it, and Doyle's cock responded.

Doyle said ambiguously, "This may be harder than I thought."

"Shh," said Bodie. "I'm concentrating." He began to cut, not with the previous snipping notion, but with a long steady movement against hair extended in his fingers, as a saw might hew wood.

"You aren't concentrating," said Doyle smugly. "You're staring at my cock."

"I am cutting your hair, and I can't help it if your cock is sticking out all over."

"You started it," said Doyle, confident of the last word.

Snip. "I could have finished it."

"It excites you to see me like this, doesn't it?"

"See you like what? Shaggy-haired? I've never seen you any other way." Snip.

"To see me excited."

"Like I said: I've never seen you any other way."

Doyle laughed. Bodie stopped cutting. "Stop bobbing your head about."

"Jawohl."

Bodie held his head firmly. Doyle realized he was using his razor now, with sharp, flicking motions. Doyle could only see his arm, his elbow, as the blade jerked. The sound against his hair was oddly unnerving, even more oddly arousing.

Then Bodie leaned over his head to trim the hair at the front, and Doyle leaned his head back, so it touched Bodie's hard chest. His erection throbbed and he covered it with his hand. He heard Bodie take another quick breath. He moved his hand away.

He felt something warm and damp at his nape. Bodie's kiss. He smiled.

The cutting continued.

He tried to turn his head, to watch Bodie's movements, but Bodie firmly moved his head back. "Stop moving. You'll be all lopsided," he said.

"Already am," said Doyle.

"Not when I'm through with you, you won't be."

Doyle smiled again. He squirmed a little. His balls were pressing against the hard seat of the chair. He widened his legs a little, making the dressing gown fall partly open.

Bodie's hands on his head were like a massage. Gentle, mesmerising, comforting, hard, exciting. He could smell Bodie's skin when he reached around him to shake hair off the cloth. Finally Bodie walked away with him, coming back with a hand mirror. "Look," he said, and held it in front of Doyle. He held it so he could see Doyle's face.

Doyle, in turn, could see only Bodie's. "Most gorgeous face I ever saw," said Doyle, and grinned. "For an infantry gorilla." He squirmed again. "Can I move now?"

"Look at it," urged Bodie. "All my hard work, and you don't care."

"I care," said Doyle. He took the mirror in his own hands. "I want you to think it looks good. I want you to like what you see when you look." He looked critically into the mirror. "My God."

Bodie waited.

"Looks like someone respectable."

"You are," said Bodie, softly.

Doyle turned his head sideways, trying to see his own hair in the glass. He could see Bodie behind him, in the mirror; bits of his chest, a flash of his face. "It's short."

"Fashionable that way." Bodie's fingers tweaked a curl.

"You like it?"

"Can't stop looking at you." Bodie bend down, so that his voice spoke against the back of Doyle's head, his breath warm and damp on the shortened hair. "Never saw anyone I wanted to look at more."

Why that was so thrilling to him, Doyle didn't know. He would have turned, but Bodie put a hand on his shoulder. "No. Stay there." The touch disappeared for a moment, and Doyle heard him gathering up his things: scissors, razor, comb. He had trained himself to identify movement and sound. There was a splash of water, a motion of footsteps. Then a warm, damp cloth wiped the back of his neck, cleaning it of stray cut hair. Bodie's hands eased the dressing gown off his shoulders, and he felt the warm caress of the cloth.

"Bodie," he said, half a plea, half a groan. He had spread his legs as far apart as they would go. "Now. Please. Suck me. Do me. Do something!"

"Stand up," said Bodie. He stood, almost staggering, weak in the knees, and his cock too heavy. Bodie whisked away the dressing gown entirely, so Doyle stood naked, his head twisted back a little, his breath erratic, his back slightly arched. Bodie was behind him, between him and the chair; no, in the chair, sitting, pulling Doyle back against him, so that Doyle's buttocks were against the cloth of Bodie's crotch and his back was against Bodie's chest, and Bodie's arms were wrapping around him to caress his balls and fondle his cock and those expressive, miraculous lips were making patterns on the back of his neck.

He could feel Bodie's prick stirring against his back, even though Bodie had already come twice today, and once not long past.

He felt securely wrapped, protected, loved. He felt secure and valued. He felt loving, trusting, needing -- felt all of these things in the arms of this man who might be planning Cowley's death tonight.

Then the hands moved faster, and stronger, and Doyle climaxed with a strangled cry, spurting again after he thought he was through. Then again.

Energy drained form him, he collapsed against Bodie. Bodie buried his face in his neck.

"Can't be real," muttered Doyle. "You frighten me, Bodie. Nobody's that good."

"You frighten me, too," said Bodie, against the skin of his neck. "Frighten me to death, mate. And you make me like it, and want more."

Doyle took Bodie's wet hand in a grip of steel, entwining fingers. "Bodie. If it all goes bad, if it goes wrong, if it comes to an end, if we're never together after tonight -- remember this. Remember how good it was. Remember how it felt. Remember the love."

At the words, Bodie's heart went cold with dread.

"Remember."

"I will remember," promised Bodie.



Then Bodie dressed Doyle with exquisite care for the Masquerade. Lord Byron, espousing his own style, had set a fashion of sorts, and it was not difficult to emulate the poet's dashing, vaguely dissolute look. Doyle's own striking looks and short, wavy hair enhanced the pose, with the open-necked shirt, the ungloved hands, the dark jacket without a waistcoat, the small volume of poems ostentatiously placed in the pocket. There was a pistol in Doyle's other pocket, a reminder of some of Byron's less respectable exploits; it was said that while his daughter was being born, he drunkenly shot bullets into the ceiling. "I'll just have to remember to limp," said Doyle.

"I'll kick you in the ankle if you forget," promised Bodie.

Doyle glanced at him sharply . "You'll be there?"

"Wonders never cease, do they, sunshine? Yes, I'll be there. By order of Lord Cowley."

"What's he playing at?" Doyle wondered. He knew Cowley was planning, hoping, that the killer would be fooled into precipitating the denouement tonight. He wondered if that was why Cowley wanted Bodie on hand, and visible.

The train of thought was painful.

It took some care, but he was at last dressed to Bodie's standards. Bodie caressed his cheek. "Almost suppertime," he said. "Enjoy your meal. I'll see you after."

Doyle kissed him fiercely -- it was rather in keeping, he thought, with the Byronic image. And wondered as he did so what Bodie was planning, and what he knew of events. As if reading his mind, Bodie said lightly, "First, I have to mend your trousers."

"Should hope so," said Doyle, and chuckled, remembering the tearing of them. "Wish I could do it for you, but you know, I don't even know how."

Bodie grinned cheekily. "That's the difference between a gentleman and a serving man," he said. "Gentlemen can't take care of themselves."

One last kiss, and Doyle was gone.

When the door closed behind him, Bodie put away the clothes, and sat to sew the breeches he had ripped. If we continued to ravage Doyle's clothes at this rate, he would be so busy mending and sewing he'd have no time for other duties.

Not that this was a problem. One way or another, after tonight it should all be over, and Doyle would no longer be at Kingsfield to disrupt his well-ordered life.

But perhaps, if Cowley lived on, and the killer was found, Doyle would visit in future, requesting his services.

In the course of a hard life, Bodie had learned to live without hope. Today, it was a difficult lesson to remember.



Midsummer supper was delicious. It was also a bore. The varied exotic delicacies and the local fare served with them formed a series of tedious, cloying sensory experiences for a man who was not hungry for food and who wished for the more exciting company of a certain member of the staff, rather than the present company. Discussing horse races with Bishop and potato farming with Jarvis was putting his well-relaxed body to sleep.


The Honourable Chloe distracted him for a while in talk of Italian art. She was dressed as the central figure of some Botticelli painting; though Doyle had done the Continent, he didn't remember it. "I wish I could have come as Hecuba," she said.

"Hecuba?" said Doyle.

"The warrior queen."

"I know who Hecuba was. But why?"

Chloe's eyes glittered. "She was a fighter, a woman of action."

"She lost her whole family," objected Doyle.

"Good riddance, don't you think?"

Sometimes Chloe made him shudder with her notions, though he was, he supposed, not particularly attached to Priam.

Afterwards, port and cigars, which Doyle's didn't enjoy.

After that, dancing and the masquerade ball.

This was more entertaining. Cowley was dressed as a Pasha, in a purple turban and velvet slippers. Jarvis was a Wild Indian, in colourful blankets, while Bishop was in the white-and-gold tights of an acrobat. Whitby was Vercingetorix with a horned helmet. The men were on the whole more colourful than the women. "They're mad, the lot of them," said Cowley, who looked pleased by it, and none too sane himself.

Then Doyle saw Bodie.

It was a striking costume, made more striking by the looks and the bearing of the man in it. He had chosen to wear the red jacket and white trousers of some mythical regiment, shined Hessians topped with a golden tassel at the knee. He looked like a classic depiction of a soldier, as if he had stepped from a play or an opera, straight-backed and formidable. The brilliant red serge of his jacket accentuated his broad shoulders. Gold-trimmed epaulettes added a final, devastating touch. Doyle wanted nothing as much as to drag him off to bed again, and wondered what his chances were of success if he tried.

He watched Bodie as the evening progressed. Clearly Bodie, being native to the area and known to all, was an exceedingly popular man. He danced with several local maidens and several more matrons, including some aristocratic ladies. Doyle had heard that one of them liked to bed handsome servants. He felt a stab of possessiveness. He dealt with it by dancing with the woman himself, afterwards. Her conversation was witty, her body beautiful. In other situations, at other times, he might have considered trying his luck there.

Not now.

He could not touch Bodie in public, but he could speak to him. He found the opportunity when Bodie was standing by the wall, watching the lovely young women dancing. "Do you waltz?" he asked Bodie, lightly.

"Sometimes," said Bodie, meeting his eyes, without smiling.

"Or cards?" asked Doyle. There was a game going on in the next room.

Bodie smirked. "You couldn't afford my stakes, my lord."

"Oh, I don't know. I'd like to try."

Bodie might have made a witty retort, but was interrupted by a friend who wished to introduce him to an adolescent daughter. Then Doyle was claimed for a hand of faro, which he won.

By now it was almost midnight.

Watching carefully, Doyle saw Cowley slip away. He followed. Bodie was nowhere in sight. Whitby was dancing with the Honourable Chloe, and glanced his way as he left the room. Chloe appeared to be leading.

In the garden.... As if Cowley had been able to orchestrate the heavens and not just his pawnlike acquaintances, the moon was out, shining silver light on the hedges and the fountain and the high beds of roses. Doyle walked quickly out the French doors and across the terrace, not letting Cowley out of his sight.

Cowley left his turban on a holly bush by the steps into the garden. It waved in the breeze, reduced to grey in the colourless light. A signal? Doyle pulled the pistol out from his pocket, alert for anyone else who might be walking in the garden. Like Cowley's killer, the rebel and betrayer of the Five.

He saw no one, heard nothing. But a hand fastened over his mouth and the hard muzzle of a pistol bruised his ribs, and a hard, familiar body, and a hard, familiar arm held him immobile. "Don't make a sound," said Bodie, into his ear.

Doyle made no sound.

"Don't make a move," continued the valet. Doyle's eyes stung. He wanted to shout a denial. Not Bodie. Whoever it was, it couldn't be Bodie.

Bodie said in a cold, angry voice, "Why? Why were you trying to kill Cowley? Hadn't he done enough for you? Had you turned against his cause? Just tell me why, Doyle. Tell me what went wrong for you."

"Kill Cowley?" His mouth released, Doyle turned his head sharply, trying to read Bodie's face. "You're the one who--"

"Drop the gun."

Doyle dropped his pistol. "You're the one here to kill him," said Doyle. "How'd you find out he'd be here? You read the papers in the box?"

Bodie was looking at his face with a gaze as searching as Doyle's. "He told me he'd be here. A trap to catch... whoever it was."

"Told you?" Doyle tried to make sense of it. "What do you know?"

"Everything Cowley wants me to. I know about you, Linstead, Jarvis, Bishop and Whitby. I know he suspected one of you. He asked me to keep watch on all of you." Bodie shook his head impatiently. "I'm not going to turn you in, Doyle. I ought to shoot you where you stand for Cowley's sake... but I won't. I want you out of here -- gone, where you can never harm Cowley or any of his men again. I won't betray you to him. I won't shoot you... damn you.... I just want you to go."

"No," said Doyle. Moving slowly, he pushed Bodie's pistol away from his ribs. Bodie did not resist the movement. "I'm not trying to hurt Cowley. I'm not the killer. It isn't me and it isn't you. Who, then?"

They stared at each other for a moment, then looked, together, into the garden.

Cowley shouted, "Bodie! Doyle!" They could see moving shadows in the garden. A figure, running, shades of light and dark in the moonlight and shadows. Someone young, someone male, that was all they could tell. Someone going after Cowley, who was standing beyond, near the labyrinthine hedges, waiting.

They ran. Doyle grabbed his pistol from the ground as he vaulted over the balustrade.
Bodie got the first chance to shoot, and used it. The figure of an armed man glinted white and gold in the moonlight. Bodie's gun sounded and the man fell, his shot going wild into the bushes, while the black fluid blood eclipsed his whiteness. Doyle turned the figure over.

"Bishop!" he said.

Then there was a second shot.

Bodie cannoned into Cowley, knocking him flying, so the bullet barely grazed him. He touched his bleeding ear, amazed as Doyle scrambled to his feet and reached to help him up.

"Move away!" said another voice, harshly. A woman. She stepped from the shadow of the hedges behind them, pistols held unwavering in both hands, aimed at Cowley's head.

"Chloe," said Bodie loudly. "You can't kill your father."

"Can't I? Watch me," she said, and raised her other pistol.



Bodie and Doyle tackled her together, moving in perfect concert, knowing she could not shoot them both at once, knowing too that she could shoot Cowley before they could stop her.

Another shot came from behind them, and she screamed, her pistol falling and her right arm covered in blood. She cursed, and Bodie, holding her, put his hand over her mouth, while Doyle gripped her by the shoulders.

Her fiancé, who had shot her, was staring at them all in horror. "Chloe?" Whitby said. "Why?"

"I wanted to be one of you," she said. "I wanted the power. He denied me the chance. Wouldn't let me go into danger. Wouldn't even admit to me what you all were. Wanted me to learn deportment -- give me a London season -- wanted me to marry you."

Whitby was white. "Was that so bad?" he said.

She spat. "Fate worse than death," she said. "Bishop understood."

But Bishop, lying in the grass, was dead. Cowley, unharmed, stared at his daughter as if she were a demon.

"I loved you," said Whitby.

"You never even knew me!"

"So did I," said Cowley. After a moment he added, "Neither did I."

Bodie put his hand on Cowley's arm.



Later, in Cowley's private study, they were able to share a good stiff scotch all round, and a chance to talk. Whitby was shaken. "She took me in," he said. "I was fooled completely."

"As was I," said Cowley ruefully. " Her own father. I've watched her since infancy. She always did have a strong mind. Of course, I wanted her to marry Whitby -- practically threw them together. I never knew she resented it. By God, how could I have taken her chatter seriously? She was just a girl. I thought her innocent and as wise as her mother."

"She's like you, sir," said Doyle. "Good at hiding her thoughts."

"She's mad," said Cowley.

There was no answer to that. "It happens," said Bodie gently.

"She will be cared for." Cowley looked away, recovered himself, and looked back at them.

"You could have told me about Bodie," said Doyle. "In the garden, I thought he was the killer."

"I thought the same of you," said Bodie. Their glances crossed, caught, and broke apart.

"Aye. Well," said Cowley, uncomfortably, "I thought you'd be more on your guard, Doyle, if you didn't know that Bodie was one of my agents too. Not like you and the others, but the ace up my sleeve. More than a valet, more than a soldier-- he's a handy person for many purposes. And he has served me well."

"He saved you tonight," said Doyle.

"You both did," said Cowley. "I plan to tell Jarvis nothing of any of this. He doesn't need to know the details. To the rest of you, I owe a debt of gratitude."

Doyle cleared his throat. "About that, sir...."

"Yes?"

"I would like to keep your valet."

"Oh course, Doyle. As long as you are here. Whenever you wish."

"No, sir. I mean, forever. Permanently."

Cowley frowned.

"I want to take him back to London with me."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Cowley. "What would I do without him?"

"Barton is a first-class valet, sir, and you are welcome to keep him, if he is willing to stay. I'm sure he would be. He tells me he likes the quiet life in the country, and you are in town much less than I."

"Out of the question," snapped Cowley.

"My lord," said Bodie, reminding them of his existence, "If I may speak?"

"Out with it, man."

"You cannot keep me in your employ without my consent. I prefer to leave amicably, but, sir, I prefer to leave with the Earl of Doyle."

"Haven't you been content here, Bodie?"

"Yes, sir. I believe I would be content no longer."

Cowley glared at Doyle. "You've corrupted him. Given him a thirst for city life."

"Yes, sir."

"Damn it all, I need to recruit two more men in any case, to replace Linstead and Bishop."

"You did say that you wanted another man in London," said Bodie. "Even if I am not your valet, I can continue our work."

"Aye," said Cowley thoughtfully. They let him think about it. Whitby sipped his scotch, his shoulders slumped. Cowley said, "No use arguing about it, then."

"None at all," agreed Bodie.



The clock was striking two when they escaped the party, still in progress, and went to Doyle's room. "You'll like living in London," said Doyle.

"With you," said Bodie. He shut the door carefully behind him, and stood with his back to the door and his hand on the doorknob.

"My sisters will like you," said Doyle. He walked slowly towards him, forgetting to limp but looking strikingly like Lord Byron in a dangerous mood. "Maybe I shouldn't introduce you to them. They might like you too much."

"Might run in the family," agreed Bodie.

Doyle reached up to unbutton one shiny brass button on the impeccable red coat.

Bodie watched him. It felt good, to be undressed instead of undressing for a change.

Another brass button fell open, then another. Bodie's head fell back against the oak door as Doyle started to work on the shirt buttons, then bent closer and to use his lips on the skin revealed under it.

- End -

19,211 words
April 20 1997