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Authors: Katherine Marlowe

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When they got there, Mr. Rochester opened and held the door for him. That didn’t seem quite so unnatural—Miles had liked opening doors for him, at university. Primarily on account of that Miles would linger in the doorway as Fitzhenry walked through it, so that Fitzhenry had been obliged to step very close to him just as Miles would lean in and breathe out a ticklish puff of air against Fitzhenry’s ear. Or, sometimes, he’d whisper a promise or a reminder, something to make Fitzhenry turn red to the tips of his ears.

Today, there was none of that. Mr. Rochester stood out of the way, and Lord Loxley’s ears did not tickle from a hot, promising breath as he strode through the doorway.

“Shall I have the servants draw a bath for you, sir?” Mr. Rochester asked, unbuttoning Lord Loxley’s jacket without prompting and drawing it off his shoulders. The gesture felt intimate, and Lord Loxley stared fixedly at a fleck of lint on Mr. Rochester’s shoulder so that his mind would not wander onto other times that Miles had undressed him.

“Not tonight,” Lord Loxley said, not capable of dealing with the prospect of being nude in front of this cold and reserved version of his once-passionate friend.

He stood uselessly at the center of the room as Mr. Rochester drew back the covers and went to the wardrobe to find sleeping garments.

“I prefer to dress myself,” Lord Loxley said, the nearest that he could manage to giving commands to Miles.

Mr. Rochester left the wardrobe alone without comment and went instead to the fireplace—already lit, thanks to Lord Loxley’s industrious housekeeper, Mrs. Pellicott—in order to extract some of the coals for the bedwarmer. Lord Loxley just watched him, struck dumb by the unimaginable situation.

Miles, quiet and diligent. It was unnatural. It was
awful
.

“Miles,” he said.

Mr. Rochester went still at the sound of his name, remaining turned toward the fire and away from Lord Loxley.

“What happened?” Lord Loxley asked, soft-spoken and wanting desperately to understand.

Mr. Rochester stood, carrying the bedwarmer to the bed and inserting it under the sheets. He did not look toward Lord Loxley. “My lord will need to be more specific.”

“Your family,” Lord Loxley said, miserable at having to pry the information from Miles, but he had to know. They both knew that Lord Loxley would have to make inquiries, otherwise—not out of any suspicion of Mr. Rochester’s background, but in order that he might answer the inevitable inquiries once polite society found out that the former shining star of London society had been reduced to a country lord’s personal valet. Someone would bring it up—Lord Loxley’s great aunt Mathilda, most likely, on one of her painfully frequent visits—and Lord Loxley would be expected to comment. That would be easier if he knew the circumstances of his valet’s current situation, and Lord Loxley greatly preferred to hear the information from Mr. Rochester himself. “You were—“

“I know damn well what I was,” Mr. Rochester snapped. His eyes burned as he looked over, angry and resentful. It stunned Lord Loxley—Miles had always been passionate and driven. He’d never been
bitter
before. Lord Loxley dreaded what might have passed in order to grind such resentment into Miles Rochester.

Naturally tall and commanding, Mr. Rochester’s anger made him seem like a tightly-constrained maelstrom, a force of passion and rage that had been bespelled into human form. Had Lord Loxley ever witnessed the merest hint of cruelty in Miles Rochester’s nature, he might have feared the inevitable outpouring of that tight-leashed rage, but Fitzhenry had only ever seen Miles’ rage and passion drive him toward organizing student protests, applying influence or the pressure of student opinion in the interests of justice, and convincing Fitzhenry that there was no chance of them being caught snogging in the dining hall past midnight, which last claim had turned out to be categorically untrue.

When Lord Loxley made no reaction other than confused, sympathetic blinking, Mr. Rochester sighed and turned his face away. “My father is a brilliant and forward-thinking man who made his fortune on risky investments on innovative new industries. He is, however, not a circumspect or careful investor, and his fortune was lost, quite suddenly, the same way it was made.”

Lord Loxley knew such things weren’t uncommon. Most of the wealthy and noble had the sense to diversify their investments, but there was always the occasional disaster when someone hung their fortune on one particularly promising profit. And then, halfway across the world, a ship would be sunk or taken by pirates, or the wealthy mines in the colonies would suddenly run dry, and a family back in London would be devastated. “When?”

“Six years ago, Fitz! Are you really as oblivious as ever to the news of the world?”

Fitz
.

Mr. Rochester realized his mistake very suddenly and tensed. His scowl turned defensive, closing off his face, and his wide, powerful shoulders hunched.

“Forgive me,” he said, stilted. “My lord. Is there anything else you require?”

“And these past six years?” Lord Loxley asked. Six years. That was almost directly after they had finished their university studies. In their final year, Miles had been distracted by an on-again, off-again connection with an American heiress which never quite got solidified into a betrothal. He’d promised to visit, and had tried to coax Fitz into coming with him to London. After a month, Fitz had simply assumed Miles was distracted. After three, Fitz had supposed that Miles had lost interest in him entirely.

Stepping closer, Mr. Rochester met his eyes. His gaze was cold. “Would you like me to provide my employment history, my lord Loxley? I must warn you, it’s a spotty catalogue. You may indeed regret hiring me.”

Lord Loxley lowered his eyes. He knew as much as he needed, and it was clear that pressing the subject further would violate what was left of Mr. Rochester’s dignity. “That will be all for tonight, Mr. Rochester. Thank you.”

Chapter 2

L
ord Loxley woke
from a very pleasant dream about Miles to the much less pleasant reality of his new, unhappy, and unfriendly valet bringing him breakfast.

In the dream, Miles had been kissing him on a rooftop under the stars, which in reality had ended when Fitz had dozed off on Miles’ shoulder, but in the dream had continued on as they shed clothing and tumbled onto a soft mattress which had appeared on the dream roof. That Miles had been sweet and full of laughter. This one was expressionless and tense as he set out Lord Loxley’s breakfast.

Sliding from bed, Lord Loxley yawned as he betook himself to the breakfast table and reached for his tea. It was only as the cup reached his lips that he realized that the tea contained milk and a single cube of sugar. Just the way he liked it. He glanced up briefly, surprised that Mr. Rochester had remembered and catered to his tastes. Or Mrs. Pellicott had simply informed him in the kitchen.

Mr. Rochester did not join him at the table, but hovered nearby, allowing Lord Loxley to sip sleepily at the tea as he woke up.

The table in front of him was laid for one, and—valet or no—Lord Loxley did not at all like the prospect of eating alone whilst one of his dearest friends stood nearby in silence. “Did you already eat?”

“Yes, sir.”

That wasn’t the answer that Lord Loxley had hoped to hear. He blinked and sipped his tea while he contemplated the situation. When his cup was empty, Mr. Rochester refilled it and dutifully added a splash of milk and a single cube of sugar.

“In the future,” Lord Loxley said, dredging up his most authoritative tone of voice. “I would like you to join me for breakfast, so that we may discuss the plans for the day. See to it that Mrs. Pellicott lays the breakfast tray for two when you bring it up.” There. That ought to resolve the unpleasant problem of Mr. Rochester hovering in the manner of a dutiful valet, at least in the case of breakfasting.

“As you command, sir.” Mr. Rochester responded, with a tone that clearly opposed this communal breakfasting idea. He may have suspected Lord Loxley’s intention to break down the normal valet-employer breakfast divide.

This matter resolved, Lord Loxley focused on his tea and buttered toast, trying to prod his logical processes into enough function that he could figure out his next priority.

“Are there plans for the day today, sir?” Mr. Rochester prompted.

“Oh.” Lord Loxley blinked. His mental faculties were slowly beginning to function as the tea took effect. “I thought we might go into the village. I’m resolved to look in on Thomas Nestlehutt, who has been sick these past months, and we shall of course need to engage the services of my tailor to see that you are properly appareled as a gentleman’s valet.” Which would mean, thankfully, a new suit in a respectable style, replacing the tattered thing that Mr. Rochester was wearing again today, as presumably his only remaining suit after the fall of his family’s finances.

“Of course, sir. If my lord pleases, I’d be happy to take over the management of your schedule.”

“Yes, certainly. My calendar is in my study, you can view my appointments there.”

“Yes,” Mr. Rochester said. “Mrs. Pelicott directed me to that one. I was hoping there might be another source, given that your formal calendar has no appointments other than tea with Mr. Edwards a month from now.”

“Oh, Mr. Edwards! That will be pleasant, he—“ Lord Loxley got a glimpse of Mr. Rochester’s disapproving frown about Lord Loxley’s casual scheduling habits, and decided that Mr. Rochester would probably not appreciate speculation on the topic of tea-sandwiches.

“Well,” Lord Loxley said, after some thought and finishing his toast. “My calendar should also probably include my great-aunt Mathilda’s inevitable visits every second Thursday, which will be this Thursday, and the McQuade’s dance on the … eighteenth? Probably the eighteenth.”

“I’ll look into it, sir,” Mr. Rochester said, with continuing disapproval of Lord Loxley’s maintenance of his own calendar.

Lord Loxley rested his chin on his hand, elbow on the table—breaches of decorum in both cases, but there was no one but Mr. Rochester to see. Miles had never been disapproving before. It was very perplexing. Lord Loxley considered him at length, until Mr. Rochester got sufficiently irritated with this surveillance that his stern demeanor cracked long enough to cast a reprimanding glare in Lord Loxley’s direction.

Lord Loxley coughed and struggled not to grin.

O
nce Lord Loxley
was breakfasted and dressed, they took the carriage out to visit his estates. Mr. Rochester drove the carriage, leaving Lord Loxley alone in the cabin, which was not at all his preference.

The friend whom Lord Loxley had known at Oxford had been walled up behind a heavy emotional facade of stern disinterest and buried under an avalanche of resentful anger. Lord Loxley had no idea at all how—or even if—Miles could be reached behind his defenses, and the void of class distance between them now that Mr. Rochester was employed as his valet made all forays of friendship difficult. It was perfectly evident that Mr. Rochester did not wish to be friends, perhaps almost as much as he did not wish to be employed as a valet.

Despite his disdain for the profession, Mr. Rochester seemed quite skilled as a valet in all ways except for his constantly simmering temper and resentment. Lord Loxley suspected that this might have contributed to Mr. Rochester’s ‘spotty’ employment history.

They went first to visit Thomas Nestlehutt’s farm, as Lord Loxley had requested. Mr. Rochester leapt down from the driver’s seat and offered his hand to Lord Loxley to help him from the carriage. Lord Loxley accepted the help, if only as an excuse for physical contact. Mr. Rochester’s hand was warm and strong, arm steady. Up close, Lord Loxley noticed that perhaps Mr. Rochester’s coat did indeed seem tight through the shoulders. One of his recent previous employments must have involved physical labor.

It occurred to Lord Loxley that he was staring at Mr. Rochester’s jacketed chest, having become distracted from where he was and what he was doing. Blushing promptly, he let go of Mr. Rochester’s hand, and made his way toward Thomas Nestlehutt’s front door. Mr. Rochester trailed along behind.

Thomas Nestlehutt answered the door after a minute and some stumbling thuds from within. “Yes, what—oh.” Red-faced and scowling, Thomas Nestlehutt answered the door in a poor mood, but quickly fished up some etiquette at the sight of the lord of the manor. “Lord Loxley, a pleasure to see you today, sir.”

“Yes, Thomas,” Lord Loxley said, looking over his tenant’s appearance with genuine concern. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Oh, you know how it is, sir,” Mr. Nestlehutt said, patting a hand to his chest and managing a hacking cough. “I just do my best to keep on and follow the doctor’s orders.”

“Yes,” Lord Loxley agreed. “I just wanted to inquire, we had agreed to postpone your standard rental fees for a matter of three months, while you recuperated, but it has
been
the three months and I rather thought you might—“

Mr. Nestlehutt interrupted him with a very vigorous bout of coughing.

Mr. Rochester took a step forward to stand by Lord Loxley’s side. “Mr. Nestlehutt, perhaps your health might improve quicker if you were to leave off the drinking.”

“Drinking!” Mr. Nestlehutt scoffed with great offense. “No, certainly, I take care to limit my drinking while I… while I… recuperate.” He wobbled slightly as he emphasized this.

Lord Loxley was very concerned for his tenant’s health. “Yes, of course, I understand. Your
rent
, though, Mr. Nestlehutt.”

“I’ll find it, I shall,” Mr. Nestlehutt. “It’s just been all these doctor’s bills, you see, and you’ve been so very
understanding
, my lord, so very sympathetic with my ill health, but—shall we say another three months?”

Mr. Rochester bristled. It was really very attractive bristling, in Lord Loxley’s opinion.

“Mr. Nestlehutt,” Mr. Rochester said, “
who
is your physician?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Nestlehutt. “Ahem. Well, he’s my
sister’s
doctor, you see, over in Millbrook, gives me a discount on account of the family acquaintance.”

“Yes,” Lord Loxley agreed, “I had offered to provide him with the services of my
own
doctor, the local Dr. Feswick—“

“I quite think you should,” Mr. Rochester said, firmly. “If the services of the doctor in Millbrook—whose name I don’t believe you mentioned?—are so
very
expensive as to consume all your finances, then certainly it would be sensible to seek a second opinion from the local Dr. Feswick.”

Mr. Nestlehutt flustered, finding himself trapped in Mr. Rochester’s logic. “Yes. I suppose it would. I shall look into—“

“Shall I drop by in a week to collect Lord Loxley’s rent, unless you have by that time produced confirmation from Dr. Feswick of your medical status?” Mr. Rochester proposed.

Mr. Nestlehutt huffed and sputtered, but eventually agreed that he would produce either the rent or a confirmable medical diagnosis.

Mr. Rochester bid him good day, and reached out to shut Mr. Nestlehutt’s front door.

Lord Loxley blinked at him. “Was that really necessary?”

Shutting his eyes briefly with the effort to keep his temper in check, Mr. Rochester sighed in frustration. “Fitz, that man is identifiable at a glance as a drunkard and a cheat. He lied to your face, and I very much suspect that your rent money has been going to alcohol and gambling and not doctor’s fees at all.”

“Lied to me! I don’t know, Mr. Nestlehutt’s family has resided on the estate since I was a child, and ever since his wife went and ran off he’s been suffering from this terrible—“ It occurred to Lord Loxley that, if Mr. Rochester’s suspicions were correct, it was rather more likely that Mr. Nestlehutt’s wife had left him on account of the drinking and gambling, especially since she’d always been—in Lord Loxley’s opinion—a very nice woman. “Well, I suppose having him see Dr. Feswick couldn’t hurt. He is a very good doctor.”

Mr. Rochester sighed and put a hand on Lord Loxley’s back, steering him firmly toward the carriage. “You might mention at the local pub and shops that they’re not to serve Mr. Nestlehutt any more alcohol. At the very least, not until he has dried out a bit and resumed the payment of his rent.”

It all seemed like quite a lot of fuss to Lord Loxley. “I don’t know, is all that really necessary?”

Mr. Rochester made a frustrated noise, and shut Lord Loxley in the cabin of the carriage.

I
n the village
, they went first to the shop of Lord Loxley’s tailor. It was a cramped little place with bolts of fabric squeezed onto shelves along every available wall. Lord Loxley introduced his new valet and expressed his desire that Mr. Rochester be very finely appareled as a gentleman’s valet, with the styles that would place emphasis on
gentleman
rather than
valet
. He very carefully did not look in Mr. Rochester’s direction as he said this, suspecting that it might meet with disapproval.

“At once, sir,” the tailor promised, turning his attention to Mr. Rochester. “If you’ll just remove your jacket so that I might take your measurements.”

Lord Loxley lingered nearby as this process unfolded, making a show of inspecting the elegant variety of fabrics in order to pretend that he wasn’t riveted to the sight of Mr. Rochester.

The jacket came off neatly, laid over a chair. Without Mr. Rochester’s shoulders to fill it out it looked even lonelier, with a bit of scuffing forming along the edges of one of the older patches. Mr. Rochester still looked noble, perhaps more so, in his shirt sleeves. There were still a few ink patches along the wrists, hidden normally beneath the jacket. It made Lord Loxley think of their study sessions at university and Miles’ inevitable ability to get more ink on himself than on the page. Diligent application to his studies had been one of the few areas in which Miles did not excel, being intelligent but also perpetually restless.

At last Lord Loxley gave up the pretense of not watching and leaned against a table nearby. He offered the suggestion that perhaps the measurements would be more accurate if Mr. Rochester were to remove his shirt entirely, but the tailor insisted that this was not necessary.

The two of them took lunch at the pub, where Mr. Rochester deigned to share a table with Lord Loxley, much to Lord Loxley’s delight. He noticed that Mr. Rochester was much less aloof and much more protective when they were in public—the way he had hovered and even intervened with Mr. Nestlehutt, or the way his eyes scanned suspiciously over anyone who approached them. It was a bit more protective than Lord Loxley thought was necessary, and really
quite
distracting to have Mr. Rochester walking so close behind his elbow when they were in the street, which distraction had caused a brief incident when Lord Loxley walked into a sandwich board, but Lord Loxley was enjoying Mr. Rochester’s protective hovering far too much to do anything to discourage it.

Over lunch, Mr. Rochester was easily able to confirm with the pub owner that Mr. Nestlehutt was indeed a very frequent and very thirsty patron, and the pub owner agreed to comply with Mr. Rochester’s very strong suggestion that Mr. Nestlehutt no longer be served alcohol in this establishment.

“Do you have other accounts like Mr. Nestlehutt’s?” Mr. Rochester asked Lord Loxley, as they ate.

“What do you mean?”

“Unpaid rents.”

“Nothing excessive,” Lord Loxley said.

Mr. Rochester put down his spoon and raised his brows in a highly skeptical expression. Then he sighed and regained his stern valet’s countenance. “If it would please my lord to let me review his accounts, I have some small skill with finance that I might be able to apply to my lord’s benefit.”

“Yes, of course,” Lord Loxley agreed, keeping his eyes on Mr. Rochester. This stranger in his friend’s body was tense, almost to the point of aggression, and always on guard. He fit poorly inside of the handsome, passionate body of Miles Rochester, who had always been so easy to laugh. “The numbers are fine, I’ve always been good with numbers, but I do suppose the rest of it could benefit from your good sense.”

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