Page 13 of Once a Gentleman
Samuel swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes wide. “Yes, sir.”
Kit turned away, satisfied. Well. Perhaps he would enjoy his visit to the tailor after all.
Ten minutes to seven the following evening found Kit regretting every decision that had brought him to that moment. He stood before the dressing-table mirror, adjusting his new cravat while Samuel fidgeted behind him, clearly longing to slap his hands away. The cravat was Samuel’s work, and it was rather more elaborate than Kit would have liked.
Everything about this suit of clothing, from his glossy pumps to his ivory brocade waistcoat to his truly absurd nipped-in coat, was more elaborate than Kit would have liked.
And really. These breeches could not have been made to his measurements. Hisskinwas not even made to these measurements. Could it be possible for breeches to be tighter than one’s own skin?
He tugged again at one of the knot’s folds, and this time Samuel made an aborted lunge in his direction, letting out an odd little groan of discontent.
Kit let his hands fall. “I can’t turn my head, Samuel.” Oh, hell, he sounded as peevish and cross as a child complaining about his Sunday best. “And I can’t move my legs, either. I’m not at all certain these breeches will survive my walking down the stairs.”
“You look every inch the man of fashion, sir,” Samuel said quellingly, as if that were a sufficient answer.
And perhaps it was, after all. Doubtful indeed that Turner’s guests would consider comfort or modesty above appearing all the crack. At least, if Samuel and Monsieur Bisset were to be believed, Kit would not stand out in the company. That was what he wished, above all: to remain as invisible as possible.
Kit began to reach up again. “Sir, the clock is striking,” Samuel said urgently. “You must go downstairs. No time to adjust it now.”
He turned the gesture into a final pat at his hair, of which he was, to his shame, rather proud when it behaved itself. It curled over his forehead in a way young ladies had sometimes called romantic. Kit only wished he could give a damn for their sighs. And anyway, it was such a very dull shade of brown.
Enough. He didn’t care what Turner’s guests thought, and he certainly didn’t care whatTurnerthought, and he would have his dinner, speak little if at all, and immediately repair upstairs to hide from the company.
Samuel didn’t even attempt to conceal his relief as Kit left the dressing table and moved for the door. If Kit’s stomach hadn’t been tangled into a great knot of painful nerves, he might have laughed. As it was, this would be the first time he’d appeared in company more genteel than his former landlady’s boarders since before his family’s ruin. He could hardly remember what one talked about. Horses? Kit owned none, and had never been much of a sportsman in any case. Women? That had always been a subject to avoid. He would make a fool of himself; it was quite inevitable.
What the devil did Turner mean by insisting he attend? If he intended it to be for Kit’s enjoyment, Turner wasn’t a particularly shrewd judge of character.
And yet…and yet. A tiny, pitiful sprout of hope grew in his breast despite it all. He might feel nothing but awkwardness and discomfort, but some very small possibility of real conversation might exist. And Kit had gone so dreadfully long without any society at all…
As he went down the stairs—moving with great caution, as he swore he could hear the seams of his coat and breeches creaking with the strain—he heard the hubbub of male voices, a low cacophony with now and then a shout of laughter rising above. There were no lighter tones; only gentlemen, then, this evening. That was something of a relief, and that little bit of hope grew. Kit had little experience with women of any kind, and none at all with the sort Turner brought home.
The drawing-room door stood open, and Kit approached it warily, shuffling to the side to peek through without being immediately observed. Six or eight men stood in small groups, brandies in hand and faces already flushed with merriment and drink. Kit caught a glimpse of Turner, a sardonic smile on his face, pouring another glass for one of his guests.
Footsteps sounded on the back staircase as he hesitated, and Kit swiftly crossed the hall before he could be caught lurking by one of the servants. He slipped through the drawing-room door, skirting the wall, heart pounding. No one noticed his entrance, and he stood close to the wall to the right of the doorway, simply observing.
There was something odd about the company, though on the face of it the gathering was typical for a party given by a bachelor of loose habits. A group of four men stood nearest him. All wore the same type of evening clothes Kit himself did: black coats and breeches, silk stockings, elaborate white cravats. Two of the gentlemen were perhaps in their early thirties, while the other two seemed younger.
Much younger. Twenty, perhaps. And as Kit watched, one of the older men brushed his hand over the arse of the lad standing near him, a careless gesture that he neither emphasized nor troubled to hide—as if it were simply expected. More details became apparent, once he knew what to look for. The gentlemen’s clothing had all appeared similar enough at a glance, but on the younger men there were loosened cravats, and breeches so skin-tight as to make Kit’s seem generously cut; one had a ruby dangling from his ear and catching in his blond curls, sparkling in the candlelight as he threw his head back to laugh.
The blood rushed out of Kit’s head all at once, leaving him with spots dancing before his eyes and a ringing in his ears.
Pairs of men, some wealthy patrons and the others…the others were paid companions, it was clear enough. And Turner, damn him, had bade Kit join this gathering without a word, without so much as a hint, of what awaited him. He needed to slip out the door again, to escape to his own room as quickly as possible.
Just as he began to shift back toward the door, a tall, broad-shouldered man standing a few feet away nudged his companion, muttered something in his ear, and made straight for Kit.
“And what are you doing hiding over here?” he asked with a smile, placing himself between Kit and the door. It was meant to be an enticing smile, Kit had no doubt. It made his flesh crawl. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” The smile widened, and the fellow leaned in, the smell of sour sweat and strong spirits wafting from him and making Kit’s sinuses ache. “Perhaps you’ll allow me the opportunity later this evening, hmm?”
Kit recoiled, his stomach churning with acid. Being thought the sort of gentleman who’d take part in what looked to be the precursor to an orgy was quite bad enough. Instead, it seemed he’d been mistaken for a part of the evening’s entertainment.
Or he had been intended tobea part of the evening’s entertainment, and no mistake had been made.
Bile rose up, searing his throat. “I cannot imagine finding pleasure in your company,” he said, voice hoarse and shaking. “Excuse me.”
Kit moved to the side, hoping to dodge around and escape, but his arm was suddenly caught in a firm grip, the man’s hand too strong for Kit to wrench free. “Don’t play coy with me, you little—”
He stopped, voice dying away into a hiss and dark eyes gone wide as his gaze fixed on something over Kit’s shoulder. Kit jerked his arm from the fellow’s suddenly nerveless grasp and twisted about to see Turner just behind him, eyes blazing and grim lines around his mouth.
“Dowling,” he said, very evenly. Dangerously so. It was clear enough that tone wasn’t for him, but Kit still shivered at the sound of it. “I see you’ve met mysecretary.” He gave the last word an emphasis even a lecherous, addle-pated drunkard couldn’t miss.
