A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (3 page)

Harry felt no desire to defy Gideon. The old man was quite astonishingly rich and apparently willing to give a lot of that money to Harry. He could bear a great deal for an allowance and an inheritance.

“
If
you prove satisfactory,” Gideon had warned. “I had a radical son. I don’t want a radical grandson.”

“I’m not,” Harry had assured him. “I had no other choice.” He searched for words that would appeal to the old man. “You’ve told me what the Vanes are, sir.” The family line stretched back to a knight of the Conqueror, Gideon had informed him, and then listed almost every Vane between that medieval gentleman and Harry himself. “I want to live up to my birth.”

He spoke nothing but truth. He had met two of his relatives now, Lord Richard, who was in fact a cousin twice removed, and pretty Miss Verona Vane, who flitted around Gideon’s house like a spectre of mourning in unrelieved black. Her father had been brother to Harry’s father, but that did not make her look upon Harry with warmth.

Not that he’d made himself very pleasant either. He simply couldn’t find anything to say in the presence of these people, his family, so poised and cool and clean. Every encounter left him feeling more like another species, with his work-worn hands and awkwardness. A lesser being, catapulted into a world of grace and light and manners with no idea how to make it his own.

And he
wanted
it to be his. Wanted the wealth and the comfort, wanted to walk as one of the people he’d always envied. If only he knew how. Harry knotted his fingers together and shifted in the uncomfortable chair.

There was a peal from the door at last, and a few moments later, Lord Richard entered. He was not alone.

Harry stared. He couldn’t help it.

“Who the devil’s this?” said Gideon.

Lord Richard seemed not to notice the old man’s tone. “Allow me to introduce you, sir. Lord Gideon Vane, Mr. Julius Norreys.” The gentleman indicated made Gideon a courtly bow in the style of three decades ago, with such exquisite grace that it was impossible to tell if the gesture was respectful or the opposite. “Julius, this is my newfound cousin, Harry.”

Mr. Norreys was of medium height, perhaps an inch shorter than Harry and of slimmer build, and he was made of moonlight. His fair hair shone; his skin had a clear, refined pallor; even his eyes were pale, the light, clear blue of a winter sky, in a fine-boned, well-bred face. His startlingly tight pantaloons were neither fawn nor biscuit but rather a very light gray, his nip-waisted coat of the palest watery blue, and his waistcoat a gleaming silver satin embroidered with delicate butterflies of white thread. The tassels on his ivory-headed cane were white and silver too, an exact match.

Silas would have despised him. Harry had never seen anyone so perfect in his life.

He mumbled a greeting, horribly conscious of his own lumpen earthiness. His grandfather seemed to have been struck equally dumb, although probably not with admiration.

Mr. Norreys’s gaze moved dispassionately over Harry, up and down and up again. Finally he said, “Good heavens.”

“I trust you aren’t turning tail,” Lord Richard said.

Mr. Norreys’s lips compressed, just a fraction. “Dear Richard. You asked for my help and my help you shall have. I dare say I needed a project.”

Lord Richard gave him a flicker of a look. “Harry, this is all very daunting for you, I know. You must become acquainted with the ways of your new world, and Julius has kindly consented to assist with your education in the matter of dress and manner. He is the most…exquisite man I know.”

“Thank you, Richard.” Mr. Norreys appeared deeply moved.

“Wait a moment,” Gideon grunted. “You said you’d make the boy a gentleman—”

“My venerable sir,” Mr. Norreys interrupted. “Surely that was the business of his parents, some two decades ago?”

Gideon’s bald scalp flushed puce. “There’s nothing wrong with his father’s blood. But his upbringing was as bad as it could be. He should have been raised as a true Vane. I wish him to model himself on you, Richard, not some—” Gideon glanced at Mr. Norreys, then turned pointedly to Lord Richard. “
Your
style is excellent.”

“Indeed it is.” Mr. Norreys didn’t take his eyes from Harry. “For a large and sober man of forty.”

“Thirty-six,” Lord Richard said.

“Really? I would have thought older, but I dare say you know best. In any case,” Mr. Norreys went on, as Lord Richard opened his mouth and closed it again, “Mr. Harry Vane can hardly be seen to be aping the manner of Lord Richard Vane, almost fifteen years his senior, without inviting…observations.” Mockery was what he meant, Harry was sure. “And it is better that people observe what you want them to see.” He tapped the head of his cane against his lips. “Ye-e-es. No. No, I feel Lord Richard’s restraint would hardly do for Mr. Harry Vane. Would it?”

He was asking Harry’s opinion. Harry had no idea what to say, but something inside him was fluttering, a tendril of thrilling possibility reaching out for a support.
No, I don’t want to be sober and restrained. I want to be beautiful. Bright. Confident. Perfect.

I want to be you.

Mr. Norreys’s brows twitched as though Harry had blurted his thoughts out loud. He gave a little nod, then smiled at Gideon. “In any case, my dear old gentleman, Richard’s style is all Cyprian’s genius—his man, you know—and one could scarcely ask him to share.”

“You’re determined to be amusing, Julius.” There was just a faint trace of red over Lord Richard’s cheekbones. Harry wasn’t surprised. He was sure he was scarlet to the hairline by now. It wasn’t just the cool irony that suffused every word Mr. Norreys spoke. It was his eyes, that winter-blue gaze barely leaving Harry’s body, taking his measure, as thoroughly as if he planned to cut Harry’s clothes himself. The last time a man had looked at him so intently…God, two hours later Harry had been pressed against a wall, face to the rough stone, breeches round his knees, hard hands gripping his hips.

Not something to dwell on now, when he was the object of so much attention. Anyway, he didn’t suppose the fop with the frosty eyes was one for a back-alley upright, with any sort of partner. There would be no such fleshly indignity for the perfect Mr. Norreys. He would probably demand a feather bed, and a female as crystalline as he was himself, if he deigned to fuck at all.

“On the whole, I believe you were right to recruit me, Richard,” Mr. Norreys was saying. “A young man taking the plunge into the perilous pond of the fashionable world requires a well-judged style and manner. Manners are
so
important.” He glanced at Gideon. “And, as you observed, he cannot learn them at home.”

“Harry’s home is with me now,” Gideon pointed out.

“So it is,” Mr. Norreys agreed amiably.

“In any case,” Lord Richard put in, “Julius is quite right. I am very happy to introduce Harry to his peers, but as to helping him achieve the correct style there is nobody better qualified than Julius. You doubtless know the Norreys of Wiltshire, Cousin Gideon. Lord Broughton is your…second cousin, Julius?”

“Good Lord, dear fellow, don’t bother me with trivia.” Mr. Norreys cocked his head to one side, frost-blue eyes intent on Harry. “May I ask about the funding of this enterprise?”

“I hold the purse strings,” Gideon said. “The boy’s my grandson; he’ll have what he needs.”

“And the budget?”

Gideon sniffed. “What’s required? I’d have thought five hundred—”

“Fifteen hundred,” Mr. Norreys said, quite calmly, and Harry almost fell over.

“Fifteen—”
Gideon repeated, equally incredulous.

“You said
gentleman,
dear sir, and we start from nothing. Boots, hats, gloves, coats.” Mr. Norreys’s slim, elegant hands sketched shapes in the air. “A gentleman’s accoutrements. A full wardrobe. One cannot do it for less. Well, of course one
could
, but, really, a Vane could not. Could he, Richard?”

“I’m sure you’re right. And he’ll need a valet.”

“I’ll hire one,” Gideon said. “I pay the piper—”

“So by all means call that tune.” Mr. Norreys gave Lord Richard a little nod, “Very well. Unless there’s anything more, I suggest that we abduct Galatea here so that I may commence my duties.”

“Abduct?” Harry almost yelped. “That is, what do you mean to do with me, sir?”

“A haircut, first of all.” Mr. Norreys frowned. “À la Titus, I think. Then a visit to—do you know, I think we will honor Mr. Cheney with our patronage. He will do excellently for the foundation stones of a wardrobe which you may bring to Arrandene.”

“Arrandene?”

Lord Richard smiled reassuringly at Harry. “I have a small place in Edgware, not far north of London. I thought you might come down for a few weeks, Harry. A little privacy in which Julius can advise you, and take your measure in the way of fashion. Though I trust he won’t abuse his power. Julius’s waistcoats are a thing apart, and not to be imitated.”

“But they’re wonderful,” Harry said, unable to stop himself. “I mean, that one. Mr. Norreys’s waistcoat. It’s beautiful.”

“Hah!” said Mr. Norreys. “Our young gentleman has instinct.”

“Oh, good God,” Lord Richard murmured. “Julius—”

“You gave me the office of tutor,” Mr. Norreys reminded him. “I intend to teach.” He held out his hand and Harry took it. His grip was cool and light, sliding over Harry’s skin like the faintest caress, making the hairs on the back of his hand prickle. “I shall take you to Mr. Cheney, my pupil, and then once we have the bare rudiments of a wardrobe, we retreat to Arrandene.” Cool and assessing, Mr. Norreys’s eyes were trained on Harry, with just a suspicion of something—interest, amusement?—sparking in their depths. “And when I have you in rural solitude, dear boy, why, then your education will begin.”

“Titus,” said Mr. Norreys.

Lord Richard frowned. “You don’t think Cherubin?”

“If I thought Cherubin, dear Richard, I should have
said
Cherubin.”

Lord Richard exhaled. He had begun to betray a certain annoyance—hardly surprising; in Harry’s world, he would have punched Mr. Norreys by now.

Mr. Norreys remained glacial, and the third man in the room, Cyprian, was entirely unreadable. Harry had been scarlet with tongue-tied humiliation upon meeting again the man who’d plied him with gin, but there was no trace of his drinking companion in the effortlessly correct servant. The foxlike grin was as hidden as the flaming hair under its thick coating of white powder. Lord Richard’s confidential servant was good at concealment.

Harry sat in a chair facing the mirror. Cyprian waited with scissors, scrutinizing him, while the gentlemen argued over his head.

“Harry might be more comfortable—”

“If I may remind you, Richard, you gave me free rein.”

“Nevertheless, I think you should consult Harry. Since it is his hair.”

Mr. Norreys lifted a shaggy brown curl between finger- and thumb tips with a show of distaste. “I cannot imagine what he would have to offer.
Do
you have anything to offer?” he asked Harry.

Harry shook his head dumbly.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Norreys. “Titus.”

Lord Richard sighed. “Cyprian. Titus or Cherubin for Mr. Harry?”

Cyprian’s eyes flickered over Harry, assessing him like horseflesh. “I believe Mr. Norreys is correct, my lord.”

Lord Richard tilted his head. “Then carry on.”

Cyprian moved forward, scissors gleaming in his hand. Harry shut his eyes and tried not to flinch.

“He looks alarmed.” Mr. Norreys spoke close to Richard’s ear. “Does the prospect of a haircut dismay?”

“I doubt it’s just the haircut,” said Lord Richard. “
Must
you terrify him in order to punish me?”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Of course not.” There was a knock at the door accompanied by a quiet cough, which evidently summoned Lord Richard to other business. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

He left the room. Abandoned, Harry looked up nervously at Mr. Norreys and met his frosty eyes in the glass. They stared at each other for a silent moment as Cyprian’s scissors snipped.

“And yet,” Mr. Norreys said, as though continuing a conversation, “one must strive for comfortable relations, must one not?” Harry blinked. Mr. Norreys folded his arms. “First names. Julius.”

“N-no, sir, I’m Harry.”

“Yes, you are,” Mr. Norreys agreed. “And I am Julius. Say, ‘Good afternoon, Julius.’ ”

“G-good afternoon, uh, J-Julius.”

“Without stuttering. You are permitted to speak. I may even, on occasion, require your opinion.” He obviously noticed Harry’s alarm. “You need not fear being wrong. I shall
tell
you if you are wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Julius.”

“Julius.” Harry just managed to bite back the “sir.” Mr. Norreys’s—
Julius’s
—unreadable eyes met his in the mirror. Harry stared into the glass, seeing the trepidation on his own face, and something in the exquisite’s expression shifted.

“I do not, in fact, bite. And I will teach you how to appear and act as a gentleman, if you are prepared to work. The question is, are you?”

Harry looked at Cyprian’s clever hands, moving swiftly around his head, at his own toil-hardened fingers, and then up at Julius’s immaculate, delicate, useless chicken-skin gloves. “I can work. I’ve done a lot of work. I’m very happy to work at becoming a gentleman.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Julius said. “Then as soon as you look a little less like a poorly groomed sheepdog, I suggest we begin.”

Harry stood in the middle of a comfortably appointed drawing room, feet carefully placed, swept a hand before him, and made his bow.

“Appalling,” Julius said. “Do it again.”

“What was wrong with that?”

“You bend like a wooden soldier with a hinge in the middle. Grace, Harry, grace. A movement of the hand, the shoulders, the leg—” Julius demonstrated. “Consider it a flow. A ripple, even, of movement
down,
along,
and
out.
Now do it again.”

“I’ve been bowing for half an hour by the clock,” Harry protested. His back hurt.

“I’ve been bowing since I could stand. You have been doing it since yesterday, and require practice. Again.”

Julius might appear unconcerned by anything except the cut of his coat, but the frosty-eyed exquisite had the soul of a drill sergeant. He didn’t shout, but he didn’t have to. He had a way of breathing out a little too audibly that conveyed everything Silas could get into a lungful of profanity.

“Again. No. With
grace.
”

Harry bowed hopelessly, a clumsy movement. “I don’t feel graceful.”

“Of course you don’t. You aren’t. You resemble a cart horse attempting to caracole. Very well, stop.”

Harry straightened, rolling his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I can’t do it.”

“Nor do I.” Julius narrowed his eyes. “You’ve plenty of grace when you dance. You’re acquiring a decent seat on a horse. You are not…
ethereal,
perhaps, but you move well.”

Harry could feel his cheeks pinking at the unaccustomed praise. He opened his mouth to stammer a response, recalled a lesson just in time, and said, with only a touch of awkwardness, “You are very kind to say so.”

Julius’s mouth was beautifully shaped, but he didn’t smile often. His lips twitched, that was all, a little flicker of movement, but it was enough to set a tremor of satisfaction coiling through Harry’s chest. He liked to please Julius.

His tutor was scrutinizing him. “Yes, you move well, and yet the bow eludes you. I think we need to loosen your muscles, dear boy. The stables at”—he glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel—“eleven o’clock.”

Harry hurried up to his bedroom, even though he had a full half hour. It was the biggest room he’d ever slept in, and by far the most comfortable. Arrandene, Lord Richard’s “small place,” was a mansion, with nine bedrooms, several acres of garden, and a full staff of servants, all of them currently dedicated to Harry and Julius. Julius took that as his due, while Harry stammered and stuttered and had no idea what to do. The servants regarded them both with the same slightly unnerving look of pleasant impassivity, as though Lord Richard ordered his staff to smile and see nothing.

Harry wasn’t used to people doing things for him. He wasn’t used to luxury. He
was
used to getting things wrong all the time, but he wasn’t used to being expected to get them right, and Julius did expect that.
You move well.
He repeated the cool praise to himself with a quiver of satisfaction.

They had been at Arrandene for a little over three weeks now, just the two of them. Lord—no, he must say
cousin—
Richard would be visiting in a little more than a fortnight’s time, to see how Harry was coming along. The thought made him feel sick. He was, if not confident, becoming comfortable with Julius; he wasn’t ready for anyone else.

Comfortable with Julius. It still seemed a profoundly unlikely thought. Less than a month ago the idea of being closeted with the terrifyingly perfect, ice-cold Mr. Norreys had made Harry wish he was still cowering in Silas’s cellar next to the printing press; now, Julius seemed to be lighting his way to Paradise.

They had worked morning till night, and it
was
work, no matter what Silas would have said. How to eat, how to hold himself, how to walk without clomping and sit without sprawling. How to sit on a horse and put on a pair of gloves. How to answer enquiries or turn them away, how to make conversation and respond with poise, or at least without stammers. Constant little precepts. And the names to learn: his family, his cousin’s friends, most of the
ton,
it seemed. A barrage of information and relationships and gossip.

“These will be your people,” Julius had said. “They all know one another. This is your intelligence for the campaign ahead.”

“Campaign?” Harry had almost wailed.

“Infiltrating enemy territory. Dear boy, people
will
wonder where you have sprung from. It is vital that they understand you are one of them. Their curiosity will then be directed away from what you
were
and toward what you
do.
Which is, of course, entirely up to you.”

“I’m to marry, Gideon says,” Harry had offered cautiously. “If I can make myself enough of a gentleman to be acceptable to a lady.”

“Ah, well. We shall make you a gentleman, but the opinions of ladies are outside my control.”

Harry had found that a little surprising. From all he’d heard and read, the dandy set were notorious womanizers, dangerously seductive with their exquisite clothing and flattering ways. Julius had not said a great deal that was flattering in Harry’s presence to date, but there was no doubting the cleverness of his ready tongue, and surely his looks would snare any heart he desired. He probably had a dozen ladies sighing for him in London. He didn’t speak of any, except in terms of names Harry needed to know—the Patronesses of Almack’s, the great hostesses, the Regent’s mistress—but perhaps it wasn’t
comme il faut
for gentlemen to discuss ladies.

Or maybe Julius wasn’t particularly inclined toward any lady. The thought was a tiny spark of temptation, and Harry stamped on it before it spread. He ought to concentrate on the task at hand.

He began to pull open drawers in search of his riding clothes. God knew he had sufficient work to do to keep him from distractions. Julius was drilling him unmercifully in becoming like the other men he’d meet, moving and speaking and behaving like them, so that nobody would think to ask where he’d actually come from. And that was good, because Harry wanted to be one of them.

He paused, looking at the open drawers of his wardrobe. He’d wager Julius didn’t ferret through his own drawers to look for clothes. He straightened, and saw that his riding garments sat on a shelf in front of his nose, brushed and pressed.

The obvious course of action would be to pick them up and put them on. But Julius had given him half an hour to perform a task that would take an able man three minutes. He’d done that for a reason.

Harry rang the bell, shut the various drawers to hide the evidence of his inappropriate independence, and, with nothing else to occupy him till his valet arrived, stared at himself in the mirror. This was not a hardship. In fact, since his “foundation stones of a wardrobe” had arrived from Mr. Cheney, it was fast becoming his favorite occupation.

The clothes he wore were not all the crack, he knew. Fawn pantaloons, a plain waistcoat, a blue coat of good broadcloth with nothing extravagant in the cutaway or tails, collar points of only moderate height, a simple Primo Tempo knot to his cravat. Julius had called his appearance
unexceptional,
but Harry had never felt so handsome in his life. He didn’t look like Julius, of course, but Harry doubted that anybody did, or could, no matter what sort of people he would meet in London society. So coolly poised, so beautifully dressed, so perfect.

And Julius wanted to dress
him.
They had spent glorious hours going through Julius’s own garments, talking of fabrics and cut and embellishments, and then, shamelessly, through Richard’s wardrobe too, so that Julius could take the measure of Harry’s tastes. Julius was going to take him to what he called a reputable tailor soon. He said he had
ideas
on how Harry might dress. Harry wanted to hear those ideas very much, with a sense of thrill in his belly that made him recall long-ago Christmas days.

There was a quiet knock at the door, and Tallant, his temporary valet, entered. “Yes, Mr. Vane?”

“Um, could you, that is— My riding clothes. Please.”

“Certainly sir.” Tallant went to the wardrobe. If it bothered him to come halfway across the sprawling house in order to pick something off a shelf three feet away from Harry, his face did not betray it.

Dressing with a valet, in close-fitting clothes, took significantly longer than pulling on a pair of loose breeches by himself. The clock was nearly at the half hour when he was done. Harry took only the briefest moment to admire himself in his doeskins and tall, gleaming boots before he scampered down to the stable yard, but even so he stopped in the doorway to catch his breath.
Never be hurried,
Julius had advised him.
Far better late than hurried.

Julius was already there, patting the nose of the nervous, high-stepping gray he had selected from Richard’s stables. The June sunshine brightened his pale blond hair to blinding gilt. He wore a frock coat, full-skirted as Harry’s was, but devoid of the accoutrements Harry had seen on riders in Hyde Park, the military-style frogging and braid that seemed to be the kick of fashion. The coat’s plain style seemed rather at odds with Julius’s elaborate elegance in every other sphere, but in Harry’s limited experience, Julius on horseback was a different man altogether.

The groom was waiting, holding the reins of the bay mare Harry had been given to ride while at Arrandene. Julius had assured him the creature was remarkably placid, and certainly she had not objected to the some thirty attempts it had taken Harry to get on her back for the first time. Julius had refused to let him use a mounting block. “If you can’t mount, you can’t ride,” he’d said, and that was that.

“There you are.” Julius nodded at him, still petting the gray’s nose. “Up you get.”

Harry mentally rehearsed Julius’s many instructions, got his foot in the stirrup without twisting his leg backward, grasped the pommel, and found himself astride the horse, albeit with an inelegant grunt. He beamed a triumphant grin at Julius, who had landed effortlessly in the saddle of the rather larger gray, as they trotted out of the stable yard together.

“Not bad,” Julius said. “Quite adequate. But you made a mistake.”

“Oh, what now?” Harry demanded, crestfallen. “I thought I’d done that neatly enough.”

“The mount, yes. But you didn’t thank the groom.”

Harry blinked. “I thought we weren’t supposed to thank the servants.” He’d been severely rebuked for expressing gratitude to the footman who’d served him dinner on their first night.

“The footman’s role at dinner is to be invisible. The groom has no such requirement, and indeed, if you care about your horseflesh, which you should, you must be on good terms with your groom. Only the highest in the instep would consider that inappropriate.”

“Oh.” Harry filed that away. “What about valets?”

“You may be on whatever terms of intimacy with your valet that you choose. My man attends to my appearance with a pride only equaled by his lack of interest in my well-being. He is but a set of brushes to me, and I am but a—mannequin to him.” Was there a slight twist to Julius’s voice? “Whereas Richard’s Cyprian is an extension of his very soul, which doubtless explains why Richard’s boots are so perfect. Mind your seat.”

Harry adjusted his position hastily. If Julius was a strict taskmaster in other areas he was impossible when it came to horses. But Harry could feel himself improving, his body learning the required posture and movements under Julius’s laconic instructions. It was obvious even to his ignorance that Julius was a magnificent horseman. He seemed brighter on horseback, warmer, less untouchable, and his body moved as though it was at one with the powerful beast that surged between his legs.

Harry had a certain amount of trouble not staring at Julius anyway, and it became particularly difficult when they rode. The regular motion of the bay mare under him was stirring, granted, but there were also the soft, close-fitting doeskins that outlined Julius’s thighs, and the fact that his daily habit of riding had given him a remarkably taut arse.

That was not something Harry should be thinking about.
He was living in a dream of wealth and privilege, and he couldn’t imagine a worse awakening than to be packed off in disgrace for making an ill-judged approach. Sporting with men had to be left in the past, along with poverty and politics. Harry wasn’t going to do anything about his errant urges except in the privacy of his bedroom, where he had spent furtively and frantically into a handkerchief more than once to thoughts of an imaginary Julius. Still perfect, still crystalline, still relentlessly commanding, but in Harry’s fantasy he was all the things the real man would never be. Willing and hot and wanton and needy, and—

“Seat.”

—and a great deal less critical of Harry’s abilities.

They rode through the green lanes, changing pace frequently, as they conversed. Speech was an exercise at which Harry excelled. During childhood, he had picked up the trick of altering his voice to mimic others’ cadence and tenor, and his father had been well-spoken at home, for all the roughness he’d affected in public. It was easy enough to copy Julius’s tone and timbre, and the little clicks of his tongue that indicated slips were already far less frequent.

Julius set him rehearsing his family line again. Yet another thing that had to become second nature.

“The Marquess of Cirencester and his brother, Lord Richard, are my first cousins twice removed. Gideon, my grandfather, is their cousin—do you know, I don’t quite understand that. He’s so much older.”

“The previous Marquess, who was Richard’s father and Lord Gideon’s uncle, married very late in life,” Julius told him as they trotted up the steep slope of Milespit Hill. “Lord Gideon had sired his children, including your father, long before Richard and his brother were born. You’re leaning.”

Harry adjusted his seat. “If the previous Marquess hadn’t married, would Gideon have inherited the title?”

“He would, and I imagine fully expected to do so. Life is full of disappointment.”