CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Newsletter and Social Media Links

  About the Author

  Other books by Carole Mortimer

  Copyright © 2024 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Formatter: Glass Slipper WebDesign

  ISBN: 978-1-914336-16-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATION

  My good friends, Jo and Sue – you know who you are!

  CHAPTER ONE

  November 1816

  Wulferston House, London

  “—and anuvver thin’, I’m froo cleanin’ and shinin’ ya muddy boots mornin’, noon, and bleedin’ night!”

  Wulfram Edmund Fitzherbert, the Duke of Wulferston, calmly glanced up from the book he had been enjoying reading and accompanied by sips from the glass of twenty-year-old brandy he held in his hand, as he sat comfortably in a chair beside the warmth of the fire in his library.

  Had been enjoying, because the arrival of the red-haired and green-eyed virago storming into the room, before that young man proceeded to berate Wulf as to the merits and otherwise of being a footman—correction, an underfootman—employed in his ducal household, had soured Wulf’s taste for both the book and the alcohol.

  A red-haired and green-eyed tempest of fire who finally seemed to have—momentarily—run out of steam.

  Wulf knew from past such conversations that Billy’s silence would not last.

  He decided to take advantage of that temporary lull. “Would you care to tell me what you are wearing?” he enquired with a mildness he was far from feeling as he took in the younger man’s garish appearance.

  Billy looked down before answering. “It’s me uniform.”

  “That,” Wulf said, continuing to eye the gaudy red-and-gold jacket tailored perfectly to Billy’s slender form, along with cream-colored pantaloons that did the same for his thighs and arse, “is not the uniform of an underfootman in my household.”

  “Then wha’ is it?”

  “The ducal livery worn by my grooms on formal occasions.”

  Wulf felt it was a testament to Billy’s powers of persuasion that Radcliffe, his own personal tailor to whom Wulf had sent the younger man in order to be fitted for his household uniform, had deigned to provide such an outlandish outfit for Billy.

  The younger man scowled. “I like it.”

  Which meant Wulf would probably allow him to keep it. Much as he might wish it were otherwise, he didn’t seem able to deny this young man anything.

  Green eyes returned to glaring at him from a face that was far too pretty for a young man who was often heard to use the vocabulary of the sailors at the dockyards. “What the ’ell were you doing in ya boots today? Dancing in fuckin’ puddles and wading through mud and ’orse shit, I don’t doubt?”

  Wulf held back another smile, knowing his amusement wouldn’t be appreciated, but would, in all likelihood, only bring about another bout of Billy’s complaints and criticisms.

  The austere and haughty Duke of Wulferston would not normally have tolerated such behavior or language from one of his employees. But for some reason, Billy Brown had become a favorite with Wulf from the moment the other man had taken up employment at the Apollo, a club where gentlemen who preferred the company of other men could meet privately and without fear of condemnation. Wulf owned that club with three of his closest friends, all of whom held that same preference.

  Unfortunately, the Apollo had burned to the ground three weeks ago, and the people who had worked there had been offered temporary employment in the households of the four owners until such time as the newly purchased establishment had been refurbished and decorated to their taste and satisfaction. Which it was now well on its way to being.

  Billy had accepted that temporary employment in Wulf’s household.

  Wulf wasn’t looking forward to the day Billy could resume working at the new Apollo Club. The presence of the younger man in Wulf’s home these past weeks had been like a breath of fresh air and sunshine combined, and Billy’s many diatribes were a cause for Wulf’s amusement rather than rousing his anger.

  He had expected nothing else when he had already known Billy possessed the temper that matched the fire in his hair.

  The younger man also had the pale complexion, with a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, that often accompanied such vivid hair coloring.

  He was slender of build, with pretty features, which gave him an ethereal appearance.

  Wulf knew from experience that Billy would not appreciate any comments about how pretty he was. After one such remark at the beginning of their acquaintance four months ago, Wulf had been told to “shuv ya compliments up ya arse.” Wulf had kept his silence on the obviously taboo of the subject of Billy’s pretty looks ever since.

  Which didn’t mean he wasn’t fully aware of Billy day and night. Even more so since the younger man had come to work and live in his London home.

  Wulf now carefully noted his place in the book before putting it down on the table next to his chair. “I do not believe there was any dancing involved. But it has been raining steadily all day, and I perhaps had to walk through a puddle or two in order to be able to go about my business.”

  “Business!” Billy scoffed. “Ya call bein’ a minister for the Crown, one that only attends parliament when ya feel like it, and a magistrate as sends innocent people to prison or worse, business? I call that lordin’ it—dukin’ it about doin’ nothin’,” he scoffed.

  “If you say so,” Wulf accepted evenly. He had learned that attempting to defend himself only led to a fresh deluge of complaints.

  “An’ I say I ain’t ’ere ta run about after ya no matter what you’ve been doin’ or your reason for doin’ it, and that includes cleaning and polishing ya dirty boots day and bloody night.”

  “Actually, you are,” Wulf continued to maintain his calm. “The cleaning of my boots is one of the tasks assigned to an underfootman in my household.”

  Billy snorted his disgust at the same time as he threw up surprisingly slender and delicate-looking hands. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me to lick ya bloody arse clean for ya too.”

  The silence that followed could only be called charged, both men fully aware of where the two of them had first met.

  Wulf enjoyed watching as the color steadily deepened in Billy’s cheeks once the younger man realized exactly what he had said. “I do not believe your suggestion to be necessary currently, but perhaps we should keep it in mind,” he added mockingly.

  Billy snorted. “I ain’t paid enough to scrape the ’orse shit off ya boots, let alone that!”

  “William—”

  “Me name’s Billy,” the young man corrected instantly, as he had done each time Wulf had addressed him as such during these past three weeks of his residing at Wulferston House. “Me granddad were William John Brown, me da is Bill Mark Brown, and I’m Billy Robbin Brown.”

  “William Robin?”

  “Billy Robbin, ’cos the Robbin is spelt with two Bs. But don’t ask me why, ’cos all I can tell ya is it was a fancy of me Ma’s to give me that name.”

  A very interesting fancy to Wulf’s mind. He would need to look into it further, of course, but yes, very interesting.

  Billy’s comments regarding his family also told Wulf that his paternal grandfather was dead, but the father was still alive. The hardening of Billy’s voice when he spoke of his father said there was some sort of tension or rift between them.

  Wulf had been an interrogator during the years of war against Napoleon, usually accompanied by Stonyhurst, a good friend and another of the four owners of the Apollo. Those years had trained Wulf to recognize what a person was not saying. Not necessarily from their expression, but from other “tells” the prisoner was usually unaware they had.

  The wrinkling of Billy’s nose when he spoke of his father told Wulf the two were at odds with each other. Billy had never mentioned his mother before now, so Wulf could only assume she was deceased. Not an unnatural occurrence for the young women who were forced to live in the London slums giving birth to far too many children and then having to find food and clothing for them all.

  “Very well, Billy.” He used the name deliberately. “And please do correct me if I am in error.” He already knew the younger man would not hesitate to do so, so he might as well give that permission. “But I am sure you did not talk in this coarse manner when you were working at the Apollo.”

  Wulf knew that for the main part, Billy managed not to resort to the vocabulary of the London slums, and that he had needed to do so in order for him to be taken on as a server at the Apollo.

  Something which seemed to have lapsed since he came to work within Wulf’s household. It was unacceptable to have one of his servants talking with the crudeness and loudness of a market vendor selling his wares.


>   It was testament to how annoyed the young man was this evening that he was no longer guarding his words or Cockney accent.

  “I’m not sure I can stay on ’ere much longer.” Billy threw himself down into the chair situated on the opposite side of the lit fire, without so much as a by-your-leave. Something that would give Wulf’s butler a heart attack if he were to see it. “I ain’t cut out fa being a bloody underfootman. Do this, Billy. Do that, Billy,” he parroted with a disgusted shake of his head. “’ow much longer do I have to work ’ere before the new Apollo opens?”

  The property the four men had purchased for the new premises had once been a private residence; therefore, it had necessarily needed to be gutted and then redesigned to suit the needs of their club members.

  As well as Henry, the man who acted as security guard at the front door, the new property would have a reception to welcome and vet their guests. There would be a bar and seating area downstairs, as well as a dining room. Along with several bedchambers available above stairs which could be used for the convenience of those gentlemen wishing to spend private time with their male lover. A male lover they had either brought with them or had met by agreement at the club.

  The Apollo Club was not a male brothel, but a safe place for adult men who were attracted to other men to meet without fearing punishment from the authorities or Society.

  To that end, the four owners—three dukes and an earl—had arranged for one of them to make an appearance at the old club each evening to ensure that all was well within those walls of privacy.

  That arrangement might need to change once the new club opened, the dukes of Sheffield and Lancaster having both recently met and fallen in love with the young men they had stated they intended to spend the rest of their lives with. Wulf could not have been happier for the four of them, but he doubted his friends would any longer wish to spend evenings apart from their respective young men.

  Unfortunately, at the age of seven and thirty, Wulf could not claim to have had the same success in winning the heart of the young man who had occupied all of his day and nighttime fantasies these past four months.

  The same fiery-haired young man who was now seated opposite and scowling at him.

  There was the age gap, of course, but as Wulf had quickly realized Billy was nineteen going on ninety, with a tongue sharp enough to cut glass and an even sharper intelligence, those years were often not as apparent as they might have been.

  Wulf inwardly acknowledged it was a pity to waste Billy’s intelligence by his remaining a mere underfootman in his household.

  The alternative, of having Billy leave his household, was unthinkable. “It will be ready in a few more weeks, I believe,” Wulf drawled. “Would you perhaps prefer to become my temporary secretary for that time rather than remain as an underfootman?” he suggested evenly.

  Billy sat up, his eyes wide. “Your secretary?”

  It was a relief to hear Billy return to the smoother tones and language. “Temporarily,” he reiterated, knowing that working so closely with Billy on a day-to-day basis was sure to cause him great physical discomfort. He considered that discomfort far preferable to Billy leaving altogether. “Jamieson has today had to take a sudden leave of absence so that he might return home for several weeks. There is an illness in his family, apparently. I believe you can read and write?”

  “Course I can read and write!” Billy looked deeply offended. “Me ma made sure of it. She was always determined I’d ’ave a better life than the one fate and me da gave ’er. I worked in a lawyers’ office as an apprentice clerk before I went to work at the Apollo.”

  Wulf could hear the note of pride in Billy’s voice. As well he might, when he had been brought up inside the Rookery, the worst of the London slums. “Why did you leave that employment?”

  He shrugged narrow shoulders. “The head clerk didn’t like it that when me ma fell ill, I ’ad to take some time off to care for ’er an’ me younger brovvers and sisters.”

  “She is no longer ill?”

  “She’s dead,” Billy stated bluntly.

  Wulf could clearly see, from the pain in Billy’s eyes, that he had loved his mother dearly. “I am sorry to hear that, Billy.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose me ma was all that ’appy about it neither.”

  Wulf gave another pained wince. “Vocabulary, please, Billy.”

  The young man gave a long-suffering sigh. “Of course, Your Grace. By all means, Your Grace. Only pleased to oblige, Your Grace⁠—”

  “Billy, do you remember that smack I gave you on your arse two weeks ago?” Wulf remembered the incident with a vivid clarity that now caused his cock to stir inside his pantaloons. “Because the spanking I am itching to give you now would in no way compare to that playful tap.”

  At the time, Billy had been being his usual irreverent self, until in the end, Wulf had administered a smack on his perfectly rounded arse as he made to strut from the room after delivering yet another diatribe as to what he was and was not willing to do within the duke’s household.

  “Playful? Playful!” Billy voice rose in accusation. “Weren’t nuffin’ playful about it, and I ’ad the bruise on me arse, the exact size and shape of your hand, for fully a week afterward to prove it.”

  “You did?” Wulf really didn’t need any further images with which to fantasize when Billy was already front and center of all those fantasies.

  The thought now of the imprint of his hand being on the globe of the younger man’s arse, for a whole week, no less, caused Wulf’s cock to engorge to a degree it was now fully and painfully aroused and pushing against the front of his pantaloons.

  “You should have brought it to my attention, and I would have provided you with some salve to rub into the bruised area.” After which, Wulf would have enjoyed nothing more than to offer to be the one to rub the salve into the firmness of Billy’s arse for him.

  An image that instantly made his cock throb.

  Despite his infatuation with this young man, Wulf was not sure as yet, despite Billy having worked at the Apollo Club, whether or not the young man was attracted to his own sex.

  It seemed a little bizarre for Billy to work in such a club if he was not. But if Wulf had learned nothing else these past few weeks, it was that Billy Brown was a law unto himself and woe betide anyone who tried to gainsay him otherwise.

  But the wages at the Apollo were necessarily high to achieve the level of discretion necessary. That wage would surely be a lure even to a young man who did not share the inclinations of the members of the club. Especially when he had so many brothers and sisters at home, whom he probably now helped to support.

  “I can reach my own arse and apply salve to it, if necessary, thank you very much.” Billy gave him the predictable put-down.

  Wulf was quite sure that he could. That really would not have been the purpose of the exercise⁠—

  His musings ceased at the realization that, upon closer inspection, there was something not quite right about Billy’s mouth…

  Wulf sat forward in his seat, his eyes narrowed as he gazed across at the younger man. “Billy, unless I am mistaken, there is a slight discoloration and swelling to your bottom lip. Have you been fighting with one of the other servants again?” He was well aware that Billy’s transition into working within a private household had not been accomplished without incident.

  Within hours of Billy entering the house, his butler had come to Wulf to complain of the young man’s rudeness to him, as well as accusing him of having insulted one of the other footmen. Indeed, it appeared that same footman had been having a blackened eye attended to.

  Wulf had no choice, when his household usually ran like clockwork, to request that Billy be sent to his study immediately so that the young man might give him an explanation for his behavior.

  A very disheveled Billy had appeared seconds later. His red hair was ruffled, his face flushed, his shirt untucked, his jacket askew, and there appeared to be several dirty scuff marks on his gray pantaloons. Boot-shaped, if Wulf was not mistaken.