Summary: GermanyLondon is a lot different from MississippiPortsmouth, Lancelot James notices.

Sex Sells: Let's Do the Time Warp Again (Regency Remix), by
Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


In Portsmouth, England, in the early part of the 19th century,
Lancelot James was a well-respected businessman.  He'd taken a
single shop selling fresh seafood to the general public and turned
it into a small empire with great influence in every aspect of the
food distribution industry.  He owned shipping fleets, processing
centers and had either direct or indirect control of most of the
markets for his goods.

He was only 23 and already he controlled a kingdom of his own
making.  Ruler of all he surveyed, richer than 90% of England's
aristocrats, and the next logical step was to move out of his
fishing port surroundings, which were now too small for him, and
travel to London where he could expand still further.  James saw no
reason why he should stop short of owning the entire country.  And
when that was done, why, there was still France, and when that was
done, the entire rest of the world.

He left his mother behind in Portsmouth with his sister and her
husband, an Army major who had sold out his commission, who
together managed his chief southern distribution outlet.  Ford did
the work and provided the visible figurehead for those who could
not see a woman as someone who could do useful work, and Stacy
provided the know-how and savvy of someone who had spent her entire
life in the business and who had seen James's enterprise grow from
the ground up.  Anyone who thought women were mere decorations or
useless had not spent much, if any, time in the world James had
grown up in, where his mother had been every bit as instrumental in
the moderate success of their shop as their father, and who had
taught James the really important things about business and people
when his father's health began failing.  James's father had died
when James was 16, clutching his heart and slumping to the floor of
the shop.  James had never forgotten it.

And now he was in London.  To make deals.  To find out what the new
trends were before they began so that he could take advantage of
them and not be taken advantage of.

He had secured an appropriate dwelling in London -- one larger and
grander than he strictly needed, but he was buying it and he wanted
a property that would serve dual purpose as an investment.  His
secretary, brought up from Portsmouth with him, had secured the
service of enough servants to keep the place warm, lit and clean,
and to keep food on the table.  And, of course, he'd brought his
own carriage and horses with him as well, although he was very
interested in the news that a better form of transportation was
being talked about.  This was the steam engine, which would allow
travellers to reach their destinations much faster.  The
implication of this development on the freshness of his produce was
not lost on James.  One of the matters he was very interested in
looking into was where those engines would run, because the people
who controlled that would control everything.  James intended to
control everything.

When he came down for breakfast on his first morning in London,
there was a stack of papers by his plate.  On top of them was a
separate article with a note from his secretary.  The note read,
"Sir, I believe you will be especially interested in this."

James put the note aside and looked at the article.  It appeared to
be from the society pages, which he did not, as a rule, read.

The key phrase that jumped out at him was 'fishmonger's son' and
James read the article slowly from the top, only the steady
determination of his reading showing how affected he was by it.

His reputation, it seemed, had arrived before him, and that
reputation was not a good one.  He was being characterized as an
oily little man who dealt in fish and who had no real abilities or
skills except for a certain vulgar talent for making money.

He wasn't sure whether to feel appalled or amused.  As it was, the
article was accurate, if slanted.  His father had sold many
varieties of seafood, including fish.  And James did have a gift
for understanding and even anticipating the requirements of the
market.  That it translated into making him money was almost
incidental.  For James, it was about control, and control resulted
in money.

The real damage would come if the people he needed to speak with in
London took this kind of thing seriously.  James rather thought
they would.  He was not overly acquainted with London ways, but it
seemed likely that the people who controlled the power in London,
many of them themselves lords and gentlemen, would feel similarly.

James had no formal education.  No schooling either in class or
manners, but he knew what was important and what was not.  The
thing to do here was to become respectable by London standards.  He
was going to become a gentleman whether hell or high water barred
the way.

****

All in all, he would have preferred that high water barred the way. 
James knew what to do about that.  High sticklers and high
waistlines were another matter entirely.  London was another matter
entirely.

Standing, half-concealed, waiting for the tailor to return and
unpin him, James could not help but overhear the conversation
occurring in the outer sanctum of the shop.

"Oh, dear me," the first male voice said.  "He's a naif.  Scarcely
worth mentioning."

"A man worth as much as the fishmonger's son is hardly a naif."

The first man made a scoffing sound.  "Well, then.  An
unsophisticated tar who probably still stinks of brine."

The tailor returned.  "My apologies, Mr. James.  I will have you
out of that in a moment."

The dandies turned toward the tailor's voice.  "I say, you don't
suppose the fishmonger's son dared come *here*, you don't think?"

"Hardly.  They'd find something more to his liking down at the
docks, I shouldn't think."

They laughed.

"If you'll wait outside a moment," the tailor said, "I'll make up
the sample for you."

"Thank you," James said courteously.  His face was only flushed a
little when he stepped out of the backroom and into the full
scrutiny of the dandies waiting there.  James had been reliably
informed that Weston's was the most fashionable tailor in London,
but the kind of fashion this pair was wearing was not anything he
could care for.  They both wore stiff collars too high for either
of them to be able to comfortably turn their necks, and elaborately
tied cravats that must have taken someone a good quarter of an hour
to create.  Their breeches were as tight as the pattern that had
been pinned to James by the tailor.  Indecently so, in his opinion. 
He had no idea how they had managed to get the tight articles of
clothing on without being sewn into them.  And the way their short
jackets cut away high above their waists, leaving nothing but tight
breeches below, emphasizing their...!

He looked away.  London-town really was different.

"It really is the fishmonger's son," the short, dapper dark-haired
dandy in blue and green pronounced in a supercilious tone.

"I know," the taller one, who sported a perfectly coiffed head of
blonde hair, said, "I can smell him from here."

"I do believe it's trying to ape its betters."

"Good thing then," another voice interrupted, "that some of those
are actually present."

James turned to see a short dark-haired man rising from a chair,
folding a newspaper.  "Why," he said, advancing on James, with a
dangerous toothy grin, "if it isn't my old friend, Bass.  How are
you doing?"

*Bass?* James wondered, but greeted the other man politely, playing
along with the charade.  "I didn't realize that you'd be here
today."

"Oh, even the Kirkpatrick can't always wear the plaid.  Gets
dreadfully boring, don't you know?"

The Kirkpatrick, for such he must be, stood by James's side and
stared up his nose at the other two.  "Now this pair, I don't
believe you'd want the honor of meeting, as obviously neither is a
gentleman."

"Kirkpatrick--" the shorter one started, but the blonde caught his
arm.  "Let it go.  It isn't worth it."

"Oh, please," Kirkpatrick said, "do make a fuss.  I would be
entirely happy to *satisfy* any slight you might feel I've made
upon your honor.  Such as it is."  He was smiling, rocking back and
forth on his toes.  "Do say you will.  I haven't had a good spot of
fun in ever so long."

The dark-haired one sniffed, but the blonde one said, "No, thanks. 
That won't be necessary," and pulled him out into the street.

"Children these days," Kirkpatrick said.  "No manners at all."  He
made a small bow to James.  "Christopher Alan at your service.  The
Kirkpatrick, although that seems to mean more to these London types
than it really should.  I think perhaps their respect comes more
from my habit of calling them out for a nice duel when they've
become too tiresome rather than any care for my position."

"Lancelot James," James said.  "But I believe you already knew
that."

"That I did."

****

Kirkpatrick invited him to Gunter's.  "It's not that I don't think
you'd fit in at my club, but we'll save that for later.  The point,
after all, is to make it clear that you have my approval in the
most public manner possible.  And," he said, a little sheepishly,
"the sweets are better at Gunter's."

The stares were more obvious in the open area of the shop, and
James would have been even more uncomfortable, except Kirkpatrick
wouldn't allow it.  Kirkpatrick chatted comfortably with him, like
they were old friends.

"What brings you to London and under the disdain of our fine young
bucks?"

"Business," James said.  "I fail to understand their attitudes,
however.  I've done nothing to them personally, and as far as I can
tell, they're offended merely by my having made my money myself."

"Money is a dirty business to an Englishman.  Fortunately, I don't
happen to be one.  I myself am in town because I have too many
sisters to marry off.  Not all at once, praise be to almighty God,
but really, I'm not sure which is worse.  Getting them all married
off at once, and all the fuss and nonsense that goes with it, or
having to do it over and over again year after year after year.  Do
have any idea the fishing that I'm missing out on?"  Kirkpatrick
eyed James speculatively.  "You wouldn't happen to be in the market
for a wife, would you?  I still have several sisters left.  Nice
selection."

"No, thank you."  James refused politely, but firmly.  "I'm not
interested.  I don't have the time for such things at this
particular point in my life."

"You're not?  You wouldn't happen to be a backgammon player, would
you?"

James wondered at the sudden change in subject.  "No.  As I said,
I don't have the time for such things."

"Ahh..." Kirkpatrick said wisely, like James had just said
something, which he hadn't.  What did an interest in parlor games
have to do with anything?  "What do you think of London?"

"Honestly," James said.  "London customs are bizarre.  They could
hardly turn their heads in those collars and must needs turn their
entire bodies to speak to each other.  It's highly impractical. 
There's no possible use for it except to look a certain way.  And
the colors!"

Kirkpatrick cleared his throat.  "Well... about that.  I think that
you should know that while I personally agree with you..."

A young buck walked up to their table, dressed in an outfit that
would put a peacock to shame and blind everyone who saw him.  "My
laird Kirkpatrick!" he declaimed loudly and exuberantly.  "How have
you been in the last few hours that we've been parted?"  He threw
himself into a chair.  "I swear, I've been pining away for lack of
your presence."

When he threw up his coat to sit down, James couldn't help but
notice that the young man had very tight buttocks.  Breeches really
were nothing short of indecent.  How could anyone just casually
walk around dressed like that?  How was *he* supposed to walk
around dressed like that?

The dandy turned an eye on James.  An eye, because he was using a
monocle.  James looked away.  "And who's your..." his eye was
definitely disdainful, "friend?"

"You really are an ass sometimes, Timberlake.  This is Bass,
otherwise known as Lancelot James.  He's going to run the world
someday."

Timberlake's look was less disapproving.  "You're a friend of
Christopher's?"

James' eyebrows raised at the use of the other man's Christian
name.

"Obviously.  And, my dear Bass, this reprobate is Justin Randall,
Viscount Timberlake and heir to the Duke of Harless, which is how
he gets away with so much."

"I get away with so much because I'm just that good."

"No one's as good as you think you are, not even my estimable
self."

The viscount made a scoffing sound, then inquired, "Are we still on
for the theater tomorrow evening?"

"Naturally.  How can we possibly resist the charms of Covent
Garden, unless of course they're superseded by the charms of Drury
Lane?"  He glanced at James.  "Would you be interested in examining
the fascinating sub-species of humanity that is the London throng
in more detail?  Covent Garden is one of the best places for people
watching."

"People baiting, the way you do it."

"Hush, infant.  Let's not corrupt the poor man on his first
outing."  Kirkpatrick grinned.  "We'll wait until next week for
that."

"I should have suitable clothing by then," James said.  "I've
decided to engage a valet as well.  I hope to do so this
afternoon."

"Pish-posh," Kirkpatrick said.  "Dress however you like.  After
all, Viscount Timberlake approves of you -- you must be a success."

"Kirkpatrick!"

"Yes?" the older man asked in a sweet voice.

Timberlake pouted.  "You don't take me seriously."

"Of course not.  You wouldn't like it if I did.  I'm waiting for
you to grow up some.  Not too much, because I'm not entirely
decrepit yet, but enough that you stop drooling on your boots."

"I would never drool on my boots!  They're Hessians."

"Indeed."  Kirkpatrick turned to James.  He was the picture of
casual elegance, but the watchful eyes he'd turned on Timberlake
lost their intensity when focused on James.  "I'll send an
invitation around to your place just to make it all formal, Bass. 
You're on Park Lane, aren't you?"

"Yes.  I was told that Grosvenor Square was more prestigious, but
the Park Lane area offered more space and a better view, which
seemed better from an investment standpoint."

Timberlake rolled his eyes.

Kirkpatrick rapped his knuckles.  "Listen to the man.  When I'm
driven into an early grave by your antics, and you're the Duke of
Harless, this is the man you'll be begging on your hands and knees
to rescue your dandified self from penury if you ignore him now."

"But--"

The Scot ignored him and turned to James.  "You made a sound
decision.  Park Lane's nearly as desirable an address and it's
impossible to get a carriage in or out of Grosvenor Square  during
the season because of too many houses in too small a space.  Two
families throw a party and then it's chaos all around.  If it
wasn't fashionable to say your do's a complete crush, nobody would
bother."

"Fashion," James observed, carefully not looking at Timberlake,
"seems to me to be another word for behaving in ways that are as
uncomfortable and impractical as possible."

"Precisely.  I could tell you were a sound fellow just looking at
you at Weston's.  One can always tell a man by the quality of his
enemies."

With that, James had to take his leave in order to arrive home in
time to interview the valet candidates his efficient secretary
would have ready to meet him.

James, in fact, arrived home in Park Lane just in time.  He had
barely hung up his coat when his secretary, a thin, wiry young man
who'd been too bright to waste on a fishing boat arrived. 
Alexander McLean'd been with James for three years, and in that
time, entirely proven the rightness of hiring him for the more
responsible position.  He looked like the kind of person who ought
to be swarming up ropes, but he was someone with initiative, innate
smarts and cunning that almost overshadowed his equally keen
intellect.

"You were right," James told him.  "I will require a valet."

McLean sketched him a half-bow that came off as sarcastic.  Many
things the secretary did came off that way.  Mostly because they
were.  "I was certain you would see the necessity of it, sir."

James raised an eyebrow.  "Interesting way of putting things you've
acquired since getting to London."

"If you want, I could say that you were acting like a right dunce
and it's a good thing I'm here to pick up your mess."

"Much better."

"First one's in the study."

James went to the library where the first candidate for the
position awaited.

He'd gone through three when the Frenchman arrived.

The prospective valets had arrived in wildly varying attire.  One
had been shabby, as though trying to send the message that he paid
no attention to his own clothing and all of it to his master's. 
One had been perfectly turned out, if more soberly dressed than the
dandies he'd met at Weston's.  That one had looked down his nose at
James who had, admittedly, done his own dressing in the clothes
he'd brought up with him from Portsmouth.  However, James thought
irritably, that was *why* he needed a valet.  With that particular
candidate, he'd felt more like *he* was the one being interviewed
rather than the other way around.  Most uncomfortable.

The Frenchman, however.  His clothes were neither noticeably new or
old.  Their cut was not as perfectly proper as the prior candidate,
but neither did his clothes include the same excesses James
deplored in the dandies he'd so far met in London.  They were, in
James' opinion, calculated to show off the man's assets to their
best advantages, and James had not been able to resist a long,
assessing glance over tight breeches, a jacket cut to show of a
trim waist and broad shoulders, and a cravat tied in such a way
that it accentuated the curve of the Frenchman's slim neck.

He jerked his gaze to the other man's ironically smiling eyes and
directed him into the library.  James started the interview in a
business-like manner.  "Name?"

"Chasez."

Sha-zay.  Very French.  James wrote it down, then looked up. 
"First or last?"

His would-be employee crooked an eyebrow at him.  "Servants do not
have first names, m'sieu."

James crooked an eyebrow back at him, because in the country where
he'd grown up, everyone had names.  You didn't necessarily *use*
them, but they existed.  But then, from some perspectives, James
was barely above the servant class himself given that he'd started
out helping keep shop at his father's side.  Still, London ways
were different than country ways and he was reluctantly impressed
with Chasez's ability to sum that up eloquently in a one brief
sentence.

He was equally reluctantly impressed by Chasez's ability to word
such a stinging put-down in a servile manner while, at the same
time, losing none of his own hauteur.  If Chasez had James' money,
no one would be snubbing *him* on the street.  It would be the
other way around, and people would feel honored that he had even
deigned to recognize their existence with the cut direct.

To sum up, Chasez was everything James needed to learn to be in
order to triumph over London.

He was as good as hired.

****

The clothing arrived in time for the theater.  For the amount of
money he'd paid for them, in advance, James expected nothing less. 
It was a practice of the noble class to not pay their bills on
time, or indeed, at all.  It was one of the reasons he never took
a gentleman's word on anything and got everything in writing and
insisted on payment on delivery.  The other being that it made for
a smoother cash flow.

Chasez had looked through the packages and put the new clothing
away without comment.  James had made it perfectly clear that he
was not going to change his style of dress while at home unless he
was planning on having visitors, and at the moment, he had no
engagements.  He was still deciding who he needed to approach and
how to approach them.  It seemed that a full wardrobe -- which had
not yet arrived -- would definitely be a part of this as he was not
taken particularly seriously, not even by London servants, without
it.

For the rest of it, between his new acquaintances who he would be
meeting tonight at the theater and Chasez, James thought he had
made a good start at learning how to go on.

When it came time to go to the theater that evening, Chasez dressed
him for the first time.

Even though James started out wearing his underclothes, it was
still a much more physical experience than he was, strictly
speaking, ready for.  In order to get him into the clothing, Chasez
had to touch many times, more intimately than James could remember
ever having been touched by anyone.  And Chasez had a physical
presence that was, plainly, impossible to ignore.  James did his
best to remain impassive, but could not help small shivers of
reaction when fingertips brushed against the skin of his neck or
his waist.

It was, frankly, humiliating.  James had a red tinge creeping up
his cheeks, but Chasez acted as though he didn't see it, and James
did his best to pretend none of this was happening.  Maybe other
men let themselves be dressed like dolls and thought nothing of it,
but he didn't see how it was possible.

He escaped from his valet's hands and headed out to the theater
with relief.  The promised invitation had arrived promptly, and
James climbed into his carriage to travel toward the relative
safety of the world of dramatic interpretation.

Very relative safety.

He made it inside Covent Garden without losing his hat, which
seemed a minor miracle and presented his invitation to be admitted
to the laird's box.

Kirkpatrick and the viscount had not arrived yet, and James took
the opportunity to look out over the audience area.

It was, in a word, shocking.

If he'd thought the people he'd seen before were both outrageously
and scandalously dressed, these people were even more so.  Women in
flimsy gowns, wetted down, sticking to their bodies and nearly
sheer.  With rouged nipples.  It wasn't something he could look at
it.  He had a mother.  He had a *sister*.  It was just too much.

The men, however, weren't much better.  He found his gaze drawn
over and over again to the way the fashionable clothing accented
the masculinity of even the most outlandishly dressed men.  However
high their neckties might be, however godawful the colors they
wore, they were uniformly displaying their... manly attributes...
to best -- or worst -- advantage, depending on whether the style
suited them.  James was not sure if those individuals were better
or worse.

"And how are you finding our evening's entertainment, Bass?" a
voice from behind him asked.

James turned.  Kirkpatrick had arrived, Timberlake strolling in on
his heels like he owned the box and the entire theater as well. 
"The entertainment has not yet begun."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong.  This *is* the entertainment."

James was puzzled, but when the actual performance began, he saw
what Kirkpatrick meant.  Scarcely any of the audience paused in
their conversations to pay attention to what was going on onstage,
and those who were, mostly seemed to behave like Timberlake, who
was muttering comments to Kirkpatrick about this one's legs or that
one's endowments.

Kirkpatrick leaned over to James and said, "Not even the great
Edmund Kean could get their attention, were he present.  The crowd
*is* the entertainment."

"Some of them are looking at us."

"Well, we're also part of the crowd, you see."  Kirkpatrick offered
him a quizzing glass.  "Would you like a better view?"

****

After the performance was no better than before.  Kirkpatrick and
Timberlake headed down to the green room, and dragged James along
in their formidable wake.  Timberlake immediately went toward one
of the dancers he had picked out earlier.

Kirkpatrick said into James' ear, "None of them are going to snub
you.  Nothing to worry about in that regard.  All this lot cares
about is how rich you are.  Enjoy," and followed Timberlake.

He soon found that the Scot was right; James was definitely in no
danger of being snubbed.  Of being propositioned, yes.

More than one well-rouged young lady approached him and made it
quite clear that his attractiveness -- both in looks and bank
balance -- meant that he was a most acceptable partner for any
dalliance he might like to engage in.  With certain *compensations*
expected in return.  Monetary compensations.

James was vaguely aroused by the sight of so much flesh on
near-open display, but mostly sickened.

After the fourth proposition, he left the green room, ostensibly
for some fresh air, and ended up taking a wrong turn and winding up
back in one of the theater boxes, overlooking the stage.

It was as good a place to breathe as any, and he stood there for a
while, looking out over the darkened theater, trying to absorb what
he'd just seen, or rather, everything he'd seen since arriving in
London.  London was a very different place from Portsmouth and he
was uncomfortable about what he'd seen so far.

Uncomfortable, and starting to think things that had never before
occurred to him.  He'd had so much to do after all.  Years of
managing a business, years of interacting only with his mother, his
sister, his employees and his business contacts.  Never seeing
anyone who he thought of in a romantic or... a more intense way. 
A sexual way.  The thought alone brought a flush to his cheeks.  It
was not something he ever dwelt on, and he hoped to God that
neither Kirkpatrick or Timberlake had picked up on his uneasiness.

He sighed -- and the wall sighed back at him.

James looked at the wall separating him from the next box -- really
more a few folds of curtain over what might be a wall or might not
-- which groaned and began a rhythmic sound.

Sex.

Someone was having sexual intercourse in the box next to his.

James was moving to leave when a voice panted, "Bon, bon, plus
dur."

He stopped.  He recognized that voice.  That was Chasez.  His
valet.  Having sexual relations not three feet from him.

Unconsciously, he stepped closer, edging around the front of the
box.  He didn't realize he was doing it until the edge of the box
hit his thigh, and then it was too obvious to deny, but he no
longer cared.  He could see Chasez, on his knees in front of...  In
front of another man.  The valet had the other man's breeches open
and his manhood... in his mouth.  Was fellating it
enthusiastically, in fact.

James backed away and sat down heavily in one of the
velvet-upholstered chairs.  The sounds -- he knew now what they
were -- of sucking continued, and he couldn't help but listen. 
Listen and become helplessly aroused.

He resisted the urge to touch himself until the other, deeper voice
started grunting, and then he did.  Put his hand on himself there,
and when the noises reached their peak, so did he.

In a public theater.  Listening to -- God -- two men having sexual
relations.  He was damned.

More than damned, James realized, after he'd calmed down.  Because
his fawn-colored breeches showed the dark, wet stain and anyone
seeing him would know immediately what had happened.

There was, however, no way out of the situation, and he got up and
made his way toward the exit.

However, he managed to depart unobserved and, like manna from
heaven, it was raining outside, hard and in large fat drops.  He
was wet immediately, and soaked within a few minutes.  The shock of
the cold was good -- it restored at least some of his senses, and
James started walking.

His footmen caught up with him before he'd gotten more than a few
lengths away, and chivvied him into his carriage.  "You need to be
careful, sir.  This isn't a good area for a gentleman alone,
begging your pardon."

McLean was equally firm when James reached home.  "What the devil
were you thinking?  You have better sense than to go out in the
rain.  Get upstairs and get that valet of yours to get you into
something dry.  I'll have something sent up from the kitchen.  Soup
or cocoa or something."

James grunted back at him, not really processing the words, and
walked slowly upstairs.  At least how drenched he was disguised
what he'd been doing.

He opened the door to his rooms, and Chasez was there.  Impeccably
dressed, not a hair out of place, looking every inch the same as
James had ever seen him.  As though the events of earlier in the
evening had never taken place.

"M'sieu needs to get out of those clothes.  Stand here, sil vous
plait."

James tried to protest, but Chasez's hands were very firm on his
shoulders, holding him still.  "Please, m'sieu."

He submitted, and Chasez removed his cravat, then his jacket, his
shirt, and finally, his undershirt.

James froze as those long fingers brushed lightly over his
shoulders, and considering what he'd seen Chasez doing before, that
touch was suddenly potent with meaning that had not been present
before.

"I saw you earlier," he said as those hands moved away.  "At Covent
Garden."

"Vrainment?" Chasez replied neutrally.  "M'sieu must be aware that
Thursday were to be my evening off."

"That's not... quite... what I meant," James said.  Chasez had laid
the wet clothes out and was returning with a warmed towel, which he
wrapped around James' shoulders.  Chasez rubbed the towel over him. 
The custom that decreed a person of rank do nothing for themselves
was... most especially uncomfortable at the moment.  "I saw you
with another man.  Having... enjoying one another's company."

Chasez's hands stilled.  "M'sieu wishes to terminate my
employment?"

"N-n-no," James stuttered.  That hadn't crossed his mind.  Nothing
had, in fact, beyond the incident itself.  The very thought of men
together in that fashion had never occurred to him before.

The touch of the hands on him changed.  Became caressing.  But
Chasez's voice was hard when he spoke.  "M'sieu wishes me to
perform additional duties?"

It was very clear from the tone of Chasez's voice -- and his hands
-- what he was suggesting, and it was the same thing that the
'actresses' at the theater had been suggesting.  James pulled back,
horrified.  "No!"

Chasez looked at him.  "What then, is m'sieu proposing?"

"I'm proposing nothing!  I'm merely saying that--" there was no
graceful way to say it, but now that he knew what Chasez was
saying, James knew he had to.  "I have never intended and do not
intend immoral activities to be ever part of your job duties.  I
would not require or request that of you.  I have not and will
never treat an employee in that fashion."

The valet's eyes warmed a little and he retreated, coming back with
a thick robe, which he threaded James' arms into.  "Of course not,
m'sieu."

"Definitely not.  I was just... confused."

"Confused, m'sieu?"  Chasez undid the ties of the breeches and
James sucked in a breath.

"Yes.  It wasn't something I'd ever expected to see.  A man with
another man."

"M'sieu prefers women?"

"No.  I don't think so."  The women he'd seen tonight only filled
him with disgust while the men... he had been unable to stop
looking at them at the theater, and he still couldn't stop thinking
about Chasez.

"Ah."  Chasez had gotten his boots off and was now removing James'
breeches.  It was very obvious what James thought, and of who.  He
gave James a knowing look as he worked the sodden clothing down
James' legs.  "You do prefer men then."

It was useless to hide it.  "I think so, yes."

After the breeches, the rest of his small clothing came off, and
James was naked.  It was an extremely uncomfortable position to be
in and when Chasez came back with another heated towel, James
snatched it from him, propriety be damned.

He toweled himself dry, flushing as Chasez stood there, watching
him.  "What, damnit?" he finally snapped.

"Perhaps, m'sieu, we could reach some sort of accommodation?"
Chasez asked and stepped forward, a small smile playing about his
lips.

"What are you talking about?" James asked, but it really was
perfectly clear when the valet -- no, not his valet now if Chasez
was doing things like this, and he'd be damned if he knew what the
man was to him now -- put his hand around the back of James' neck
and pulled him closer and kissed him.

London really was a strange and wondrous place, James thought.  And
dropped the towel.