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nbrooks said I could. Comments more than welcome
Chapter 1
Lord Withycombe's Secretary
It was with modest trepidation and a good deal more brazenness that I approached the New York office of Lord Edward Francis Withycombe, renowned flying ace of the Great War and adventurer extraordinaire. For myself, I was barely twenty-two and the ink had scarcely dried on my journalism degree from the hallowed halls of Dartmouth.
--From the journal of Charles Doyle, secretary to Lord Withycombe
Charlie Doyle checked the address on the newspaper ad against the one on the building, 2347 Elm. This was it. He climbed the stairs to the office and knocked. The name “Withycombe Enterprises, Ltd.” sparkled on the glass, freshly painted.
"Come in!”
He stepped into the dim office. The man behind the desk never looked up. Charlie stood patiently for a minute. Then he cleared his throat.
"I'm quite aware of you, young man. Sit down and I'll be ready in a moment.” The very posh British accent played over Charlie's skin like St. Elmo's fire.
Charlie sat in one of the stiff wooden chairs, and read the ad again silently. “Wanted, eager young secretary to pursue adventure, wealth and glory. Travel mandatory. Orphans preferred. English or Journalism degree and passport required.” He watched the man's big hands shuffle papers, reading them, and stacking them. He suspected he'd already blown the interview.
After a long while, the man looked up. “Very well. I am Lord Edward Withycombe, the man you wish to work for. At the moment, I'm unsure you're suited to the rigors of the position.”
"I meet all your requirements,” Charlie protested. “Eager, young, journalism degree.” Charlie tried his most winning smile. “And willing to travel and pursue wealth and adventure. I even have the passport.” He had acquired it the year before, thinking to visit Paris, where all of the important writing was happening.
Lord Withycombe looked him over again. “You appear to be in good health,” he conceded.
"In the pink.” Charlie barely restrained himself from thumping his chest. “What is it they say in the baby-milk ads? For strength and vigor I defy the world.” Charlie knew as soon as the words were out they had been the wrong thing to say. He read all of the newspaper, of course, trying to hone his own skills.
Lord Withycombe looked at him, an oddly unreadable expression on his face, and nodded slowly. “I'll take your word for that.” He shuffled a few more papers, staring at Charlie, as if daring him to squirm. “I will give you the opportunity to prove yourself over three months. I like your enthusiasm.”
Charlie smiled widely at that. “When do I start, Lord Withycombe?”
"Tomorrow.” Lord Withycombe handed him a sheet of paper and a fat wallet. Charlie peeked in and saw what looked like a couple of hundred dollars in cash. The paper had a list of clothing and supplies, brief, concise and nearly illegible. “These are the things you will need. Meet me here tomorrow at six in the morning, ready to travel. I've wasted a great deal of time finding you. Don't make me regret my choice.”
Charlie, still half-dazed from the small fortune he held, read the list again. “Yes, sir. Bright and early tomorrow morning, all packed. I'll be here.” He stood up and thrust out his hand to shake, but hesitated, wondering if that was how he was supposed to take his leave of a nobleman.
Lord Withycombe stood up and shook, in a very firm grip. Charlie thought he saw the beginnings of a smile lurking around the edges of Lord Withycombe's face.
Charlie gave him a big grin, hoping to coax it out. When the smile was not forthcoming, he left to do his shopping. He heard Lord Withycombe grumble, “Americans,” behind him as the door shut.
He paused on the stairs, to take a few moments. He had never been so glad baggy trousers were fashionable. If he had suspected Lord Withycombe had seen him get hard, and just from looking at those big hands moving papers around, he'd have left the wallet, too embarrassed to return. Now, he leaned against the wall of the stairwell, grinning as he remembered the feel of Lord Withycombe's hand, the not-quite-there smile and the scent of the man. He imagined it again, all leather and tobacco with a hint of woods and sweet cookies.
Then Charlie collected his wits and went shopping.
~~~
The next morning, Charlie presented himself at the office, carpetbag in one hand, typewriter case in the other. He had added a few personal items to Lord Withycombe's packing list. He wasn't going anywhere without his journal, or his typewriter. Let Lord Withycombe protest, he'd use it as a seat cushion if he had to. He looked at the case. It would be most uncomfortable, though.
"Good morning,young man.” Lord Withycombe strolled up, his suit and tie immaculate, and his own carpetbag bulging. He glared at the typewriter case. “I believe my list said only the items on it.”
"Yes, Lord Withycombe. But if you want a proper secretary, I'll need my typewriter.”
"I had planned to provide one later in the journey rather than cart yours half-way around the world.” He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me, and if you are more comfortable with your own machine, please bring it. Now, all haste. The ship departs in an hour.”
Charlie picked up his bags and followed his new employer. Apparently, his lordship wasn't the hardnose Charlie had thought. A really hard man would have fired him on the spot for the typewriter. Rules could be bent if there was a valid reason, it seemed. Now, all he had to do was either not get caught getting up to didoes, or have a really good answer when he was.
Charlie looked at the great steamship, amazed. He suddenly realized he had stopped walking and that Lord Withycombe's long stride was carrying him up the gangway...without Charlie.
Charlie hurried after his employer, ignoring the other passengers in their summer linens and gauzy dresses. He clutched his valise tightly, and made judicious use of his elbows, finally catching up with his employer at the purser's desk.
The purser handed Lord Withycombe his keys. Charlie followed him down a few decks to their suite. It was about the size of Charlie's old apartment. That is, big enough for a bed, a sofa and a very tiny head built into the bulkhead. Charlie looked out the port hole and over the dock, realizing he was about three stories high.
Lord Withycombe cleared his throat and settled into a chair with his newspaper. Charlie took the hint and scurried about, putting things away. He bit back the thousands of questions he was bursting to ask. The London Times made a formidable moat and wall against impertinent interruptions.
Finished, he settled down with his own journal to record his first impressions of the ship. He wrote a page and found his prose drifting to Lord Withycombe. He had written about his employer's hands holding the paper, the faint smell of his pipe and his slow even breathing.
Charlie stopped writing. He just observed. In college, he'd been too busy for much of a love life. He'd always loved dancing, and had no trouble finding a girl to take to the school dances. But he'd never gone steady or gotten serious.
However, there had been one roommate, a quiet boy who greatly admired the lifestyle of the Romantic poets and imitated them upon every occasion. They had gotten tight on a small flask of bootleg absinthe one evening, and Frank had kissed him, calling him Shelley. In return, since the kiss wasn't awful, Charlie had kissed Frank, calling him Byron.
He thought of Frank now, as Lord Withycombe lowered the paper. He wondered what it would be like to kiss a man with a mustache. wondered too, how unethical his thoughts of persuading his employer into the Harvard Rub were.
"So, I suspect, Mr. Doyle, you're wondering why second class?”
Charlie blushed a little. He took a breath, trying to stop. He hated the way he blushed like a girl at the slightest provocation. “Yes, Lord Withycombe. I know you have your reasons.”
"In first class, I get introduced to a half-dozen men's daughters. Or more. Sometimes, introduced multiple times, depending on how much sherry their fathers have had.” He gave a rakish grin. “In point of fact, I am the most eligible bachelor in England.” He rolled his eyes at the phrase, and Charlie could almost read the social column he had lifted it from. “So, since I value my privacy, this little cabin provides me with the peace and quiet I require for comfortable travel.”
"I'm afraid I'll be disturbing your peace and quiet, your lordship. I snore,” Charlie confessed.
"That's not a problem, Mr, Doyle. I shall simply smother you with a pillow if need be.”
Charlie's eyes went big and he covered his mouth with his hands. “I'll do my best not to, sir.”
Lord Withycombe laughed. “I'm joking, Charles. Although, the fellows in my regiment did try that on me back in '16. I snore rather like a Handley-Page, they said. The aerodrome chaps they brought in had a bitter argument as to whether it was a Handley-Page or a Sopwith Camel.”
Charlie laughed at the image of half a dozen RAF fliers hovering around Lord Withycombe's bed, debating what his snoring sounded like. “Did you fly a Sopwith, sir?” he asked, leaning forward a little. He'd followed the papers, obsessed with flying at thirteen and fourteen.
"Oh yes. Flew one, and bought her off the RAF. You'll get to see her.” He shook his head and lit his pipe.
“She's a single seater, and deucedly temperamental, so I won't be flying us to Paris in her.”
"Fly? Paris?” Charlie knew he was being incoherent. “I...I never expected-”
"Oh, yes. It's a very pleasant trip in the spring.”
Charlie collected himself quickly. “Very good, my lord. I'm looking forward to it. That's why I got the passport originally. All the really important writing is being done in Paris.” The ship's engines grew louder and the vessel lurched a little. Charlie looked at Lord Withycombe, and gave him a smile. “And so begins my first adventure in the company of the renowned Lord Edward Withycombe,” he said, writing as he spoke.
"I like the sound of my name from you, Charles. Please continue to use it. This should be a quiet trip. Adventure at sea often quickly turns into tragedy. We can both do without that quite nicely.”
"Yes, Lord Edward.” Charlie tried out the new form of address. It felt very nice in his mouth. Very nice indeed, but as the ship surged and rocked out of the harbor, he was feeling quite odd.
"Answer me one thing, Charles,” Lord Edward said. Charlie looked up and nodded. “What was it about my ad that made you answer it? Was it the adventure?”
Charlie nodded. “I haven't done anything exciting in my life. Just school and more school.”
A tap at the door announced the chambermaid. The little redhead was what the boys at Charlie's school had called “pleasingly plump,” not fat but very curvy and heavier than the boyish figures that were coming into vogue. She gave a little curtsy, and held up an armful of towels.
"There's an in-suite bath, your lordship,” she said. “And they told me you needed an extra pillow and blanket for your servant.”
"Secretary,” Charlie and Lord Edward corrected in unison.
She dropped a deeper curtsy and giggled. “Yes, your lordship.” She put the towels away and ducked out for a moment. Charlie watched Lord Edward watching her round little bottom as she put the blanket on the bottom shelf of a wall-mounted table. He had to admit, it was an attractive rear. He bet it would feel nice in his hands.
Lord Edward held up a pound note. She came to him, and when she reached for it, he caught her hand and pulled her close to whisper. Charlie strained to hear, but her giggling covered everything. He listened to his own insides gurgling, a bit louder than the lap of water outside the ship
"I understand, Lord Withycombe,” she said. She curtsied one last time, and ducked out, her pretty freckles not hiding her own blush.
Lord Edward watched as she left. “They've changed the uniforms a little. I approve,” he said to himself, before returning to Charlie. “There will be plenty of adventure, if you don't get bored with the preliminaries.”
"I've never been on a ship before.” Charlie tried to write and his journal lurched appallingly.
"Indeed. You look quite green, Charles. The porthole's too high for the necessity. You better head for the deck.”
Charlie tried to stand up, but sank back, shakily. “I'm not feeling well at all. Maybe I'd better go to bed.” His stomach flipped and he found his feet, fleeing for the deck, glad he'd been too excited to eat more than a roll for breakfast.
The roiling of the ocean in the wake of the ship mirrored the roiling Charlie's insides. He bent over the rail twice, then sat in a deck chair for a few minutes. A passing steward took pity on him and returned with a cool glass of soda water.
The fizziness soothed him, but when he belched, he had to run for the rail again. He finally returned to the cabin, pale, clammy and exhausted.
Lord Edward was just finishing a pipe, and looked up. “Better? I guess not,” he amended when he saw Charlie's sweaty face.
"Better,” Charlie croaked. “I'm just not feeling up to par.”
Lord Edward nodded. “You'll get your sealegs shortly.”
Charlie, shaking from the heaves, bundled up in the blanket the maid had left. “If your lordship has no further need of me, I think a nap might be in order.”
Lord Edward rose, and patted his head. “Go right ahead, Charles. I'll go out and see if I can find anything interesting on this ship. Have a good nap. I'll wake you for dinner.”
Charlie just groaned at the thought of food.
~~~
Lord Edward did check back about dinner, but Charlie barely woke up, and waved him away weakly. The visit did disturb him enough that his shaky stomach sent him topside again.
On the way back, he heard Lord Edward's laugh. He walked toward it, cautious of his wobbly legs. The maid's
giggle, cute and unmistakable, joined it. He paused in front of the closet where they seemed to be emanating, and listened.
Lord Edward sighed softly and Charlie heard a great deal of rhythmic thumping. He realized what they must be doing. The maid gasped, and despite his illness, he imagined the scene and felt himself get hard.
Lord Edward would be standing with his back to the wall, his feet braced against the far wall. The girl would be straddling his hips, her own feet barely touching the ground. He'd have a solid grip on that round bottom, and, Charlie's cock pulsed at this thought, his mouth on one of those pert breasts.
His head spun a little, and he kept listening. Lord Edward whispered something incoherent, and then he heard four hard thumps. Lord Edward gave a muffled cry.
Charlie hesitated with his hand on the door. If Lord Edward was in trouble, he would be of no real help. Yet, if Lord Edward was only indulging himself on the curvy maid, he would not welcome interruption.
The maid giggled again, and Charlie heard Lord Edward cooing to her. He walked on, uncertain if the burning in his stomach was seasickness or envy. More, he was unsure who the envy was for. His cock was miserably hard, bent around in his pants, and he hurried back to the cabin.
The divan was as welcome as the softest bed he'd ever lain on, and he undid his pants hastily, barely remembering to toss the blanket over him. He curled up in a ball and stroked quickly, a quick lick of his palm the only lubricant. He didn't want Lord Edward to catch him at this. He'd blush himself to death.
Charlie moved fast, before his stomach could revolt, imagining Lord Edward and the maid, in the closet. He wanted to see his handsome employer naked, sweating and flushed with desire. He wanted to see the girl naked, her pretty bottom and chest all there to be handled. He imagined standing behind her, as she rode Lord Edward, kissing her neck, pressing her large breasts.
He came quietly, with only a soft gasp, his head thrown back and his eyes shut.
It was only when Lord Edward asked, “Mr. Doyle? Are you well?” that Charlie realized he was no longer alone.
He wanted to sink right through the divan, and the deck, and all the other decks and the hull and walk home along the bottom of the ocean floor. His face burned like a coal in the mostly dark cabin.
"Oh no,” he moaned. Quickly, he pulled himself together and wiped his hand on his underwear. “I'm sorry, Lord Edward.”
Lord Edward looked a bit puzzled, then smiled gently. “It's all right, Charles. I don't expect all of your time. Although I am rather surprised you had the energy to do so.”
"I'm all empty.” Charlie got up and rummaged in his carpetbag. “My lord, I hate to say this, but your packing list has a deficiency. And I forgot to add my own pajamas.”
"I'm sure I have a spare.” Lord Edward dug in his own carpetbag. “I apologize, the list was written a bit hastily.”
"In between the secretary and chambermaid?” Charlie asked, then blushed harder and covered his mouth. He had no intention of ever saying that much, but it had slipped out anyway.
Lord Edward just laughed and tossed him a heavy striped nightshirt. “Quite.”
"I apologize, my lord, I'm being impertinent.”
"I like it.” Lord Edward chuckled and, with no regard for modesty, pulled his shirt off, and peeled down his underwear. Charlie gaped at the sight of a tattoo situated above a single silver ring in his left nipple. “You should do it more often.”
"It's very unprofessional, and I am sorry. I'm not quite myself.” Charlie slipped into the nightshirt. Lord Edward was a tall man, and Charlie stood slightly below average. He flopped in the nightshirt, his hands lost in the sleeves, the knee-length to his calves, and the neck slit much too deep for decency. He was glad of the distraction.
Lord Edward had popped his own nightshirt on and came over to help. “Well, it works in a pinch. You're decent and won't have to sleep in your clothes.” He started rolling one of Charlie's sleeves up.
Charlie cuffed the other one, trying to steal a glance down the neck of Lord Edward's nightshirt and get a better look at the ring and tattoo. “It's better than being naked.”
He wasn't sure what it was that Lord Edward didn't quite say, but he knew the smile on his boss' face made him uncomfortable. Lord Edward ruffled his hair.
"Try to get some rest, Charles.” He turned to the bed and then pulled the neckline of his nightshirt open to the left, showing the scarlet-winged golden arrow in a crowned circle. “It's my squadron crest. I know your curiosity will keep you awake.”
"Thank you, sir.” Charlie curled up on the sofa, with the blanket and pillow.
"You're welcome, Charles.” Lord Edward doused the lights and got into bed.
~~~
Charlie did not sleep well, his agitated stomach sending him to the rail several times. He suspected he woke Lord Edward with least one of his late forays, but his employer said nothing. He was up at dawn, when Lord Edward woke, feeling dragged out. He sipped soda water and wrote in his journal.
"Hard night, Charles?” Lord Edward asked as he rose and stretched, then began morning ablutions.
"Yes, sir, sorry. I must have disturbed you.” Charlie became acutely aware he hadn't shaved yet or combed his hair.
"It's perfectly all right. I don't suppose you want breakfast?” Lord Edward finished lathering up with the mug and brush and started shaving. Charlie felt the blood drain out of his face as his mouth went dry.
He sipped some more soda water. It seemed to help. “Toast, maybe? Please? I don't think I can handle the dining room.”
"I'll bring breakfast here.” Lord Edward smiled as he slipped off the nightshirt. He dressed leisurely, seeming to take as long as possible.
Charlie, bundled in Lord Edward's spare nightshirt, wearing the blanket as a dressing gown, tried not to watch. “I'm sorry to be such a nuisance. I feel all scraped out.”
"Poor lad. The ship hasn't treated you very well so far.” Lord Edward tied his tie, and then shot Charlie a sympathetic smile.
"How do you travel so easily, Lord Edward?”
"Practice, all my life.” He looked Charlie over and nodded as he headed to the door. “I'll get you your toast. See if you have better luck with it.”
"Thank you. When I'm not so green, I'll wait on you.” While Lord Edward was gone, he wrote more in his journal, mostly about Lord Edward, how handsome and kind and generous his employer was.
Lord Edward came back with a tray containing toast and tea, some butter and several kinds of jam. There was a slice of cheese and some tomatoes as well, but Charlie didn't want them. Lord Edward scooped up that plate, added a few slices of toast and smeared them liberally with jam.
"The end of my own breakfast,” he explained, taking a bite of the cheese.
"You didn't have to interrupt it for me,” Charlie said, picking up a piece of dry toast and nibbling the corner. He waited to see if he could tolerate it and ate half of a slice. He sipped a cup of plain tea. “Thank you. it was a difficult night.”
"I could tell.” Lord Edward took up a book he'd brought in with him. “The ship's library is fairly stocked. If you want something in particular, I can get it for you.”
"I'll look into it when I feel better, thanks.” Charlie sipped more tea and caught Lord Edward glancing at him from time to time. “So, Lord Edward, what are we to do this trip? Do I interview you for posterity or what?”
"We could at that. Get a head start on that biography.” He set the book down and chuckled.
Charlie looked at him, a bit flabbergasted. “I'm to write your biography? I mean, I had no idea what being your secretary would consist of, except taking correspondence.”
Lord Edward nodded. “Eventually, it was a project I'd like to explore. It's why I asked for the journalism degree, after all. But I don't feel as if my exploits are over yet. There's far more to do.”
Charlie tried to look as excited as his exhaustion and lingering queasiness allowed. “I look forward to them. And to being the one who records them.”
"Oh, you like that idea. Good. I hoped you would.”
"A book, and more adventures. I mean, we hear about you in the newspapers. I think...I wonder...” Charlie
pondered a moment. “Hmm. I don't know anyone who could make it, but I bet you'd be a smash as a newsreel.”
Lord Edward gave him a charming grin and made himself comfortable. “What do they say about me across the pond, I wonder? I wasn't in New York long enough to read anything.”
Charlie picked up his writing pad. “The stories are about the treasure you've found, the wild places you've been. There's a couple of guys writing pulp fiction about you.”
Lord Edward laughed, really laughed, at that. The sound filled the little cabin and set Charlie's skin afire. It crawled over him like a tangible thing and made him stiffen under the nightshirt.
"Well, we'll simply have to outdo them.”
Charlie licked the tip of his pencil and said, “I suspect the real adventures don't involve mummies and lost cities and a single bullet in your revolver as often as theirs do.”
"No. I never start out without at least three bullets ready.” Lord Edward gave him an impish smile. “The truth is always better than fiction.”
Feeling much restored by the tea, Charlie took another cup of it. “Besides, you have me now. Worst comes to worst, I can beat the monster back with my typewriter.”
"Deadly instrument, that. Lethal in the right hands.”
Charlie giggled a little, caught himself, and realized Lord Edward wasn't actually joking. “So...biography it is. Part one, at least. All right. Shall we do it Dickensian or Pepys? Or shall I be Boswell to your Johnson?”
Lord Edward sighed softly. “I prefer something entirely new. Your own style.”
Charlie shook his head. “I only meant, do you want to start with 'I am born and raised' or shall i just keep a journal and work from that?”
"I think a journal with some memories, as I recall them.” Lord Edward considered a long while. ”Starting at the beginning would be terribly boring.”
Charlie sipped more tea and tried another slice of toast. The first was riding quite well, but his stomach was growling for more. “It's only boring when you live it.” He made himself more comfortable. “All right, give me one really good childhood adventure.”
Lord Edward settled back in his chair. “That would probably be the day I took my father's best horse with the intent of running away.”
"Oh my. Horse thieving is still a hanging offense back home.” Charlie scribbled down the words “Stole father's best horse as child.”
"Yes, but I was Master Edward, and somehow thought that even striking out on my own, I was still entitled to my inheritance. In this case, that horse. Old Barbara...” He remembered the name with no fondness in his voice at all. “She was a chestnut mare, seven years old. And she had little tolerance for anyone but my father. Most grooms couldn't handle her. She got perhaps three or four miles down the road and she started rebelling. She tried to brush me off her back at a few trees, and when she couldn't be rid of me that way, she gave a great rearing and threw me off that way. Unfortunately, my clothes were tangled up and she threw me, but not my trousers.”
Charlie laughed at that image and then covered his mouth.
Lord Edward continued. “She ran all the way back home with them caught on her saddle. And I had to make the very cold walk back without them.”
"Oh my. And the spanking at home?” Charlie assumed there would be one, as there had been the day he had run away from home and made his mother cry and worry.
"The thrashing was worse than the fall, yes.” Lord Edward grinned as if it had all been a grand lark.
"Poor Master Edward,” Charlie sighed. “Did a sympathetic maid sneak you buns for dinner?”
Lord Edward chuckled. “Unfortunately not. I was a holy terror and had no sympathy with any of the staff. Especially not the maid, who hated my room for the odds and ends she would find there, anything from a dead frog to a live hedgehog.”
"A hedgehog?” Charlie looked at him. “You kept a hedgehog?”
"Only for a day. They're very prickly pets.”
Charlie noted that turn of phrase and sighed. “I was meek and quiet. I couldn't see beyond my arm and was rather timid until my parents figured out that I needed glasses.”
Lord Edward reached over and pushed Charlie's glasses back up his nose. “They look very studious on you. It fits.” Charlie blushed, just enough to turn pink. Lord Edward leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially,
“I'm still rumored to be a bit of a holy terror. So I need a studious secretary at my side.”
Charlie shook his head, uncomprehending. “How is that going to help? It's not as if I dare stop any of your terror.”
Lord Edward settled back, to Charlie's great relief. He could barely breathe with the man that close, smelling of spice and leather and tobacco and a man's cologne. If Lord Edward touched his glasses again, he was going to be quite improper.
"It balances, you see. You will be there, reminding me that I have to do this and that and that it's not a good idea to... misbehave,” Lord Edward made that last word impossibly sexy and Charlie's toes curled.
Charlie took a big breath instead, and rather than encouraging Lord Edward to misbehave, he asked. “So what are we doing? I packed up and followed you aboard, with barely a farewell telephone call to my parents.”
"Well, we are headed to London where we will enjoy a few social gatherings, and I will get men to hire me. To do something. Anything. We'll see when they tell me what needs doing. Enjoy the trip, Charles.”
nbrooks said I could. Comments more than welcomeChapter 1
Lord Withycombe's Secretary
It was with modest trepidation and a good deal more brazenness that I approached the New York office of Lord Edward Francis Withycombe, renowned flying ace of the Great War and adventurer extraordinaire. For myself, I was barely twenty-two and the ink had scarcely dried on my journalism degree from the hallowed halls of Dartmouth.
--From the journal of Charles Doyle, secretary to Lord Withycombe
Charlie Doyle checked the address on the newspaper ad against the one on the building, 2347 Elm. This was it. He climbed the stairs to the office and knocked. The name “Withycombe Enterprises, Ltd.” sparkled on the glass, freshly painted.
"Come in!”
He stepped into the dim office. The man behind the desk never looked up. Charlie stood patiently for a minute. Then he cleared his throat.
"I'm quite aware of you, young man. Sit down and I'll be ready in a moment.” The very posh British accent played over Charlie's skin like St. Elmo's fire.
Charlie sat in one of the stiff wooden chairs, and read the ad again silently. “Wanted, eager young secretary to pursue adventure, wealth and glory. Travel mandatory. Orphans preferred. English or Journalism degree and passport required.” He watched the man's big hands shuffle papers, reading them, and stacking them. He suspected he'd already blown the interview.
After a long while, the man looked up. “Very well. I am Lord Edward Withycombe, the man you wish to work for. At the moment, I'm unsure you're suited to the rigors of the position.”
"I meet all your requirements,” Charlie protested. “Eager, young, journalism degree.” Charlie tried his most winning smile. “And willing to travel and pursue wealth and adventure. I even have the passport.” He had acquired it the year before, thinking to visit Paris, where all of the important writing was happening.
Lord Withycombe looked him over again. “You appear to be in good health,” he conceded.
"In the pink.” Charlie barely restrained himself from thumping his chest. “What is it they say in the baby-milk ads? For strength and vigor I defy the world.” Charlie knew as soon as the words were out they had been the wrong thing to say. He read all of the newspaper, of course, trying to hone his own skills.
Lord Withycombe looked at him, an oddly unreadable expression on his face, and nodded slowly. “I'll take your word for that.” He shuffled a few more papers, staring at Charlie, as if daring him to squirm. “I will give you the opportunity to prove yourself over three months. I like your enthusiasm.”
Charlie smiled widely at that. “When do I start, Lord Withycombe?”
"Tomorrow.” Lord Withycombe handed him a sheet of paper and a fat wallet. Charlie peeked in and saw what looked like a couple of hundred dollars in cash. The paper had a list of clothing and supplies, brief, concise and nearly illegible. “These are the things you will need. Meet me here tomorrow at six in the morning, ready to travel. I've wasted a great deal of time finding you. Don't make me regret my choice.”
Charlie, still half-dazed from the small fortune he held, read the list again. “Yes, sir. Bright and early tomorrow morning, all packed. I'll be here.” He stood up and thrust out his hand to shake, but hesitated, wondering if that was how he was supposed to take his leave of a nobleman.
Lord Withycombe stood up and shook, in a very firm grip. Charlie thought he saw the beginnings of a smile lurking around the edges of Lord Withycombe's face.
Charlie gave him a big grin, hoping to coax it out. When the smile was not forthcoming, he left to do his shopping. He heard Lord Withycombe grumble, “Americans,” behind him as the door shut.
He paused on the stairs, to take a few moments. He had never been so glad baggy trousers were fashionable. If he had suspected Lord Withycombe had seen him get hard, and just from looking at those big hands moving papers around, he'd have left the wallet, too embarrassed to return. Now, he leaned against the wall of the stairwell, grinning as he remembered the feel of Lord Withycombe's hand, the not-quite-there smile and the scent of the man. He imagined it again, all leather and tobacco with a hint of woods and sweet cookies.
Then Charlie collected his wits and went shopping.
~~~
The next morning, Charlie presented himself at the office, carpetbag in one hand, typewriter case in the other. He had added a few personal items to Lord Withycombe's packing list. He wasn't going anywhere without his journal, or his typewriter. Let Lord Withycombe protest, he'd use it as a seat cushion if he had to. He looked at the case. It would be most uncomfortable, though.
"Good morning,young man.” Lord Withycombe strolled up, his suit and tie immaculate, and his own carpetbag bulging. He glared at the typewriter case. “I believe my list said only the items on it.”
"Yes, Lord Withycombe. But if you want a proper secretary, I'll need my typewriter.”
"I had planned to provide one later in the journey rather than cart yours half-way around the world.” He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me, and if you are more comfortable with your own machine, please bring it. Now, all haste. The ship departs in an hour.”
Charlie picked up his bags and followed his new employer. Apparently, his lordship wasn't the hardnose Charlie had thought. A really hard man would have fired him on the spot for the typewriter. Rules could be bent if there was a valid reason, it seemed. Now, all he had to do was either not get caught getting up to didoes, or have a really good answer when he was.
Charlie looked at the great steamship, amazed. He suddenly realized he had stopped walking and that Lord Withycombe's long stride was carrying him up the gangway...without Charlie.
Charlie hurried after his employer, ignoring the other passengers in their summer linens and gauzy dresses. He clutched his valise tightly, and made judicious use of his elbows, finally catching up with his employer at the purser's desk.
The purser handed Lord Withycombe his keys. Charlie followed him down a few decks to their suite. It was about the size of Charlie's old apartment. That is, big enough for a bed, a sofa and a very tiny head built into the bulkhead. Charlie looked out the port hole and over the dock, realizing he was about three stories high.
Lord Withycombe cleared his throat and settled into a chair with his newspaper. Charlie took the hint and scurried about, putting things away. He bit back the thousands of questions he was bursting to ask. The London Times made a formidable moat and wall against impertinent interruptions.
Finished, he settled down with his own journal to record his first impressions of the ship. He wrote a page and found his prose drifting to Lord Withycombe. He had written about his employer's hands holding the paper, the faint smell of his pipe and his slow even breathing.
Charlie stopped writing. He just observed. In college, he'd been too busy for much of a love life. He'd always loved dancing, and had no trouble finding a girl to take to the school dances. But he'd never gone steady or gotten serious.
However, there had been one roommate, a quiet boy who greatly admired the lifestyle of the Romantic poets and imitated them upon every occasion. They had gotten tight on a small flask of bootleg absinthe one evening, and Frank had kissed him, calling him Shelley. In return, since the kiss wasn't awful, Charlie had kissed Frank, calling him Byron.
He thought of Frank now, as Lord Withycombe lowered the paper. He wondered what it would be like to kiss a man with a mustache. wondered too, how unethical his thoughts of persuading his employer into the Harvard Rub were.
"So, I suspect, Mr. Doyle, you're wondering why second class?”
Charlie blushed a little. He took a breath, trying to stop. He hated the way he blushed like a girl at the slightest provocation. “Yes, Lord Withycombe. I know you have your reasons.”
"In first class, I get introduced to a half-dozen men's daughters. Or more. Sometimes, introduced multiple times, depending on how much sherry their fathers have had.” He gave a rakish grin. “In point of fact, I am the most eligible bachelor in England.” He rolled his eyes at the phrase, and Charlie could almost read the social column he had lifted it from. “So, since I value my privacy, this little cabin provides me with the peace and quiet I require for comfortable travel.”
"I'm afraid I'll be disturbing your peace and quiet, your lordship. I snore,” Charlie confessed.
"That's not a problem, Mr, Doyle. I shall simply smother you with a pillow if need be.”
Charlie's eyes went big and he covered his mouth with his hands. “I'll do my best not to, sir.”
Lord Withycombe laughed. “I'm joking, Charles. Although, the fellows in my regiment did try that on me back in '16. I snore rather like a Handley-Page, they said. The aerodrome chaps they brought in had a bitter argument as to whether it was a Handley-Page or a Sopwith Camel.”
Charlie laughed at the image of half a dozen RAF fliers hovering around Lord Withycombe's bed, debating what his snoring sounded like. “Did you fly a Sopwith, sir?” he asked, leaning forward a little. He'd followed the papers, obsessed with flying at thirteen and fourteen.
"Oh yes. Flew one, and bought her off the RAF. You'll get to see her.” He shook his head and lit his pipe.
“She's a single seater, and deucedly temperamental, so I won't be flying us to Paris in her.”
"Fly? Paris?” Charlie knew he was being incoherent. “I...I never expected-”
"Oh, yes. It's a very pleasant trip in the spring.”
Charlie collected himself quickly. “Very good, my lord. I'm looking forward to it. That's why I got the passport originally. All the really important writing is being done in Paris.” The ship's engines grew louder and the vessel lurched a little. Charlie looked at Lord Withycombe, and gave him a smile. “And so begins my first adventure in the company of the renowned Lord Edward Withycombe,” he said, writing as he spoke.
"I like the sound of my name from you, Charles. Please continue to use it. This should be a quiet trip. Adventure at sea often quickly turns into tragedy. We can both do without that quite nicely.”
"Yes, Lord Edward.” Charlie tried out the new form of address. It felt very nice in his mouth. Very nice indeed, but as the ship surged and rocked out of the harbor, he was feeling quite odd.
"Answer me one thing, Charles,” Lord Edward said. Charlie looked up and nodded. “What was it about my ad that made you answer it? Was it the adventure?”
Charlie nodded. “I haven't done anything exciting in my life. Just school and more school.”
A tap at the door announced the chambermaid. The little redhead was what the boys at Charlie's school had called “pleasingly plump,” not fat but very curvy and heavier than the boyish figures that were coming into vogue. She gave a little curtsy, and held up an armful of towels.
"There's an in-suite bath, your lordship,” she said. “And they told me you needed an extra pillow and blanket for your servant.”
"Secretary,” Charlie and Lord Edward corrected in unison.
She dropped a deeper curtsy and giggled. “Yes, your lordship.” She put the towels away and ducked out for a moment. Charlie watched Lord Edward watching her round little bottom as she put the blanket on the bottom shelf of a wall-mounted table. He had to admit, it was an attractive rear. He bet it would feel nice in his hands.
Lord Edward held up a pound note. She came to him, and when she reached for it, he caught her hand and pulled her close to whisper. Charlie strained to hear, but her giggling covered everything. He listened to his own insides gurgling, a bit louder than the lap of water outside the ship
"I understand, Lord Withycombe,” she said. She curtsied one last time, and ducked out, her pretty freckles not hiding her own blush.
Lord Edward watched as she left. “They've changed the uniforms a little. I approve,” he said to himself, before returning to Charlie. “There will be plenty of adventure, if you don't get bored with the preliminaries.”
"I've never been on a ship before.” Charlie tried to write and his journal lurched appallingly.
"Indeed. You look quite green, Charles. The porthole's too high for the necessity. You better head for the deck.”
Charlie tried to stand up, but sank back, shakily. “I'm not feeling well at all. Maybe I'd better go to bed.” His stomach flipped and he found his feet, fleeing for the deck, glad he'd been too excited to eat more than a roll for breakfast.
The roiling of the ocean in the wake of the ship mirrored the roiling Charlie's insides. He bent over the rail twice, then sat in a deck chair for a few minutes. A passing steward took pity on him and returned with a cool glass of soda water.
The fizziness soothed him, but when he belched, he had to run for the rail again. He finally returned to the cabin, pale, clammy and exhausted.
Lord Edward was just finishing a pipe, and looked up. “Better? I guess not,” he amended when he saw Charlie's sweaty face.
"Better,” Charlie croaked. “I'm just not feeling up to par.”
Lord Edward nodded. “You'll get your sealegs shortly.”
Charlie, shaking from the heaves, bundled up in the blanket the maid had left. “If your lordship has no further need of me, I think a nap might be in order.”
Lord Edward rose, and patted his head. “Go right ahead, Charles. I'll go out and see if I can find anything interesting on this ship. Have a good nap. I'll wake you for dinner.”
Charlie just groaned at the thought of food.
~~~
Lord Edward did check back about dinner, but Charlie barely woke up, and waved him away weakly. The visit did disturb him enough that his shaky stomach sent him topside again.
On the way back, he heard Lord Edward's laugh. He walked toward it, cautious of his wobbly legs. The maid's
giggle, cute and unmistakable, joined it. He paused in front of the closet where they seemed to be emanating, and listened.
Lord Edward sighed softly and Charlie heard a great deal of rhythmic thumping. He realized what they must be doing. The maid gasped, and despite his illness, he imagined the scene and felt himself get hard.
Lord Edward would be standing with his back to the wall, his feet braced against the far wall. The girl would be straddling his hips, her own feet barely touching the ground. He'd have a solid grip on that round bottom, and, Charlie's cock pulsed at this thought, his mouth on one of those pert breasts.
His head spun a little, and he kept listening. Lord Edward whispered something incoherent, and then he heard four hard thumps. Lord Edward gave a muffled cry.
Charlie hesitated with his hand on the door. If Lord Edward was in trouble, he would be of no real help. Yet, if Lord Edward was only indulging himself on the curvy maid, he would not welcome interruption.
The maid giggled again, and Charlie heard Lord Edward cooing to her. He walked on, uncertain if the burning in his stomach was seasickness or envy. More, he was unsure who the envy was for. His cock was miserably hard, bent around in his pants, and he hurried back to the cabin.
The divan was as welcome as the softest bed he'd ever lain on, and he undid his pants hastily, barely remembering to toss the blanket over him. He curled up in a ball and stroked quickly, a quick lick of his palm the only lubricant. He didn't want Lord Edward to catch him at this. He'd blush himself to death.
Charlie moved fast, before his stomach could revolt, imagining Lord Edward and the maid, in the closet. He wanted to see his handsome employer naked, sweating and flushed with desire. He wanted to see the girl naked, her pretty bottom and chest all there to be handled. He imagined standing behind her, as she rode Lord Edward, kissing her neck, pressing her large breasts.
He came quietly, with only a soft gasp, his head thrown back and his eyes shut.
It was only when Lord Edward asked, “Mr. Doyle? Are you well?” that Charlie realized he was no longer alone.
He wanted to sink right through the divan, and the deck, and all the other decks and the hull and walk home along the bottom of the ocean floor. His face burned like a coal in the mostly dark cabin.
"Oh no,” he moaned. Quickly, he pulled himself together and wiped his hand on his underwear. “I'm sorry, Lord Edward.”
Lord Edward looked a bit puzzled, then smiled gently. “It's all right, Charles. I don't expect all of your time. Although I am rather surprised you had the energy to do so.”
"I'm all empty.” Charlie got up and rummaged in his carpetbag. “My lord, I hate to say this, but your packing list has a deficiency. And I forgot to add my own pajamas.”
"I'm sure I have a spare.” Lord Edward dug in his own carpetbag. “I apologize, the list was written a bit hastily.”
"In between the secretary and chambermaid?” Charlie asked, then blushed harder and covered his mouth. He had no intention of ever saying that much, but it had slipped out anyway.
Lord Edward just laughed and tossed him a heavy striped nightshirt. “Quite.”
"I apologize, my lord, I'm being impertinent.”
"I like it.” Lord Edward chuckled and, with no regard for modesty, pulled his shirt off, and peeled down his underwear. Charlie gaped at the sight of a tattoo situated above a single silver ring in his left nipple. “You should do it more often.”
"It's very unprofessional, and I am sorry. I'm not quite myself.” Charlie slipped into the nightshirt. Lord Edward was a tall man, and Charlie stood slightly below average. He flopped in the nightshirt, his hands lost in the sleeves, the knee-length to his calves, and the neck slit much too deep for decency. He was glad of the distraction.
Lord Edward had popped his own nightshirt on and came over to help. “Well, it works in a pinch. You're decent and won't have to sleep in your clothes.” He started rolling one of Charlie's sleeves up.
Charlie cuffed the other one, trying to steal a glance down the neck of Lord Edward's nightshirt and get a better look at the ring and tattoo. “It's better than being naked.”
He wasn't sure what it was that Lord Edward didn't quite say, but he knew the smile on his boss' face made him uncomfortable. Lord Edward ruffled his hair.
"Try to get some rest, Charles.” He turned to the bed and then pulled the neckline of his nightshirt open to the left, showing the scarlet-winged golden arrow in a crowned circle. “It's my squadron crest. I know your curiosity will keep you awake.”
"Thank you, sir.” Charlie curled up on the sofa, with the blanket and pillow.
"You're welcome, Charles.” Lord Edward doused the lights and got into bed.
~~~
Charlie did not sleep well, his agitated stomach sending him to the rail several times. He suspected he woke Lord Edward with least one of his late forays, but his employer said nothing. He was up at dawn, when Lord Edward woke, feeling dragged out. He sipped soda water and wrote in his journal.
"Hard night, Charles?” Lord Edward asked as he rose and stretched, then began morning ablutions.
"Yes, sir, sorry. I must have disturbed you.” Charlie became acutely aware he hadn't shaved yet or combed his hair.
"It's perfectly all right. I don't suppose you want breakfast?” Lord Edward finished lathering up with the mug and brush and started shaving. Charlie felt the blood drain out of his face as his mouth went dry.
He sipped some more soda water. It seemed to help. “Toast, maybe? Please? I don't think I can handle the dining room.”
"I'll bring breakfast here.” Lord Edward smiled as he slipped off the nightshirt. He dressed leisurely, seeming to take as long as possible.
Charlie, bundled in Lord Edward's spare nightshirt, wearing the blanket as a dressing gown, tried not to watch. “I'm sorry to be such a nuisance. I feel all scraped out.”
"Poor lad. The ship hasn't treated you very well so far.” Lord Edward tied his tie, and then shot Charlie a sympathetic smile.
"How do you travel so easily, Lord Edward?”
"Practice, all my life.” He looked Charlie over and nodded as he headed to the door. “I'll get you your toast. See if you have better luck with it.”
"Thank you. When I'm not so green, I'll wait on you.” While Lord Edward was gone, he wrote more in his journal, mostly about Lord Edward, how handsome and kind and generous his employer was.
Lord Edward came back with a tray containing toast and tea, some butter and several kinds of jam. There was a slice of cheese and some tomatoes as well, but Charlie didn't want them. Lord Edward scooped up that plate, added a few slices of toast and smeared them liberally with jam.
"The end of my own breakfast,” he explained, taking a bite of the cheese.
"You didn't have to interrupt it for me,” Charlie said, picking up a piece of dry toast and nibbling the corner. He waited to see if he could tolerate it and ate half of a slice. He sipped a cup of plain tea. “Thank you. it was a difficult night.”
"I could tell.” Lord Edward took up a book he'd brought in with him. “The ship's library is fairly stocked. If you want something in particular, I can get it for you.”
"I'll look into it when I feel better, thanks.” Charlie sipped more tea and caught Lord Edward glancing at him from time to time. “So, Lord Edward, what are we to do this trip? Do I interview you for posterity or what?”
"We could at that. Get a head start on that biography.” He set the book down and chuckled.
Charlie looked at him, a bit flabbergasted. “I'm to write your biography? I mean, I had no idea what being your secretary would consist of, except taking correspondence.”
Lord Edward nodded. “Eventually, it was a project I'd like to explore. It's why I asked for the journalism degree, after all. But I don't feel as if my exploits are over yet. There's far more to do.”
Charlie tried to look as excited as his exhaustion and lingering queasiness allowed. “I look forward to them. And to being the one who records them.”
"Oh, you like that idea. Good. I hoped you would.”
"A book, and more adventures. I mean, we hear about you in the newspapers. I think...I wonder...” Charlie
pondered a moment. “Hmm. I don't know anyone who could make it, but I bet you'd be a smash as a newsreel.”
Lord Edward gave him a charming grin and made himself comfortable. “What do they say about me across the pond, I wonder? I wasn't in New York long enough to read anything.”
Charlie picked up his writing pad. “The stories are about the treasure you've found, the wild places you've been. There's a couple of guys writing pulp fiction about you.”
Lord Edward laughed, really laughed, at that. The sound filled the little cabin and set Charlie's skin afire. It crawled over him like a tangible thing and made him stiffen under the nightshirt.
"Well, we'll simply have to outdo them.”
Charlie licked the tip of his pencil and said, “I suspect the real adventures don't involve mummies and lost cities and a single bullet in your revolver as often as theirs do.”
"No. I never start out without at least three bullets ready.” Lord Edward gave him an impish smile. “The truth is always better than fiction.”
Feeling much restored by the tea, Charlie took another cup of it. “Besides, you have me now. Worst comes to worst, I can beat the monster back with my typewriter.”
"Deadly instrument, that. Lethal in the right hands.”
Charlie giggled a little, caught himself, and realized Lord Edward wasn't actually joking. “So...biography it is. Part one, at least. All right. Shall we do it Dickensian or Pepys? Or shall I be Boswell to your Johnson?”
Lord Edward sighed softly. “I prefer something entirely new. Your own style.”
Charlie shook his head. “I only meant, do you want to start with 'I am born and raised' or shall i just keep a journal and work from that?”
"I think a journal with some memories, as I recall them.” Lord Edward considered a long while. ”Starting at the beginning would be terribly boring.”
Charlie sipped more tea and tried another slice of toast. The first was riding quite well, but his stomach was growling for more. “It's only boring when you live it.” He made himself more comfortable. “All right, give me one really good childhood adventure.”
Lord Edward settled back in his chair. “That would probably be the day I took my father's best horse with the intent of running away.”
"Oh my. Horse thieving is still a hanging offense back home.” Charlie scribbled down the words “Stole father's best horse as child.”
"Yes, but I was Master Edward, and somehow thought that even striking out on my own, I was still entitled to my inheritance. In this case, that horse. Old Barbara...” He remembered the name with no fondness in his voice at all. “She was a chestnut mare, seven years old. And she had little tolerance for anyone but my father. Most grooms couldn't handle her. She got perhaps three or four miles down the road and she started rebelling. She tried to brush me off her back at a few trees, and when she couldn't be rid of me that way, she gave a great rearing and threw me off that way. Unfortunately, my clothes were tangled up and she threw me, but not my trousers.”
Charlie laughed at that image and then covered his mouth.
Lord Edward continued. “She ran all the way back home with them caught on her saddle. And I had to make the very cold walk back without them.”
"Oh my. And the spanking at home?” Charlie assumed there would be one, as there had been the day he had run away from home and made his mother cry and worry.
"The thrashing was worse than the fall, yes.” Lord Edward grinned as if it had all been a grand lark.
"Poor Master Edward,” Charlie sighed. “Did a sympathetic maid sneak you buns for dinner?”
Lord Edward chuckled. “Unfortunately not. I was a holy terror and had no sympathy with any of the staff. Especially not the maid, who hated my room for the odds and ends she would find there, anything from a dead frog to a live hedgehog.”
"A hedgehog?” Charlie looked at him. “You kept a hedgehog?”
"Only for a day. They're very prickly pets.”
Charlie noted that turn of phrase and sighed. “I was meek and quiet. I couldn't see beyond my arm and was rather timid until my parents figured out that I needed glasses.”
Lord Edward reached over and pushed Charlie's glasses back up his nose. “They look very studious on you. It fits.” Charlie blushed, just enough to turn pink. Lord Edward leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially,
“I'm still rumored to be a bit of a holy terror. So I need a studious secretary at my side.”
Charlie shook his head, uncomprehending. “How is that going to help? It's not as if I dare stop any of your terror.”
Lord Edward settled back, to Charlie's great relief. He could barely breathe with the man that close, smelling of spice and leather and tobacco and a man's cologne. If Lord Edward touched his glasses again, he was going to be quite improper.
"It balances, you see. You will be there, reminding me that I have to do this and that and that it's not a good idea to... misbehave,” Lord Edward made that last word impossibly sexy and Charlie's toes curled.
Charlie took a big breath instead, and rather than encouraging Lord Edward to misbehave, he asked. “So what are we doing? I packed up and followed you aboard, with barely a farewell telephone call to my parents.”
"Well, we are headed to London where we will enjoy a few social gatherings, and I will get men to hire me. To do something. Anything. We'll see when they tell me what needs doing. Enjoy the trip, Charles.”
