Page 9 of The Demons of Wychwood

I found I was quite affronted that he was laughing at me; after all, I’d saved this bugger’s life. “I don’t think so, sir. While I’m much obliged for your help, as an employee of the General Post Office it’s my duty to ensure the safe arrival of correspondence to the correct recipient.” I nodded respectfully and then rushed up the steps to the door for number twenty St James’ Square.

The door was ajar, and I could see that the butler lingered in the foyer. I rapped my knuckles on the door. The butler stepped forward and opened it.

“Can I help you?”

“I’ve a letter here for a Lord Penhelligan. Is that your master?”

The butler looked at me all odd and perplexed. His eyes questioned me and then moved over my shoulder.

“Well of course Lord Kit is my master!” The elderly man sounded a little outraged.

“Very good.” I handed the letter over, gave a nod, and turned to discover 27 standing behind me. This time the man was chuckling, his red gloved hand over his mouth trying to keep his laugher in. I was confused for a moment before the butler said,

“A letter arrived for you, milord,” and passed the ivory envelope to 27.

I felt like an utter fool. “Oh gawd, milord, I’m sorry I —”

The nobleman laughed out loud then, and the bright, joyful sound was one I had not heard him make before. I couldn’t help but be drawn into the ridiculousness of the situation. 27s name was Christopher Havelock, but people called him Kit, and he was the bleedin’ Duke of Penhelligan. Something was not right here...not right at all…or maybe it was perfectly right? I knew this man’s taste in the bedroom was for other fellows and so he could not be the Penhelligan who had wronged my family. I let out a sigh of tension I’d been holding. Finally, I had a name for my mystery man and my god, that fact made butterflies dance in my belly. Pushing aside all of the la-de-dah titles in my head, I settled on Kit. Kit was a nice name, it suited him, but even nicer was looking at the man’s wide smile and hearing his boyish laughter. His brown eyes were trained on me. For the first time, I was seen by the man who had the starring role in my filthiest imaginings.

“Forgive me for the misunderstanding, milord. I must get back to work or my wages’ll get docked,” I stuttered self-consciously as I excused myself and tried to step past. A red gloved hand landed on my shoulder and stopped me in my tracks. I froze. He was touching me, not skin to skin, but his hand was touching my shoulder. My heart began to beat rapidly.

“You’re at St Martin’s Le Grand, yes?”

“Indeed sir. I’m a sorting clerk. I’m responsible for your letter missing the post bag. I gave up my break to bring it to you.”

Kit gave me a measuring look, “That was very kind of you. I wouldn’t want you to lose your wages over this silly letter from my sister. There’s a carriage at your disposal should you wish it.” Lord Penhelligan turned and gestured to the driver.

“I… I couldn’t—”

“I insist, come,” Kit turned and made his way back down the steps and onto the street. I followed, trying to not let my eyes greedily consume how finely formed this man was, or how well cut his britches were, or of how the scent of citrus pomade in his soft black hair made me think of warm summer days. I’d admired Kit Havelock from afar, but my god, being close to him again I remembered that he was even more handsome at close quarters. A day’s stubble growth on his chin gave him a rakish look and he appeared a little tired. That makes two of us mate. I can’t get a bloody wink of sleep without thinking about you.

“Hawkes, take…I’m sorry, your name?” Lord Penhelligan requested.

I’d never felt so nervous, not even before going into battle against insurgents in Delhi. I didn’t know what to do with my hands or where to look so I let my gaze settle on the man’s fine leather boots. “Fu… Fu…Felix, milord, Felix Lazarus”.

“Hawkes, take Mr. Lazarus to the GPO, quick as you can,” Lord Penhelligan ordered as he opened the carriage door and ushered me inside. It felt peculiar, but I did as I was told, climbing into the luxurious silk-lined carriage. I could smell sandalwood and a distinct note of citrus that I recognized as belonging to Christopher Havelock himself. I sat back on the well-sprung banquette seat, and without another word the carriage door clicked shut and the vehicle set off.

I turned in my seat and glanced out of the window. I saw the object of my affection had remained standing on the curb absently turning the letter over in his hand, all the while watching as the carriage rounded the square and headed for a side road that avoided the hold up on Pall Mall. The man appeared deep in thought, and worried, yeah, he definitely looked worried, and I didn’t know what to make of that.

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