Alec did his best the next day. He tried to work. He tried not to listen for every knock at the door in case it was the postman bearing a letter from his father. He tried not to think of what would happen if his father rejected his overtures and he’d alienated his siblings in vain, and he tried particularly hard not to think about Crozier’s promises to take care of it.

Everything is entirely under control. It was so tempting to believe him.

Alec had been seven when his mother died, quite old enough to be aware of the world fracturing around him. He’d been left in no doubt of the relative importance his father placed on his second wife and his offspring; he’d also been very thoroughly taught at school that the sins of the father were visited upon the children. Alec had been a pariah for years, the other boys gleefully repeating the things their parents said about the Duke of Ilvar and his new Duchess. If only they’d known.

Growing to manhood and carving out his own career hadn’t brought any more certainty. It should have—and, Alec had sometimes thought in rebellious moments, it would have, if he’d cut himself off from his brother and sisters. If he was permitted to be plain Alec Pyne who earned his own living and mixed with journalists and artists and was of no interest to anyone... But he wasn’t, because he was Lord Alexander and his behaviour reflected on his brother and sisters, clinging onto gentility by their fingertips.

Cara had once suggested Annabel might train as a copyist, a perfectly respectable occupation for a woman. Alec still winced at the memory of that argument, and George and Melissa’s fury. They were the heirs to Ilvar; sooner or later Father would die, and George would be duke, and assuming Father hadn’t ploughed every bit of his capital into jewels for the Duchess by then, they’d be able to take their place in society. But not, as George had pointed out, if his sister were a type-writer and his brother a newspaper drudge. They had to hold to their stations in life or they would be nothing. What sort of man would marry Lady Annabel Pyne-ffoulkes, with no portion to speak of, if he had to pluck her from an office?

Alec’s descent to the industrious classes didn’t reflect nearly so badly on the family as Annabel’s would, but George had still been disappointed that Alec was working at all, and that, since he was working, he wasn’t doing so in a bank or a stockbrokers’ firm. That would have been a respectable occupation, where he could actually bring in enough money to make a difference or, even better, strike a bargain with a banker’s daughter who would pay to become Lady Alexander. If only Alec had had the capacity.

It had added up to a wearyingly familiar sense of isolation even before his estrangement from his siblings. Cara had known him, but she was dead; George tried his best, but he’d never understand. Work had brought friendships as far as they went with people constantly scrabbling for the same jobs, but little else. It had come out very quickly that he was titled—one could hardly mix with people who worked on the papers and expect to keep that sort of secret—and his colleagues had generally lost interest in him when he’d refused to spill secrets of Society that he mostly didn’t have. And his private life was, frankly, a blank. He’d had plenty of encounters, thanks to boyish good looks—he had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case much longer, given his blond hair had started to grey and his wide blue eyes were acquiring crow’s feet—but nothing that had lasted. Men didn’t tend to seek him out twice; he was silent and passive to a fault in the bedroom and the kind of men who liked that in a partner had not so far proved to be men he wanted anything to do with.

The fact was, he reflected as he sketched the next day, sunlight streaming through the skylight and hot on his hand, he was lonely. He was neither fish nor fowl socially, he disappointed his family whatever he did, and though he had plenty of acquaintances, he had very few real friends. He’d never had those, because how could you make friends when you couldn’t tell people the truth?

He’d told the truth—one truth—to Jerry Crozier and he wasn’t quite sure why, except that he’d already put himself in the man’s power so he could scarcely make matters worse. That, and there was something about Crozier’s shameless confidence, the casual authority, that Alec wanted in his own soul. Wanted to have, wanted to be had by: he wasn’t sure which.

He wished to God he could talk to someone about this, but there was nobody, and he wasn’t sure what he’d say anyway. This fellow told me to stroke myself off while he watched. No, that was all. No, he didn’t touch me, except for his hand on my throat. Not like that, I could breathe, just holding me still. Yes, best fuck of my life. No, I can’t name him. He’d be angry if I spoke about him in any way, and he frightens me a little bit.

It was an uncomfortable thought. Crozier could be a charming companion and an intelligent listener, and he’d teased out precisely what Alec wanted so carefully and given—no, offered—it to him. And yet he was frightening; he took what he wanted and wasn’t sorry, and when Alec had tried his patience too much, the look in his eyes had been genuinely alarming.

Alec had put himself in this dangerous man’s hands anyway, and been promised that everything was under control, and the dreadful thing was, he believed it.

He didn’t get a great deal done that day. The next day brought a rejection on the Shakespeare job, which was a blow, an acknowledgement of his submitted artwork for the fairytale book, and a stiff note from George requesting he reconsider his foolish actions and offering fifty pounds to meet his immediate obligations. Alec doubted Melissa would be happy if she heard about that, sent his brother an appreciative thought, and penned a brief, sulky note of refusal. There was no letter from his father.

What would, what could Crozier do if the Duke chose not to reply?

He’d find out soon, he decided, because the second post brought a ticket for The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde plus a scribbled note on Army and Navy Club notepaper:

Evening dress not required.

Call me Jerry.

The former was a relief, since he’d sent his one shirt for laundry; he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the latter. Jerry. It seemed uncomfortably intimate, but intimacy was the impression they were trying to give in public, and if one could toss oneself off at a man’s command, one could surely use his first name.

He put on his better suit and the green waistcoat, spent too long prodding at his hair, and went out with a jangling combination of nerves and excitement, and a little pot of petroleum jelly in his pocket because one never knew.

Jerry was lounging outside the theatre when Alec arrived, chatting with the doorman. He straightened as Alec approached. He looked rather more clubbable today, in a smart check, like an ordinary sort of man about town. “And here he is. Good evening, Lord Alexander.”

“Jerry, old fellow.” Alec found he was smiling. “I hope I’m not late?”

“Not at all. Thanks for your advice, Drummond.” He tipped the doorman, raised his hat in jovial manner, and led the way in.

“What did you want of the doorman?” Alec enquired.

“It never hurts to make friends in low places. Particularly when they can obtain one boxes at short notice, and let one know about the comings and goings of all sorts of interesting people.”

And doubtless let other people know about Alec’s comings and goings with Jerry. He nodded and followed his companion through the crowd to the stalls.

The play was marvellous. Alec had loved the book, and though the stage version lacked its subtlety, the atmosphere of terror was superbly done, and Mr. Mansfield’s twisting physique truly horrifying as he shifted from the philanthropic, kindly Dr. Jekyll to the monster of selfishness Hyde. Alec shuddered along with the mystery, gasped at the cruel attack on the harmless old man, found himself praying that Dr. Jekyll would somehow overcome his worse self even while he knew the end was inevitable.

And all the while he was aware of Jerry Crozier next to him, very close, not touching. He didn’t think Jerry’s attention was on the play.

They went along to the Coal Hole on the Strand afterwards for a bite to eat. It was noisy, the kind of loud masculine noise Alec didn’t much like, with red-faced men braying and shouting and a pall of smoke hanging over everything, but the food was good.

“What news?” Jerry enquired once they’d addressed a generous portion of steak and kidney pudding. He had to speak loudly even with Alex close up to him on the shared table, calf pushed up against calf.

“Nothing. Or, negative news. I didn’t get the Shakespeare commission.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. Sorry to hear it.”

“Well. And there’s been no response to my letter either.”

“There, I can offer some assistance,” Jerry said. “Your father and his wife will be at Lady Sefton’s soirée on Saturday. If I obtain invitations for us both, is he likely to cut you dead?”

“If you what? How will you do that?”

“Don’t worry about it. Answer the question.”

“I...don’t know,” Alec said. “I don’t even know if he’ll recognise me. I haven’t seen him in eight years.”

“It could be worse. At least you haven’t had any recent blistering rows. Well, we won’t take any chances.”

“What are you going to do?” Alec asked uneasily.

“Leave it to me. And make sure you look your best. Do you have all the needful—gloves and so on? I want you looking smart as a new pin. No poverty in evidence.”

Alec thought of his last pair of gloves, unfortunately yellowing. “Um. I can probably—”

“No probably. We’ll deal with that.”

“Why? That is, he’ll surely assume I’ve got back in touch for the money, so why pretend I haven’t?”

Jerry clicked his tongue. “Because we don’t want to embarrass him. If you look shabby-genteel, it would be a reproach to his paternal care. There will be plenty of people watching to see how you behave: it must be with the greatest filial respect. Nothing for which the highest stickler could reproach you or your father, or indeed your stepmother.”

“Yes. Of course.”

His reluctance must have been clear. Jerry gave him a sideways look. “You know you’ll have to do her equal courtesy, if not more.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re monosyllabic again. Is that really harder to swallow than the other?”

Alec’s chest felt tight. He didn’t much want to discuss this here, so he simply nodded.

Jerry sighed. “Will this be a problem?”

“No. I’ll do it. I don’t much relish it, that’s all.”

Jerry contemplated him, then tossed a few coins on the table. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Outside.”

Alec followed, once again. Out of the Coal Hole, down Carting Lane’s steep slope, through the shadows of tall buildings on each side, towards the smell of the river, salty at the high tide but still stinking of fish and rotten wood, and down towards Victoria Embankment Gardens. Alec’s pulse was hammering. It was far too risky here; one did sometimes see men sneaking in and out of the bushes, but the chance of a patrolling constable was far too high and it was twilight now, not pitch dark.

Yet Jerry strolled on, unconcerned, and Alec paced him, heart in his throat, feeling himself hardening almost in response to the tension, waiting to be pushed into the bushes.

Jerry didn’t break his stride. They went through the gardens, onto the Embankment, and to Alec’s bewilderment, came to a stop to look out over the softly heaving river.

“Er,” Alec said.

“Fresh air, for a given value of fresh,” Jerry said. “And a chance to speak in slightly more peace. Why do you loathe your stepmother so much, when it’s your father who had the responsibility to you? Or are we blaming her for his failings?”

“I blame them both. She’s a horrible woman—proud, unkind, resentful—and he’s done everything in his power to encourage her. He’s selfish and weak, and all the crueller because he’s weak, and she encourages that. They make each other worse.”

“And yet she’s harder to swallow?”

“Well, I’m meant to honour my father,” Alec said. “The Bible says so. Maybe it’s easier for me to hate her.”

He fixed his eyes on the water, black in the dimming light. He could feel Jerry’s gaze.

“Maybe,” Jerry said at last. “All the same, I want you making your obeisance to her as though she were the Queen of England. If she’s proud, you feed her pride. If she’s uncertain of her position underneath the facade, you show absolute certainty. Whatever she wants to hear from you. Got it? You and I need to be invited to Castle Speight, and if you get this right we will be, and once Temp and I have a foot in the door, my degenerate scion of a noble race, your troubles will be over. What game are we playing?”

“The long game,” Alec said, half annoyed, half amused at being instructed. “I do recall. I’ll do it. Er, how do you propose to get Mr. Lane in?”

“As my valet. He makes rather a good one. Has a way with servants.”

“Gosh. And, I really do have to ask, how on earth can we go to Lady Sefton’s soirée when I for one am not invited?”

“Oh yes you are,” Jerry said. “Our names will be on the guest list, and nobody will question that. I should mention that mine is Vane.”

“Sorry?”

“Gerald Vane. A very distant relation of the Marquess of Cirencester’s family, with no claim at all on their notice,” he added, with a self-deprecating smile that Alec would bet he’d practised in a mirror, it was so perfectly pitched.

“Isn’t that a bit risky? What if there’s a Vane there?”

“There’s dozens of Vanes. The family runs to multiple sons and has done for generations. There’s no reason at all you should doubt my claim to the name, by the way, since I was introduced to you as such by a gentleman in a club who now escapes your memory.”

“In case anyone asks later on?”

“You’re getting the hang of this. I’ll collect you at your lodgings at eight on Saturday. Make sure you’ve eaten. I don’t want attacks of nerves or incautious drinking. Then just follow my lead.”

“What? I mean, are you not going to tell me what to do?”

“With all due respect, you’re no Mr. Mansfield,” Jerry said. “And moreover, we—Templeton and I—take a Wellingtonish approach to plans: we react and adapt. I don’t want you expecting any particular thing to happen; I want you to have a very pleasant evening, and to react to whatever may occur as you would normally. Just remember that you want to return to your father’s good graces, and if your terribly exciting and dashing new friend provides a way to do that, naturally you will seize the opportunity.”

“I don’t know if my father likes dashing and exciting people,” Alec suggested cautiously.

Jerry clicked his tongue. “Give me some credit.”

“Leave it to you?”

“Everything in my hands. It worked before.”

The words tingled through Alec. “This is rather different, though.”

“Yes and no,” Jerry said. “You find yourself unsure of what you want, how to get it, and whether you even ought to try. Well, I know what you want, I can supply it, and I have no doubts as to your capacity. I think you have remarkable potential.” He drawled the adjective as if giving it a long, slow stroke. “And I’m going to prove it to you.”

Alec swallowed. “Are you?”

“Do you know what I most enjoy about my work?” Jerry said, unexpectedly.

“The money?”

“Ha. No. That, as they say, is how one keeps score. No, I like the unseen power, the knowledge that we have and others don’t. I will walk through Lady Sefton’s marble halls on Saturday, and spread my nets to snare the Duke of Ilvar, and nobody but you and I will know what we’re doing there. I’ll move them like chess pieces, the ladies and gentlemen of wealth, and they won’t even know they’re pawns.”

Alec believed it. Jerry’s words had a quivering tension that made his toes curl and sent shivers of alarm and excitement up his spine. “That’s a disturbing tack to take.”

“You think so?”

“Well. Yes?”

“You don’t see the appeal in knowing something they don’t know?”

“Not really.”

Jerry turned to face him, and jerked his head. “With me.” He strode off without explanation. Alec followed, through the haloes of gaslight that pierced the gathering darkness, towards the dark underbelly of Waterloo Bridge. A friend had been relieved of his watch, wallet, and tiepin there quite recently. He thought he could see shapes moving in the gloom.

“Ought not we go round, or up the stairs?” he suggested.

“No.”

“But—”

“Lord Alexander.” Jerry’s tone was quite calm. Alec swallowed, and followed, into the cold, dank depths under the great bridge. The shadows were deepest between the huge supports and there were figures in those shadows, just visible, and sounds of panting, the slap of flesh. It stank of river-mud and damp stone and human dirt.

Jerry took his arm and pulled him into the dark. Alec went with him, almost stumbling, and was turned and shoved towards a wall he could barely see. He put his hands up automatically and found them pressed against slimy-rough brickwork, his face to the wall, Jerry’s foot between his own feet, kicking them wider. Then there was a push of a body against his back, and Jerry’s breath on his neck as he leaned heavily in, and Alec braced his forearms against the wall and tried to remember how his lungs worked.

“Lord Alexander.” Barely a whisper to his ear; Jerry’s hand sliding round his hips and cupping his groin. Alec moaned in his throat, trying to keep silent because this was insanely dangerous, pushing forward into Jerry’s possessive hand. Jerry was massaging him, a firm, deliberate pressure through his clothing, and he was hard himself, a stiff stand pushed against Alec’s arse. Alec had no idea what he was going to do, and if Jerry kept this up he’d spend in his drawers from the terrified excitement.

Jerry squeezed his bulge. Alec couldn’t help a breathy whimper, and then his buttons were being undone, warm strong fingers intruding between his legs, and Jerry had his prick in hand. He wrapped his fingers around Alec, still for a long second, and his hand moved. Alec bit his lip savagely to keep silent as that commanding hand worked him with short, sharp strokes, the urgency and the terrible recklessness of this combining in a rush of excitement. He came absurdly fast, pulsing violently against the wall, with the stink of the river in his nose.

He sagged. Jerry’s arm tightened, pulling him upright, mouth to his ear. “Remember this. When you greet Lady Sefton on Saturday, when you play the gentleman and introduce me to the Duke, remember that I had you like a cheap tart under Waterloo Bridge. I promise you, Lord Alexander, you’re going to love that. Now tidy up.”

He tugged at Alec’s waistband. Wordless, Alec tucked himself away. He did up his buttons before he turned, despite the darkness; Jerry took his arm and they headed out of the deepest shadows of the bridge. Two, three steps towards the relative brightness of the gaslit night, and then a bulky figure stepped into their way.

“Oi.” A deep voice. “What’s this?”

Jerry gave a weary sigh. “My good man, kindly move aside.”

“Suppose I don’t.” The man came forward. His silhouette didn’t suggest a policeman, thank God, but that was all the good that could be said, and Alec could feel a stir of interest from the huddled figures around them, as well as some rapid footsteps hurrying away—probably other indulgers thanking their lucky stars. “What’s a couple of swells doing down here? I reckon I ought to call the peelers. What about that, eh?”

“Pair of mollies,” a high voice came from the dark, adding an epithet, and there was a giggle. Alec’s stomach tensed with apprehension. False complaints of indecency were a highly profitable line, and most men would pay up to avoid the humiliating consequences even if they were innocent. It would be a great deal worse if this alley extortioner knew they were guilty.

Jerry had both hands up, placating. “Now, look, fellow, let’s be reasonable, eh? There’s no need for unpleasantness.”

“I’ll tell you what there’s need for.” The man took another intimidating step forward. Alec shrank away, and hated himself for it, even as the thug poked a finger into Jerry’s shoulder, looming over him.

“Please, my good man,” Jerry said, sounding rather less confident now. “Really, there’s no need for trouble. I’m sure we can come to an amicable—”

Alec didn’t see it coming. Jerry was still speaking as his right arm stabbed up in an uppercut at brutally close range, driving under the man’s ribcage as if trying to punch him in the heart. An immediate left hook to the stomach drove the air from the thug’s belly; Jerry put a savage knee into his groin, and then as the man folded forward, Jerry caught his hair and brought up his knee again, this time into his victim’s face. There was a crunch, and the big man went down to all fours making an airless, gargling sound.

And now they could run. Alec shot a glance at Jerry to make sure he was coming, but he wasn’t. He’d moved back a little, and as Alec stared he took one light step forward, and kicked.

It was not the kind of kick Alec had seen in brawls, short jerky stabs of the foot. It was, in fact, very reminiscent of the kick with which Preston North End’s centre forward had started the FA Cup Final when Alec had illustrated it for a boy’s paper. There was a terrible, meaty thwack as Jerry’s foot connected with the man’s head; he went arching over backwards, hit the ground heavily, and didn’t move again.

“Scream for the peelers and I’ll come back and fucking do you,” Jerry said loudly, apparently for the benefit of the watchers, because the man on the ground didn’t look as though he was in any state to hear anything. “Goodnight, all.”

He strode off. Alec stared after him for a second, and then almost sprinted to catch up, feeling his shoulder blades tense with the consciousness of the people behind him. There was absolute silence from the shadows.

Jerry led the way along the Embankment heading towards Temple station, but turned up Surrey Street, through a flow of people, until they were on the brightly lit Strand once more.

“Uh, Jerry? Ought we not to, to...”

“What?”

“Send help? I think he might need a doctor,” Alec said, with some understatement.

“Any fuckster who tries to blackmail me may think himself lucky not to need a mortuary.” Jerry spoke with a certainty far more alarming than any threat. “You know what that fellow was up to. He’s learned a valuable lesson about attempting extortion.”

“He might die!”

“Yes. That was the lesson.”

Alec stared. Jerry shrugged.

“But—”

“But what? Are you suggesting I should have paid him? Appealed to his better nature? Let him take my wallet and call the peelers anyway?”

“We were under Waterloo Bridge,” Alec said, from the side of his mouth, voice low. “If one does that kind of thing—”

“Then what? One can expect to be beaten and blackmailed, and one deserves it? Do you suggest we ought to have paid up as some form of molly tax?”

“Well...” Yes, Alec realised, that was indeed what he thought, or at least, what seemed inevitable. Of course one would be threatened, blackmailed, punished. That was how the world worked. “No, I’m not saying that, but if one breaks the law—”

“Extortion is illegal,” Jerry pointed out. “Blackmail is a consequence of gross indecency, getting one’s head kicked in is a consequence of blackmail, and so the world spins. Why should your actions merit punishment and his escape it?”

Alec wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Well, what about your actions? Isn’t arrest the consequence of what you do?”

“Indeed, so I take steps to avoid it. If someone wants me to take the consequences, they’ll have to make me. That’s how it goes. No Fate, no great hand of divine justice. Can you not think of any upright gentleman who’s got away scot free with crimes that others would hang for?”

Alec stopped dead. Jerry took half a pace onward, then turned with a frown. “Alec?”

“Nothing,” Alec said. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re right, and in any case I’m not going to go back down there to help that man, so I’m probably being stupid. I think I should go home. I’m a little tired.”

Jerry raised a hand for a cab, and one duly moved off from a rank a little way down the street. Alec wanted to know what it was about his manner that made his hand so much more visible than Alec’s used the same way. “I will collect you on Saturday. Keep what I told you in mind, won’t you? And—” He removed something from a pocket and pressed it into Alec’s palm as part of a handshake. “Get yourself ready, Lord Alexander. We’re going to make your father proud.”

Alec looked at the paper when he was alone in the cab. He wasn’t even surprised to see a ten-pound note.

He shut his eyes and leaned back against the hard seat.

That was the second time Jerry had—he wasn’t even sure what verb to use. Brought him off didn’t begin to describe it. Jerry had fucked him, no matter how little physical contact had been involved, and Alec was uncomfortably aware he hadn’t done a damn thing in return. He was quite used to men whose only concern was their own cockstand, and if Jerry had, for example, first brought himself off and then ordered Alec to do it for him under the arches, that would have been entirely comprehensible in a way this wasn’t. Or if he was one of those who only liked to watch—but Alec could still feel the hard pressure against his arse from earlier. He didn’t at all understand this.

Maybe Jerry simply liked men to be putty in his hands. The way he’d spoken about the power he’d hold over wealthy people oblivious to the serpent in their midst; the way he’d spoken of the Duke.

Alec thought about Jerry Crozier’s cold lust for control, and the few seconds it had taken him to leave a deadly threat unconscious and bleeding, and the fact that he’d unleashed this man on his own father. He was still thinking about that when the cab drew up on Mincing Lane, and when he got out, he was smiling.