Brass Rags Read online

  Brass Rags

  By J.L. Merrow

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2016 J.L. Merrow

  ISBN 9781634860260

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Brass Rags

  By J.L. Merrow

  “Shouldn’t your man be doing that for you, Algy?”

  Lord Algernon Huffingham paused in the act of unpacking his valise. “He should, if I had brought one, but as I didn’t, he can’t.”

  “Oh?” Cedric Whyte, known to his friends, inevitably, as ‘Chalky,’ lounged back on his elbows on Algy’s bed. He kicked his feet idly over the edge. “Want me to lend you my chap?”

  “That’s kind of you, but no, thank you. I’ll manage.” Algy had had dealings with Cedric’s valet, Woundsworth, before, and the man was a dreadful old stick-in-the-mud. Far easier to endure a spot of manual labour than Woundsworth’s sanctimonious expressions. And there was always the possibility Algy might have left something incriminating lurking amongst his collars.

  “Well, if you’re sure. What’s happened to old Hibbert, anyway?”

  “Brass rags, I’m afraid.”

  “Come again?”

  Algy straightened, pressing his hands into his aching back. An errant lock of his light-brown hair had fallen over one eye, and he squinted at it reproachfully, wondering if he’d remembered to pack brush and comb. “I had to give him his notice.”

  “Catch him pawning your watch, did you?”

  “Not exactly. But he was taking liberties.” Algy sighed, and ambled over to the mirror. “Taking time off without so much as a by-your-leave, making free with the best claret, and talking back to me in front of the other servants. It seems to happen with all of them. Just because I like some things…a certain way, they start thinking they can get away with murder.”

  “Sorry, old man, don’t follow your drift.”

  Engaged in making the same discovery as countless young men before him—namely, that fingers make a rather poor substitute for a comb—Algy was annoyed to see his reflected cheeks flush a delicate shade of rose. With his fair-ish hair and blue eyes, it made him look like an impeccably-tailored cherub, which was not at all the sort of impression he preferred to make. “We were…well, you know.”

  “Oh. Oh.” The frown lines deepened, until Cedric’s forehead resembled the surface of the sea on a choppy afternoon around Biscay. “I say, don’t you think it’s a bit off, buggering the help? I’m sure—”

  “Keep your voice down! The last thing I need is anyone else I have to pay off.” Flying to the door, Algy stuck his head out and glanced left, right and, to be on the safe side, up and down, then retreated, shutting it firmly behind him. “Anyway, if you must know, he was buggering me.”

  “Good Lord. And now he’s demanding money with menaces?”

  “Insinuations, more like, but that’s about the size of it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Do? Pay him off, of course.” Algy sat down heavily on the bed next to his friend. “I really thought he was different, Chalky. Why do they always end up despising me? And you needn’t answer that.”

  “Right-oh,” Cedric said obligingly. “You know, you really should find someone, well, a bit more like us. Someone who’d have as much to lose, you know.”

  “Care to suggest a few names?” Algy asked scathingly.

  “Well, there’s Portonbury—”

  “That would be ‘Pox’ Portonbury, I presume?”

  “Or Caldwell—”

  “Please. If ‘Sissy’ Caldwell’s wrists were any limper, he’d be in grave danger of losing his hands. I may as marry a woman and have done with it.”

  “Well…”

  “Not in a million years. Not if she were as rich as Croesus and a Venus incarnate.”

  “Oh. Well, there’s, ah, Melthorpe—”

  “No, it’s no use, Chalky. I just don’t like men like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like us. I like…well…”

  “‘Horny-handed sons of toil?’”

  “In a word or five, yes.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re lowering yourself to their level—naturally they won’t see you as above them, anymore.”

  “I’ve no particular problem with that. I just wish they wouldn’t see themselves as above me, that’s all.”

  “Except in the purely physical sense, you mean.” Cedric nodded. “Well, frankly, Algy, to coin a phrase, you’re buggered.”

  * * * *

  Buggered, Algy thought sadly to himself sometime later, was the one thing he was not. He kicked moodily at a dandelion—or possibly a rhododendron; horticulture had never been his forte—as he strolled through the rather lovely grounds of Blithering Coombe, Cedric’s father’s estate. It was a damned shame it hadn’t worked out with Hibbert—in many ways, he’d been the ideal servant: discreet, reliable and a stevedore in the sack.

  Where on God’s green earth was Algy going to find another man like that?

  As so often when his thoughts turned to potential lovers, Algy found his feet had turned towards the stables. There were so many interesting things to be found there—whips, bridles, assorted arcane items of leather and brass, their purpose lost in the mists of time…Algy adjusted himself hastily in his trousers. Oh, he’d spent many a happy hour in his father’s stables, his face in the hay and his arse in the air, his nostrils filled with the sweet aroma of horse shit while his favourite groom beat him black and blue. Once the man had even put a saddle on him and ridden him around the yard, Algy recalled fondly.

  It hadn’t lasted, of course. Father had banned him from going within fifty yards of the stables back at Fetheram Hoo, claiming the horses were starting to suffer from neglect. Still, Algy thought, brightening a little, Sir William, Cedric’s father, had put in place no such prohibition. And a little nostalgic visit would do no one any harm.

  Smiling happily, Algy quickened his pace until he reached his destination, whereupon he darted a quick glance around, then slipped inside. And almost walked straight into a pair of firm, hairy buttocks, which tensed and flexed as Algy watched them. Attached to the buttocks, Algy could see a fine pair of shapely, muscular legs, round the ankles of which pooled livery trousers. One of the footmen, he surmised. The rest of the man was in keeping with the general theme: a broad, well-sculpted back; sturdy neck; and dark hair, the natural unruliness of which had entirely failed to be restrained by its coating of brilliantine.

  Algy’s mouth was suddenly as dry as the fresh hay piled by the door. Beneath the footman, he could di
scern the form of another, slighter man, fetchingly draped over a low bench strewn with various articles of tack. What little of the smaller man that was visible—mostly, a pair of rather skinny, yet unmistakeably masculine legs—twitched and writhed as the footman pounded into him, his harsh breathing a piquant counterpoint to the sweet tune of the slap of bollocks on buttocks.

  Terrified lest a whimper escape him and halt this arousing display, Algy shoved a hand into his mouth as far as it would go. Meanwhile his other hand, having a pretty fair idea of what was expected of it in such circumstances, had shoved itself down the front of his trousers. Not, perhaps, as far as it would go, but certainly to very useful effect.

  The grunts from the two lusty young men before him intensified, as did the delicious sensations in Algy’s nethers. Recollecting in time that he had, at present, no valet to remove any stains which might occur, Algy thought it prudent to unbutton his trousers. Thus freed from all restrictions, his hand worked more forcefully upon his prick, unconsciously falling into step with the rhythm of the men in front of him. Lord, what wouldn’t Algy give to be the object of the footman’s attentions! His arse clenched forlornly, feeling empty and bereft, but his cock, God, his cock was on fire and his balls were about to explode.

  Sweat dripped down Algy’s face as he pumped away, one dribble reaching his lips, and he licked at it absently. The intense salty flavour was like a shot of brandy. The footman’s rhythm was becoming ragged. He must be close to completion. God, if Algy could only time this right…Yes! YES! The footman groaned and gave a powerful thrust, and Algy convulsed, his seed spurting out fully six feet across the hay and falling only inches short of the footman’s behind.

  As the footman collapsed with an oath across his companion’s back, Algy came to himself, helped by a sharp pain in his left hand which reminded him he was in the process of biting off several knuckles. Bother. Hopefully the teeth marks would fade before he needed to appear in company. If not, he would just have to invent some encounter with a wild beast in the grounds which was not, after all, all that far from the truth.

  Algy gave his injured hand a quick shake, and then adjusted himself, checked for any visible stains, and slipped out quietly. It was probably time to dress for dinner.

  * * * *

  Having laboriously donned white tie and tails entirely unaided, Algy gave himself a pat on the back for a job well done, checked his reflection one last time, and sauntered out of his room in search of cocktails. He had barely set foot upon the staircase when something of a commotion in the hall below arrested his attention.

  Algy stopped, and stared. One of the footmen was being frog-marched across the hall by his fellow footman and the butler. The captive was the attractive one from the stables, Algy realised—if the unruly dark curls hadn’t told him this, the wisps of hay adhering to his trousers certainly would have. Algy tutted at such carelessness, before glancing down hastily at his own lower garments for any similar betraying signs. Then he recollected he’d just changed the blasted things for dinner.

  The footman’s dark features were even darker now, and his expression was a mixture of pain—for his arms were twisted behind his back—and bravado. He was expostulating with his captors both loudly and profanely, and Algy felt his loins stir in entirely inappropriate fashion. But Lord, the fellow looked magnificent!

  Sir William burst out of his dressing room with a face like thunder, his collar only half fastened. “What is the meaning of all this?” he bellowed downstairs, nearly deafening Algy, who had the misfortune to be only three feet away.

  The butler, Franklin, was quick to answer. “It’s Robert, sir. The second footman. He’s been caught stealing.”

  Sir William looked sternly at the unhappy fellow. “Well?” he said sharply. “What do you say to these accusations?”

  “I only took what was owed me, Sir William.” Robert was a picture of righteous indignation, only slightly marred by his ever-shifting gaze.

  “Explain, Franklin.” Sir William descended, his heavy tread upon the stairs queasily akin, in Algy’s ears, to the drum-beat that precedes an execution.

  Franklin sniffed. “I found the man helping himself from the petty cash, which I had taken out to pay the grocer’s boy and not yet returned to the safe.”

  Robert snarled at him. “That was my money, that was!” He turned to his employer. “This bastard—begging your pardon, sir—said he was goin’ to dock my wages for somefin’ I ain’t never broke. So I was just getting my money back.” His accent, Algy noted with a little frisson, had shifted entirely from drawing room to Whitechapel.

  “Is this true, Franklin?”

  The butler sniffed again. Algy was on the point of offering him a handkerchief. “All of the servants are quite aware that if they break something, they must pay for it. And there was no one else in the room when Lady Emily entered, and found her favourite vase in pieces upon the hearth.”

  Sir William nodded. “Well, then. You’ve done your duty, Franklin. Get him out of my sight, and call the constable.” He turned away, the matter closed. Robert’s chin remained up, defiant to the last, but there was a sort of hopeless tension about his eyes that wrung the heart.

  Algy found himself flying down the stairs with barely a conscious thought. “I say,” he said breathlessly, “Awfully sorry—ought to have said something before. It was I who broke the thing. Afraid it slipped my mind. I shall be glad to pay for it, of course.”

  Franklin glared at him. To Algy’s surprise, so did the prisoner.

  Sir William, being constrained by the rules of politeness, merely harrumphed. “I see. Well, I suppose the fellow had some genuine sense of grievance. Very well—Franklin, no need to involve the police.”

  “But Sir William, common thievery—”

  “He’s dismissed, Franklin, without a character. I think that will suffice. Now, if you will all excuse me, I should like to return to my guests.” He turned on his heel and left the hall.

  Franklin and the footman reluctantly let go of their prize, who shook his arms like the apostles shaking the dust off their feet, only with rather more in the way of muttered curses than Algy would have attributed to the saints. While the other two departed, Robert stood there, still glaring at Algy. “Well, thanks a bleedin’ bundle,” he said sourly once they were alone.

  Algy blinked. “I beg your pardon? I just saved you from gaol, you ungrateful wretch!”

  Robert snorted. “Ha! It’s your fault I’m out a place, though, ain’t it? If you ‘adn’t of gorn and broke that bleedin’ vase…”

  Too late, Algy realised to admit his confession had been fabricated would be to give away more than would be entirely prudent. The former footman had a demonstrably elastic grasp on morals; to explain that Algy had admired his arse while watching him bugger the stable lad and had experienced a reluctance to see said arse languish in gaol would be tantamount to signing a blank cheque for the fellow. “Oh. Yes, I can see you might not view my actions in a completely favourable light.”

  “Well, it ain’t like the old bugger’s going to give me a reference, now is it? So how’m I going to find another place?”

  “As it happens, I’m in need of a valet,” Algy suggested cautiously. “Do you think you could turn your hand to that sort of work?”

  Robert regarded him for a moment, rather in the manner of one considering the purchase of a prize thoroughbred. Algy half expected a demand that he show his teeth. “All right. I’ll be your valet, and at the end of it, you give me a reference, right?” His eyes narrowed. “A good reference.”

  “A sterling reference,” Algy assured him. “I shall extol your virtues in terms that would make the Bard of Avon blush.”

  Those handsome brown eyes became the merest slits. “Right. So are we staying ‘ere long? ‘Cos Franklin’s going to be at me to sling me ‘ook.”

  “Sling my hook,” Algy corrected absent-mindedly. “Well, I suppose in the circumstances it might be politic to remove ourselves. Very we
ll. I’ll go and explain matters to Cedric, have them bring the Wolseley around, and then we’ll be off. We can stop for dinner at a pub en route. You go and pack your things.” He smiled as a pleasant thought struck him. “And then you can pack mine.”

  * * * *

  Three days after they had arrived back at Algy’s Mayfair town house, however, he was feeling rather less chipper. Robert had proved himself, if not a particularly satisfactory valet at present, certainly an admirably quick learner. That was part of the trouble.

  Close proximity to Robert had only served to amplify his roguish charms in Algy’s eyes, and Algy had been struck with an attack of wholly unwonted—and heartily unwanted—nerves. Whilst the man had proved himself an able student in the matter of pressing shirts, there had been absolutely no progress towards the matter closest to Algy’s heart.

  (In metaphorical terms, of course. In purely physical terms it was a good eighteen inches away. Lessening to ten, obviously, when aroused.)

  Algy had found himself, uncharacteristically, shying away from the object of his desire. He didn’t just wish Robert to indulge his carnal impulses. Algy wanted the man to think well of him. To admire him, if at all possible, at least some degree as much as Algy admired Robert. It was mortifying and frustrating in equal measure.

  It wasn’t as though there hadn’t been any amount of opportunity for Algy to press his suit. Or press anything else, for that matter. From his schooldays, Algy had been well versed in the art of lingering touches, and for heaven’s sake, Robert assisted him to disrobe daily. But Algy found himself paralysed.

  Take the matter of the bath yesterday. A perfect opportunity, Algy knew. All it usually took was a simple invitation to scrub the master’s back, which would progress into a plea for help in cleansing all those difficult-to-reach nooks and crevices. Then the flicking of damp towels could begin in earnest.

  Robert had drawn the bath, and stood respectfully by, a towel over one arm like a well-dressed railing. While he awaited Algy’s pleasure, the man had made some innocuous comment on the linoleum in the bathroom. Algy had been occupied, at the time, with examining his reflection—had that been a grey hair? Surely not—and had answered somewhat distractedly, “Yes, I find it’s easier on the knees.”