Agamemnon Frost and the House of Death Read online

  “Shall I ring for hot water, sir?”

  Frost unclipped his cravat pin and dropped it into another of the dishes. He waved him towards the bell pull to the side of the bed. “How many to dinner?”

  “Seven.” Mason tugged on the brass handle as Frost eased free his blue silk cravat and unclipped the high collar of his shirt. “Lady Cadwallader and her daughter, Theodora, naturally. The Barends, Sir Arthur, Lady Barend and their eldest daughter, Arabella. Doctor Evan Stanhope and Colonel Orwald Whitney.”

  “Theodora...” There was something in his eyes that Mason couldn’t put a name to. His smile became thin. “Yet, an interesting selection.” He pointed to the trunk. “My shaving jacket. The shaving kit is in the top drawer.”

  Mason settled the collarless and ornately embroidered jacket across Frost’s shoulders as the maid knocked. She was soon sent on her way with a request for hot water. Frost took a book from the bedside table and returned to his armchair before the fire.

  “Do you want to stay on here, Mason?” He flicked over the firelit pages. “The library is excellent. Though nothing to compare to the Picton Reading Room.”

  “No, sir.”

  He didn’t elaborate. Frost had already deduced too much about him. He wasn’t a game for the man to indulge in whilst they waited for hot water. He would not dwell on how Frost knew that after visiting the registry he’d seek out the vast library on William Brown Street to occupy his mind.

  With Frost’s evening clothes and shoes chosen, Mason set out the bowls on the small washstand and opened the shaving kit. He arranged the chair beneath the levered pendant lamp, aware that Frost watched his every movement.

  He’d been a footman before he joined the army, and taking up the work again, whilst tiresome, was still bred into his bones. He’d worked for a wealthy merchant in Grassendale Park. A fastidious man with a far too pretty daughter. A daughter who liked to corner Mason on the darkened stairwell and press her slender, white-silk-covered body against his. Penelope. The scent of her skin, the hint of jasmine and lavender, the escaping strand of her blond hair that fell across her pale cheek. It’d been bliss. She’d whisper that her father would never find out if he kissed her...

  Mason paused, his fingers delaying on the smooth nap of a towel. He’d been so tempted by her. So tempted, he ran away and took the Queen’s shilling. And Penelope had been out of his thoughts for a long time. Frost had him dragging up every memory.

  The light knock broke into his unease. The maid bobbed and handed over a copper pot of hot water. Her gaze strained to see beyond him, no doubt to catch a glimpse of Agamemnon Frost. He thanked her and closed and locked the door.

  “Sir, I’m ready.”

  Frost settled himself in the chair, the soft light of the gas lamp warming his skin to a golden colour. Mason arranged the towel to protect Frost’s clothes. “May I, sir?” He held up a warm, damp flannel, ready to wet the other man’s skin.

  Frost’s gaze held him, that strange, hot golden brown, with its lure of bare skin, hot mouths—

  Mason slammed a door shut on his thoughts and focused on the task at hand. Did the man want his throat cut because the one shaving him had his thoughts solely on his dick? He patted the damp flannel across the hard planes of Frost’s jaw, his chin, under his nose, Frost tilting his head to give access to this throat.

  “Where will you go from here?”

  Mason dipped the shaving brush in a little bowl of warm water and lathered up the white cake of soap. He concentrated. He couldn’t tell Frost to mind his own business. Though he was sorely tempted. “I hope one day to find a permanent situation with a military gentleman.”

  He tilted Frost’s head, his fingers light against the heat of his skin. His heart was a solid stone in his chest, his blood on fire. Touching Frost shouldn’t inspire this reaction. Mason watched the lather-filled brush, watched it move in quick, precise strokes across Frost’s jaw, working the soap, softening the day’s bristle growth. And forced himself to believe that it wasn’t his own hand, wasn’t the temptation of Frost’s skin...

  “My regular man couldn’t make it.”

  Mason laid the brush across its rest. He fixed on his breathing, on keeping the rhythm of his heart slow and steady. In a way, he’d have preferred the dandy, the fashion plate, rather than this enigmatic man who pushed the forbidden into his thoughts. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “There was an aeolipile accident.”

  Mason opened the razor, dipped the blade in the hot water and fixed it securely in his hand. “Sir?”

  Frost pressed his lips together and the shining brown of his eyes momentarily faded. They grew dark. “There was nothing that could be done.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” He murmured the platitude when the question he wanted to ask was why had Frost hired another of the machines that had killed his valet and tore up the country to a dinner party? But then Agamemnon Frost was a part of the ruling class. They were always something...different.

  Mason turned Frost’s chin and stretched the skin of his jaw. A steady hand started to remove the thick layer of lather below his sideburn. Frost closed his eyes, his breathing even and deep. And with that hot stare gone, Mason’s curiosity got the better of him. He turned the man’s face to start on his other cheek. “Have you visited Sir Randolph before?”

  “No. The invitation was unexpected. Though timely.”

  To get him out of London and away from the inconvenience of a dead valet. Mason’s fingers tightened around the ebony handle and tang of the blade. He willed himself to lift the razor away from Frost’s throat. “That’s fortunate, sir.”

  Frost opened an eye. Light gleamed and his lips twitched. “He was a valued member of my household.”

  Mason kept his face impassive. Frost was goading him again. Was his life just one huge game, where he tried to play a man who had a razor to his throat? Was he so bored with the endless rounds of chatter and vice? “Should I continue?”

  Frost tilted his head further back, offering himself. “By all means.”

  Mason stretched the skin on his throat and pressed the blade over it. More quick and careful work cleared away the bristles and lather. He cleaned the blade a final time and damped down Frost’s skin with a warm, wet flannel.

  Frost’s skin glowed wet under the light of the lamp, the carved perfection of his face more evident with the shadow of bristles gone. The need to taste him, to run his tongue over his lips, to see the surprise and heat burn in Frost’s gaze, gripped Mason. He’d never had such a lurch of want in his life. And certainly not so strongly for another man.

  Frost’s face dried, Mason poured freshener onto his palm and rubbed them together. He pulled in a breath before he touched the smooth heat of the other man’s skin. Slowly, he teased and rubbed in the balm, enjoying the feel of Frost’s strong jaw, the strength in his neck, his smooth forehead and straight nose. Cream followed, the hints of sandalwood and vanilla making Mason’s heart beat hard.

  The final task was Frost’s hair, the soft scent of coconut from the macassar oil clouding Mason’s thoughts. Setting the brush down, he left out a slow breath. It didn’t help. “Finished, sir.” The raw voice was hardly his own. He swallowed and stepped back, rubbing his hands together on a towel.

  Frost stroked his jaw. “Nicely done.”

  He stood and Mason took another step back. He cursed his stupidity. Frost’s games weren’t getting to him. “Would you like to dress now, sir?”

  Frost turned so that he could slip the shaving jacket from his shoulders. “It’s time.”

  He disappeared behind the dressing screen. Mason was thankful for it. Watching the man strip clothes from his body would’ve been a torment. He curled his fingers into his palms and welcomed the strain across his knuckles.

  “My clothes, Mason.”

  M
ason scrubbed a hand across his face. He’d brave the cold the next day and find himself a hot and willing body. A female one. All breasts and rounded hips. He yanked his attention back as he accepted Frost’s clothes and handed him his evening dress. He was hanging the trousers in the trunk when Frost stepped out from behind the screen.

  “I’ve changed my mind. The red patterned waistcoat, I think.” Frost opened a small box on the dressing table from amongst a selection of similar boxes. Inside was a pair of ruby cufflinks and an unneeded matching cravat pin. “These too.” His smile was sharp. “Shock them with new London fashions.”

  Mason helped him to dress, trying to ignore the strong turn of his wrist as he threaded and fixed the cufflinks, the smooth warmth of his throat as he pinned Frost’s shirt collar into place. He didn’t react to anyone—man or woman—like this. With a need to taste skin, to lick a slow line along the edge of his jaw, feel the sudden indrawing of his breath and then to take his mouth. The swell of want he had for Frost surprised—and irritated—him.

  “It’s necessary.” Frost tugged at his cuffs as Mason settled his evening jacket across his shoulders. He tucked his watch into his trouser pocket, the ornate fob gleaming against the perfectly pressed material. “You’ll wait on me tonight.” Frost took a step closer and Mason willed iron into his spine. “But I have to warn you, things here are not as they seem.”

  “Really, sir?”

  Frost’s lips thinned and a hint of danger glinted in his eyes. Mason had seen that determination before, in an officer getting ready to go into battle.

  “Listen to me very carefully, Mason.” Frost stood before him so that they were separated by mere inches. The seductive scents he himself had applied to the man’s body reached out to him, and Mason willed himself not to turn or look away. A game. Frost was relieving his upper class boredom by tormenting the staff.

  “I am, sir.”

  “Are you?” Frost closed the inches, until his mouth, so perfectly level with Mason’s own, was complete temptation. “Or are you thinking about this?” Frost’s lips brushed his, a slow glide that pulled Mason’s breath from him, made his hands ball into fists and his dick painfully hard. “Well?”

  “Thinking such things would not be appropriate, sir.” He ground out every word as he fought not to take more than a simple kiss.

  “No.” Frost wet his lips and Mason bit back a groan. Why was he having such a fierce reaction to a man he didn’t know? “It’s not. However, it is, as I said, necessary.”

  Mason frowned. “Necessary?”

  “I needed to be sure of you.” The hard glint was back in his gaze. “Because Martians have command of this house, and come midnight, we’re both in grave danger.”

  2. Revelation–and More–at Dinner

  Mason barked out a laugh. He couldn’t help himself. Now Frost pushed the game too far. “Martians?” Belatedly, he remembered his position. “Sir.”

  Frost shoved him hard into the wall. Mason wasn’t a small man and Frost’s fierce strength caught him by surprise. He moved in close. “Your life depends on believing me.”

  He was insane. Utterly handsome, but completely insane. Mason nodded and it caused Frost to frown.

  “I know that I sound as if I should be locked away in Rainhill, but you have to trust me.”

  Yes, he was beginning to believe the man belonged in an asylum. Mason nodded again, refusing to glance at the door to check his escape route. “I believe that you believe there are Martians in this house, Mr. Frost.”

  Frost stilled and then a quick smile tugged at his mouth. “Yes, you do.” His eyes shone with amusement. “Shall we have this as our game, Mason?” His smile deepened into a grin and Mason’s gaze dropped to his lips, the all-too-brief kiss still sharp in his memory. His dick stirred. “Let us pretend Martians plan to convert us to be their puppets at the stroke of midnight.”

  Mason blinked. “That’s a complex game, sir.”

  “It is.” His eyes shone golden brown and they heated Mason’s blood. “I prefer complex.”

  Agamemnon Frost was a madman...but still the urge to kiss him rode Mason hard. The dark thought pushed forward that Frost didn’t have to be all there to fuck him.

  “So how do we play this game, sir?” Mason brushed the cuff of Frost’s sleeve, a light, brief touch, as if he flicked away dust. “As Williams said, I am at your service.”

  “You’ll speak of this to no one. Not as a joke to the staff, above or below stairs.”

  “They’re Martians too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Understood, sir.” He let a smile touch his lips. “And before we outline more of this game, what is my reward?”

  “Your being alive isn’t enough?”

  “Of course, sir. However, Martians are hardly going to keep me gainfully employed—or offer me a character—if I oppose them.” He wanted Frost to grin at him again, to see it...and there it was.

  “If we live, I’ll offer you a situation within my household. Agreed?”

  Mason hesitated. That wasn’t what he expected. He knew how Frost regarded his staff, disposable and obviously not to be mourned. And the man was a game player at best. At worst, delusional. But it would mean a regular wage and a secure roof over his head. He’d be a fool to pass it up. He was also not thinking about what other positions he could occupy in Frost’s household. “As your valet, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t have that much to lose and let out a slow breath. Work had been thin, which was why he’d jumped at the job of a single night. He also had the word of a gentleman that he had a place. “Agreed.”

  Frost stepped back and ran his finger along the lapel of Mason’s coat. “We share the same birthday.” His fingers curled away and his head tilted. “Another important factor to the Martians tonight.”

  Mason frowned. “You can’t possibly know—” He snapped his teeth together, denying more insolence. “I mean—”

  “The twenty-second of February. In all probability, a morning birth.”

  Mason stopped his mouth falling open by sheer force of will. “How...?”

  Frost picked up his kid gloves from the dressing table and stretched them over his fingers. “The things I know would astound you.”

  Already the other mask was slipping into place. The dandy was reappearing, making ready for the “Martians” who would await him in the drawing room. Frost was indeed an eccentric man. “I’m ready, Mason. And remember, not a word about our game.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Mason straightened his shirtfront and waistcoat, tugged at his coat. He rolled his neck against his stiff collar and strode towards the door. Unlocking it, he pulled it open.

  Frost twitched a smile at him. “Stay close.”

  Mason shut his eyes for a long moment. With effort, he remembered his job and his duty. He closed the door behind him. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Mason opened the door into the drawing room and waited for Frost to pass him.

  “Mr. Frost!” Lady Cadwallader rose from her chair beside the fire. Her pale cheeks glowed pink from the heat and she stretched out her gloved hand. “I’m so very pleased you could join us for our little celebration.”

  “Lady Cadwallader. It’s been too long.” Frost lightly took her fingers and kissed the air above the pale blue silk of her gloves. Mason held down a wince. The shine was in his eyes again, the little hint of wickedness, of pleasure that made his gut tighten. “And I am sure the pleasure is all mine.” He smiled and Mason’s hands tightened behind his back. He didn’t understand the need he had to stop Frost’s flirtations, but it was there, souring his stomach. “I was surprised and delighted by your invitation. I missed Sir Randolph when he called, but your party gave me a delightful reason to revisit the north.”
<
br />   Somehow, under his direct attention, Mason expected Lady Cadwallader’s already pink face to deepen its colour. It didn’t. A hardened, provincial matron, obviously. Instead, she gave him a polished, society smile. “Theodora.” A younger version of herself clad in fashionable gold silk rose from her chair. “May I present Mr. Agamemnon Frost to you? He’s a Frost from Greenbank Hall.”

  Theodora gave a slight curtsey and Mason couldn’t miss the heat in Frost’s gaze as it roved over the low line of her gown. The girl—she could be no more than eighteen—glanced up...and nothing.

  Mason stopped himself from frowning. Frost had looked at him like that—to a much lesser degree—and he’d dragged up forbidden thoughts and lost memories. Frost had practically tongue-tied him. But this slip of a girl simply smiled politely. Yes, the upper crust were different to the likes of him.

  “How is your brother, Menelaus?” Theodora asked. “Were you visiting him in London?”

  “I believe him to be fine. But, sadly, no, Miss Cadwallader. Even though the House is in recess, an MP’s work is never done.” Frost matched their smiles. “I sojourned with some old friends in the wilds of Buckinghamshire. The weather was shocking, but still I shot my fair share of the wildlife. Though, I can assure you, I was in constant contact with my tailor.”

  Theodora echoed the laughter of her mother, but there was no hint of interest. Frost, though assumed a dandy, was still a catch. Monied and connected, he was a prime target for a wealthy merchant’s daughter. Maybe Theodora knew she didn’t have to try.

  Lady Cadwallader moved on to introduce Frost to the rest of her guests, and his practised wickedness missed the mark with all of them. Because they were...Martians?

  Mason bit at the inside of his cheek to deny the smile that wanted to break from him. Williams shot a glance at him and he refixed the impassive mask of the invisible servant to his face.