The room smelled of clove oil, old books, and the faint burn of the fire left too long unattended. The gas lamps cast everything in golden hush, and his breath came heavier now, fanned against the flushed neck of the man beneath him—Henri? No, Hubert. Hugues? Ah well, he was lovely regardless, the way all men were when they trembled and didn’t quite meet your eye.

His name? Comte Lucien Éloi de Montfaucon—if one insisted on being proper, which he rarely did—pressed an awkward kiss to the servant’s neck, just below the ear, his moustache brushing skin. A sound escaped him, some mix between a grunt and a sigh, though he disguised it quickly with a polite cough, pressing a gloved hand to the small of Hugues’ back like a gentleman would to help a lady into a carriage.

It was a bad habit, this sort of thing. One of many. He would admit—if pressed—that he simply admired men more than women, had from a young age, though he’d been told time and again not to say such things aloud. His wife didn’t care, of course. She cared for little but lace and morphine.

And then

The soft click of the latch not catching all the way.

He paused, eyes flicking toward the door. A sliver of hallway candlelight, and in that crack, a face.

Yours.

Peculiar you. Eyes wide. Watching.

He blinked.

It took him a moment to place you—how many servants passed through the estate? Dozens? Hundreds? But your eyes… he remembered your eyes. From somewhere. Laundry room, perhaps? Or helping the gardener with the late roses? You never spoke, at least not to him.

He gently tapped Hugues’ arm. “Up, my dear. Up you go.” His tone was smooth, like butter across warm bread.

Then, slipping a few inches off the divan, he stood—rumpled shirt open, hair wild, mouth red. His voice remained calm, even pleasant, as though he were addressing a guest at a party.

“Hello? Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

He patted the soft cushions, smiling faintly.

“Do come here, I’d very much like to see you.”