Duality
Chapter 3

Something had gone terribly awry.

Beatrice paced back and forth on the plush rug of the boudoir, the folds of her taffeta gown rustling in agitation as she did so. She cursed under her breath and wrung her hands around her fan, inwardly glad that she was alone so no one could witness her nervous habits. She nibbled on her lower lip, and allowed her mind to dwell on their situation and the alternatives.

Their plan had been perfect. It was privileged knowledge that Admiral Lacey had a penchant for men - especially young men- and Noel had proposed the ideal plan for coercing the required information from him. Seeing as the Admiral had been a frequent patron the last two weeks, the auction would have been the perfect event to play to the man's deviant tastes. But the old naval officer was supposed to have easily won Noel, not some spoiled unknown British lordling playing with his father's money. Now that they couldn't have intimate contact with the Admiral, something else would have to be done.

"If you do not stop your pacing, Madame, you will ruin a perfectly good pair of slippers, not to mention a very expensive rug that was painstakingly brought all the way back from Persia."

Beatrice jumped at the sudden intrusion, and brought a hand to her chest to still a frantically beating heart. "Noel, would you stop doing that when you enter a room? You are too quiet. Make some noise, a footstep or perhaps even a knock!"

The man had snuck up on her on countless occasions, and how he had done it - especially tonight with his heeled shoes - was something that would forever elude her.

"Forgive me," he said as he bowed to her with calculated elegance. With his leg outstretched, Beatrice admired how the pristine silk of his stocking clung to the tensile strength of his calf muscle. How he could still look so composed after the unexpected turn of events was beyond her. Not a single strand of the wig was out of place or a lace ruffle flat. "But I assumed that this was to be where I entertained my guest tonight."

Beatrice stared at him for a moment, collecting her thoughts and her words. "Yes, but surely you do not intend on going through with the sale! We must come up with another plan."

Noel straightened, no worry or panic written on his face. "We must go through with it, Madame," he said seriously. "Otherwise, it will look suspicious. Our unexpected winner is talking to Renard right now and making all the financial arrangements. If he were to talk about us not upholding our end of the sale, then the story may reach the Admiral's ears. And we can not risk that."

She stared at him, and absorbed his words. He had a point, as he always did when he decided on a course of action, but that did not mean she would have to like it. "I understand," she replied as she turned to look at the entryway that connected to the bedchamber. "Yet I do not agree with it."

"I do not either, but I will handle it. I shall just have to intercept the Admiral by another method." Noel walked toward the tray that had been brought into the room and poured himself a healthy does of wine from the bottle. "On the other hand, think about how much money our cause has just received from our unknowing donor."

Beatrice nodded. She never asked how Noel accommodated their male targets, and frankly, she did not want to know. He never elaborated and she never asked, which suited her well enough. "Who would pay ten thousand pounds for a man?" she wondered out loud, rather disbelievingly as she looked back over at the other spy.

Noel downed the rest of his drink and set his glass back onto the tray. He shrugged. "I am assuming that you are being rhetorical, Madame, because someone just did. And he will be here soon so may I suggest that you make yourself scarce."

She was well ahead of him as she had slowly made her way to the door. "Be careful tonight, Noel," she said, worry seeping into her voice. "Although he may not look like a dangerous man, some of the patrons who frequent this place do not always behave the same in the bedroom as they do in the drawing room."

"I will, Madame," he said softly before giving her his unreadable smile and a reassuring nod. "I always do handle my affairs with special care."

(***)

Some things in life were to always remain a mystery. Or so Dev concluded as he slowly climbed the stairs toward his assigned chamber.

The earlier events of the evening played over in his mind like a farce being played out on Drury Lane. He had watched himself pledge a small fortune for the company of Madame Chartrand's so-called special one - and a male special one at that - and there was no reasonable explanation for why he had done it. In hindsight, he could call himself a hundred types of fool, but still could not alter what had happened. Even now, he could see himself trying to explain his actions to his peers, telling an excuse about how a pair of blue eyes had ensnared and bewitched him into spending an amount some people would never see in a lifetime. He would be a laughingstock if that meager story was known.

However, his bid had been as good as his word, and he could not renege on the verbal contract regardless of how tattered his honor was. He still had his dignity and he refused to besmear that. Thus, without question, he had wrote out a draft and given the agreed upon funds to Madame Chartrand's man of business.

The door to the chamber appeared before him quicker than he had anticipated and he paused for a moment, his recently returned sanity asking everything around him how he had gotten himself into such a position. The polished oak door glared back, silent and not forthcoming with any answers. Resigned, he knocked, and allowed his body to follow the conventions of polite society.

A muffled 'Entrez' came from the other side and Dev silently turned the door handle to let himself in.

The man sat leisurely on a chaise lounge in what looked like a boudoir that led into a darkened bedroom. His wig, cosmetics, and clothes were still in perfect condition, and he looked unwaveringly at Dev as a wine glass dangled from one hand. Suddenly, Dev felt grossly underdressed and unkempt, the material of his cravat hanging untied around his neck, his waistcoat sitting unbuttoned on his torso, and his fitted coat of superfine clutched in his hands.

But the first occupant of the room was smiling at him, a small non-committal smile that displayed neither welcome nor displeasure. The two of them remained unmoving for one minute, each man assessing the other until finally, Dev met his prize's eyes. They were sharp, penetrating, meeting his own gaze directly with a silent challenge of superiority. And yet, they were cold, unreadable, as untouchable and as frosty as their glacial blue color.

Dev swallowed, closed the door with a resounding click, and walked into the room. He dropped his coat onto a nearby chair and approached the waiting man.

"Madame Chartrand said your name is Amauré. Is that correct?" His voice sounded hoarse, whether from fatigue, drink, or something else entirely, he didn't know.

A perfectly shaped eyebrow arched as those clear blue eyes looked up at him without emotion. "Zat is correct, Monsieur," the man responded in accented English. "Amauré Savourie. And you are?"

"Deveril Sifton," he supplied, deciding to omit his title. He wasn't certain if he should have bowed or shaken the other man's hand.

There were many words that Dev could have used to describe himself in the past - confident and self-assured being among them - but awkward had never been one. Yet, here he was, in a supposed intimate setting with an immaculately costumed man, and he felt so much like a gangly schoolboy thrown into his first Society rout. The uncertainty roiling within him was a singular experience that he would never wish to repeat again.

His indecision must have shown on his face because Amauré's enigmatic smile slowly became wider, and his detached gaze warmed. "Would you like a drink, Monsieur Sifton?" He pronounced his name with a particular emphasis on the second syllable, and Dev rather like the way it rolled off his companion's tongue.

"Dev. Please call me Dev. And yes, I would love a drink."

Amauré rose, his body moving with such effortless grace that even Dev found his gaze following his every motion. "Please sit ... Dev ... and I will get." He gestured toward the vacated seat before walking over to the tray on the side table.

Dev eased into the chaise, and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew he was fairly close to being completely soused already, especially with the amount he had had earlier that evening, but the promise of a glass in his hand at that moment would help to ease the tension in his body. The delicate clinking of crystal filled the room for a brief instance before Amauré turned back to him with two glasses in hand, one filled for his guest and his own refilled. Dev watched him through half-closed eyes. The other man's hands were slender, yet the long tapered fingers that held the crystal bespoke of a hidden strength.

Amauré offered him his drink and he took it gratefully as the powdered man sat back down beside him.

"Zis is your first time wit' a man, non?" the Frenchman asked, giving Dev an inquiring look.

Dev took his time, taking his first sip from his glass. He swallowed it and let a few more seconds pass before turning to look at his companion. "Does it show?"

The question was his attempt at self-mockery, and he hoped his light-hearted tone would ease not only the tension between them, but also the tension in himself.

It worked. Amauré chuckled quietly, and oddly enough, Dev enjoyed the low, subdued sound. "A little," the Frenchman replied. "But do not worry. I will take care of everyt'ing."

Amauré placed a hand on his thigh, and out of reflex, Dev moved to displace the foreign touch. But he stopped himself halfway, and forced his hand to slowly, yet assertively, brush the other man off. Still, with the hand gone, a strange tingling warmth continued to linger under his skin.

His companion gave him another questioning look and did not say anything about the action. Instead, he widened his smile and leaned away from him. Casually, he drank from his glass and said, "I am flattered you 'old me in such 'igh regard. I 'ave never been sold for ten thousand pounds before."

"If you must know, I have never spent so much in an auction before. The closest I've come was spending seven thousand on a stallion at Tattersall's."

Noel looked at him with a hurt expression. "It is nice to know I would rank above your 'orse."

Dev drained the rest of his drink. "I did not mean to imply that," he said lightly. "You have to understand that even the most expensive whores have never cost me this much."

"Now I am a whore, am I? I do find zat a little offensive."

Never in his life had Dev ever found himself tripping over his own words and he quickly tried to apologize without further insulting the other man. "I did not mean ..." He stopped. The teasing glint in Amauré's eyes told him that he was being played with. And suddenly, a similar fire took a hold of him. "What I meant to say was a man of your talents is undoubtedly worth much more than the common whore. Why, you simply look like you are meant for the aristocracy."

Amauré's smile took on a wicked air, and for a moment, Dev was reminded of another room, candlelit and book-lined, resounding with the cries of pleasure.

"Well, I do try," the Frenchman said, oblivious of the memories running through his companion's head. "Look at zese clothes. It is expensive, and I only take ze richest patrons. I 'ope you can meet my standards, Monsieur."

Dev didn't respond immediately to the retort. Instead, he raised his hand and tentatively ran a finger along the other man's temple, the skin smooth and soft beneath his touch. The sense of jest left the air between them, and a more somber one took its place.

"Dev?" Amauré asked huskily.

"Amauré, have you, by chance, been here all night?"

Confusion crept onto the powdered face. "Why, of course. Where else would I be?"

"No, nowhere." Dev wondered why the question had left his mouth. He also wondered if it was perhaps all the heavily imbibed spirits speaking. True, the man in the library earlier that evening and the man sitting beside him shared the same striking blue eyes, but then, so did many other people. Still, with Amauré's powder and wig, it was difficult to tell. And that smile ...

"Do you prefer men exclusively, or both genders?"

Yes, he was definitely three sheets to the wind. In any sober conversation, such a personal and strange question would have never left his lips.

Amauré watched him levelly. "Why, if you must know, I prefer men, sin as it is."

"I see." The wine he had drunk earlier must have made him bolder, for he felt no shame in asking the question. Nor did he have any qualms about running the same finger down the other man's cheek and along the well-defined jaw line.

The Frenchman didn't shrink away from the touch. He remained still and regarded Dev with an impassive gaze. "And why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular. You just reminded me of someone I saw at a ball earlier this evening." He continued to run the pad of his index finger up and down along the side of the other man's cheek. Absently, he wondered what kind of drink Amauré had given him as the action almost felt like a natural thing to do.

"Well, I assure you, Monsieur, I 'ave been 'ere all evening. And I really do prefer men."

Dev remained silent, his mind registering the words, but his eyes lazily still taking in every feature of the powdered face before him.

"If you don't believe me, zen kiss me and find out."

Normally, such an invitation would have made him turn away, perhaps even repulsed him, but at that very second, as he fell further into his drunken stupor, Amauré's words felt like a chain had just been released, and he was free of every responsibility and inhibition that had ever been imposed on him. Unable to control his own body, he leaned forward and took the veritable feast he had been offered.

Amauré tasted of wine and honey, a sweet warm mixture that Dev lapped up greedily. The Frenchman responded in kind, his moist lips eagerly taking and giving equally. Dev heard the muffled thumps of both their glasses falling to the thick boudoir carpet, and easily dismissed any stains that might have resulted from the other man's partially full cup. What concerned him now was the liquid heat that coursed through his veins, filling him and intoxicating him with a drug that was more potent than any of the beverages he had consumed that night. He felt hands run over the starched fabric of his shirt, and come to rest on his shoulders. And he felt fingers wind their way around his neck and entwine behind him as they played with the ends of his hair.

Dev leaned into the other man, wanting more, almost begging for more. He refused to lose contact with his companion's lips, not if it meant cutting off his supply of the honeyed heat. And so, he brought his own arms up, gliding his hands beneath the satin of the frock coat and around the narrow waist beneath all the finery.

A low, almost inaudible groan rose from Amauré's throat as he welcomed the gesture, and Dev splayed his hands to caress his partner's back and pull him closer.

They continued to touch, to hold, to spar, to kiss, matching each other in eagerness and dominance. And then, Amauré broke off, the sudden absence of his lips causing a chill that left Dev almost wanting to cry out in protest. But the Frenchman didn't stay away for long, his mouth working on the vulnerable skin of Dev's throat as nimble fingers mastered the buttons of his shirt.

Dev tilted his head back, and ran his hands up until they reached the white strands of the wig. Without thinking, he slid the cursed thing off and glanced down as a cascade of silky burnished gold ran through his fingers.

Amauré moved down onto his now bared chest next, his velvet tongue darting out to lave circles around the left nipple. A white hot jolt of heat washed through the length of Dev's body and his mouth opened in a quiet gasp. Once the Frenchman become bored with the first nipple, he moved onto the other, nipping at the neglected nub and giving it just as much attention as the other.

"Amauré, don't ..." Dev wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Don't stop? Don't continue? Words had become completely useless now, and yet, they were jumbled into an incomprehensive mess in his muddled mind.

Amauré pulled away, leaving a rapidly cooling trail in his wake. "Don't what, Monsieur? Shall I stop?" His voice was breathless, his blond hair was tousled, and his lips were red and swollen, the very picture of seduction.

"No. For heaven's sake, no!"

That wicked smile touched the Frenchman's lips once more, but this time, Dev didn't care whether it resembled some stranger's smile from a faraway library. All that mattered was now .. and them.

Without any more hesitation, Amauré slid off the chaise and landed deftly on his knees. He bent forward and with his swift fingers, made short work of Dev's satin breeches.

Dev shifted and helped his partner along, the tightness of the garment against his groin increasing as the other man's touch flirted feather soft over his shaft. Within seconds, he sprang free from the confining material, the sudden relief he felt at the loss of restriction only temporary as Amauré took a good length of it into his mouth and massaged the hilt gently with his free hand.

Dev's sudden intake of breath was unexpected, but when his companion started to suck, and to run his tongue along the strained skin, frissons of pure unadulterated pleasure flooded through his core. He ran his fingers deep into the gold silk of the other man's head, and reveled in the sensations that every part of his body encountered: the ethereal smoothness at his fingertips, the earthy scent of their skin, and the slow, seductive rhythm at his groin. It was almost too much for him to bear.

His breathing became more rapid and more ragged, his heart clamoring to escape his chest. Beads of sweat formed from his pores. He squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to dilute his sense of touch with something as trivial as vision. His entire body was taut, tight and wound from his partner's ceaseless ministrations.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a muted moan of indescribable pleasure, and belatedly, he realized that it had been him. And then, with that realization came something else.

Light.

Light and heat ... and euphoria.

Dev's world spun, his penis ejaculating into the moist cavern of his companion's mouth. He looked down at the blond head in his blissful daze, and smiled lazily. And it was then, at that very moment, he felt a sense of completion, a completion of himself that defied words, that defied experience ... and that defied everything he had ever known.

(***)

"Captain, behind you!"

Sargeant Riley's warning came just in time. Dev twisted around and discharged his pistol, felling the French infantryman who had been charging at him, saber raised. With his one bullet gone, he threw down his useless pistol and drew his own sword, eyes darting back and forth, alert for the next enemy.

But none came.

Around him, smoke drifted. It drifted to blind, to obscure, and to choke.

Around him, rifles fired. They fired to attack, to defend, and to kill.

Around him, soldiers screamed. They screamed for help, for death, and for benediction.

Dev blinked, trying to rid himself of the tears caused by the battlefield smoke. He had been here before. He had been here countless time before. And each time, it was the same: men dying, ground shaking, and him in the middle of it all, helpless and useless.

In the distance, he saw the fort, standing tall and proud and unperturbed. He turned his head to look in the other direction and saw the bridge, a sturdy wooden affair that had served the local villagers well.

"Captain, they're leavin' us behind, they are."

Although he couldn't see the man, he heard Sergeant Riley's voice again, his tone accusatory and spiteful. But his eyes never left the bridge ... or the few figures standing safe on the other side: Hollingsworth, Evans, ... and himself.

Yes, he saw himself, his clean regimentals as neat and as crisp as the day he had made the crossing over under Wellington's command. His epaulets shone under the glare of the midday sun, and his boots nearly glowed from hours of polish. A perfect little soldier. But all his other self could do was watch everything with a passive expression that boasted no emotion, no indication whatsoever of the carnage that was taking place on the other side.

Then, the world shook, and the bridge fell, a cascade of splintered wood raining from the sky as thick black smoke filled the space between him and the perfect soldier. And all Dev could do was watch too. He watched his bright red regimental uniformed self stand on the other side as he languished in a field of dead and dying men.

(***)

The water was cold and tepid when he dipped his hands into the wash basin, but he didn't care. The powder on his face had become rather sticky as the night progressed, and Noel would be grateful just to get the blasted stuff off. He closed his eyes and liberally splashed the water onto his face, reveling in the refreshing feel of the chilly droplets. After he was certain he had washed everything away, he grabbed the nearby drying cloth and wiped himself clean. His skin tingled and he felt slightly invigorated by the task ... which was much more than he could say for the other occupant in the room.

Noel put the cloth back down on the dresser and turned to glance at the insensate form sprawled on the bed. The laudanum he had poured into the man's drink should have worked sooner. Unfortunately for Noel, the man not only withstood the drug but had already been fairly soused before he had entered the room. Even now, the bitter taste still lingered in the back of his throat and he wondered how long it would be before he could forget about that night.

Never.

Noel stopped, that one word reverberating in his head with singular certainty. Where it had come from, he didn't know, but surely, the night had not been that memorable. When compared to the few men he had had to seduce in his line of work, Deveril Sifton was indeed one of the most handsome, yet that did not entitle him the honor of being the best. With his ink black hair and arresting silver eyes, the man had undoubtedly broken many a female heart. But Noel had seen his kind before: all beauty but no substance, which was why he was determined to think of the Englishman as a means to an end, nothing more and nothing less.

Never.

He mentally shook himself.

Images of him on his knees and the other man's head thrown back in sublime ecstasy came flashing back. Admittedly, he had been slightly aroused by the sight, and he hadn't entirely minded the feel of the Englishman's lips on his. But that shouldn't be enough to endear the man to him. Besides, he had done his part. After Sifton had finally succumbed to the drinks and drug, he had dragged the man's unconscious form onto the bed and even undressed him for his own comfort.

Now that he had handled the situation, Noel could move on to more important matters, matters like stealing the supply ship schedule to Elba from Admiral Lacey. Yet one thing did bother him. Sifton had seen him at Wellington's ball earlier, seen and perhaps even recognized him. He had been so cautious when he had rendezvoused with Lady Albright. He was certain that no one saw him come or leave, and then, there was Sifton claiming to have seen him. Noel admonished himself for being so careless. He would have to watch himself more closely next time.

Taking one last cleansing breath, he made to leave the room. He was one step into the boudoir when a muffled sound gave him pause. Glancing back into the room, he noticed some restless shifting on the bed. Surely, he had put enough laudanum in the drink to keep the man unconscious until the morning.

Never one to leave tasks half-finished, Noel walked back into the bedchamber, grateful that he had left his heeled shoes in the boudoir earlier that night. He quietly snuck up to the side of the four poster bed, and squinted in the moonlit shadows. Sifton's eyes were still closed, for all intents and purposes, fast asleep. But the rapid twitching and tossing indicated otherwise.

The man was dreaming.

Or so Noel concluded. How, he wasn't certain, since laudanum was reputed for a deep dreamless sleep, but as he was quickly learning, Deveril Sifton seemed to defy convention.

"Sergeant, hold the line."

The words were whispered, barely even discernable, but Noel could make them out.

So the spoiled British lordling had been a soldier, probably some high ranking officer's commission bought with his father's money. One side of Noel's mouth tilted up into an ironic smile. A rather odd situation given that they, being enemies, had in essence been lovers that night.

"No ..." The strangled gasp escaped the Englishman's lips with such desperation that had he not been on the other side during the war, Noel might have felt sorry for him. Sifton continued to toss and thrash, agitation and pain written in every line of his body.

Noel watched him, curious and ... and somewhat concerned.

Concern? Concern for a man who was nothing more than a bump on the road to his ultimate goal and the glory of France?

Was that it? And if it was, where had it come from?

No, that couldn't be it. He was simply worried the man would wake up too soon. Yes, that was it. If Sifton woke up now, he would not be able to make a clean exit.

Resolved that this was the reason that such a foreign feeling had crept up on him, he bent down and place a steady hand on the Englishman's forehead. "Everything will be fine, Dev," he said softly in his perfect British accent, deciding to add in the man's moniker in hopes of sounding familiar and soothing. "Everything is fine."

The sleeping man twisted around on the mattress a few more times, and his forehead seemed a little too warm by Noel's estimation. For a fleeting moment, he thought that perhaps he had used the wrong drug and made the man ill. But then, Sifton started to calm down, his movement stilling and his face losing its pained expression. Within minutes, he was sleeping soundly again, dreams of the war receding back to its rightful place in the past.

Yes, he had fought in the war too, Noel thought as he removed his hand. He straightened and left the room, this time without interruption. They had both fought in the war in their own ways. However, for Sifton, the war had ended, existing now only in his dreams. But for him, it still raged on.

(***)

Dev wasn't sure what woke him up.

The pounding headache that threatened to split his skull open? The overwhelming sickness that urged him to empty all the contents of his stomach? Or perhaps the stray beams of gray morning light that streamed in through the gapping drapes and mocked him with their fresh vitality?

He groaned, wanting to dig a hole for himself deeper into the mattress until his body no longer wanted to rebel. He laid there, mind slowly coming to alertness and muscles refusing to move. He had been at Wellington's ball early the previous evening, and had witnessed a rather ... arousing scene. He had then followed Percy and a comte to a whorehouse in hopes of easing his uncomfortable state. That much, he could remember. But everything after that remained a muddled blur. There had been women, and wine ... and an auction.

Dev brought a tired hand to his face, and massaged his forehead in hopes of alleviating his headache as well as clearing away some of the confusion. There had also been something else ... something important ... something pivotal.

Blue eyes.

He remembered clear, blue eyes, dilated with desire, inviting him and taunting him.

"Bloody hell," he cursed, his memories proving too airy for him to collect. With supreme effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position, and once the room stopped spinning, he looked around. A polished oak dresser with a wash basin and looking glass stood to his left, and a large window with partially opened velvet drapes sat to his right. Facing the foot of his bed was an open entryway that led into what he assumed was a boudoir and ultimately, the exit. This was definitely not the apartments he had rented. He was in the whorehouse still then, simple as the décor was.

Groaning, he turned and eased himself off the soft mattress, realizing only when his feet touched the cold floor that he was near naked save for his unbuttoned breeches. He gave a cursory glance around the room again and found his clothes lying haphazardly on the corner of the bed. Slowly, so as to not jar his throbbing head, he moved toward his belongings, and carelessly threw on his wrinkled shirt, breeches, and waistcoat before struggling with his boots. When he considered himself decently covered, he grabbed his coat and walked out of the room.

He knew he had to find Percy. After all, his friend had undoubtedly stayed the night as he had. But as Dev ambled by the boudoir, he couldn't help but feel like he was forgetting something. He could not place it, but there was something else he was supposed to find. It eluded him, slipping easily by him like water through a sieve, and leaving him with an inexplicable melancholy as he went off in search of his friend.

End Chapter 3