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Childermass checked the front door one final time before picking up the candelabra and climbing the stairs to the first floor of the Hanover Square house. Mr Norrell was at a late dinner with Sir Walter, but it still was not wise to leave one’s doors unlocked in London. As he reached the upper hallway, one of the doors creaked open slightly before being flung wide.
"Finally. By God, for a man of such means, Norrell does employ the worst servants.” Henry Lascelles leaned in the doorframe. His face was composed and haughty, but his eyes blinked too frequently and his cheeks were flushed. “I require another bottle of Madeira. Fetch one for me.”
Childermass stared hard at him before answering “Certainly. A moment,” and touching his forelock. Before Lascelles could decide if the gesture was mocking or not, Childermass was gone.
Returning with bottle in hand, Childermass gave a peremptory knock before entering the room. Lascelles had removed his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair that he was lounging in. Childermass set the bottle on the sideboard before facing Lascelles, clasping his hands behind his back, and giving a short bow. As he turned to withdraw, Lascelles called out “Now, come on, man, pour.”
Childermass turned back and raised his eyebrows. Lascelles met his stare, a small brittle smile twisting his aristocratic mask. Finally Childermas rolled his eyes and went back to the sideboard. Pulling a long knife from his coat pocket, he dug it into the cork and pulled it free with a hollow pop. Looking around for a glass, he turned to see Lascelles standing a pace behind him, holding his empty glass, that strange smile still creasing his mouth. As Childermass took the glass, Lascelles spoke, his disaffected breezy drawl at odds with his hard glittering eyes. “Tell me, what exactly is it you do for Mr Norrell?”
Childermass poured the wine, clear ruby liquid spiraling down and mixing with the dregs of the previous contents. Lascelles continued, “He certainly seems to find you indispensable, but I cannot work out what you really do.” Childermass pulled the cork free from the tip of his knife before sheathing and pocketing it. “Do you dress him? Brush his wigs? Polish his boots? No, even such an eccentric as Gilbert Norrell wouldn’t have a valet of such… manners,” he spat.
Childermass turned to face him, holding the wineglass, but Lascelles did not move to take it. He looked pointedly at Childermass, up and down, before smirking and saying “Or do you perform… other services for your dear master? Oh, how Drawlight would love--”
He stopped as Childermass abruptly closed the space between them. For a moment Lascelles was frozen, mouth hanging open, before blinking and shutting it as Childermass spoke. In quiet even tones, he said “I am Mr Norrell’s man of business.” Pressing the glass into Lascelles’ hand, he continued “And if I may say so, I am a dab hand at putting a shine on a pair of boots.”
As he made to leave, Lascelles gave a harsh, barking laugh. “I wouldn’t let northern street trash like you touch my boots.”
Childermass froze and stiffened, then turned slowly. Lascelles ignored his gaze, instead lifting his glass and emptying it halfway in a single swallow. When Childermass spoke, the gravel in his voice had a sharp edge. “Will you require anything more?”
With a sudden ferocity, Lascelles hissed “You will address me as sir,” his menacing glare undermined slightly by the slur in the sibilants.
Childermass met his glare, dark eyes cold. “Will you require anything more, sir.” Lascelles stared hard for a moment before tossing his head back and draining his glass. Crossing to the wide, high-posted bed, he sat on the edge, sprawled his long legs in front of him and held out the empty wineglass.
Crossing the room in a few quick strides, Childermass grabbed the bottle’s neck roughly, spun and stomped back to Lascelles. He filled the glass to the brim and set the bottle pointedly on the nightstand. Lascelles observed this all with a smirk. “Very good. A man of your station should be grateful to serve the whims of his betters.”
“Are you quite finished, sir?” Childermass growled.
Lascelles laughed and raised his glass to his lips again. “Oh, never.” He drank, then choked and sputtered as Childermass suddenly loomed above him.
Lascelles gaped as he leaned back instinctively. Childermass' dark hair hung long and loose around his face, casting his gnarled features into shadow, and Lascelles could not see his eyes. The two men stood frozen in a tableau for a long moment, until the glass slipped from Lascelles' hand and landed with a muffled splash on the plush carpet. Lascelles swore, craning his neck to look at the spill, then suddenly turned his head back to stare as Childermass knelt between his legs.
“What…” gasped Lascelles, swallowing hard. “Ah-- you--” His words were cut off suddenly as Childermass rubbed his hand between Lascelles' legs, palm cupping momentarily before sliding upward. He looked up and met Lascelles' eyes as he began to undo the buttons of the fine white buckskin breeches with measured, deliberate motions.
Lascelles took a deep, shaky breath. “Yes… yes! Yes. Good. A good servant anticipates the needs of those he-- ah-- serves.” He closed his eyes, tilted his head back. “A good servant knows without needing to be told--” His eyes snapped open again as Childermass freed the final button and pulled the flap down, bringing his smallclothes with it. Lascelles hissed slightly as the cloth dragged along the sensitive skin of his prick before it bobbed free, half-erect.
“Oh,” Lascelles said softly, as Childermass wrapped his hand around the slender shaft, and then “oh!” again louder as the hand began to move, slowly, up and down. “Oh, yes, that is how-- that is how you serve your betters. Yes, this is where you-- ah!” Childermass had pulled back the soft skin of Lascelles' cock, exposing the pale pink head to the air, and the sudden coolness sent a frisson down his spine. He groaned and bucked his hips forward, but Childermass' hand was suddenly, maddeningly, still.
Lascelles looked down to meet a faintly smirking gaze, and glared as he continued, “This is where you belong.” His cold, haughty tones were undermined by the involuntary twitching of his hips, but he affected not to notice. “On the floor, peasant, like a… ah…” Childermass had leaned forward, holding eye contact as he opened his mouth and gave a long, slow, lick up the underside of Lascelles' shaft.
Lascelles simply gaped for a few moments as Childermass repeated the manoeuver. When Childermass finally lowered his eyes as he took Lascelles' prick fully into his mouth, Lascelles tipped his head back and groaned. “Oh, good Lord, you-- God--” His voice rose suddenly in pitch as his words broke off. He slid his hands into Childermass' hair, those wild black locks surprisingly soft as they tangled in his fingers. Childermass had wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft, sliding in the spit and precum as his mouth worked along the length. Lascelles bucked his hips, careless of Childermass' rhythm, as he spoke again. “Yes, good, g--guhh-- good man, you know your place…” He dug his fingers into Childermass' scalp and began to push his head down roughly as he continued, “you, you dog, you Yorkshire gutter whore-- ah!”
Lascelles gasped as Childermass pulled his head back, teeth scraping against the ridge of his cockhead. Childermass met Lascelles' open-mouthed stare with raised eyebrows and removed the hand that wrapped around his prick, sliding it down under Lascelles' arse and pushing his smallclothes further out of the way. Lascelles said “What,” then suddenly exhaled roughly through his nose as Childermass' finger, slick and wet, slid alongside his hole.
The finger barely probed the opening, but Lascelles made a strangled noise as Childermass closed his mouth around his cock and began sucking again. As he tongued the shaft, Childermass continued working his finger in circular motions around Lascelles' arsehole. When the opening began to soften and twitch, he sunk his finger in to the first knuckle, drawing a ragged moan from Lascelles. Childermass slid his finger in and out, slowly at first, matching the speed with which his head bobbed up and down on Lascelles' twitching prick. When he twisted his finger upward, Lascelles threw himself backward on the bed with a choked “Fuck!”, one leg kicking at the floor for purchase.
Drawing Lascelles' long slender prick deep into his mouth, Childermass reached down with his free hand and loosened the buttons of his faded black trousers, pulling out his own cock and wrapping his hand around it. His finger was buried as deep as it could go, and he was hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard, Lascelles' hands still tangled in his hair. Lascelles was panting and thrusting, head tossing back and forth on the bed, a picture of wanton dishevelment, and Childermass hummed slightly, despite himself, at the sight.
Lascelles gave a rough cry in a voice that cracked and jumped halfway through, cock throbbing and twitching, and as the first taste of thick hot salt touched Childermass' tongue he lifted his head with a lurid wet popping sound. Lascelles cried out again, his orgasm shuddering out of him as his seed spilled across his fine embroidered waistcoat. Lascelles' body clenched around Childermass' finger, but Childermass left it in place, staring down at Lascelles with a strangely avid expression as his other hand pumped swift and rough along his prick. With a slight groan, Lascelles turned his head to meet Childermass' burning dark eyes.
Suddenly Childermass leaned forward and came with a low grunt, his own seed spattering onto the carpet. The two men stayed like that, one sprawled on the bed with legs dangling weakly off the edge, the other kneeling on the floor, and simply stared at each other for a long moment.
Finally Childermass removed his hand, drawing another gasp from Lascelles, and tucked himself away. He stood, buttoning his coat as he did, and looked down at the flushed and sweaty Lascelles with an unreadable expression. Lascelles opened his mouth, as if to speak, but Childermass turned his back suddenly and crossed to the door. He reached for the door handle, then hesitated, turned back. Facing Lascelles, he clasped both hands behind his back and gave a short bow. Lascelles only just noticed the mocking smile on his face as Childermass slipped quietly out the door.