Page 3 of To Break the Rules

Fred Davis sighed and rubbed at his neck, turning his head back and forth to ease the ache. He’d been standing on the same spot outside a certain gentleman’s club for bloody hours now, but he was damned if he’d give up. Silas Anson was a pain in the arse, but Fred had worked for his father—the late viscount—since he was a boy. Now the old man was dead, and his sense of duty would not allow him to leave the son in the lurch.

Whether the fool liked it or not.

From what Fred knew of Silas, never had there been a man more in need of a good valet, nor one less likely to take one on. As Fred straightened and looked down the road once more, that fact was illustrated so vividly that he winced with distress.

The new Viscount Cavendish was a bloody shambles.

Towering and broad shouldered, Silas Anson had the kind of figure suited to battlefields and sword wielding heroics. He was not at home in polite company—despite impeccable breeding—and didn’t bother trying to fit in. If not for that fact he disdained the ton more than they disdained him, he’d probably not be welcome anywhere. However, his cavalier attitude to society made him rather an intriguing figure, and one to whom women seemed to take to like felines around a dish of cream. Strangely, Silas seemed to care little for their attentions either, and his name had never yet been linked to any woman, respectable or otherwise.

The fellow was an enigma.

Albeit a dishevelled one.

His coat was wrinkled, his shirt a long way from the pristine white it ought to be, and his cravat made Fred want to wring his hands and weep. As for his boots, they were so offensive that Fred simply couldn’t look at them.

“Lord Cavendish.”

Silas’ head snapped around, a glint of displeasure in his face, the deep blue gaze of generations of the Cavendish family fixing on Fred. It occurred to him then that Silas was likely unused to his new title, as his father was barely cold in the ground. He and the old man hadn’t spoken since Silas was a boy.

The blue eyes narrowed and then widened as recognition filled them. “Davis?”

“Yes, my lord,” Fred replied, relieved that Silas recognised him. It had to be fifteen years since they had last seen each other.

“By God.” Silas stared at him for a moment, apparently nonplussed, and then startled Fred by holding out his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

Fred stared at the proffered hand, a little taken aback. Nobility did not shake hands with the serving classes, but then Silas had never paid much heed to the rules.

“Still a stickler for proprieties, I see,” Silas said, a rather mocking glint in his eyes as his hand remained outstretched. There was challenge in his stance and Fred knew better than to test him. He took the viscount’s hand and shook it. “What brings you to this part of town?” Silas asked, a glimmer of suspicion in the blue now.

Fred took a breath, knowing Silas would likely fight him every step of the way.

“I came to see you, my lord.”

“Oh?”

The suspicious look deepened and Silas folded his arms.

“I’ve been valet to the Viscount Cavendish for over thirty years, my lord. I know every skeleton in the cupboard and few what’s buried so deep even your father didn’t remember them.”

“Are… are you intending to blackmail me?” Silas said, his expression somewhere between outrage and delight.

Fred tutted and rolled his eyes. “No, my lord,” he said, with every ounce of dignity he possessed. “I’m intending to work for you.”

Silas stared at him in astonishment. “Doing what?”

The question so took Fred aback that he gaped at the man before him for a good while before he could bring himself to answer. “As your valet, of course.”

“My valet?” Silas roared with laughter, causing people on the street to turn their heads and stare. Fred shifted uncomfortably, aware the man was making a spectacle of both of them. “By God, that’s a good one. I’m not some preening tulip! I don’t have a bloody valet.”

“No, my lord,” Fred said, his tone dry as sand. “That much is evident.”

Silas stopped laughing and regarded him a little more closely. “You cheeky blighter.”

“I speak as I find, my lord,” Fred said, folding his arms to match the viscount’s. “And you’re a bloody disgrace. If those boots have seen a lick of polish anytime this past month, I’ll eat my hat.”

“I might make you eat it anyway,” Silas retorted, clearly nettled by the comment. “I’ve never heard such impertinence.”

“And I’ve known you since the day you were born, my lord, I never blamed you for running off and I’ve been proud of all you’ve achieved, but you’re Cavendish now. You can’t run from it any longer, and I reckon it’s about time someone took you to task.” Fred held his ground, waiting for the eruption, knowing too well the Cavendish temperament after decades of dealing with the man’s irascible father. They despised any sign of weakness; the only way to deal with them was not to back down. “The fact is we need each other.”