Robert and Louie: steampunk mystery gay romance, #2

By Hollis Shiloh

Hired to redecorate the Skeffield country home, Louie is both attracted to Robert Skeffield and abashed by him in equal measures.  Louie, who favors bright clothing and has never been called butch in his life, has little in common with gorgeous, masculine, and closeted army officer Robert.  But not everything is as it appears, at Skeffield Manor or in their hearts…

Takes place after "Wes and Kit" 

This story contains some minor steampunk elements, magical elements, mysterious elements, flirting, a dog, and a strawberry-colored waistcoat.

Sensual rating: very low

Length: 30,500 words
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spare Words Press
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386018261

Book preview

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Robert and Louie

by Hollis Shiloh

A man stood on the front steps as I arrived.  He crossed his arms over his chest, an amused look on his handsome face.  He raised an eyebrow, looking as if he was trying not to laugh.  How many bags does one man need?

I straightened up from helping Mr. Jenkins carry my things in from the car, tossing my hair back a little.  I'm sure I don't know.  But as a designer, I must be prepared!  I waved a hand in the air.

His brows rose dramatically, and he looked even more like he was going to start laughing.  He followed me in, not, I noticed, offering to carry any of the bags.  Well, fair enough.  I was hired help, after all, even if I wasn't the man driving the cars.

Must you? he asked.  I cast him a sharp look.  Was the man laughing with me or flirting with me?

Perhaps a bit of both?  Was that too much to hope for?

I gave him a smile that was pleasant but not too pleasant—pleasant and dull as a brick.  Of course!  You might need to look at paint samples, or wallpaper samples, or furniture samples.

This time a little guffaw did escape him.  You have furniture with you.

Not precisely.  I tried to look mysterious.  He just arched that eyebrow, and I found myself going on and explaining instead.  I have all the latest design books and catalogues, in case you—

My father.

"Oh.  In case your father should decide to update any furniture."

He won't.  It's served in the family for decades; I should think it will hold for a few more.  In fact, I'm not certain that your presence is absolutely require—

Robert! called an older man's voice, sounding a bit annoyed.  Are you going to help me with this or not?

My new friend inclined his head slightly, cynically, and walked away.  I'm right here, Father, he said in a mild voice.  I had the feeling he was still laughing at everything underneath.

Robert, huh?  I couldn't help watching him walk away.  His clothing fitted him perfectly, and he had a military bearing.  And a decidedly handsome way of looking as though absolutely nothing about him was out of place or ever could be—except for that one unexpected whorl of hair on his dark mane, going the wrong way quite charmingly.

I repressed a sigh and didn't lick my lips.

Really, all the best men were out of my league, if they didn't hate me on sight.  And Robert just might fit into both categories, it appeared. 

Perhaps.

Never lose hope, I told myself.  Besides, you're here to do a job!

It was a huge place, though I had worked on a few bigger homes in the past, so I wasn't overly intimidated.  The owner, apparently Robert's father, wanted its décor updated. 

Skeffield Manor hadn't been used regularly in years.  Though the staff had kept it from falling into disrepair, all the styling was extremely outdated.  I was looking forward to tackling it.

All around, the big country estate was busy.  People appeared to be in the stages of both spring cleaning and grounds renovations.  Some sort of diggers tore up parts of the grounds—large gear-operated machines that puffed steam, growling in concerted effort.  Workmen hurried around with shovels and pipes and wheelbarrows, scowls on their faces, muddy boots tearing up the lawn.  It was all very masculine.

The large estate house where Mr. Skeffield's employee, Mr. Jenkins, had brought me, appeared to be the domain of women.  One of them frowned after the muddy workmen as she shook out a small rug with surprising vigor.  Men! she muttered with utter loathing.

She ignored me and Jenkins in favor of glaring past us at the workers.

Another woman moved past her, smiling a little, looking just slightly breathless.  She had graying hair and a gentle face.  He's here?  She eyed me hopefully.  You're the designer?

The missus, said Jenkins helpfully, looking rather proud.  He was about her age, a big, solid man with a scar on his face and work-toughened hands.

Yes.  I straightened up and smiled, trying to look competent but not peacock-proud or preening.  That's me—Louis Candless, but you can call me Louie.  Everyone does!

Jenkins coughed. 

Pleased to meet you, said Mrs. Jenkins, one brow rising.  She shook my hand. 

Her soft grip was firmer than mine.  I'm used to it by now.  I've never been particularly butch, although I like to think I can hold my own in a dinner party, if not a physical competition.

You've met Robert, then, said Mrs. Jenkins, nodding past us.  The tall, soldierly Robert was striding away to join the epicenter of the mud mess. 

I glanced after him and tried not to let a sigh enter my voice.  Yes.

The married couple exchanged a worried look that could only be interpreted by me as We're in for some shit now.

Seeming to reach a decision without exchanging a single word with her husband, Mrs. Jenkins looked at me and smiled.  Why don't you come into the kitchen?  You must be tired after your journey.  I'll fix you a cup of tea or coffee and we can have a little talk.

Oh dear.  Something I said?  I followed cheerfully, though.  Promise me coffee, I'll follow you anywhere.  Well, nearly.

No, no.  But there are things about this household you might not know, and perhaps it would be good if you did.

Seated at the table while Jenkins ate his lunch—a sandwich made of thick-sliced bread and heavy with ham, cheese, and mustard—I wrapped my hands round a mug of coffee while she talked to me, all the while calmly making me lunch.  It wasn't the workman's sandwich of her husband, but rather some thin-sliced toast, a bit of ham and cheese, and two tiny cupcakes, more hors d'oeuvres than lunch.  How had she guessed I'd prefer that?

You see, she said quietly, Mr. Skeffield is not exactly opposed to...  She hesitated, as if not sure which word to use.  "Your type.  In fact, he has two friends who are...not unlike you.  Although they don't dress quiet so...loudly."

I looked down at my strawberry-colored waistcoat.  The fabric was paisley patterned and dashing.  This?  But this is barely loud at all.

Jenkins coughed on his sandwich.  We waited for him to finish.  His wife moved over to slap his back helpfully when he appeared to be having a bit of trouble. 

Now, where was I?  She fluttered back to me when he was all right again.  (She was a soft, round woman with a sweet face, in no way tiny—but flutter she did.  I can't explain it.)  Ah yes.  Mr. Skeffield won't send you away for being who you are, although I doubt he realized it when he hired...  Nevertheless, he would not be pleased if you were to...show an interest in his son.  If you wish to keep the job, and for everyone else's sake, please don't cause discord between them.

I certainly wouldn't try to, I said, a little hurt.  Just because I was a certain type and found Robert attractive didn't mean I had come here to stir up trouble between father and son.  Are you saying he might...and his father wouldn't...?

Now they had me skipping words and implying things in silences as well.

They exchanged another worried look.  Jenkins' eyes were grave.

Perhaps we've said too much, said his wife.  She'd been the only one to say anything, but they were clearly in it together.

No, I said, still feeling hurt.  I wasn't here to do anything but my job anyway.  I certainly won't try to tempt Robert Skeffield down the path of temptation.

I blinked, pausing to reach for another tiny cupcake.  Tempt down the path of temptation?  Now that hadn't been very smooth.

Didn't matter.  The relief was on their faces.

Thank you.  It's just that his father isn't ready...  Again, silences and implied words.

I felt that we'd communicated enough that way for one day.  I rose, giving them a smile and tugging my bright waistcoat straighter.  I should get to work, I said.  Thank you for the meal and conversation.

Mr. Vinegar will show you your room, said Mrs. Jenkins.

I wondered if she'd ever tell me her first name so I could call her by it.  Judging by my reception so far, I doubted it.  But a boy can dream.  In fact, that's about all he can do these days, I reminded myself sternly, refusing to look wistfully in the direction of the heated shouts and swearing from the workmen's—and Robert's—direction.  I suppose forbidden meat can seem all the sweeter when you know you're not going to get any.

Mr. Vinegar appeared, eying me sourly; he heaved a put-upon sigh and helped me carry some of my bags to my room. 

It was a small room, but faced the gardens with a good view.  I would have enjoyed it if the décor wasn't so ghastly.

Did they use anything other than dark blue? I muttered, eying the walls with dislike.

Vinegar let out a snort.  You ain't seen the rest of the house, has you? he said, eyes crinkling with his first sign of enjoyment at my discomfort.  "Ho