The Private Secretary

By Summer Devon

Down on his luck and desperate for employment, Ezra Seton is offered only one job: to work in the house of a heartless bully, the very man who drove Ezra's lover away. Gritting his teeth, Ezra takes the position. But neither the new job nor the master of house are what he expected. Still, he vows to keep his distance, no matter how difficult it is to maintain his composure.

Robert Demme's pleasure-seeking days are over. Having rescued his cousin Ambrose from a lunatic asylum, he expends much of his energy pacifying the fragile eccentric. Hiring an assistant offers some relief--and also intriguing temptation. Unfortunately, the fascinating Seton apparently loathes him. Determined to discover the reason, Robert uses his considerable wit to get under the man's skin, stunned when his plan backfires. Instead of unraveling the stalwart secretary, Robert has undone himself. All he's accomplished is a deepening of his own interest.

When the two spend the night together in an inn, their mutual desire proves too strong. The secretary and the gentleman succumb to lust. But when Ezra's old flame reappears and the cousin's experiments go awry, it's a battle to discover which will win the day: love or lunacy.

This edition includes a selection from Simon and the Christmas Spirit, a title by Summer Devon and Bonnie Dee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Summer Devon
• Release date: Sep 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393754374

Summer Devon

About the Author Summer Devon is the alter ego of Kate Rothwell who also writes under her own name.  Summer writes m/m books of all sorts. Many of her titles are co-written with Bonnie Dee For more information about Summer/Kate, go to http://katerothwell.com or http://summerdevon.com.  Summer can also be found at https://www.facebook.com/S.DevonAuthor

Book preview

Dedication

For Linda, and one-eyed Hubert.

Down on his luck and desperate for employment, Ezra Seton is offered only one job: to work in the house of a heartless bully, the very man who drove Ezra's lover away. Gritting his teeth, Ezra takes the position. But neither the new job nor the master of house are what he expected. Still, he vows to keep his distance, no matter how difficult it is to maintain his composure.

Robert Demme's pleasure-seeking days are over. Having rescued his cousin Ambrose from a lunatic asylum, he expends much of his energy pacifying the fragile eccentric. Hiring an assistant offers some relief—and also intriguing temptation. Unfortunately, the fascinating Seton apparently loathes him. Determined to discover the reason, Robert uses his considerable wit to get under the man's skin, stunned when his plan backfires. Instead of unraveling the stalwart secretary, Robert has undone himself. All he's accomplished is a deepening of his own interest.

When the two spend the night together in an inn, their mutual desire proves too strong. The secretary and the gentleman succumb to lust. But when Ezra's old flame reappears and the cousin's experiments go awry, it's a battle to discover which will win the day: love or lunacy.

This edition includes a selection from Simon and the Christmas Spirit, a title by Summer Devon and Bonnie Dee.

Chapter One

London, 1880

Ezra Seton waited on a bench in the outer corridor of the employment agency. The smell of old newspapers and stale sweat had grown familiar over the last few weeks. Day after day, he came into the place. At first he’d hoped for a position as a clerk or even tutor. By now he was ready for a job as a laborer, though he knew nothing about such physical work unless they required maths for the building or Latin for the plans. An interrupted classical education had proved useless in a depressed economy.

When the agent summoned him into the office, Ezra expected to be greeted and then dismissed as usual.

But the bespectacled fat man waved him into a seat. I have one here as an amanuensis for a gentleman writing a book about...about some sort of insect life? A secretarial position working for a gentleman by the name of Mr. Robert Demme.

The name was familiar, but Ezra didn’t dare ask for details. He quickly said, Thank you, sir. I’ll take it, if you please.

The employment agent bent over his pen, copying the information onto a card. I should warn you, you’re not the first.

Now that he would get the application, Ezra could ask a few questions. How many have you sent to Mr. Demme?

To be honest, at least five have been hired over the last year. They are all let go or leave. It’s a difficult position, apparently, with an exacting employer. I’m not at liberty to say more.

Ezra murmured his thanks again. He didn’t want to ask other questions, he just wanted that card, despite the prickling he’d felt when he heard Robert Demme.

As the clerk handed over the card, Ezra looked at the name, and his pulse jumped as he recalled Francis’s stories about love—and torment—at the hands of his Robert. When Ezra pressed for details, Francis gave very few—nothing about where or when they’d met—only that Robert Demme had played games with his heart, changing him into a man who had trouble trusting anyone’s affection.

This was likely the same man, the person who dismissed secretaries—and who’d ruined Ezra’s chance at happiness with Francis, a lively man who was fragile and had a touch of fey. Francis moved to France to escape his memories of his own broken heart. Had it only been six months? The letter Francis left could still create a surge of angry confusion when Ezra read it. Six months ago, Ezra would have gone to the address on the card and thrashed Demme, but too damned many days and weeks waiting for a job meant he would take the position and be as bloody perfect as he could manage.

He pocketed the card and walked out into the mizzle of the late afternoon and wondered what he could do to avenge his friend. Perhaps undermine Demme, or embarrass him the way he’d hurt Francis. Alas, that was only fantasy, and not only because he needed to take and keep the job. Ezra had none of Francis’s sensibilities. He was far more likely to pummel someone than plot against him.

It took him time to discover how to get to the house via the District Railway. Mr. Demme lived in a large, chalk-white mansion not far from the Wimbledon Common. The building seemed older and simpler, a Georgian front in an area where most of the newer houses had turrets, bow windows, and elaborate designs in white-and-red brick.

It was in Wimbledon town, not the village, so it had a far more country feel than he’d think to find only a few miles from Charing Cross. Ezra liked the look of the place and hoped this was another Robert Demme, not Francis’s, but one he could work for happily. He pictured a pleasant elderly gentleman, perhaps, instead of the stylish and sarcastic young rake Francis described.

Ezra was met by a dignified lady who didn’t so much as glance at the agency’s card before leading him to a room that was unlike most second-best drawing rooms he’d known. One side of the room was a neat study, the other, through a wide entrance, was a library, in dire need of a librarian. That side of the room was huge, so perhaps it had once been a ballroom.  Its walls were lined ceiling to floor with shelves. Books were either stacked or in jumbled piles on their side or upright. A fast glance showed they were in no particular order. He found himself climbing up a ladder to look at the titles. The ladder seemed to climb two stories, and he was nearly at a skylight when a voice called up to him.

Someone—a butler?—exclaimed, Oi, what are you doing up there?

He climbed down slowly, checking titles as he went. No one has dusted those books for years, and I found a bottle of ink up there. Dried out. I checked. He froze, still several feet from the floor, when he realized it wasn’t the butler who’d shouted to him, but a man far better dressed than a servant, eying him impatiently.

Sir, I beg your pardon.

The gentleman, well-groomed and imperious, pointed at the carpet. Come down here, please.

Ezra obeyed, jumping past the last few rungs. The man, who had to be Mr. Demme, stepped back, alarmed. Ezra surreptitiously wiped his dusty hands on his pants. Oh damn. Somehow the ink bottle’s ancient cork had shrunk, and the very last of the sludge inside it had gotten on his palm. He put his hands behind his back and adopted what he hoped looked like parade rest.

I am given to understand you’re writing a book and require assistance? After a moment he added a Sir.

Demme examined him up and down, wearing a deep frown as if seeking for a flaw. Or perhaps that frown was permanent, the result of heavy brows and an indentation between them.

He was a good-looking man, with brown hair and pale skin, but with a healthy glow. He had light eyes—Ezra didn’t dare examine them too carefully. The details, from his well-cut hair to his upright posture, showed this had to be the Demme who’d broken Francis’s heart. He was the right age, and he was certainly attractive enough. Ezra could just imagine the sardonic man sneering at poor Francis, perhaps belittling him for the perverse taste they shared.

Not I, Mr. Demme said. I contacted the agency for someone else who wants an assistant to take dictation and help him with his research.

The way the gentleman looked Ezra up and down contained such an air of smug satisfaction, Ezra imagined turning and walking out. A fine way to keep his pride intact, but what then? He couldn’t ask his brother to leave school to find work as a delivery boy or office brat. And his own stomach rumbled at that moment, reminding him that hunger was another find motivator to stay silent.

Drat, the smudge of ink on Ezra’s hand wouldn’t go away. He tried to get rid of it by stealthily wiping his palm on the leg of his trouser. So I wouldn’t work for you? Sir.

Ha. I don’t require help, Mr. Demme drawled. One doesn’t when one is merely a lily of the field.

Such an odd way to describe himself—if Ezra didn’t know better, he’d suspect that Robert Demme mocked himself. But he obviously took special pride in his appearance, and true enough, he was decorative. The man wore a dark green suit, perfectly cut. The loose pale blue tie around his neck would have looked affected if Ezra attempted such a thing, but on Demme, it was elegant. Francis had said he had a sense of style, and Ezra saw Demme was the sort of man who could throw a strip of cloth over his head, call it a hat, and within a few weeks, everyone would appear with such apparel.

No reason to feel envy, though—not for a man Francis had described as owning a heart of stone. And these days, such a man wouldn’t bother with Ezra, thank goodness. They existed in parallel yet separate spheres. Ezra might as well have been reading about creatures in a fantastical novel, the world of this man was so different from his own.

Then again, Demme had influence in areas other than fashion. For example, he now had influence on Ezra’s employment. And who are you? Demme demanded.

Ezra Seton. Sir.

The man didn’t bother to confirm his own identity. Job. Not social interaction, Ezra reminded himself one more time. He tried to look meek. He knew better than to hold out his hand and gave an abbreviated nod instead.

Mr. Demme folded his arms. I have to assume Mrs. Gayle showed you in. You took years off my life by lurking up there, you know. I expected to find you waiting with your hat in your hand. All I found was the hat. He pointed to the chair where Ezra had left the item. And then that rattling sound. No one goes up to the top shelves anymore. I’d forgotten the sound. And to be sure, I certainly didn’t expect to find you in here.

I hadn’t understood this was a separate room.

Yes, I see what you mean. The wall is missing a great chunk, and I hoped to open it up. The combination of both rooms was underway—until, apparently, the bugs didn’t like the noise and all construction had to stop. Tell me this: if you’re hired, will you creep about the place?

The bugs? But Mr. Demme waited for Ezra to answer, so he said, No, sir, I shan’t creep anywhere. That sneering tone wouldn’t do, so he added, That is to say, I would spend any free moments in there. He nodded at the books.

Ha, you won’t get free moments unless you hide. My cousin, Mr. MacBean, will be your employer. He’s the one who does experiments, God help us all. He requires assistance to write the book. He lives here as well, and we’re waiting for him to come down.

Thank you, sir. Why the hell had he said that? He took a step backward, wishing Demme would go away—the butterfly’s attention should alight elsewhere.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Demme didn’t move. Ezra waved a hand at the bookshelves. That collection is quite eclectic.

It’s my cousin’s. Demme’s smile was subtle, a quirk of the lips. He buys a stack of books a week, at the very least, more if he can get away with it. He’s turned that room and this into a used book store.

Had Demme replaced Francis with this so-called cousin? It seemed a good way to keep a lover without arousing society’s suspicions. The moment the cousin came in the room, however, Ezra knew they weren’t lovers. Anyone who’d woo Francis wouldn’t form an attachment to a man like this. Mr. MacBean was bent over double. Ezra at first thought he was ancient, but he was only ten or so years older than his own twenty-five. Mr. MacBean was cadaverously thin, yet his clothes hung on him as though they were well-made and relatively new.

Demme turned to Mr. MacBean and said, I found this candidate up the ladder, so he might be the one you want. No fear of heights, apparently, and he wanted to organize books immediately.

Does he do shorthand? Dictation? The cousin’s voice was thin and high.

Yes sir. I do.

"Do you object to Lumbricus rubellus or Eisenia fetida?"

Ezra frantically searched his memory. Some sort of worm, sir?

Now that’s a fine start for you, Ambrose, Demme said. No need for formal introductions. He knows their names. Best keep this one.

Mr. MacBean ignored his cousin. And I am starting work with stag beetle grubs, though of course they’re only good with wood products. Do you have references?

Yes. Ezra pulled the papers from his pocket and handed them over.

You have a university degree?

I read history at Oxford. He also had to leave early because of his family’s decline, but there was no reason to point that out. His abridged education was mentioned in at least one letter of reference.

Biology, biology, nothing here, hmmmm. I wanted someone who knows natural sciences. No biology?

No more than was necessary, though I did enjoy my studies. He wished he could go back to that time.

You’re nothing like Robert here. The cousin shot a glance at Mr. Demme.

No indeed. Mr. Demme sounded bored.

He left university when he didn’t need to. Mr. MacBean jutted his chin at Mr. Demme, who smiled with what appeared to be real amusement.

Come now, Ambrose, I left when I grew ill.

Mr. MacBean made a disgusted noise. You could have returned to your studies.

"Ah well, I admit it was a relief. Leaving

Reviews for The Private Secretary

[L'eau · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the story, but it could use a little bit more editing.