A peculiar stir had lately seized Julian Vance, an idle curiosity about Lord Beaumont and Lord Alaric’s departures from the evening’s assemblies. A simple, envious fascination, akin to watching two brothers walk home from school, though these were gentlemen navigating the crowded thoroughfares of Mayfair. From Julian’s vantage, Lord Alaric always slipped away first, his quiet presence vanishing into the night. Then, a short pause, and Lord Beaumont would follow. He never walked beside Alaric; always a discreet distance behind. Still, an image clung to Julian: Beaumont, a man fully grown, trailing Alaric with an unnerving persistence. A chill touched Julian’s spirit, a premonition of ill consequence. Playing with such observations felt like prising open a forbidden coffer, one rumored to hold not merely despair but a crueler, more seductive hope. Yet, even with this foreknowledge, he found himself inexorably drawn. “Heaven help me,” Julian muttered. His thoughts were surely astray. Despite that conviction, he soon found himself instructing his coachman to linger, to observe Alaric’s path after the close of Lady Danforth’s rout. He did not follow far. Wheels crunched softly on the cobbled street. Julian watched Alaric’s unassuming form recede into the gaslight’s halo. Then, Beaumont emerged, his dark cloak a deeper shadow against the night. He paused, a tableau of stark stillness, simply watching Alaric’s departing carriage. A narrow side street, usually bustling, seemed hushed around them. Houses, once grand, now wore faded paint, their wrought-iron gates showing rust at the hinges. Lamps, neglected, cast pools of yellow onto grime-streaked brick. A solitary hackney cab, dented and worn, stood testament to a quieter existence. Two gentlemen in such a tableau: Alaric ahead, oblivious; Beaumont behind, fixed. And Julian, a silent sentinel from his own discreet carriage, a voyeur to the burgeoning drama. Everything about it felt profoundly base, utterly foolish. Julian rapped on the roof. “Home, Merriman. At once.” Later, in his darkened study, a snifter of brandy warming his palm, Julian felt a distinct satisfaction with his choice. Curiosity, yes, had bitten at him. But had he pressed further, what unsavoury truths might he have uncovered? It was better left undisturbed. A sensible man did not pry open forbidden boxes for a fleeting urge. Lord Beaumont’s fixation on Lord Alaric intensified with each passing week. Alaric, in turn, seemed to shrink from Beaumont’s relentless attention, a quiet discomfort perpetually etched upon his features. A tremor of fear, perhaps, or outright distaste. Yes, distaste, surely. How could he feel otherwise towards a man whose early attentions had been so… aggressive, so publicly disruptive? Julian felt a perverse thrill of vindication. He had done nothing to curb Beaumont’s initial crudeness. Perhaps, in some twisted way, that had been for the best. Julian interlaced his fingers behind his head, tilting back in his leather chair. Crystal drops of the chandelier above caught the dying light, scattering fractured rainbows across the ceiling. A stark reminder of his gilded existence: born to fortune, an only son, wants rarely denied. “Curse it all.” Until then, he had believed himself invincible. Then, his heart had tangled itself with Lord Beaumont. The wretched man had shown him a brutal truth: life, even for a Vance, did not always bend to one’s will. A truth, Julian suspected, Beaumont himself was now learning. Truly, a merciless world. Julian, at least, had mastered the art of concealment, of burying his affections beneath layers of polite indifference. Beaumont, however, was a storm of raw emotion, blind to how his gaze devoured Alaric. That sudden, untamed intensity must have unsettled him profoundly. Julian recognized the sensation; he had known it intimately. But where Julian had endured, Beaumont had succumbed. Instead of wooing Alaric with grace, he acted with a crude desperation that bred only aversion. A useful dynamic, Julian thought, for his own purposes. “Remain delightfully oblivious, Beaumont,” Julian murmured to the empty room. Or better yet, let Alaric weary of the pursuit and withdraw. Julian harbored no grand hopes of Beaumont turning to him. This particular brand of desire, he admitted, truly terrified him. He wished for one simple thing: for a day to arrive when he no longer cherished Beaumont, and for Beaumont to find solace elsewhere. A simple prayer, yet the world seldom granted such mercies. --- Another unsettling shift occurred. Lord Beaumont, who had once prided himself on his rakish weekends, seemed to curtail his scandalous diversions. Or so it appeared. Whispers filtered through Lord Ashworth’s circle, suggesting not a complete cessation, but a notable restraint. At least, the rank scent of debauchery no longer clung to him during morning calls. For Julian, a minor victory. He no longer had to endure the stench of Beaumont’s escapades at close quarters. “Beaumont, old boy! No more frolics? Not like this?” Lord Finch, a man known more for his girth than his wit, leered. He swayed his hips crudely, placing a hand near his crotch. A vulgar display. Beaumont’s handsome face twisted in disgust. His eyes flickered towards Alaric, then he snapped, a sharp edge to his voice. “You oaf! Keep such filth from company!” “Why the sudden prudishness, eh?” Finch pressed, undeterred. “Should you utter another word on the matter, Finch, you’ll regret it.” “Come now, Beaumont—” “I said, silence!” “...As you wish.” Finch retreated, a look of disappointment on his face. Others in their group exchanged glances. Beaumont, with his imposing stature and air of dissipated charm, had once been the perfect conduit for the prurient curiosity of young gentlemen bursting with youthful vigor. Beaumont and Ashworth’s companions were no novices to the ways of the world; most had fumbled through clumsy experiences. Compared to genuine innocents, they were more easily titillated. With Beaumont’s silence, their attention now drifted towards Lord Ashworth. Ashworth, however, merely bared his teeth, an expression of pure disdain. “Filthy curs.” “Oh, here he goes! Ashworth with his sermons!” “Such a zealous prude. Honestly, a waste.” Laughter rippled through the drawing-room, loud and fleeting. Most gentlemen in their set had, at some point, ventured into forbidden territories. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Lord Ashworth had not. They teased him, calling him a bachelor of the most abstinent order, but no one truly disrespected him. He was Ashworth, after all. At the same time, Ashworth possessed a devil-may-care attitude that softened his sharp edges. People found him either charmingly unconventional or refreshingly approachable, often remarking on the mismatch between his intimidating countenance and his casual wit. “Look here, you lout, stop glaring. You’ll make me spill my claret.” “Indeed, a face to curdle milk.” “Do you rogues have a death wish?” Ashworth scowled. The group erupted in fresh laughter, though the jest had little humor. Young gentlemen, loitering at the edges of the room—friends, perhaps, or merely hangers-on—joined in with their feigned amusement. Amidst the clamor, Julian sat, staring blankly at his breeches, lost in thought. His memory served him well. Never had he felt a flutter of genuine arousal for a woman. By simple deduction, that made him a man of different inclination, born thus. He had felt stirrings, certainly, witnessing certain acts between men and women, but never had his mind conjured a woman’s form during private moments. The former, he concluded, spoke to the raw intensity of a situation; the latter, to a complete absence of desire. Once, Lord Beaumont had dragged him to a disreputable club, but Julian hadn’t even made it past the entrance. He lacked the necessary connections, or indeed, the stomach for such places. He had waited outside until Beaumont reappeared. Brothels? Repugnant. The mere thought sent shivers down his spine. How could any gentleman tolerate such squalor? Because of these peculiarities, his companions playfully dubbed him “Abstinent Vance.” A forced abstinence, he knew, driven by deeper currents. Julian sighed, a faint whisper of air. Others, caught in the throes of Ashworth’s anecdotes, did not notice. Seizing the moment, Julian glanced at Beaumont, who sat in silent contemplation. Beaumont’s gaze, unwavering, rested on the back of Lord Alaric’s head. Alaric, across the room, was engrossed in a political pamphlet. And, as always, Julian felt a pang of regret. Why did he look? Why did he ask? To distract himself, he posed a seemingly aimless question to Ashworth. “Do you genuinely intend to remain celibate until the marriage altar, Ashworth?” Ashworth, lounging in his chair with proprietary ease, suddenly shifted his gaze directly to Julian’s breeches. A penetrating stare that made Julian instinctively cross his legs. What in blazes? “You are not my wife, Vance. Why the sudden concern? Are you offering yourself?” Julian’s jaw tightened. This brute, always with his malicious jests. The others chortled. Julian delivered a swift, sharp kick to Ashworth’s shin. Such were Julian’s days—a repeating pattern, an endless, subtly agonizing loop. --- Alone in his rooms, Julian often found himself adrift in thought, conjuring scenarios, some veering into the realm of the truly fantastical. Today, a particular notion held him: what if his affections had settled upon Lord Ashworth, rather than Lord Beaumont? It promised a far less torturous path. Loving Ashworth, he would not endure the heartache wrought by Beaumont’s disastrous dalliances with women, or his unsettling obsession. Still, his heart would ache. Neither Lord Beaumont nor Lord Ashworth, after all, would ever return his affections. But at least, his spirit would not feel so profoundly bruised on account of Lord Alaric. That train of thought inevitably spiraled into feelings of deep inferiority and simmering resentment. In the end, he simply yearned for the day he could graduate from this painful education, to become a stranger to Lord Beaumont. --- At some point, Julian had unconsciously developed a habit: whenever he sat down, his hands would drift beneath the table. This began in his middle youth, and the cause remained constant—men. Fingers toying with the buckle of his breeches, he lost himself in contemplation. To proceed? Or not? A faint clicking sound, metal against nail, filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb applied pressure, poised to undo the fastening, a gentle tap came at his chamber door. “Julian, dearest? Are you studying?” “...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Mother, yes, I am!” A full second passed before his heart resumed its beat. Today, clearly, was not the day. Mortified, Julian buried his face in his arms. Confound it all. --- Lately, Lord Beaumont had become an unbearable nuisance. Sometimes, when Alaric’s gaze drifted towards Julian, Beaumont would deliberately interject, striking up conversation. Alaric, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes back to Julian, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Beaumont’s towering presence, he would lower his head, answering in a voice barely above a whisper. “Y-yes, indeed…” Just so. Alaric, subtly, sought Julian’s attention more often, and had begun addressing him simply as “Julian.” Aside from close family, almost no one used his given name, so the change was remarkably pronounced. Alaric seemed to think he was being discreet, but he was not. The most aggravating part was Beaumont’s utter inability to mask his discomfort whenever Alaric committed these small, daring acts. “Lord Alaric, do stop distracting Mr. Vance from his correspondence.” “I beg your pardon?” “Cease your interruptions. Do you not comprehend?” “Oh… uh, y-yes, of course…” When Alaric stammered, his gaze faltering, Beaumont, with astonishing immaturity, slammed his fist against the armrest of the adjacent chair. Julian pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Alaric, bless his clueless heart, seemed to believe no one truly minded his calling Julian by his first name anymore. He grew bolder, using it casually, as if it were the most natural thing. “Uh, Julian… my apologies for disturbing your work.” Julian stiffened, staring at him in utter disbelief. Was the man mad? Beaumont sat directly beside them. Indeed, Beaumont’s fist pounded the chair arm once more. Confound it. “Look here, Lord Alaric!” “...Hm?” The air thickened instantly, turning sour. “I have told you.” Beaumont’s fury was blatant. “I have told you not to call him ‘Julian,’ have I not?” “...W-well…” “His name is Mr. Vance. Refer to him as Mr. Vance.” Beaumont’s gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at Julian. Julian abhorred that look, instinctively lowering his head. At that moment, Lord Ashworth, seated beside Julian, casually draped an arm over his shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Julian’s ear. “Lord Beaumont, continue thus, and you will truly ruin yourself.” “What in blazes are you implying?” “I am saying you will come to regret it.” Ashworth smirked. Julian felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason alone. “Lord Beaumont,

A Glimpse Through Curtains