Julian Vance found himself increasingly defined by a new, unwelcome epithet: ‘Lord Beaumont’s keeper.’ Each whispered iteration, each knowing glance, brought a sharp awareness of his unwilling maturity. The role, a tangled obligation born of shared acquaintances and unfortunate proximity, felt like a bespoke suit cut for a man twice his size.
‘A man.’ The phrase tasted foreign on his tongue. It sat as awkwardly as an ill-fitting collar, chafing at his neck.
Countless evenings had Julian wrestled with this inherited burden, the expectation that he, above all others, might somehow temper Lord Beaumont’s wilder impulses.
His mornings were devoted to the genteel pursuits of society, his afternoons to the quiet study of law. His evenings, however, often led him down paths he would rather avoid.
He would return to his town residence, the air of forced calm clinging to him, only to find a frantic missive from Beaumont, a summoning that brooked no refusal.
And, as if anticipating Julian’s arrival, Lord Beaumont would invariably unleash a torrent of grievances.
“They speak of sending me to the continent again. Ah, blast it… My name, already tattered, will be further shredded by these busybodies. And the company here is so damn insipid, I am on the verge of losing my mind. I am not some cloistered monk, Julian; my intellect craves stimulation, not this bland gruel fit only for a dog.”
The way Beaumont vented his frustrations, his handsome face contorted in genuine misery, made him seem less a seasoned peer and more a petulant child.
Julian released a faint sigh and reached for his leather satchel.
He despised the scent of tobacco that now clung to his belongings. It had seeped into the very leather, an unwelcome reminder of his latest chore.
His lip curled instinctively. But he would have hated carrying it unwrapped even more.
“What is that?”
Julian imagined a drooping, shaggy tail in his mind’s eye. Utterly preposterous. He shoved the repulsive image aside.
He produced a slim, leather-bound volume from his bag. A rare edition of Horace, bound in deepest emerald. Julian had frequented three different booksellers, subtly inquiring after volumes suitable for a gentleman of discerning, if temporarily idle, taste.
A pitiful gaze swept over the book. Only then did the gloom in Beaumont’s eyes shift, softening into something akin to curiosity.
“A diversion, then?”
“A volume. I enquired, and they said your confinement, though regrettable, is not yet so dire that you must abandon all intellectual pursuits.”
“A volume?” Beaumont’s brow arched, a hint of his usual sardonic wit returning.
“Do not read too deeply into it. I merely chanced upon it near White’s.” Julian’s tone was carefully neutral.
He had given it meaning, of course. He would never confess to the careful hours spent searching for a text both engaging enough to hold Beaumont’s fickle attention and respectable enough to assuage his own conscience.
He merely wished to appear as one offering a polite, purely human courtesy. Nothing more.
But even that seemed to be enough for Lord Beaumont. With a gesture almost childlike, he scratched at the side of his temple. Julian caught a glimpse of his ear, faintly flushed.
His gaze drifted to Beaumont’s hands. They fidgeted, fingers clenching and unclenching, a nervous tic Julian had only noticed since Beaumont’s recent public disgrace.
A discomfort settled in Julian’s chest. Why did those restless fingers command his attention so? Why could he not look away?
“—Thank you, Julian.” His voice was oddly subdued.
Beaumont glanced at Julian, then quickly averted his eyes when their gazes met, fumbling awkwardly with the book. Or was it an act? As if being caught in a moment of vulnerability was a transgression, something to be hidden.
As if he didn’t wish Julian to notice his genuine pleasure.
Watching him clutch the book, Julian leaned back against the plush velvet sofa, exhaustion suddenly weighing upon him.
Beaumont’s fingers, typically graceful around a glass or card, now seemed to possess a frantic, almost desperate energy. Julian wondered if the tremor was real, or merely a theatrical embellishment. He moved closer, extending his hand.
“Allow me.” He gently took the book, holding it steady.
“What do you prefer?”
“……”
“Latin?”
At the very least, Julian felt a peculiar responsibility to acknowledge Beaumont’s wounds, however self-inflicted. Beaumont, lips pressed into a thin line, chewed at his inner cheek as he lowered his head slightly and offered a faint smile.
Julian could not comprehend why this man, whose reputation lay in tatters, whose name was whispered with derision in every drawing-room, could still conjure such a flicker of amusement. He truly could not.
He found himself unable to meet Beaumont’s bright, almost luminous gaze. What could possibly be amusing in such a predicament? Were it Julian, he would wish the ground to swallow him whole.
Julian opened the book to a random passage and began to read aloud, his voice steady, measured. Beaumont listened, still smiling.
This man always made Julian profoundly uncomfortable.
Julian’s decision to bring the book, to suffer this impromptu visit, had been cemented by an earlier, unsettling encounter at Beaumont’s town house.
—
This was the third time Julian had called upon Beaumont’s vacant London residence. The silence within its walls felt heavier each time.
He still possessed the key Beaumont had carelessly entrusted him with weeks ago, a symbol of a casual intimacy Julian now regretted.
He had encountered Beaumont’s estranged sister, Lady Araminta, only twice in the past year. Once at a disastrous ball, once at a less disastrous tea. Her mother, never.
Lady Araminta, however, always managed to imply that Julian was some sort of surrogate keeper, a fact she seemed to find immensely entertaining.
Julian had merely wished to collect some forgotten letters, perhaps a change of linens, for Beaumont’s current, rather informal, exile. That was all. He knew better than anyone the tedium of forced retreat, the claustrophobia of societal isolation.
Having endured similar whispers himself, he understood exactly what Beaumont would require.
He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Or affection. Simply a shared understanding of society’s cruelties.
That day, instead of returning to his quiet studies, Julian had deviated, calling upon Beaumont’s town house.
The imposing façade still welcomed him. Lady Araminta, leaning against the arch of the drawing-room door, did not.
“Still playing nursemaid to Beaumont, are we, Vance?” she asked, her tone dry as old parchment.
Julian held no particular warmth for Lady Araminta either. How could she remain so aloof, never once visiting her brother in his social confinement? Her own family, after all. That instinctual sense of familial duty, however distant, made him judge her.
He hadn't even realised he was doing it. The moment the thought formed, he clamped his mouth shut and continued to sort through the pile of neglected correspondence.
“I merely retrieve some correspondence, Lady Araminta.”
“He truly has done it this time, hasn’t he? That mad fool is quite obsessed with you.”
Julian’s hand froze. He turned, as if compelled.
“Obsessed with me?” The words felt like shards of ice in his mouth.
“What, does that please you?” Her eyebrow arched.
“No, I merely inquired.” His voice was stiff, formal.
“No one merely inquires. One wishes to know, therefore one asks.” She muttered under her breath, but Julian pretended not to hear.
Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his discomfort. This entire family had a talent for overlooking what was inconvenient. Lady Araminta, Beaumont, even their late father.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Pemberton affair?”
“It was hardly a disappearance, Lady Araminta.”
“Oh, the entire district knew. Not that I cared to ascertain the details, mind you. But Beaumont quite threw a fit about it. That man, who rarely attends so much as a dinner party, began making public spectacles of himself, shouting blasphemies against decorum. Not long after, he quite shredded the carefully cultivated reputation his family had built, and started raving.”
“Raving?” Julian asked, a chill creeping up his spine.
“Indeed, that. He used to treasure his social standing, you know? Called it his birthright. Now he calls society a ‘foul viper’s nest’ or some such nonsense. Then he shut himself away and refused company. Our family, finally, knew a moment of quiet. He doesn’t even realise who the real fool is. Simpleton.”
Her voice, which had been mocking, suddenly dipped lower. Probably because of Julian’s rigid posture.
“What is it? Your face is quite crimson.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, but it is. Do you seriously fancy him? You like him?”
“I told you, no.” Julian’s denial was sharper than intended.
“……Good heavens.” She gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are quite mad, truly.”
Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Julian snapped shut the clasp of his portfolio and glared at her. He wished to castigate her too.
“Why do you speak such slander? Your brother is merely… unwell.”
“What? What on earth are you prattling about now?”
A True Contradiction.
Julian knew it too. Mr. Davies, his old tutor, once remarked that Julian, despite his reserved nature, always ended up doing something remarkably kind. No matter his intentions. But now, he had an excuse.
The raw, festering wounds of Beaumont’s broken reputation.
Just as Beaumont could not meet Julian’s eyes in his shame, Julian could not bring himself to fully acknowledge the depths of Beaumont’s despair.
“Julian.” Beaumont’s voice, raspy from disuse, stole closer.
“Yes?” Julian pretended not to care. But he listened.
“What is it you speak of?”
“I shall not—I shall not desire you.”
In that instant, Julian’s heart plummeted to the floor. His stomach twisted. A suffocating tightness gripped his chest. He almost asked—without thinking—‘Why not?’
The moment the words nearly escaped his lips, he realised the true, hidden meaning behind his impulse. His suppressed desires had almost betrayed him.
Julian Vance, you are a fool. He clenched his fists, swallowing the illicit question down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I shall believe in you.” But Beaumont uttered something peculiar. His voice was a strange tangle of sorrow and joy. Like a penitent receiving absolution. Was there any other way to describe him in that moment?
Julian did not understand his words. And yet, he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The stifling weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed—it now pierced him.
“I am an atheist of society now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my existence than any grand pronouncement from above.”
“Silence, Beaumont.” This man… “You blaspheme with every breath.”
“No, that is not true. I was raised a devoted believer in the established order, you know!”
“Then what on earth was that just now?”
Beaumont frantically waved his hands, as if his very life depended on Julian’s belief. His tone—desperate, as if he might truly weep if Julian doubted him. Caught off guard, Julian was left speechless.
And then, as if making a sudden, fervent resolution, Beaumont slid from the sofa and dropped to one knee before Julian.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Beaumont, stop this. What are you doing?”
His large, manicured hand, usually so commanding, now trembling slightly, reached out and gently took Julian’s hand. Julian, who had been sitting with one arm resting on his knee, shifted, barely clinging to the edge of his seat. His bare hand, usually gloved in public, lay exposed in Beaumont’s grasp.
Then, Beaumont’s gaze landed on the faint, almost imperceptible scar on Julian’s knuckles—the mark left from a long-forgotten childhood tumble.
His brow furrowed. And to Julian’s utter disbelief, Beaumont’s eyes began to well with unshed tears. Julian recoiled in shock, attempting to withdraw his hand. Before he could escape, Beaumont lowered his head.
“What are you—?”
“In the name of devotion, of trust, and of salvation.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Julian’s wrist. A sharp ache shot up his arm, settling deep within his stomach. What was this madman doing? Julian tried to yank his hand free, but his strength abandoned him.
Beaumont looked up at him once, his eyes burning with an unsettling intensity. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of disgust—like a devout supplicant touching a sacred relic—
“I honour my new faith.”
He pressed his lips to the back of Julian’s hand. His fine, dark hair brushed against Julian’s skin, sending an unfamiliar shiver through him. The gentle press of his lips, surprisingly soft, lingered against his knuckles.
“S-Stop this…” Julian threw his free arm over his face. Beaumont’s right hand, still trembling, tightened around Julian’s. And in that moment—Julian stopped resisting.
His weakened, vulnerable grip held Julian fast. A delicate, almost fragile touch tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed society every day traced a path up his wrist.
And Julian did nothing to stop him.
That was when he realised. This relentless, incurable predicament—this nightmare of his twenty-fifth year—still wasn’t over.