Chapter One.

 Midnight on Kings Street, a viral coronation of past meets future wrapped in this diabolical moment. He was perched on the top step of Lord Chatterley's townhouse staring at this formidable door. It was a stability, a corpus understanding of what was shutting him out, this solid oak admission. Solid as a congenial key inserted into the depths of deception and control that held Charles in a vice. The wood astounded him. The swirls of craftsmanship polished and smooth sucked in his courage and savagely threw him back into the body of a trembling fifteen year old boy.

A boy who was all but swallowing down whimpers while staring into the hardened face of his father. The older mans body filled the doorway like a massive blocker. He cut off the boy from looking at the familiar lights in the foyer, decorative furniture, and chattering of guests. The threat was immediate when pouring from his fathers mouth. For a second the boy was reduced to choking sobs, begging for a chance at living a life not destined for someone such as he. Yet, there he stayed all night. Shivering in the September chills, his young eyes focused on the swirls and knots within the door. Hoping, no, almost cursing the wood to scream volumes of his need to the inhabitants within.

Charles shivered again, this time fifteen years later, no longer that idle bighearted boy. He was a man come home to face all the demons from the past, a man ready to accept a future placed upon his shoulders by the very man who threw him away from this world. A fist to the door was his knock, hard and unrelenting. Each impact shattered the cloudy memory of his departure. It cracked and crumbled until all that remained was a purpose.

“Welcome home, Charles.”

The swift creak of the door opening caused his attention to snap up towards the speaker. Madame Quinton was in her nightcap. The gray curls that slipped out the sides signified her advanced years and the laugh lines were worn away from the corners of a stiff lipped mouth. Charles swept off his top-hat and popped it gently against his knee to let the raindrops sprinkle onto the rushes. Madame Quinton's eyes traveled down the length of him, his appearance was something interesting. Forgoing the fact that he had showed up at his old home, arriving just as he had left it, in the middle of the night. 

All that aside, the boy she once knew was no where in this tall, dark stranger with practical black traveling clothes. And black, almost impenetrable eyes. She was miffed at him, but not for his unexpected arrival. He had been expected. For a funeral almost two weeks earlier. Once sweeping into the doorway Charles placed his hat and heavy coat on the hook provided on the wall. Nothing in this place had changed at all. The foyer, huge as it was, had not been expanded into the study like Lord Chatterley was last mentioning when he had lived here. Instead things were the same, clean to provide a pristine image, and remarkably just as grim.

“Suppose you will be wanting his room then,” Madame Quinton muttered while locking the front door. Adjusting her night robe more securely about her plump person she took a candle from the wall and walked towards a back hallway. “All of his belongings were sold to the debtors, but the bed is still good to use.”

Charles nodded and followed the woman, his one bag of clothes grasped firmly in a tight fist. Conversation with the woman who had once been his mother-like friend would have to wait. It was late, he was older, and she was just a ghost of his depraved past come back to haunt his conscience. Madame Quinton gave him one last long look when they had stopped before the room. Her blue eyes bright held more pain than he was willing to accept at the moment. She left him in silence, and with her went the light. It was just a long dark hallway and another door. One he fumbled with opening and slipped in.

Only once the door to his father's old room was shut behind him did he let go of the bag. It hit the ground with a huff just as he did. Sliding down the door with a hiss of pain. Looking up at the ceiling, his breathing was labored, and only grew more and more so when he moved his left arm back. Undoing the buttons to the constricting shirt he pulled it back from his arm, and looked down at the bloodied mess. Unfortunately,the bullet was lodged in his shoulder, but it had been a clear miss of his heart. With a deep breath Charles got to his feet and shuffled to the bed. Blood was already starting to leak down his well muscled arm and it splattered on the covers. The crimson droplets milked stains from the white linen, he was enraptured by the taint of life so easily spread. So intent to become lost within the sight of his blood that the knock on the door was a muffled echo. It came again, and once more in a code that even unconscious his body would respond to.

“Come in.” He all but spitted out, his throat hoarse from hours of clenched teeth and swallowing pain.

The door opened and a vision in blue slipped in, closing it quietly behind her. The blond beauty was frowning at his condition. Soft hands plied him down on the springy mattress, down further with their warmth until all he saw was the blur of woman. Flesh and Figure. Within his pain and laudanum splendor he ached to watch her work. She did work him. Her meticulous hands and gracious determination had him steady on the bed while she pulled the bullet, and his silence was rewarding. For any man would have cursed her, smacked, or even screamed to the heavens for mercy. But not this man. Charles Fleet was a different sort of man. He was a..

“They sent you quickly.” He whispered when she began to bandage the clean wound.

“Yes, they apparently know you well, Charles.”

Christ! Her voice was a thousand angels singing. Each word she uttered vibrated into his body, like a signature being scratched into his soul. She swept a cool hand over his forehead and smiled.

“No fever. Considering when you were shot that is a damn good sign.” She gather up her surgical supplies, placing each instrument back in their places with care. Just watching her from behind his lashes Charles deducted her personality was strong willed. This was a woman who put every amount of her faith and trust into the work she did, and each patient she cured would be dreaming of the beauty for weeks. There was something about the way she moved. Each little detail of her fluttering steps, the swing of her hips, a stray tendril of hair...

“Abigail?” The name was a sliver of perfection on his lips. With it whispered she stopped. A stillness settled over the small room, encasing them both with its justification.

“I didn't think you would remember me so soon, Charles.” She smiled.

He couldn't believe this. This magnificent angel, this paragon of his fantasies. A woman sent to heal him from his travesties..was Abigail Shane.

“Little Abby, how did..how did they get you?” Anger was laced in his words, an emotion Charles had the hardest time controlling. Abby merely shook her head and leaned against the side of his bed. Her arms folded across her stomach and a proud swell of self-awareness itching on her features.

“Does “how” really matter that much? And I am not Little Abby to you anymore, Charles. I am Miss Shane, your new housekeeper.”

A housekeeper. Of course the agency would make sure his new position had a counterpart. The agency wasn't some two-bit trinket of fate. They were well prepared to position one such as he and a female agent within each household. Like a mind reader Abby chimed off the words that bonded them together in the madness he so desperately wished to avoid.

“Behind every Butler there is a Housekeeper.”

It was what they were now. He was a trained man, dangerous for society, playing the dumb one for the Lords. Charles was bred to keep the shadowy forces of evil and all that was shameful away from the household he worked with, and out of societies eyes. He was a warrior sent not only as a replacement of his late father, but as an investigator to Adam Fleet's untimely death. And to wrap all of his past, present and future into a tight present was Abigail. A sweet maid's daughter equally trained as his opposite, designed for the delicate duties. To picture that smiling child as this soft alluring woman soured his stomach. She was more than likely educated, no, programmed to treat every single Butler the same way. Housekeeper's were meant to provide services to the agents. They gathered information in and out of the bed's of others if that was necessary, but their primary job was to keep the Butler on task. Focused. Relaxed. Healed. With every sense in his head telling him to shut up Charles asked the question gnawing inside of him.

“Am I your first Butler”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what is expected from you?”

“Of course. I did get trained.”

“I don't know if I can ask those things from you, Abby.” He said softly. His wound was a pain but he managed to pull himself up to sit against the headboard. His chest was just as tanned as the rest of him, unmarred by any hair and glistening with sweat. Abby moved forward until her leg brushed against his hand. Her eyes were looking over him, no longer like a concerned doctor but more like a woman would. Surveying the man she was given to.

“You will, Charlie. And I won't hate you for it when you do.” Smiling, she picked up his rough hand and placed a sweet kiss on top of it. “ I know it isn't any of my business but..how did you get shot?”

“Good question. I know as little as anyone. I had just arrived this afternoon on the Marie Cher with full intention on heading straight here. It was when I was waiting on the docks for my luggage to be brought up that I felt..watched.” The feeling had been instantaneously consuming. All of his senses screamed and Charles had begun to survey his surroundings with caution. “A quick assessment later and I didn't see anyone suspicious. But even when hailing a coach I felt like I was being followed. Of course, I was, because the b*****d jumped me right when I was getting into the coach. Very untrained as far as I could tell. The man literally attacked me outright trying to pull be back onto the street. We struggled, he was pretty strong but off balance. And the strangest thing is..I don't think he mean to shoot me.”

Abby frowned and started to pace the floor. Slow at first but a clear determination shined in her eyes.

“So he didn't mean to shoot you, just..pull you back?”

“I honestly think I wouldn't have been shot if I hadn't of thrown him to the ground. The gun dicharged and he ran. He was trying to abduct me.”

“One man, sent to kidnap a Butler? Either he is very stupid or an amateur at that.” Abby grabbed her bag and started doing up her cloak. Charles watched her every movement, marveling at the way her body had flourished over the years. Maybe..she was lucky to be placed with him. Lucky? He scoffed at the notion and reminded himself of whom exactly HE was. Luck had no part in his life, and soon Abby would bear the strains of he cold malnourished emotions.

“Goodnight Abby.”

She placed a hand on the doorknob and gave him one last heartwarming smiles.

“Goodnight, Charles Fleet. No matter what you think, I am pleased about our arrangement. I..am glad its you.” With that last stumbled confession she left. And with her went the warmth. Leaving Charles in a room so dim and full of secrets. What were you doing Father, that got you killed? Will they try to kill me as well? Little Abigail...

All the thoughts and prying questions pounded in his head and for a long time he did not sleep. It was a couple hours before dawn that he finally forced the troubling memories away. This was his life now. A Butler. Better to do exactly as he was bred or die a worthless being.

Author's Note

Unedited.