A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(9)
Alexandre gave the cabby the address of his flat in Battersea; although he intended to dine at his club, he really did not want to take the chance, however slim, that the parcel should come apart and his purchases be exposed to the world’s curious eyes.
But once safely home, and the books disposed of, a glance out the window showed the storm worsening. If he could get a cab, it would be a miserable ride, and for what? The dubious pleasure of a chop and some overcooked vegetables in the company of a lot of stuffy old bastards who had been friends with his father . . . there would be no one young or interesting there tonight, and knowing that the old gents were pretty indifferent to their food, the cooks tended to slack off on evenings like this. And after an indifferent dinner at the club, what then?
A quick perusal of his invitations left him with the impression of similar barrenness for the evening. They were all for “Christmas” this and “Christmas” that. He’d have accepted a decent musical evening, or a card party at which the stakes would be mere tokens at this point, but there wasn’t even the promise of that. At least two of the invitations made him grimace; they were for “family” parties. Of course, neither of the men who had invited him had any idea of his interests and nature—and they were probably fishing for prospective husbands for their daughters. Still. The prospect of a deadly boring evening that would probably feature parlor games and the inexpert warblings or tinklings of (very) amateur musicians was enough to make him contemplate feigning a fit or flinging himself out a window rather than endure it.
He rang for his man. “Can you contrive something in the way of supper, or need I send you down to the ‘Parrot’?” he asked.
“Oi reckoned we was in for a bad un, an’ Oi took the liberty of sendin’ t’ the shops this arternoon, guv,” the fellow said. He was rough-hewn, but he suited Alexandre. They shared similar tastes in food, drink, and women, he organized the flat well, he never forgot his place, and he was quite resourceful. And, within limits, he could cook. “If yew fancy a bite now, Oi can ’ave a nice Welsh rarebit, or cold roast beef.”
“The rarebit will do nicely, Alf. And I believe I will have beer with it.” The evening did not seem quite so bleak, with hot food in the offing.
“Good choice, guv,” Alf touched one finger to his temple by way of a salute, and disappeared in the direction of the flat’s tiny kitchen. Alexandre had, curiously enough, “inherited” Alf from another occultist who had run afoul of the law and found it necessary to flee the country. Alf was utterly useless at many of the “normal” duties of a valet—he was hopeless at dressing his master, for instance. And there was no mistaking he was a direct import from the East End. But Alexandre was perfectly capable of dressing himself and running his own bath, and Alf more than made up for any deficiencies with his absolute discretion, his resourcefulness, and his cunning. It was he, for instance, who had gotten his former master out of the country one step ahead of the police. And on seeing his master safely on board a smuggling ketch and well underway, he had turned right around, gotten his own worldly goods packed up and presented himself to Alexandre, leaving the barren and stripped flat for the baffled Bobbies.
Alexandre, who knew Alf’s valuable qualities from visits with his fellow magician, and who had been increasingly frustrated with his (then current) valet, fired the old one and hired Alf on the spot.
Alf was that rarest of rarae aves of the underclass. He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was to be comfortable. He wanted to not have to work too hard for that comfort. He did not aspire to wealth. He knew better than to shear his sheep too often, or kill the proverbial golden goose. His former and current masters all had the same arrangement with him. He woke them after he woke. They shared a breakfast, a morning smoke, and papers. His master dressed himself and went on about his business, and Alf had the run of the flat and carte blanche to do what he wanted until his master returned. When the master returned, Alf might or might not cook dinner depending on whether he’d stocked the larder, gotten something at the pub on the corner that could keep, or his master intended to dine out. Alf might or might not procure women for himself and his master, might or might not slip a cosh in his pocket and follow his master off as a guard, either when venturing into the bowels of London in search of entertainment, or into other places for esoteric experiments. If his master went off unaccompanied, Alf put a hot brick in the bed but did not wait up. Alf was paid very well for these light duties, and this life suited him down to the bone. Very occasionally, his master needed something quasi-legal or outright against the law, and Alf would supply that thing for an extra consideration.
Alf, in short, suited his master, and his master suited Alf.
Alexandre retired to his bedroom and returned in soft trousers, slippers, and a warm smoking jacket at about the same time Alf appeared in the dining room with a laden tray. He set it down on the table, and as Alexandre took his seat, served him several triangles of toast, over which he spooned the cheese sauce, before making a plate for himself. He opened and poured his master’s beer, and his own, and settled himself across from Alexandre with every sign of contentment. In that moment. Alexandre envied him.
“Wretched hall was closed,” he said crossly, cutting himself a bite, then savoring it. Alf might not be a master cook, but he did make a masterful rarebit. “Some Brotherhood or other hired it for a Christmas party, if you please.”