The Butler's Story Read online

  THE BUTLER’S STORY

  A NEW EMPOROR’S CONCERTO STORY

  BY

  HAZEL B WEST

  Other Books by Hazel B. West

  Modern Tales of Na Fianna

  Blood Ties

  An Earthly King

  Scars of War

  Other

  Flower of the Underworld

  The New Emperor’s Concerto (Coming Soon!)

  Copyright© 2020 by Hazel B. West

  Cover Art Copyright© 2020 by Hazel B. West

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 9780463424834

  All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  THE BUTLER’S STORY

  London fog rolled ominously across the city, even though it was already mid-morning, as Vincent Sinclair sat in the back of the cab, his hands folded in his lap. He tugged the cuff of one of his gloves down to reveal his wristband, and tapped it to see the time. He hoped he wouldn’t be late—that would be a terrible first impression with his new employer.

  But they were already passing St. James Park and into Belgravia soon after so it wouldn’t be too much longer.

  “You sure this is the right address?” the cabbie asked him for the third time now—Sinclair had been keeping track. The man seemed unable to get it into his head that anyone would either want to go to this address, or admit to it if they did. It was obviously the first time anyone had asked this particular cabbie such a thing, and yet, he knew exactly where the address was.

  Everyone did. But he was also right—one did not simply go to the house of the King’s Righteous Man.

  Unless, of course, you were in his employment, or were soon to be so.

  “Yes, it’s correct,” Sinclair repeated what he’d told the cabbie the last two times he’d asked and continued looking out the window at the townhouses sliding past, most belonging to members of Parliament or simply the king’s favorites.

  Finally, they made it to their destination: House Beautiful.

  Sinclair had always found the title amusing—as was the intent. A reference to Pilgrim’s Progress and about as fitting a name as the “Righteous” Man.

  “Well, ‘ere’s your stop, gov,” the cabbie told him. He still sounded unsure of the whole situation, as if someone was having him on. He didn’t even bother to disengage the hover thrusters on the car, as if he wanted to make as quick a getaway as possible once Sinclair departed.

  Sinclair simply handed him his fare and got out of the cab, taking his valise with him.

  He looked up at the foreboding residence, its gothic structure taking on an almost sinister appearance in the morning fog. There was probably never a time that its namesake was less appropriate.

  He straightened his tie and went to ring the bell.

  It was opened in only a few seconds by the maid who asked his name.

  “Vincent Sinclair, miss, from the agency.” He handed her a signed and sealed letter of introduction.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Sinclair, Sir Percival is expecting you.” She stepped aside so he could enter. “I’ll go tell him you’ve arrived; just wait here, please.”

  Sinclair nodded and set his valise down on the floor at his feet, glancing around the foyer. The steady ticking of a grandfather clock on one side of the room was the only sound that could be heard.

  Then footsteps approached, and he found himself face to face with Sir Percival—the King’s Righteous Man.

  Sir Percival was a formidable man. Dark hair brushed back from his forehead, cold grey eyes, dressed in a smart black suit and tie with the pin on his left breast with King John III’s coat of arms—a flaming sun held between two lions rampant—the only identifying mark of his station.

  He held the open letter of introduction in his hand and swept Sinclair with his eyes. “Vincent Sinclair. You come with high regards—top marks in all your classes. Impressive.” He tucked the letter into his coat.

  Sinclair bowed slightly. “It is an honor to be chosen for this position, sir.”

  “An honor, a curse—take your pick.” Sir Percival smiled wryly. “You can decide once you’ve worked here longer.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Top marks in classes mean nothing to me, Sinclair. I prove a man’s worth by how he reacts in the field, how he composes himself under pressure. And a proper butler to the Righteous Man must always be composed no matter the situation.”

  “Understood, sir,” Sinclair replied.

  “And ready for any eventuality—whether it be an assassin after your master or high tea for ten guests on short notice. This family walks the line between life and death, high society and the lowest of humanity—we stand between the king and whoever and whatever might wish him harm. We have no boundaries—we are the boundary, and as I protect and serve the king, it is your duty to protect and serve me.”

  “I hold my duty above everything, sir,” Sinclair promised, a hand over his heart.

  “And I will hold you to that,” Sir Percival said and turned. “Come, I will show you around and explain your duties.”

  There was only the barest hint of movement, a vague flick of his wrist. Sir Percival did not even glance over his shoulder as he sent the knife spinning toward Sinclair’s face.

  It was mere reflex to reach up and snag the knife out of midair, inches from his face, the sharp blade digging into the soft leather of his gloves.

  Sir Percival turned and Sinclair calmly reversed the blade and handed it to him hilt first. “I believe this is yours, sir.”

  Sir Percival nodded, satisfied, as he tucked the blade back into his sleeve. “Good job, you passed your first test.”

  Sinclair made no indication of pleasure, simply clasped his hands behind his back and raised his head.

  “Do you know what happened to my last butler, Sinclair?” Sir Percival asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “He died bloody,” the Righteous Man replied. “Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”

  Sinclair was silent. Sir Percival turned around. “Come, I’ll introduce you to my son. The maid will put your bag in your room.”

  Sinclair followed the Righteous Man down the hall toward the back of the house. There was a gymnasium there, and the sound of foils snapping against each other.

  “Mind the footwork, Master Lysander!” came the snapped instruction, as the other opponent stumbled and whipped his foil up too vigorously, overshooting, before the instructor drove under his defenses and a buzz sounded out as the foil connected with the electric breastplate.

  “Lysander, take a break,” Sir Percival called. “Mr. Rathe, that will be all for today.”

  The fighters stopped and pulled off their helmets. The Instructor, a greying man with a disgruntled face, instantly stepped aside to put up his foils. Master Lysander’s loss of helmet revealed a flushed young man with a dark look of frustration, which he quickly schooled in the second before he turned to his father and brushed back sweaty hair.

  “Sinclair, this is my son,” Sir Percival said as he beckoned the young man over. “Lysander, this is our new butler, Sinclair. He just arrived from the agency.”

  Sinclair bowed to the young master properly.

/>   “You will serve me, when I have need of you, Sinclair, but your main duty will be instructing my son in the art of combat, and other skills that will lend to his training as my successor. I hope you are as good as your instructors say because, heaven knows, he needs all the help he can get.”

  Sinclair caught Lysander pressing his lips into a thin, furious line, clutching the foil tightly in his hand.

  “Now,” Sir Percival said. “It’s time for your next test—let’s see how well you can make a cup of tea.”

  ***

  Sinclair unpacked his few belongings after retiring to his room that night, finally with a moment to himself. Sir Percival had shown him around House Beautiful, and explained to him all his expected duties as the house butler. Of course, Sinclair understood this was only half of his occupation. The other half was not so easily explainable.

  He’d met Lady Teresa, Sir Percival’s wife, and of course, their son, Lysander—he couldn’t quite get the image of the boy’s frustrated face out of his head after the fencing match, not to mention the rather condescending words Sir Percival had rather carelessly spoken in front of his son. Sinclair was suddenly glad Master Lysander’s training was to be one of his main duties in the house. He was sure that the young master had a natural talent if he were only allowed to show it instead of being berated for every small mistake, making him tense up, which, in turn, made him unable to execute the moves and form properly. Sinclair had only needed to watch ten seconds of the fencing instructor’s lesson to see all that and had already started to plan on how to rectify that with his own curriculum.

  That, and the man had been teaching Master Lysander sport fencing, which was next to useless when it came to a real fight. Sinclair would teach the Righteous Man’s son to win, no matter the circumstances, which would keep him from getting killed when he finally took over the mantle of his family’s occupation.

  He was just about to loosen his tie, fetch his pajamas and turn in for the night, when a knock came on his door.

  “Sinclair, I have a job—you will drive me,” Sir Percival’s voice came from the other side. “Ten minutes.”

  “Coming, sir,” Sinclair said and reached for his suit jacket and overcoat after pulling on a shoulder holster and tucking a Walther .22 into it. He straightened his clothes and headed out to the garage to bring the Bentley around for Sir Percival.

  A Butler to the King’s Righteous Man did not sleep when his master was awake.

  ***

  The job was done rather quickly, though, and Sinclair drove his master back home and retired for the night in the wee hours of the morning. At least he would get a few hours of sleep before he was to take on his duties for the day.

  He woke before dawn, dressed smartly, and retired to the kitchens to see to breakfast preparations. When the family woke, he had already set the table in the dining room and had the food prepared on the sideboard in buffet style. Lady Teresa and Master Lysander sat down but Sir Percival only poked his head in.

  “I will take tea and toast at my desk, Sinclair.”

  “Of course, sir,” Sinclair finished serving the wife and son then prepared a tray and took it to Sir Percival’s office. The room was small and doubled as a library—not the formal office down the hall where Sinclair assumed Sir Percival took visitors. Papers were strewn across the desk and the Righteous Man was already working on his computer, the holo-screen casting a bluish light against his pale face.

  “Your breakfast, sir,” Sinclair said, setting the cup of tea and toast on the desk at his elbow. “Is there anything else you wish me to fetch for you?”

  “No, that will be all. After breakfast, I want you to start Lysander’s lessons.” He reached over and plucked a sheet of paper off the desk. “This is a list of everything he needs to work on.”

  Sinclair accepted the paper and saw the rather long list. He bowed. “I will see it done, sir.”

  Sir Percival nodded in dismissal and Sinclair retreated from the room.

  He returned to the dining room and found that Lady Teresa had already gone, leaving Master Lysander alone. Lady Teresa was a quiet woman, seeming more a fixture to the house than a wife, as if she were nothing more than one of the antiques or expensive pieces of art. Of course, being the wife of someone like Sir Percival was probably trying. Not that Sinclair had expected marital bliss from the Righteous Man’s family, but he had assumed they might be a bit tighter knit. After all, they were rather secluded from society as a whole, considering their bound duty to the king. No wonder Lady Teresa was distant.

  Not that familial relations were of any concern to Sinclair. After all, every butler to the Righteous Man was sworn to celibacy. There could be no frivolous distractions to keep them from their duties, and a wife and child could be used as leverage in a life so dangerous. Sinclair lived now only to serve the Righteous Man and his family as he had been trained to.

  “More tea, Master Lysander?” he asked as he picked up the pot and refilled the boy’s cup.

  “Thanks,” Lysander replied, and studied the butler for a minute.

  “Your father instructed me to start your lessons after breakfast,” Sinclair informed him. “You will have to let me know your skillsets so I can decide where best to start—your father did not go into detail.”

  “Well, according to him, I have none,” Lysander said bitterly before he clenched his jaw shut as if afraid he had said too much.

  Sinclair set the teapot back on the sideboard carefully. “Well, whether that is true or not, I, as your instructor, will be the judge.”

  Lysander sipped some more tea then put his cup and fork down. “I’m done now. We may as well get it over with.”

  They made their way to the gymnasium where Lysander glanced balefully over toward the fencing equipment waiting against one wall.

  “I thought we would start out with firearms,” Sinclair told him quickly, and Lysander’s shoulders relaxed. Sinclair smiled to himself. He had suspected the young master might be a good shot.

  They went to one side of the gymnasium where there was a shooting range and Lysander opened a case beside it, pulling out a handgun and loading a clip into it with practice ease.

  “Finish that clip and then reload, I’ll call out the targets,” Sinclair instructed as he stood back and clasped his hands behind his back.

  Lysander took his stance and waited for Sinclair’s instructions. The butler waited a second then called out the first target and then continued in the pattern, watching as the young man hit every target in or near the bullseye, then reloaded swiftly and efficiently before seamlessly going back to shooting.

  As the last shot echoed, Sinclair nodded with approval. “Very good. I see no reason to improve upon that. It seems you are quite the crack shot, Master Lysander.”

  Lysander shrugged and put the gun up. “Shooting is easy. You just point and squeeze.”

  “And how is your hand-to-hand?”

  “Passable.”

  Sinclair inclined his head. “I assume it’s fencing that is giving you trouble?”

  Lysander’s jaw tightened. “My father insists on it, though even he hardly ever carries a sword. I think it’s pointlessly archaic.”

  Sinclair raised an eyebrow, unable to help himself. “Well, fencing definitely is, if you don’t mind me stating my opinion, Master Lysander. Armed combat, however, goes far beyond the use of foils.” He walked over to the fencing strip and slid his coat off, folding it neatly over a bench as he went to grab two wooden katanas he had spotted.

  “Do you know how to dance, Master Lysander?” he asked.

  “Do I know how to dance?” Lysander asked incredulously as he too shrugged out of his coat. “Not really.”

  “Good.” Sinclair tossed him one of the katanas, which he caught with a small fumble. “Then you won’t have any of those foolish, preconceived notions that fighting is anything like dancing. Each involves a set of motions and that is about where their similarities end. I’m not going to teach you how t
o fence like a boarding school lordling, Master Lysander, I’m going to teach you how to win in a real fight. Inevitably, I will end up serving you directly when you take over your father’s position, and I would really hate to have to do all the work involved with keeping you alive.”

  He took a ready stance on the strip, and beckoned Lysander to stand opposite him. “Now, show me what natural skills you have. Don’t worry about what that Master Rathe taught you, use your instincts.” He then leapt forward and attacked without another word.

  Lysander staggered back, obviously shocked, but he quickly got over it and managed to swing his wooden blade up and block the next strike Sinclair made. He stayed mostly on the defensive until he seemed to get bold enough to strike out at Sinclair. The butler simply twisted his blade and disarmed Lysander.

  The young man huffed as he watched his blade clatter on the floor, defeat washing over his face, which Sinclair would not have.

  “That was very good,” he said, and Lysander swung his head up, eyes wide and incredulous.

  “I bloody lost.”

  “In the end, yes, but you held your own for longer than I expected,” Sinclair told him, reaching down to retrieve the sword and return it to Lysander. “I told you, I just wanted to gauge where your talent fell, and I think you have quite a bit of natural talent that luckily hasn’t been schooled out of you yet by introduction to sport fencing. Now I know exactly what I need to work on with you.”

  Lysander still seemed suspicious. “My footwork?”

  “Partly, yes, but really, fighting is about keeping your feet under you and stable. As long as you remember that and keep your weight on your dominant foot, then you should be able to figure that out.” He strode toward Lysander. “En guard.”

  Lysander fell into a ready pose, and Sinclair walked around him, making adjustments to his form. “Keep your shoulders over your hips like in hand-to-hand. That way your opponent can’t use your own weight against you. If you’re going to lunge, make sure you’re going to hit your target. If you overextend yourself like a fencer, you’ll never get up before your opponent has skewered you thoroughly.”