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    The Masterpiece
    The Masterpiece
    The Masterpiece
    Ebook239 pages3 hours

    The Masterpiece

    By Bonnie Dee

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Built from the bottom up: one perfect gentleman.

    Man about town Arthur Lawton spends his days pursuing entertainment while shoeshine Joe Sprat labors to better his family’s lives. When an argument about nature versus nurture sparks a wager, Arthur swears to a friend he can turn this working man into a gentleman who will pass at a society function.

    Joe is happy to participate in the experiment for a fee but receives more than he bargained for after moving into Lawton’s house. Arthur is determined Joe won’t merely wear a veneer of sophistication but educates him in every way. As he creates his new and improved man, Arthur grows more deeply infatuated with him, while Joe falls equally hard for his charismatic mentor.

    Underneath a growing friendship, desire simmers and one day explodes. After their relationship escalates, the pair exists in a dream bubble until the threat of exposure sharply reminds them they belong in different worlds. When the ball is over, each must resume his own life, changed by their encounter but destined for different courses.

    Find out if love is strong enough to bridge the gap between peer and pauper in this twist on the tale of My Fair Lady.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBonnie Dee
    Release dateJun 12, 2017
    ISBN9781370903870
    The Masterpiece
    Author

    Bonnie Dee

    Whether you're a fan of contemporary, paranormal, or historical romance, you'll find something to enjoy among my books. I'm interested in flawed, often damaged, people who find the fulfillment they seek in one another. To stay informed about new releases, please SIGN UP FOR MY NEWSLETTER. Help an author out by leaving a review and spreading the word about this book among your friends. You can join my street team at FB. Learn more about my backlist at http://bonniedee.com or find me on FB and Twitter @Bonnie_Dee.

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      Book preview

      The Masterpiece - Bonnie Dee

      The Masterpiece

      Bonnie Dee

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      *

      Copyright © 2017 by Bonnie Dee

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

      Smashwords License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

      Chapter One

      London, 1909

      Arthur Lawton was on guard against boredom every moment of his life. It was a constant threat, an enemy lying in ambush ready to attack when least expected. He was assiduous in strengthening his defenses against it. He started each day with a leisurely breakfast enjoyed with a newspaper to keep him abreast of what went on in the world. A round of morning visits came next. This was the working portion of his day, when he spent the appropriate fifteen minutes with dull dowagers and their daughters. The social calls kept up the illusion that he eventually planned to choose a wife from among the debutantes. But of course, he would prolong a choice forever, since he had no intention of marrying.

      Finished with social duties, he’d head to Barrett’s for lunch. His club wasn’t top tier, but it pleased him to avoid the cream of society for a few hours, so he’d joined a club with a more bourgeois membership. Listening to new-money types discuss their business endeavors, he would sometimes wonder if having such a purpose might help him defend against dreaded boredom.

      But working would tether him to an endless list of responsibilities to be accomplished. Arthur preferred his days more free-form than that. If business were represented by rigid Victorian art, then Arthur’s life might best be illustrated by the flowing, natural lines of Art Nouveau.

      He definitely preferred to set his own schedule, one not dictated by meetings to attend or tasks to accomplish. Today, for example, he might go to his sports club to practice fencing or meet up with his old university crew for a spot of rowing. The exercise portion of his day was important, for he didn’t wish his trim figure to sag into corpulence now that he was well over thirty.

      Exercise would take up a large portion of the afternoon, and then he’d have tea with one friend or another, or perhaps attend an afternoon soiree with bohemian artistic types at Madame Archambault’s flat. Arthur enjoyed an eclectic range of acquaintances from different social strata, another way to stave off boredom.

      He spent some quiet time each day reading the latest popular novel or touring the newest collection at one of the museums. One must be abreast of the latest thing in order to carry on sparkling conversation, thus making oneself a popular guest at parties.

      Before he knew it, it would be time for the evening’s activity; perhaps the theater, a dinner party, and, later, more illicit pleasures. There might be card playing, gambling, boxing, or even more underground activities. Whatever activity he chose, the night generally culminated in a late supper and sometimes a liaison with a man who met Arthur’s particular needs.

      At last, with his body satisfied in every way, Arthur would return home in the early hours of morning to fall into a deep sleep. How could a man ask for a more fulfilling life? He had everything he wanted or needed with no interference from his family to interrupt his pleasures.

      If only it wasn’t becoming increasingly difficult to awake refreshed and ready to begin another round of keeping boredom at bay.

      *

      Joe Sprat pulled back his fist and rammed it into the face of the bloke who’d taken his corner. He’d told the wanker to clear out, once nice, twice stern, and the third time with this little love tap to drive the point home. The man clapped a hand to his blood-streaming nose and grabbed up his polish and shoe brushes. Joe was glad the fisticuffs had gone no further. Someone summoning a constable and he too might be driven off this prime spot at the edge of the Square Mile, where there were plenty of bankers, solicitors, and other swells with shoes in need of polishing.

      With the intruder banished, Joe settled in for a day’s work in front of the chairs under the awning of Hazley’s newsstand. He exchanged hullos with the newspaper hawker, then laid out his brushes and checked he had enough clean rags for buffing. Mary Riley, who lived a few flats down, bleached the white cloths for him daily, a penny a dozen. His tin of black polish was getting low, but it would do for today until he could earn enough to buy another.

      While he waited for a customer, Joe read the headlines on the papers hanging from Hazley’s stand. He was okay with the big letters, not so swell on the tinier print. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the words, but he could hardly see words that marched along like a tiny row of black ants. The main headline was about Admiral Peary conquering the North Pole. That sounded exciting, though Joe had only the fuzziest idea of what it meant.

      He had no time to read more as a pair of brown-and-cream two-tone high lace-up shoes came to a stop, and their heavyset owner heaved himself into the chair

      Morning, guvnor. Joe pasted on his brightest smile, the one that told customers how much he enjoyed making their shoes shine brilliantly enough to reflect the sun. He set to work, applying polish and brushing it in. He’d learned early how to read his customers. Some wanted to chat about the weather or the royal family, others complained about their bosses, spouses, the government, or bad investments, while most simply wished to be left alone to read their newspapers or stock reports. Joe obliged each man’s mood. This one shook open a newspaper without responding to his greeting, suggesting he preferred silence.

      Joe worked two chairs, which meant he had to be quick. Nothing vexed a gent more than being kept waiting, so Joe was a dervish with his brush and polishing cloth when customers began to queue. However, the large man with surprisingly small feet didn’t seem to be in a rush.

      Two-tone shoes made extra work. Even a smudge of dark brown on the cream-colored uppers was hard to remove. Better to be careful to start with. But he’d done this job since his hands were almost too small to hold the shoe brush. He need spare only a portion of his attention and still get the job done right.

      The rest of his mind was on how much money was saved in the tin hidden under a loose floorboard at home, and how much more he needed to finally start his business. How lovely it would be to spend winters indoors with his hands and feet as warm as toast. Except he’d probably have to begin with a pushcart and work up to owning a shop. Selling cheap brogans to working folk like himself might someday lead to a storefront carrying high-quality Italian footwear.

      You dream too big, you silly twit, his mother’s affectionate voice reminded him. Know yer place and ya won’t be knocked down by life.

      Was this always meant to be his place? Sitting on his little box, looking up at men who towered over him, making their shoes sparkle until the next time they stepped into a puddle or horse shite?

      The man in the chair snapped his newspaper closed, pulled out a pocket watch, and checked the time. Hurry up. I’m running late.

      Yes, sir. Joe bent to his task, making the white creamy and the brown tawny without a speck crossing the line.

      Chapter Two

      "Reaaally, Lawton, you are too eccentric," Lord Frederick Granville drawled in a nasal tone that drilled Arthur’s ears like fingernails on a slate board. Why were they still friends? Arthur must remind himself how entwined their two families were with intermarried cousins, and Lady Granville and Arthur’s mother having been close as sisters when they were young. He could no more end his friendship with Granny than he could stop breathing. That was the problem with their set. Interconnections were like cords binding them all together in a web high above the lesser elements of society.

      First you join a bourgeois club rather than a proper one like Savile’s, and now you insist on spending time with bohemians. Why can’t you behave like everyone else? Granville wasn’t interested in anything beyond the norm. If he knew of Arthur’s clandestine encounters, he’d drop dead from horror.

      Don’t you ever grow tired of the same old thing, Granny? Arthur used the point of his umbrella to flick a bit of trash out of his way as he strolled along the crowded sidewalk. There’s more to the world than our little corner. Have you no interest in new ideas?

      Granville sniffed. I wouldn’t be caught dead rubbing elbows with the mad lot of artists and anarchists that Frenchwoman hosts. How do you bear their prattle? Poets are fools.

      "Some might say our conversations are prattle, Arthur pointed out. But I don’t only mean the bohemians. Have you no interest in how other people live, including those with whom we exchange few words other than giving commands?"

      Who can you possibly mean? Surely not servants and shopkeepers. Granville pointed ahead of them. Ah, a shoeshine. Just what I need. My Oxfords need a polish.

      Granville led the way to a pair of empty chairs underneath the awning of a newsstand. The bootblack was chatting with the newspaper vendor over the counter but offered his undivided attention as soon as the two men sat down.

      Morning, yer honors. Fine day, ain’t it?

      Wet from last night’s rain. Granville shook muddy droplets from his shoe that spattered the shine’s hands and arms. Don’t smudge my spats. I’ve managed to keep them clean despite the state of the streets.

      I’ll treat ’em like kid gloves. The dark-haired young man carefully unbuttoned Granville’s clean white spats in order to polish the black shoes underneath.

      Arthur sniffed. Who wore spats on a muddy morning and complained if they were ruined by noon? Thickheaded Freddie, that’s who. As he waited his turn, Arthur watched the shoeshine’s deft hands wielding his tools. He applied blacking, rubbed it in with brisk strokes of a brush, removed residue with a stained rag, then polished with a clean cotton cloth until the shoes gleamed. How strong his hands must be after performing this act for hours on end, day after day. Arthur admired the flex of his fingers and the tendons in those strong forearms below rolled-up sleeves. He let his gaze travel up to the man’s neck above his collarless shirt, and the face above that.

      The shoeshine had a lean, wiry build, a thatch of thick black hair, and finely sculpted features. His high forehead, straight nose, and prominent jaw were sharp, but the mouth under that blade of a nose lent a softness to foxlike features. When he glanced up at Arthur, his eyes were so dark, Arthur couldn’t decide if they were black or indigo blue.

      Busy day? Arthur asked, wanting to hear the man speak again.

      The shoeshine opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Granville replied. Only this meeting with my financial advisor. After that, I’ll stop by my club. Why? Have you an idea for something interesting to do?

      I was asking him. Arthur nodded at the shoeshine.

      Granville glanced down, appearing surprised that the creature cleaning his shoes was human. His expression said, Good heavens, why?

      The man was wiping his hands clean before buttoning the spats. Fairly busy. Streets being muddy an’ all.

      What do you do on a rainy day? Arthur asked. That must cut into business terribly.

      I’ve a friend who hauls things, furniture and such. He’ll throw a bit o’ work my way. Rain or shine, when somebody’s set to move, it must be done.

      Arthur thought the man hardly looked burly enough for heavy lifting. But perhaps there was more strength in his sinewy frame than one would expect.

      Granville glanced back and forth between them before apparently deciding Arthur was making a joke of the shoeshine. What does one get paid for such work, my dear fellow? A small fortune, I should imagine.

      If the man understood sarcasm, he gave no sign when he answered, Enough to get by on.

      Granville’s sneering made Arthur cringe, but was he so very different? He hardly gave thought to what getting by meant to the working class. He’d be certain to tip this shoeshine generously.

      The man had moved his block in front of Arthur’s chair and began wiping the worst of the mud spatters from his wingtips. Through the leather, Arthur felt the pressure of his rubbing and found the sensation curiously arousing. Or perhaps it was having the man crouched before him, which made his mind wander to other scenarios. Arthur pulled his attention back from such avenues.

      What services would you perform for a full pound? Granville continued in his snide tone. Quite a lot, I’d wager.

      Enough of that, Granny. Let the man do his work, Arthur snapped.

      I thought you wanted to talk with him. Find out how the other half lives. Isn’t that what you said?

      Dark eyes glanced up at him as if looking for his answer.

      I merely meant our way of life is only one small part of the world. Have you never wanted to step outside of all that is familiar? Explore the Far East or an African jungle or any place where they live a different sort of life than we’re used to?

      I’m jolly well comfortable right where I am, Granville answered smugly. I’ve no desire to contract malarial fever or typhoid in foreign climates. And what has all that to do with our friend here?

      What did he mean? That human life was infinitely varied and no one was better than anyone else. Freddie would laugh himself silly at such a notion and tell everyone they knew Arthur Lawton had become a radical.

      Not too long ago, Arthur had been like his oldest friend, giving not a fig for such thoughts and content with his life as it was. He wasn’t quite sure when this shift in his views had begun or what had prompted it—perhaps it was the influence of the bohemians as Granny suggested. But these thoughts felt rather like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering momentum and threatening to knock his legs out from under him.

      What is your name? Arthur asked the shine, who had wrapped the cloth around the back of Arthur’s heels and was briskly rubbing.

      Sprat, sir. Joe Sprat. Another of those keen glances skewered Arthur, leaving him a little off-balance though he sat squarely in a chair.

      One can tell how bright and industrious Mr. Sprat is. If this man were to be placed in a bank or boardroom in the Square Mile wearing proper attire, he could blend in with every other man.

      Hah! Granville gave a scoffing bark of laughter and mocked Sprat’s atrocious accent. ’Til he opened his mouth, guvnor. Then ’e’d let the cat out o’ the bag, yeh? He returned to his own haughty voice. Proper attire does not a gentleman make. You’re speaking utter rubbish.

      Well, perhaps not as he is now, but he could very quickly learn correct manners and speech and the right things to say. I’m certain of it. Given time to prepare, Mr. Sprat could attend a formal event with no one the wiser. My point being people are not so very different under the surface.

      Now Granville laughed hard enough to make himself choke. As he wiped away tears, he shook his head. That would be even funnier if I didn’t fear you meant it. What has come over you? It takes more than a little polish to turn a sow’s ear into fine leather. Remember back at University, that ridiculous American, Burton VandeKamp? No matter how hard he tried, he never fit in. He simply wasn’t our sort. Breeding, old chap. It’s all about breeding.

      I quite liked the American. He was refreshingly blunt, Arthur said. "But I’ll wager Mr. Sprat here could learn what he needed to know to pass as a gentleman."

      A wager? Now that I’d be interested in. Granville leaned on the arm of the chair nearest Arthur, his bay rum cologne wafting over in a cloying cloud. It would be a lark such as we haven’t had since the time we talked Duddie Carpenter into wearing a gown to Everly’s. Remember that?

      Arthur couldn’t help grinning. Duddy had looked a sight in an evening gown and elaborate wig since they’d convinced him the event was a masquerade. They’d laughed themselves into stitches over his embarrassment for months afterward. Duddy had been a good sport about it, though, laughing right along with them and soon paying them back with a prank of his own.

      Arthur stifled his smile and peered at the crown of the head bent over his shoes. Sprat buffed the toes with a seesaw motion of the cloth. Was he listening while pretending not to hear? Servants had a knack for remaining invisible in the background, but they

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