See end of chapter for notes.

Cain C. Hargreaves, Earl of Cornwall, leaned his desk chair back on two legs and tried to balance a pen on his nose. This endeavor failed, and the pen dropped to the floor, rolling away and under a nearby table. With an exasperated groan, Cain let the chair's legs thunk back to the floor, glaring at the stack of papers on his desk.

Data. That was the current problem. Data, data, data-oh, what was that wonderful phrase he'd read recently? "I cannot make bricks without clay," yes, that was it. Distressingly accurate for the current situation.

It was maddening, really. He had all the threads, neatly braided together into a single, coherent plot. The recent spate of bombings in central London, the downswing in property values as a result, the immediate purchase of the bombed properties, by one of three men… They had a common factor: Lord Cassandra Gladstone, pet philanthropist of high society.

Though Cain had never encountered the man himself, his reputation was more than enough for Cain to find the man somewhat distasteful. He naturally distrusted anything or anyone the general population fawned over. In Gladstone's case, he suspected hypocrisy-the man seemed far too pleased with the adulation to truly be the altruistic philanthropist he claimed. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark, and in this case, Cain was quite sure it was Lord Cassandra Gladstone.

The difficulty was the complete and utter lack of hard evidence.

Cain dropped his head onto crossed arms, long fingers playing absently with his inkstand. The bombings were too deliberate, too organized, to be merely the work of a gang, regardless of what the Belk Boys claimed themselves. And Gladstone wouldn't wish to risk meeting with the thugs in person, so there must have been a messenger. And where there was a messenger, there was a weak link. Particularly if, as Cain suspected, Gladstone was too paranoid and mistrustful to allow a messenger to know what they were relaying-which meant written communication rather than verbal. In short, hard evidence that Lord Cassandra Gladstone was up to his neck in the criminal underworld, and quite pleased with the arrangement.

And Cain needed that hard evidence before acting, which meant he needed to get into Gladstone's manor, somehow, and without arousing his suspicions. So, a disguise, preferably worn to a large party, somewhere he could blend into the crowd. The best and easiest disguise, of course, was the dress, but he hadn't worn it into such a large gathering before. Besides which, usually the informants he used it on were already intoxicated to such a degree that a slip wouldn't reveal him for a man. There would likely be eyes on him, and Gladstone himself was no fool. But, if he could slip away, get the layout of the house… He would be that much closer to finding some sort of hard evidence to use against Gladstone.

The inkstand wobbled as the earl stood, pressing his hands down onto his desk. The dress, then. He'd never been one to back away from a challenge, after all. And this would be a marvelous test-if he could pull off being a woman in a more public place, it opened all sorts of doors to his investigations. An alter ego would be invaluable in his line of work. Gladstone's next soiree would be a week from tomorrow night. Plenty of time to gather the finishing touches and pull together a full plan. How hard could it be?

A week passed, and Cain Hargreaves was doing his damnedest to slip through the crowd to avoid Gladstone's attention. He couldn't decide if he had been too arrogant to think this would actually work as a plan, or not arrogant enough to remember he made a very beautiful woman. Suffice it to say Gladstone's suspicions had not been aroused… His interest was another matter entirely. Now, if he could just lose Gladstone long enough to slip out of the party and do some proper investigating-

He ran straight into something solid and flailed for a moment, having lost his balance in the blasted heels he was wearing. Someone reached out and touched his shoulder, steadying him, and when Cain managed to regain his equanimity and look up, he saw it was the man he had just collided with. He was tall, very tall, with hair more white than blond falling into bright blue eyes, and his hands were large and steady on his shoulders and Cain could feel the heat of them through the silk of his dress. Unsteady for an entirely new reason, Cain reached up and wrapped gloved hands around the man's upper arms. Very strong indeed…

"God above, I'm sorry!" he gasped out, keeping his voice high enough to be passably female, and tossing his head so that the wig's curls would stay out of his eyes. "I'm so sorry, but I… he won't stop pestering me," he admitted, "And he wants to take me to bed, but he can't, and…" Cain trailed off. How disgustingly honest, and to a man he hadn't even met properly. Still… there was something vaguely familiar about him. Like a dream he had had as a child, smoke and memory and mirrors brought to life abruptly.

His hands were still on his shoulders.

"Understood, milady," the man said with a laugh, deep and rich and with a startled quality to it that suggested he didn't laugh very often. "Please, feel free to use me as a shield as necessary." He released her shoulders and stepped to the side, allowing Cain enough space to dodge behind his back.

Cain mostly resisted the impulse to bury his nose in between the man's shoulders. Even so, he smelled like soap and cotton and starch and beneath that, faintly, strong black tea. Cain swallowed, and peered carefully around the man's arm. "I thought I lost him," he hissed, glaring at Lord Gladstone, who was slowly working his way through the crowd, still searching. "He can't see me alone…!" The thought occurred to him suddenly, and he slipped out from behind the man and caught his sleeve. "Dance with me? Please?"

The man pulled his eyes away from the ballroom to stare down at him, mouth slightly open, as if to begin to protest. Cain felt himself flush. Had he actually suggested that? "I know it's quite forward of me," he started, hand tightening on his sleeve, and feeling slightly humiliated, "but I haven't an idea as to what else to do. I don't possess the social skills or patience to turn him down. He won't listen!" Had he drunk enough wine to blame it for his inability to control his impulses? He should turn and walk away now and leave the party, rather than-

"No, madam, it's nothing of the sort," the man said, still staring at him with an attention that sent a chill down Cain's spine, "I understand the situation, believe me, it's simply…" he trailed off again, before a nearly inaudible sigh escaped him and he removed Cain's hand from his sleeve, and bowed over it. "You must forgive me my clumsiness," he said, meeting his eyes again. "It has been years, since I last danced. May I have my lady's name?"

He was actually agreeing to a dance? But… Oh. Oh, damn. Cain swallowed. He'd forgotten to plan that far ahead. A name, a pseudonym-all the female names he could think of were former lovers, and that was an ill-advised step in a dangerous game. "Mary," he blurted, finally. "Mary… Harrell." Better to be called by his sister's name than by one of his former flings. "May I have your name as well?" The man tensed, his grip on Cain's hand loosening, but Cain refused to drop it and tightened his grip. "There are many people here I am familiar with, but… I'm afraid to admit that I don't know you at all."

"I…" he hesitated, avoiding her gaze. "I am not surprised you do not know me, milady. My name is Riff Raffit, and I…" he swallowed. "I work in Lord Gladstone's manor."

"Oh," Cain breathed. Riff Raffit, a servant-no wonder he was so familiar, when, as a boy… Fate plays a most interesting game of her own devising, for Cain to meet that man here, tonight… The only man who saw him when he was a child, cowering from his father's whip, little more than a wraith in his own home…

"Hello, there. Are you lost? Are you all right?"

"…You… can see me?"

Cain pulled himself forcefully away from his memories, and smiled shyly up at the man, Riff. He looked as if he wanted to hide, and Cain tightened his grip. Oh, no. He wasn't going to lose him again, not this time. "And it is your master that I am hiding from," he said instead, sweetly, keeping his eyes on his face. Again, he was surprised, and an unsteady and nearly giddy warmth was spreading from Cain's chest down through his arms, until he was certain Riff must feel the heat in his fingers, too. "I've often found the servants at these sorts of parties kinder than the guests. Though I'd hate to get you in trouble…" He took a step forward, forcing a dancer's embrace or a scandal-or, at this rate, both. "If not, I certainly don't mind that you're a servant, Mr. Raffit."

Riff stared at him for another long few seconds, before his face relaxed into another shy, self-conscious smile. "Even if you do, I believe it might… might be worth it," he said, and guided him onto the dance floor, promptly presenting a new problem: Cain knew how to lead, not follow. Focused on his feet and the warm hand at his waist, Cain hardly noticed the stares. Aside, of course, from Riff's. He needed to step backwards, if Riff were to lead, then to the… right? Cain made it through a single box step successfully, before he got distracted by how close he was to the taller man and fell into old habits, stumbling into the servant and treading on his feet. He huffed, feeling rather caught and humiliated, and opened his mouth to apologize.

But, of course, that couldn't go smoothly either, though luckily Riff seemed to blame himself far more than his partner, finally laughing when they apologized simultaneously. "I'll forgive your clumsiness if you'll forgive my lapse of memory?" the servant suggested with a smile, less hesitant than his earlier ones. Cain's breath caught for a moment, and Riff added a quick "Milady," embarrassed that he had forgotten.

The very tips of his ears were turning pink, and Cain laughed, more freely than he should have. "Perhaps…" he teased, taking a step closer, "Perhaps dancing is something neither of us is quite proficient at."

"No, indeed," Riff agreed reluctantly, slipping away and off the dance floor again. "Though I'd hoped to protect you."

Cain stiffened, startled, but the sentence was so quiet, so offhand, and so unbearably sincere that he had to have meant it. He tugged Riff back, studying his face. He couldn't have meant it, though. There had to have been some ulterior motive… But there was none Cain could see. Only a slight confusion, that same concern. "Protect me," he repeated. Riff nodded slowly, though unaware of the motion. "I think… I think I should like for you to protect me."

That was the decisive moment, where all consequences and ramifications began. That moment, with their fingers entwined and Riff's eyes full of nothing but sincerity and tender concern, with the word 'protect' hovering in the air between them… that moment Cain decided he wanted this man. Wanted to be able to turn to him at any moment, for comfort and affection and gentle care, wanted him near, nearer than the very air around him. Whatever it took, Cain would have Riff Raffit.

His thoughts were shattered as Gladstone seized Riff's shoulder, forcing him away from Cain. The back of the lord's hand cracked across his servant's cheek, and Riff stumbled, one hand going to his face in surprise and the other landing on Cain's shoulder. When the servant pulled his hand away, Cain saw a small cut from one of Gladstone's rings, trickling blood down his skin.

"You are monopolizing my guests," the disgusting man snarled, and Riff straightened, releasing Cain's shoulder and placing both hands behind his back. He had tucked his emotions away in the same movement. The surprise, pain, and a small flicker of anger (or perhaps fear) had left his eyes, leaving them flat, and nearly lifeless. It was the first time Cain thought of him as a servant, as one of that invisible army which organizes and runs a house, a man who performed his task before disappearing. He didn't like the thought, or the association. He much preferred it when Riff was laughing, or smiling at him.

But he had to pretend, at the moment. He was on a mission, forgotten though it had been, and Gladstone couldn't find out who he truly was…

"My dear lady," he simpered, and Cain pressed his lips tightly together. "I fear I must apologize for my staff." Cain flicked his eyes towards Riff for a moment, and caught the tightening of his jaw only because he was looking for it. "I apologize for the indiscretion."

Cain smiled politely, organizing his words into an appropriately biting and barbed comment, but Riff spoke, quietly, before he could say a word. "If you'll forgive my saying so, Lord Gladstone, the lady requested a dance." No, you fool, you'll only get yourself further into trouble! "I have less right to refuse than I do to concede to the lady's wishes."

There was another sharp crack, turning the servant's head entirely. This time, Riff did not raise a hand in shock, did not move-he was far too used to this, Cain realized abruptly. He turned his attention back to Gladstone, the tension draining out of him as another decision was made. This man would die. But how? He had so many options, after all… he had some arsenic in his glove, some cyanide in his shoe, and oh, how glorious would it be to watch this man choke on air, unable to use the oxygen he was breathing in as he writhed on the floor until all movement ceased…

But the man was speaking again. "He has mistaken perceptions of preference above his station. Again, my apologies. Some dogs cannot be trained well."

Cain smiled, all teeth. "Forgive my ignorance of the subject, but in my experience, a dog mistreated has a harder bite than most, and is far more likely to use it." How dare you, how dare you lay a hand on him, when he's more honest and a better man than you could ever hope to be… "Leave him be, my lord. Dance with me." He held out a hand, delicate and slim in a black lace glove, and walked back onto the dance floor.

Cain glanced over Gladstone's shoulder casually, just in time to see Riff's expression, still tense with pain. A drop of blood traced slowly down his cheek in a mockery of tears.

Another box step, another turn, and the servant had disappeared.

A/N: So, um, this was completed far more quickly than I expected it to. I won't usually be uploading two things in one night!

I am looking forward to writing this one, though "When I Waked" might be put on hiatus for a while, as I'm definitely stuck with it. Describing what, exactly, is going on in Cain's head is going to be FUN. Oh, Cain...

But, here. Have a first chapter. It seems to be going fairly smoothly as far as writing is concerned, but please don't expect consistent updates. I make not promises, because I'll only end up breaking them.

Read and review, please!