Chapter Text
London
April 1912
Phillip Villiers, Duke of Crowborough, Marquess of Mayfield, and Earl of Rotherfield, was not much of a sports fan. Unless, of course, the sport involved a horse or a gun. He had little interest in cricket, county cricket even less so. Therefore, his attendance at the Lancashire vs. Middlesex match at Lord’s was not especially enthusiastic. However, Pelham had insisted, and the man left his studio so rarely these days that he felt he couldn’t refuse. He wasn’t sure why Peter would want to see the match either, the closest thing to a sport his friend engaged in was taking walks through the countryside and sketching trees.
Peter Pelham or Lord Bellingham as he was titled, was the heir apparent to the marquessate of Hexham. Although they had gone to school together, Peter was a few years older and the pair hadn’t become friends until Phillip had matriculated at Oxford. Phillip had been at Merton College, reading English Literature while Peter had dropped out to study fine arts at the Ruskin School of Drawing. From the very beginning, Phillip had known they were the same. A certain amount of sexual experimentation had been common at Eton, as its students were cooped up together during the horrors of puberty. The staff had mostly turned a blind eye to it. It had been different for Phillip, more than youthful urges and certainly something he had never grown out of. Peter was much the same, sometimes quite brazenly so since he was far more publicly committed to the bohemian lifestyle than Phillip had ever dared to be. Although they had slept together a few times in the beginning, drunk on brandy and the excitement of finding a kindred spirit, they had only ever been close friends. Philip had a type and the thin, fair, and gentle Peter was not it.
Due to poor weather that week, the match had been delayed until three o’clock, so they decided to get a pint and a pie at Lord’s Tavern while they waited. Philip was glad of it. Neither of them could justify spending money on a proper lunch. The Athenaeum, Peter’s club, didn’t allow guests in the dining room, and if they had gone to Whites then Philip would likely face the embarrassment of being asked when they would be expecting his outstanding membership fees. They’d never dare go so far as throwing him out, just politely keep charging his account and let his debt grow and grow, and he didn’t dare cancel his membership because people would talk. The thought made him feel sick.
Phillip was hardly the only member of the nobility to have fallen on hard times, but a father with a rampant gambling problem and a mother whose extravagance could put Marie Antoinette to shame had left him so in debt that the revenue from his estates barely covered the interest. Selling off parts of his land was out of the question, and would only be a temporary solution, like baling water out of a sinking boat without fixing the leak. His mother had given him until the end of the London season to find a wife with a fortune large enough to get them in the black. If he was unsuccessful then he would have to cast a wider net and continue his search in New York where, hopefully, no one knew about his financial problems or his fondness for cock. He was just glad she hadn’t sent him over that spring on the Titanic, although freezing to death in the Atlantic sounded slightly better than getting married in his opinion.
“Are you quite well, Phillip?” Pelham asked once they had finished their lunch and returned to their place in the stands. “You’ve been very quiet today.”
“Oh, you know, the usual.” He didn’t want to bore his friend again with his worries. Phillip was worried that he was beginning to sound like a broken record. “What’s brought all this on? I never knew you were a cricket man,” he said, changing the subject, gesturing towards the pitch. The two team captains had stepped out onto the pitch and were about to toss a coin to decide who would bat first.
“I’m not. I’m here for a job.” Pelham replied, opening his satchel which contained his sketchbooks and graphite.
Peter was also hard on his luck. After the whole dropping out of university incident, his father had cut him off to teach him a lesson. What infuriated Philip was that the problem would have been easily solved with an apology and the promise of resuming his studies. Lord Hexham was a bit of an ogre, but he wasn’t an unreasonable man. His son, on the other hand, had stubbornly chosen the life of a starving artist and had been making his own way for nearly two years. Philip suspected that he had a wealthy lover somewhere who was keeping him in paint and bespoke suits. He had exhibited at the Royal Academy with limited success. Peter wasn’t the most innovative artist but his talent for capturing likenesses and personality had got him some commercial work, doing illustrations for Vanity Fair, Punch, and the occasional advertising company under the pseudonym of The Scribbler. He also painted portraits, mostly for friends of the family. Horses, dogs, and children, in that order of priority.
“Oh yes?” Phillip said, curiously. This wasn't Peter's usual bailiwick.
“See the opener for Lancashire? That's Thomas Barrow. He’s getting moved up this season. Vanity Fair want to do a feature on him, so I thought I’d get some sketches of him in action before the sitting.” Peter said admiringly as he began to make a quick study of the batsman’s stance and posture.
Phillip looked over at the man his friend had pointed out and was momentarily struck dumb. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the batsman cut an impressive figure in his cricket whites. One would have expected, with his pale complexion, that the cream coloured jersey and trousers might have washed him out, but instead, he appeared luminous like a marble statue. Phillip knew then, that he had to have him.
“Certainly more appealing than household pets.” Phillip teased as he reached for Pelham’s binoculars. “When’s the sitting?”
“I thought you’d be interested.” Peter laughed. “He’s coming on Monday. You can ‘drop in’ at five o’clock and I’ll introduce you. Not a minute sooner, I’m on a short deadline and need all the time I can get.” Phillip rolled his eyes. All the time to ogle, no doubt, perhaps coax the poor man into posing nude. He’d seen Peter’s portfolio. He knew the sort of ‘art’ his friend produced in his spare time.
“Do you think he’ll bat for our team?” Phillip mused.
“That’s never concerned you before,” his friend chuckled.