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"Front doorbell, Mr Barrow."
Thomas could have hugged Andy for his perfect timing; Lady Mary's overly condescending tone is really grating on his nerves, not to mention scratching at the underlying anxiety that the results of all his efforts might never be considered good enough, no matter how hard he works and how diligently he conducts himself. However, this is not the right time to start doubting himself; now more than ever he has to keep it together, as the Royal Visit will require the maximum of the competence and finesse he has acquired in his eventful time in service.
Steeling himself, he steps outside just as the guests are climbing out of the car. Mr Wilson and the maid hardly bother to properly acknowledge his greeting, which does not help his mood in the slightest; it takes that little to deduce he will immensely dislike their presence, and he knows he won't be the only one.
Resisting the inappropriate urge to scowl, he directs his attention to the last of the trio, a tall individual sporting an admittedly nice fedora, who picks up his suitcases and turns around until they're face to face-
- oh.
Somehow, their gazes lock across the expanse of moving bodies. The bloke is staring at Thomas as if he's only just realized how attractive a man can be - is he that green, he wonders?
Luring him somewhere a tad more private is a piece of cake.
No names are exchanged (to be specific, Thomas blocks any such questions).
The first thing the other man does as soon as they're alone is kiss him, which is rather unexpected; most people like them, in places like these, are not inclined to take their time with anything that doesn't lead to instant gratification.
But it's not like Thomas minds it.
Surprisingly, he's not as inexperienced as he thought.
"Will I see you again?"
He frowns, perplexed. "I'm leaving London tomorrow."
"We could keep in touch..."
"Why? It's not like this means anything, does it?"
The bloke flinches slightly at those words and Thomas feels a vague twinge of guilt; it's nobody's fault, in the end, that his recent experiences with the Duke of Crowborough and the Turkish ambassador have caused him nothing but frightened upset, and left him somewhat more bitter than ever. He supposes he could have made an effort to be less nasty here, so he clumsily attempts to make things right.
"Listen... I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"It's fine. You're not obliged to explain yourself."
Despite himself, he never forgets.
Sometimes, he wonders.
Frozen on the spot, Thomas helplessly watches as the man blinks, lips slightly parted in shock, recognition flooding his visage. To his credit, he recovers extremely fast; he grows so impassive he might as well be carved from marble, if not for the telling way his lips are pursed and the shrewd glint in his eyes.
Yet his overall reaction does not betray enough, which makes Thomas both curious and nervous.
Oh, hell.