At first, of course, there had been nothing to conceal. 

It had merely been a schoolboy matter, as arcane and unconnected from the men in his life as his childish games of his younger years. Provided that Richard studied hard and was not criticised by the masters, then neither Mr Rainworth nor his father were concerned with any other boyish business in which he partook. 

Everyone did it, after all – the masters, the Prefects, the other boys – in tenderness, or violence, or boredom, it was one of the currencies of the school. And if Richard took things a little farther than the others, if he used the whorish promise of Valance’s mouth, of his arse, if Richard used rather different methods than the other Prefects used upon their acolytes, then it was of no real matter. Theirs was merely a game, a path to self-indulgent gratification. Richard at least had a project to be working on. 

He had a character to reform. 

For he soon came to see that Valance, for all his flaws, was really an innocent. 

Richard would never have suspected it of a hardened offender like Valance - innocence was the preserve of childhood, of ignorance and confusion. It was something you found in the poor new bugs, whom one only needed to terrify once, and who never afterwards put a foot out of line. 

So, at first, Richard had no motive beyond torturing the boy, beyond presenting Valance with an authority which he could not flout with his flouncing, his flirting, his facetiousness. Richard had never been one for cuddling with his classmates in corners, never enjoyed his own brushes with older boys, nor had he ever understood why administering a birching left him with such a raging excitement. The word “sodomy” had meant only degradation, violence. 

Valance must be broken, what did it matter which tools he used to do it?

But that night, beaten bloody, Valance had fallen to his knees, his lips wet with spending, his eyes full of tears, and Richard had watched as all the challenge, the belligerence, all the cynicism and vulgarity had fallen away. Instead, a wide-eyed creature had knelt before him, staring up with a surrender, consummate and sublime.

And that, ah, that, had thrown Richard’s whole world into disarray. It was like a man’s first draught of wine taken on an empty stomach. Valance offered himself – so willingly, so absolutely – that dizzied, flattered, Richard had fallen.

Although, at the time, he had called it mastery. 

For he owned the boy, did he not? Commanded every smile, every flinch of pain. And nothing satisfied him until every inch of Valance’s mind, every breath of his love, was beneath Richard’s feet. And he told himself that all of it, every last moment was in service of that sweet innocence, that purity which came over Valance’s face when he could finally be brought to kneel. 

For by that time, Richard was acquainted with the scandal Valance’s mother had caused, had understood the damage such a parent could do to a growing boy. All he had wanted was to save that lovely, golden creature from the evils of such a disreputable home, by whatever means he could. And, yes, if the boy were to give the credit of his reformation to one Richard Thornton, why, then his vanity could weather the blow.

Richard woke, lying full length on the boards of the private sitting-room. There was an ache where his head had struck the floor. Upon his face, the tears were not yet dry, or perhaps it was merely that he wept still. 

His godfather sat unmoving in the chair.

Richard pulled himself up, sending his vision swimming back and forth to greyness. There was a ringing in his ears and sweat under the damp of his clothes. Feeling as though he would fall, he hauled himself up and to his feet. 

“You may as well sit,” said Mr Rainworth. 

His limbs were weak, answering him slowly, barely at all. He almost fell into the chair.

“I sent for some food,” Mr Rainworth said, with a nod to the small loaf of bread and plate of sliced meat on the table beside them. By that was a glass of red wine and a carafe of water. “I will assume that hunger was the cause of that display.”

“Thank you, sir.” Richard tore off small pieces of the loaf. His hands did not stop shaking. Without appetite, he worked his jaw until he could swallow tiny, dry mouthfuls.

“Understand,” said Mr Rainworth, rising, “that I have no intention of supporting a lovelorn fool.”

“No, sir.” Richard’s throat was dry, his eyes watering.

“I shall tell the innkeeper to hold the room for another hour. Write to me when you make port, or do not write.”

“Yes, sir,” Richard said. “I thank you.”

“No need to rise,” said Mr Rainworth, and he did not bow before he turned and left.