He embraced that unique combination of stale scent, smoking stage lights, linseed oil, and fresh-cut wood that indelibly signified the theatre, together with the continual bustle. In the daytime, the building was the domain of actors, musicians, stagehands, scenery builders, and seamstresses, amongst many other essential roles. By nightfall, the backstage workers melted into invisibility. Then the audience dominated as they spilled into the splendid auditorium by their thousands on a good night, braying from the pit or glittering with jewels from the tiered boxes surrounding the stage.

From the wings, Luc had a view of the space below the stage that housed the orchestra. A group of men assembled aimlessly, taking the opportunity to joke and banter. At their centre stood Mr. Henry Kent, an up-and-coming actor known as Harry to his many friends. At twenty-three, a few months younger than Luc, slightly broader and shorter, he was vital and magnetic, any stray beams of daylight glinting on his thick red-blond hair, the rich colour of a fox’s pelt in this darkened space.

Harry reached the punch line of his jest, causing his companions to roar with laughter. His jaunty pose showed off his high cheekbones, mobile smiling mouth, and a glint of sharp white teeth. Luc thought, as always, that Harry was the life and soul of the party, his easygoing demeanour belying the force of his theatrical ambitions. It was no secret that far from being city-born, Harry grew up on the Kent coast.

He'd exchanged the family surname of Smith for the title of his home county as a loftier stage name. But late at night, when in his cups, Harry divulged to Luc his youthful dread of being co-opted into the family oyster business back in Whitstable. This unbearable fate prompted his getaway to London and inclusion into the lowest ranks of the theatre company.

Harry was good fun, great drinking company, and an even better fuck. Luc should know from many nights spent in his bed when they both happened to be in the same part of town and at a loose end.

During Luc’s second season in the orchestra at Drury Lane, the newly inducted Harry had caught his eye. Given the return of interest and Harry’s charisma, Luc was tempted to be smitten with the dashing young actor. Harry was appreciative of Luc’s appearance in turn, undressing him like a present and savouring the secrets of Luc’s body as a rare treat. But even as they tumbled for the first time, Harry made his intentions clear.

“Let’s stay as friends who have a bit of fun together, eh, Frenchie?” He’d suggested with a confiding smile that took any sting from his words. “There’s enough dramatics and hysterics to be encountered treading the boards to wish for any more in between the sheets. If you’re content, I reckon this will suit us both.”

Luc had to admit that Harry had been proved correct. They were barely twenty and yet to establish a place in the performance pecking order. Neither of them had the leisure to embark on a romantic relationship, even if Luc felt so inclined.

Their intermittent casual liaison was frequently interrupted by Harry pursuing a promising patron or even a patroness at a pinch. He engaged all his considerable charm, transferring his sexual attentions to step up the next rung of the ladder to fame and fortune. Once that goal was achieved, and the sponsor had drifted on to fresh pastures, Harry cheerfully took up with Luc again. They both accepted the hard-fought scramble of theatre life, and Luc never doubted Harry's genuine friendship, even when temporarily preoccupied with demanding patrons.

It wasn’t as though Luc lacked offers of consolation. Despite Luc's opinion of himself as too gawky, intense, and beaky, it seemed that others shared Harry's glowing opinion of Luc's particular brand of striking dark looks.

Coming across free and easy Harry in the exuberant flesh was unexpectedly bittersweet, reminding Luc of simpler, happier times before Beaufort had swept into his life, bearing him almost to the brink of utter disaster.