Stephen insisted on keeping their destination a secret, but he couldn't resist dropping hints.

"You're gonna love it, Dorian. You like history; this is a genuine historic place. It's in Kent; beautiful countryside. And it's luxurious! Nothing but the best for my Dorian."

Boston-born, confident, and smart, Stephen was living in London, working for an American company. He had a well-paid job, a flat overlooking the Thames, a shiny new sports car, and a gorgeous English boyfriend. They'd been lovers for three months, and Stephen was planning to celebrate that with a romantic weekend for two in the country. He felt sure he'd found the right place – somewhere Dorian would approve of, somewhere genuinely elegant and tasteful.

As they crested a hill in the rolling North Downs, Stephen brought the car to a halt. Turning, he was startled to see tears welling in Dorian's eyes – but then, Dorian was inclined to be emotional about beauty. And the view was breathtaking.

"That's where we're staying," he said proudly, laying a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "Parkwood Manor Hotel."

Dorian smiled, wistful. "It used to be called Castle Gloria."

"You know the place?"

"I lived there when I was a child."

Stephen had talked endlessly to his lover about his own family, because he missed them, but Dorian had told him very little about his. If this had been Dorian's family home—

They drove down and left the car in the neat gravelled car-park. Stephen signed the register. While he dealt with the Reception Desk staff, Dorian gazed at their surroundings. The wood panelling was the same; the chandelier was grander, the artworks were different, and the polished floorboards had been covered up by plush wall to wall carpet – but it took very little to transport himself back to when he'd last lived there.

Their suite was on the eastern side of the building, overlooking the formal gardens with their neatly clipped box hedges. An elaborate fountain had been installed in the middle of the knot garden.

"These used to be my mother's rooms," Dorian said. "She had her writing table over there under the window."

Stephen slipped a gentle arm around his lover's waist. "Dorian, is this all right? I mean, I wanted to find somewhere you'd like. I had no idea this was your childhood home. Are you OK with this? I mean, if it's painful to see your old home turned into a hotel, we can go somewhere else."

"It's all right, Stephen. Don't worry, love – it's only a building. Come on, let's order some champagne, and then we'll go and explore the garden. See if they've made any other changes that are worse than that monstrosity of a fountain."

Stephen's own upbringing had been privileged. His parents were rich. He and his brothers had gone to private schools and the best universities. His father had often said, "Money talks" – and Stephen and his brothers had been encouraged to pursue well-paid careers. In his family's sphere, respect was gained by success: in your career, in your family life, in performing your civic duty.

Moving to England, Stephen had learned that respect could also be inherited. The English still respected the Royal Family and the nobility, although it was plain to him that those people no longer shaped the economic fortunes of the country.

"So, if you used to live here – is your family noble, Dorian?"

Dorian laughed. "For what it's worth. My father is the Earl of Gloria. He lives in Cornwall in a three bedroom bungalow, and owns a one-third share in a yacht that he can't afford."

He could see Stephen was struggling with the desire to ask about what had happened, so he decided to put him out of his misery.

"My parents separated just before my fourteenth birthday. Mother took my three sisters and left me with Father. He had to sell the Castle; her divorce settlement cost a lot, and he had debts. Father wasn't all that good with money. He and I went to live in Cornwall – although, of course, I was away at school most of the time, and then I went to Oxford."

"So, your father's an Earl? That means you're Lord Something? You'll be the Earl after he dies?"

"Much good may it do me. As you can see, there's no family seat." Here, Dorian gestured around at the opulently decorated hotel suite. "And no family fortune, either. I live on what I earn at Sotheby's. A glorified salesman with a Master's degree in Fine Art."

Although he was inclined to dismiss the monarchy and noble titles as anachronisms, Stephen still found something to admire in them. It seemed a shame that a noble family could end up broke, with nothing left but a title – and what was a title on its own? He tried to put this into words, but Dorian stopped him.

"Look, Stephen, it's something I can't afford to be sentimental about. As a child, I suppose I expected to grow up into a life of privilege. That's how my parents lived, when I was small. But they lost everything, and I've had to make my own way in the world." Dorian shrugged. "I'll never be rich. There's no money in art, unless you're a thief. But I do well enough." He draped his arms around his lover's neck. "I heard you holding forth about this at a party recently, didn't I? The days of title and privilege are over, and the world is moving toward democracy and equality for all? Isn't that what you were saying?"

Stephen looked slightly embarrassed. "Yeah. I said that. I meant it, too, I suppose. But it seems a shame."

"Just think of it as evolution, love – and remember, I'm a survivor."