We were well concealed inside Lord Tinklewee’s enormous wardrobe – I felt certain that we were in no danger of being detected. The man himself had at present completed his evening ablutions, shoved cotton into his ears and sat in bed reading a book. Mr. Wooster watched him through the slit of the wardrobe doors. He then turned to me with a sigh.

‘I suppose we’re stuck here,’ he whispered.

‘It would appear so, sir,’ I replied.

‘Why did I ever let Stiffy drag me into this rummy business?’ he complained, ‘‘No, Stiffy old girl, you shall have to steal your own bally pince-nez,’ is what I should have told her.’

‘Indeed sir.’

There was a moment of silence. Mr. Wooster slumped against the back of the wardrobe.

‘There’s nothing to do but wait now, what?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

We waited quietly. Lord Tinklewee continued reading – I counted the pages by the sound of him turning them. Beside me, Mr. Wooster had started tapping his left leg against the wood. At first I thought nothing of it, knowing he had a tendency to fidget. But as the minutes passed, his unfortunate twitching increased, and I feared the worse.

‘Er, Jeeves,’ he said, scratching his neck, ‘do you have an inkling of how long we might be in here?’

I pursed my lips. ‘When we first arrived I had the chance to meet Perkins, the butler. He intimated that his Lord’s reading habits are something of a legend amongst the staff.’

‘A legend?’

‘Yes, sir. On one occasion, Lord Tinklewee is said to have sat reading for an entire night and half a day, barely stopping for food and water.’

Mr. Wooster went pale. I watched the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat as he swallowed fearfully.

‘I see. Well, let’s hope the old man falls asleep before dawn then,’ he laughed nervously.

After that, the fidgeting intensified. He tapped his feet frantically against the wardrobe, then against each other. I coughed.

‘Yes, Jeeves?’

‘If you will forgive the indiscretion, sir, and allow me to ask; are you claustrophobic?’

‘Claustro-whatnow?’

‘Are you afraid of enclosed or narrow places, sir?’

‘Oh. No, not really, I don’t think. Are you?’

‘No, sir.’

Only a moment of stillness, then Mr. Wooster was bouncing on his toes. I raised my eyebrows at him.

‘Oh, dash it, Jeeves,’ he said, ‘I really must – I mean to say – I find myself in a rather, er, awkward situation.’

‘Sir?’

‘It’s embarrassing but – well, nature is calling, if you know what I mean, and I don’t think I can put off answering much longer.’

Despite the darkness, I could see his face, the way he bit his lower lip, the tension in his shoulders. I allowed myself to stare. He was very attractive in his distress. Something in me stirred – as it always did whenever we were this close – and then something more. Trapped in the wardrobe, our arms were touching. His eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, his pink tongue darting out to lick the corner of his lips…

I looked away. Shame painted my cheeks red, and I hoped he would not notice.

‘Most distressing, sir,’ I said quietly.

Mr. Wooster nodded slowly. I noticed his fingers clutching the front of his trousers. I felt suddenly very warm beneath my collar. He was taking slow, deep breaths, his eyelids trembling over a flustered gaze. The thought of him struggling to retain control was, for some reason, exceptionally arousing.

‘Good lord, this is agony,’ he whined.

At his words, passion flickered in my loins. I recoiled from my own depravity. He was troubled, and I was deriving cruel pleasure from it. I leaned my shoulder against his slightly, hoping it would be a small comfort.

‘Lord Tinklewee must be weary from the day’s exertions: you will recall, sir, that he took a brisk walk down to the village this afternoon,’ I offered.

‘Yes, you’re right, Jeeves. He’ll fall asleep any minute now,’ Mr. Wooster looked at me, a spark of gratitude in his eyes. I lowered my gaze to the floor, guilt wrapping itself around my chest, but I burned for him nonetheless. His thigh was twitching, almost touching mine. I could feel the warmth his body emitted.

We stood there silently, waiting. From time to time he bit his lip or moved his hips, and I could not stop my heart from pounding. I discreetly lowered my arm to cover the evidence of my desire – an unseemly bulge in my trousers that had formed, it seemed, almost against my will.

But my torment was far from reaching its end. Slipping his pretty fingers into his hair, Mr. Wooster closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wardrobe, revealing his soft, pale throat. I could not look away; I was entranced by the arch of his neck, the curve of his eyebrows as he raised them beseechingly, as if begging… as if pleading…

My trousers had become painfully tight. I watched him shudder, watched his stomach and thighs quiver. Suddenly, a vision filled my mind: I saw myself standing in front of him, my lips teasing his neck, my palm pressed against his lower abdomen as he begged, ‘Please, Jeeves, I can’t…’

As if in answer to my wicked thoughts, Mr. Wooster bucked his hips and whimpered. I thought I would go mad with lust.

‘Oh Jeeves,’ he moaned, ‘I’m not sure I can bear this anymore.’

Neither am I, I wanted to answer. But I steadied myself against the side of the wardrobe, gathered my composure and said, ‘It should not be long now, sir.’

Mercifully, I was correct. Lord Tinklewee placed his book on the bedside table and turned off the lights. With a shuddering breath, Mr. Wooster opened the wardrobe door and we stepped out.

‘The window, sir,’ I whispered. I knew that Lord Tinklewee always slept with the key to his bedroom door hidden under his pillow.

We climbed down the window, both of us swaying on our feet. Once in the gardens, Mr. Wooster wasted no time – he did not even turn away from me. I watched his handsome profile as he undid his trousers. I heard the steady stream of his release. He heaved a sigh of relief, throwing his head back, a contented smile on his lips.

It was that image of him that remained with me late at night, in the privacy of my rooms.