‘You’re making that up.’
‘No, mate, honest. Edward Lovemount at your service.’
‘And what service would that be?’
‘Making you money.’ Eddie’s hand was still waiting.
Silas took it briefly before picking up his glass of gin.
‘I’ll get you another,’ Eddie said, rising to his feet.
‘Why?’
‘So you’ll feel obliged to listen to my proposition.’
Silas liked his honesty, and when a fresh glass was delivered, heard what Lovemount had to say.
The proposal was a simple one. Silas could earn money from working in a molly house. He would have protection, he could earn more than on the streets, be more comfortable and safer. He would, though, have to give most of his earnings to the house, but even then, Eddie said, he would be walking away with more than he could make during a night on the streets.
‘You don’t know what I earn,’ Silas countered warily. The word ‘protection’ had set his ears pricking. It was usually a precursor to a threat. ‘I ain’t paying for protection. I don’t need it.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean like that,’ Eddie sounded genuine enough. ‘I mean from snoops and busybodies, the rozzers and the beak.’
‘I don’t need no insurance against the law neither.’ Silas remained firm. ‘I’ve been in and out of City Street station loads of times, and although they bring me in, they never let me out. I do that on me own.’
‘You look like a slippery customer.’
‘Yeah, well I’m good with slippery customers and all. Thanks mate, but I’m not interested in joining a molly. I work alone.’
‘Fair enough,’ Eddie said. ‘But let me ask you this. Do you enjoy what you do?’
He came to sit beside Silas on the bench, facing the bar as if he wanted to see who might be listening.
‘How do you mean?’ Silas shifted to give him room. The man wasn’t unattractive, but his dark features suggested he could easily turn from friendly to fierce. He was, however, wearing skin-tight breeches that left no doubt as to his manliness.
‘I can see from where you’re looking that you’re interested,’ Eddie said, as he slipped into the seat. ‘I don’t mind you looking, mate, but if you want to play, you have to pay.’
‘Seen it before,’ Silas said, doing his best to be unimpressed. ‘Me best mate’s got more than that to show for himself, and I get to see it regular.’
‘Your man, is he?’
‘Aye, but not like that. Just mates. Unless we’re working together.’
‘You’ve got the right attitude,’ Eddie said. ‘You got a good prick?’
‘Works for me.’
‘How big?’
‘Why’s that important?’
‘Some gentlemen pay loads for big dicks.’
‘Then they’d be paying me an average amount.’
‘Definitely got the right attitude.’
Eddie was impressed, but Silas was giving away too much. He found the man so easy to talk to, he had to hold himself back from displaying trust.
‘I do whatever needs to be done,’ he said. ‘Like this.’ He put down his drink and turned sideways to face the man. ‘What are you after? You want to fuck me? If you do, I charge. You want me to sign-up to a molly house? You can forget it. You want to be mates? Then stop fucking around and talk about something else. Over to you, lanky-boy.’
There was no flash of anger, if anything, Eddie was impressed.
‘Your black hair,’ he said. ‘Irish I guess from your accent. Blue eyes… Men like blue eyes. Not to mention your age. Twenty-four?’
Silas shook his head. Everyone thought he was older than his years. It was something to do with living on the streets.
‘Twenty-five?’
‘Leave it out. Nineteen.’
Eddie’s expansive jaw dropped, and he wrapped long fingers around his glass before lifting it to his lips. He studied Silas over the rim as he took a gulp.
‘It’s extra shillings if you make them think they’re your first, keep it tight and squeal a lot,’ he said.
‘Get away with you.’
‘No, honest.’
‘How many shillings?’
‘Maybe a sovereign if you’re lucky. Some goes to the house, of course, but if you’re up for turning four in one night…’
Tempting. Silas could turn four tricks in a night and pretend that each one was his first time. He’d been renting since he was sixteen, and faking innocence came with the job.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But how much goes to the madam, and how much to me? I still say no thanks, mate. Good luck with your search.’
‘At least come and have a look. I’ll get the cab, and I’ll get you one back after if you don’t like what you see. Danvers is having a party tonight, and if we hurry, we’ll be early there and you’ll get the best punters.’
Silas said no for what he thought would be the final time, but all the same, an hour later, found himself in the hallway of a stranger’s house in the West End.
‘Oh, what treasure is this?’ the molly owner said, as he emerged from behind a beaded curtain. His face was powdered, and he smelt of women’s perfume; an immediate turn-off for Silas. If that wasn’t bad enough, he fawned and touched him as if he was already owned goods, feeling his soft cock through his grubby trousers and fingering his hair.
‘This is Billy,’ Lovemount said, standing back. He watched in silence, only raising a smile of encouragement when Silas glared.
Mrs Danvers, as the effeminate host liked to be called, was good enough to offer Silas a bath and find him some alternative clothing on the understanding that Silas would stay and consider the offer of being a kept boy. The bath was memorable, but he was only allowed a few minutes in it, and he left it black and scum-covered before dressing in second-hand underwear, trousers and a shirt far too flouncy for his liking. More intrigued than excited, he joined Eddie in the ‘salon’, a pokey back room draped in exotic fabrics where lamps burned dimly under red shades, and the smell of stale tobacco clung to the furniture. At least he was given a warming glass of gin while he waited.
After a short while, another boy joined them. From what Silas could see beneath his long, straggly hair, he was no older than sixteen. He was sallow and withdrawn and turned his face away using his fringe as a pair of curtains. With his legs curled beneath him in an armchair, he fiddled nervously with his nails, his head down. The fact that he was naked went unmentioned by the other boys who arrived one by one. They ignored him, and that, Silas assumed, was what the gaunt lad was hoping for.
Danvers swished into the room. He had applied more makeup and added a floral hat. Silas’ stomach turned over.
‘Our gentlemen are upon us,’ the madam announced, with a clap of his hands. ‘Thank you, Edward, I need you on the door.’
Eddie gave Silas a thumbs-up and left. The other boys, who had ignored him, tidied their appearance, draped themselves together in pairs and began playing with each other. One boy lit a pipe, sending acrid smoke drifting through the hushed atmosphere. Within a few minutes he was glassy-eyed and swaying with the effects of opium.
Silas stood to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ Danvers blocked the doorway.
‘This ain’t for me, man,’ Silas said, trying to pass.
‘Stay, my boy.’ The man clutched his chin and dragged his face close. ‘You don’t know the pleasures you will miss.’
‘Reckon I do.’ Silas pushed his arm away with enough force to show he wasn’t scared. ‘I know what I’m doing, and I know what you’re doing too. Excuse me.’
The man was floored, and Silas guessed he’d never had anyone refuse his offers. The owner’s stunned silence gave him time enough to leave the ro
om, but as he passed, he was halted by the sight of the plaintive, naked boy in the armchair.
‘You alright, mate?’ he asked, one eye on Danvers in case he turned nasty.
‘He’s fine,’ the man said. ‘Young Stella has her favourite gentlemen calling shortly.’ The voice was patronising.
The boy woke up, and through the drape of hair, Silas thought he saw the edge of a smile. The lad nearest him offered the opium pipe, and he took it to suck gratefully. As he did so, he stood to rearrange his hairless legs, turning and revealing his back. It was striped with red welts, some raw, some healing. They ran from the base of his spine to his shoulders in unbroken lines of torn skin, some recent, others older and faded.
Sickened, Silas looked away. ‘I’ll bring your clothes back when I find others,’ he said, and leaving Danvers no time to protest, walked confidently from the salon.
His self-assurance came from anger, but turned to intrigue when he entered the hallway. Eddie was just closing the door behind a cloaked man who was in the process of removing his hat.
The man was tall, well-built and athletic. His receding hair was dark and fashionably cut, his clothes suggested wealth, and he carried himself with the poise of a gentleman. Silas couldn’t see his face for a scarf he wore covering his mouth and nose, but he heard his voice. Deep and croaky, it somehow didn’t match his appearance, and he wondered if it was put on.
‘Good evening, Edward,’ he said, coughing. ‘Bring me Stella. A room away from the others. Don’t want to disturb the neighbours.’
‘Of course, Sir.’ As Eddie took his cloak, he noticed Silas waiting for them to clear the exit. ‘Unless you would like someone new?’
He thumbed towards Silas who dropped his head as the man turned. He didn’t even want to be seen in the place. The house had left him with an unease that he would only shed once he was back on familiar streets with Fecker.
‘No,’ the gentleman said, and headed for the stairs. ‘Tell Stella to bring me a pipe and Champagne along with my belts. She knows the role.’
The last Silas remembered was a shrill, piercing laugh filling the house as he closed the door. The gentleman, no doubt, ecstatic at the pleasure he was about to receive when inflicting pain on the silent boy.
Silas had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the punter, but, as James cleared his plate, he raised his eyes to the opera singer. He couldn’t be certain Cadwell Roxton was the same man. The past was out of tune and muffled through the memory of too many punters. What he was sure of, however, were the scars on the boy’s back. No wonder he used opium. It must have taken a lot of it to numb the sting of the lash.
He was also certain that beneath the man’s cloak, he had been wearing a black overcoat with a red velvet collar.
Archer was deep in a passionate conversation with his old friend, and Silas watched from the corner of his eye.
‘Of course! That’s exactly what we feel,’ the viscount was saying. ‘I am so glad you are of the same opinion, Caddy.’
Roxton gripped Archer’s hand, and the viscount didn’t pull away.
‘Anything, Clearwater, you know that. I may not be of the same persuasion as you, but I, as everyone else, am abhorred by the advantage those men take over those poor boys.’
Silas’ eyes narrowed.
‘And what does Mrs Roxton think of your involvement?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t mind what I do,’ Roxton dismissed his absent wife. ‘She was sorry not to be here this evening, but her condition keeps her confined.’
‘She is with child?’ Archer added his other hand, clutching Roxton delightedly with both.
‘Sadly, no.’ Roxton leant, and whispered privately.
‘Ah. I see.’ Archer nodded sadly, patted Roxton’s hand, and let go. ‘Right. Well, while you are in town, we must dine at the club. There’s so much to catch up on.’
‘I’ll take you up on that, Archie.’ Roxton sat back to allow Thomas to place his next course. ‘When rehearsals permit. If, of course, Signora Campanelli will lower herself to attend.’
Miss Arnold distracted Silas by asking him about the location of the charity’s mission, but he kept his eye on Roxton while he answered. Archer and the singer might only be reminiscing, but they were over-familiar. Silas could see past that, he trusted Archer. On the other hand, he hadn’t known him long, and Roxton’s marriage might be a convenient cover for a darker, hidden life.
Miss Arnold was served and left Silas in peace just in time to hear Roxton’s reply to a question.
‘Yes, Archie. Definitely. As I said, we must do all we can to keep those molly boys in good shape.’
It was the tone which made Silas’ blood curdle. Roxton considered molly boys things to be kept up to scratch, and he said so with a flippancy that came from familiarity, as if the boys he referred to were his personal staff. Not be of the same persuasion; Silas’ ‘kind’ were patronisingly dismissed. The advantage those men take, spoken as if Roxton wasn’t himself one of the kind he sneered at. Those boys, not men, not even youths, but boys. Naked, drugged and damaged.
Silas was more convinced. The mouthpiece of Archer’s good works, the friend once again holding his hand, was the same punter who called for his opium, his whipping boy and his belts.
‘Everything alright, Sir?’ James whispered as he placed Silas’ plate.
‘Why?’ Silas replied through gritted teeth, glaring at the opera singer.
‘You’re about to crush your wine glass.’ James covertly touched his wrist. ‘Whatever it is, let it go before you hurt yourself.’
Seven
James carried the last of the dishes to the butler’s pantry and set them on the table with the others. Lady Marshall had sent one of her footmen to help below stairs, and Oleg was currently washing the crockery. A giant of a man, even the serving dishes were small in his hands, but he was careful, almost prissy about the way he washed and rinsed.
‘Last ones,’ James said, picking up a towel.
‘You go up.’ The Russian threw his head skywards where it almost brushed the ceiling. ‘I do this.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Tell Mr Payne I go afterwards.’
James was more than happy to let him finish the task, it shaved half an hour off his work time and left him free to help Thomas.
The ladies and Roxton had moved to the drawing room, the gentlemen to the study to smoke, and having served coffee, Thomas joined James at the dining table where he was brushing the cloth.
‘Good job,’ Thomas said. ‘Nothing went wrong.’
‘I enjoyed myself.’ James dusted off his hands at the fire. ‘Did I do alright?’
‘You always do alright,’ Thomas said, straightening the already neatened chairs. ‘What were you whispering to Mr Hawkins?’
‘Blimey, you don’t miss much.’
‘Was there a problem?’
‘No. I was asking him if he wanted more wine.’
Thomas fixed him with his piercing green stare. He didn’t believe it, and James knew better than to lie. Besides, the wine was the butler’s domain.
‘No, actually,’ he said. He was unable to keep anything from Thomas. ‘He was angry about something and looked like he was going to break his glass.’
‘Whatever you said, it worked.’ The table done, Thomas closed the window shutters. ‘But it’s really not our business.’
‘You asked.’
‘We’ll talk about it upstairs.’ Thomas looked across the hall to the open drawing room. Lady Marshall was centre stage telling a story, and laughter rippled across the rugs. Seeing the coast was clear, he took a long way around to the next window, passing James and whispering, ‘Later, in my room, if you’d like.’
A familiar tingle ran through the footman, flicking his heart into
a faster beat and weakening his knees. He knelt to see to the fire, but watched Thomas’ fine figure as he crossed the room. Everything about him was handsome. His sculptured, auburn hair was never out of place, and his perfectly fitting tails drew the eye down from his strong shoulders to his slim waist. His frame was alluring enough from behind, even though his uniform tails covered what James now knew to be a toned and smooth backside, but the sight from the front always set his pulse racing. Thomas’ lean face, serious expression and those jewels for eyes were dreamy enough, but his regal bearing and trim figure simply added to the spectacle. The room was warm, and the servants had been up and down stairs all evening, Thomas’ cheeks were flushed, highlighting his freckles. James loved every single one of them, and the ones he had on his shoulders. He loved Thomas’ mild lisp too, but the crowning glory lay between his flat stomach and his powerful thighs. James only needed to see the bulge of Thomas’ trousers for his own cock to start nagging. It had been like that since they’d first met, but now he knew what lay behind the stretched material, his excitement was no longer tempered with erotic curiosity, it was hardened with lust.
‘What time do you think we’ll be finished?’ he asked, knocking the embers through the grate with the poker.
‘One of us will have to stay and lock up,’ Thomas said. ‘And it depends if His Lordship needs valeting. Has Mr Hawkins asked for you to attend him later?’
‘He hasn’t said, but I expect so.’
Thomas dropped the bar across the shutters and pulled the curtains. ‘Finish in here,’ he said, throwing his critical eyes around the room. ‘Then come downstairs for a cup of tea. No need to make up the fire. Is it out?’
‘Yes, Mr Payne.’
James stood and collected the gloves he had used for serving, threw his towel across his arm and was about to close the doors when Silas hurried from the drawing room. He stopped and furtively thumbed towards the stairs.
Unspeakable Acts Page 7