“Thank you, La...Charley,” I reached out to shake her hand like a gentleman. She gave me a wink, replaced her monocle, and sauntered off in the direction of a bevy of young women at the other end of the room.
Not long after Lady Caroline left me, her place was taken by an older man who apparently didn’t like my conversation, and went off in a bit of a huff after exchanging a few pleasantries. Another man approached, sat for a moment to chat, and left quite soon — not so much in a huff, but definitely displaying a shade of dudgeon around the edges. This puzzled me, but I chalked it up to a new environment whose code I was unknowingly offending in some obscure way, and hoped that a more obliging chap would drop by and explain it to me.
“Care to dance, pretty?” a large ginger-headed bloke who looked exactly like what one expects a racing tout to look like, from the loud check suit and rather yellow boots to the garish horseshoe-patterned tie and immense walrus mustache, lumbered up to my table and executed a vague sort of bow in my direction.
“Charmed,” I responded, standing and putting out my hand in the usual manner.
“I’ll lead, thank you very much,” he winked at me and proffered his own hand in the same manner, and I had to stop and think a moment before turning my hand over and placing it in his, “My name’s Stan, what are you called?”
“Sebastian,” I said simply. Like most such establishments, the Green Parrot was not a place where surnames were bandied about.
He led me onto the small dance-floor, waiting patiently while I figured out where my hands were supposed to go, and then pulled me close as he began dancing a waltz, pushing me where I needed to be until I got the hang of it. I’d not danced in follow since I was a kid in school, and it was a little confusing trying to move backwards when my feet wanted to move forwards.
“New to this, are ye, Sebastian?” He smiled indulgently at me from under his mustache. He was a little bit shorter than me, and a trifle round-shouldered, but felt as solid as a wall pressed against me.
“I’ve not been here before, no,” I conceded.
“Never danced with a man before?” he looked at me oddly.
“Not since I was fourteen or so,” I wondered what had made him pull back just a little bit.
“Say that again, lad,” he squinted at me as if he was trying to see through a mist.
“Say what?” I was baffled.
“Anything, just say something, I want to hear your voice.”
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree,” I rattled off the first bit of poetry I could think of, “Where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea.”
“Well, lor’lumme!” he grinned delightedly, “Yer a real toff, ain’t ye? It’s not a put-on!”
“I’m a toffee-nosed nob, to be precise. Or so I’m told,” I giggled.
“Well, ain’t that a hoot? I thought ye were a molly-boy!”
“Oh!” no wonder the other men had stalked off angrily, they’d been put off by my accent; but then I wondered, “I can’t be both?”
“Well, I guess you could, at that,” he considered the question for a moment, “But you’d be well out of my prices.”
“Really? A Mayfair accent would put up my price?” this was interesting indeed.
“Sure it would!” he pulled me close again and twirled me around a bit as the music came to a crescendo and segued into the next number, which was a foxtrot; he didn’t mind the time, though, and kept on waltzing, “You’d have access to them other toffs with all the money. Some fella here told me that our accents is what keeps the classes separate; I bet the toffs would pay good money to hear their own lingo spoke back at them from a molly-boy.”
“Well, that’s certainly something to keep in mind,” I didn’t think I could actually go broke, but it’s always nice to know there are other options, “Do you know a lot of molly-boys?”
“My fair share, I’d say,” he shrugged eloquently, “Only thing I can get, some nights. I ain’t exactly one of these here Adonises.”
“Nonsense,” I told him automatically, “You’re frightfully attractive.”
“‘Frightful’ is right, pretty,” he laughed at me, “We’re close enough right now I can tell you ain’t attracted.”
“Well, no,” I could tell that he was, and gave him a little bump in friendship, “But you’re just my friend Reggie’s type.”
“You know Reggie? The bloke over there at the bar?”
“Yes, we met down at Oxford,” I didn’t think I should say he was my employee, “Do you know him?”
“Met him a couple times,” Stan said, craning his head around to look at Pond, “Seems nice enough, but not my type.”
“What is your type?” I wondered, thinking that attraction was a funny thing.
“Can’t ye guess?” he grinned again and pressed his hips to mine, “You’re my type. Prettiest boy I’ve seen all week.”
“You saw someone prettier than me last week?” I teased.
“Yer pretty saucy for a toff,” he chuckled at me.
“Say, I wonder if you know a boy named Gabriel,” I’d nearly forgotten why I was there at the Green Parrot.
“Sure I do!” Stan boomed happily, “He’s damn near my favorite! Too bad, though.”
“What’s too bad?” I was suddenly afraid for the safety of a boy I’d never even met.
“His brother’s a bad lot,” he shook his head sadly, “Takes every penny that poor boy gets, and sends him out to get more.”
“His brother is his pimp?” I was scandalized. I’d never had a brother, but I knew a lot of fellows who did, and that struck me as not very fraternal.
“Since he got out of Newgate, he has been,” Stan lowered his voice confidentially, “Pretty little Angel was on his own and making a good name for hisself, when that no-good Mike Baker turned up and scared all the light out of him. He still smiles and laughs, but you can tell he’s afraid of that brute. It’s too bad.”
“Can I confide in you, Stan?” I asked, stopping the dance and moving away from the floor.
“Sure you can! ‘Say-No-More Stan,’ they calls me. What’s up?”
“A friend of mine is, well, sweet on Gabriel, and asked me to come down here and see if he needs any help. It sounds like he does, with this brother. How can we possibly get him out of that jam?”
“Short of killing Mike, or getting him sent back to Newgate?”
“Well, I’m usually averse to killing people, but Newgate might be arranged,” I wondered if Twister could manage that for me, getting this Mike Baker person hauled in for pandering; but he’d probably drag poor Gabriel with him, and that would never do.
“Is this friend of yours rich?” Stan wanted to know, “A toff, like you?”
“I don’t know how rich he is, but I expect he’s fairly comfortable,” the question started me down a line of thought that Stan had probably intended when he asked it: maybe the Baron could buy off the brother, or take Gabriel away some-where, “And he’s foreign.”
“Oh, you mean that round little chump with the pointy beard is your friend?” Stan laughed out loud.
“I don’t know if I’d call Gustaaf a ‘chump,’“ I laughed with him, catching myself before I referred to the Baron by his title, “It never occurred to me that he’d ever come down here.”
“Oh, it wasn’t here. It was at the Criterion, our Gabriel pinned the little round fella on his way home from the opera. I saw it happen,” Stan explained, which made more sense. The Baron would have mentioned the Green Parrot if he’d been here; and judging by his naïveté, he’d never have known where to find it in the first place. The Criterion Bar in Piccadilly Circus was a much more likely meeting-place for the two, standing as it does on the border of Soho and St. James’s, where the raffish and the regal rubbed elbows (or so one of the magazines says, I can’t remember which).
“Do you think you could help me find Gabriel, Stan?”
“Well, sure I could,” h
e smiled conspiratorially at me, “I know where he lives, if you want me to take you there. But that Mike Baker could be there, too.”
“I’m sure a big strong man like you,” I made seductive cow-eyes at him and toyed with his necktie, “wouldn’t be put off by some tuppeny-ha’penny thug.”
“You’d make a fine molly-boy, you would,” he grinned at me, “You sure know how to get around a man.”
“So you’ll take me to see Gabriel?”
“I can take you now, if you like.”
“That would be super! Just let me go say hello to Reggie before we leave, I don’t want him to think I’m high-hatting him now we’re in London.”
“I’ll meet you outside, pretty,” he pinched my chin and headed off toward the door.
“I’m off to meet the Angel Gabriel!” I told Pond excitedly, squeezing in next to him at the bar, “Stan’s taking me.”
“I didn’t think Stan was your type,” Pond glared at me.
“He’s not, I’m only going with him to meet Gabriel,” I explained, somewhat surprised; perhaps I’d stirred the green-eyed beast when I danced with a chap he fancied, “He’s fond of the boy, apparently. And while I’m gone, you ought to ask around about his brother, Mike. See if you can find out anything we can use against him.”
“From what I’ve heard already, there’s plenty. Everyone loves Gabriel, and everyone says ‘too bad about that brother,’” he seemed only slightly mollified, “Where does this Gabriel live?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” I frowned, realizing I’d need to learn to be more precise in my questions, “Stan didn’t tell me the address, only that he knew where he lived.”
“Then I think I’d better follow you,” Pond stood up and drained the last of his lager, “I don’t know Stan that well, and you don’t know him at all. You’ve no idea where he’s taking you, it could be dangerous.”
“I’m sure Stan wouldn’t hurt me,” I objected, “He’s very nice.”
“Nevertheless,” Pond insisted.
“Well, have it your own way,” I shrugged and turned to go. Pausing only to pay my bill with the raven-headed maître’d, I exited the Green Parrot and met Stan at the top of the area steps.
We walked a reasonably short distance around a corner and up Wardour Street, with Stan flirting ceaselessly as we went while I was too acutely aware of Pond behind us, wondering what he was making of the display. We turned onto a side-street, and then stopped at an archway giving into a space that called itself a Mews but was really a dark, narrow, incredibly sinister-looking alley that ran about fifty yards to a dead end.
“Well, come along,” Stan prompted as I stood indecisively in the archway, reluctant to commit myself to such an insalubrious enclosure, “You’re not afraid of an alley, are you?”
“A little,” I admitted, but stepped forward bravely, secure in the knowledge that Stan could obviously handle himself in a fray and that Pond was not far behind.
“I won’t let the bogeys get you,” Stan laughed heartily and threw an arm around my shoulder, escorting me up to a door so anonymous that didn’t even have a number on it, which he pushed open to reveal a tangle of bicycles and a rickety staircase lit by a single very dim electric bulb.
“Gabriel lives here?” I wondered, my nose crinkling at the smell of cabbage that permeated the place as we ascended stairs carpeted in a filthy threadbare runner. It was a level of squalor that simply didn’t exist in Oxford, or anywhere else I’d ever been, and I was appalled.
“Not exactly the Ritz, eh?” Stan winked at me and knocked on a door at the second landing.
“Well, if it ain’t old Stan!” the door was opened by Mike Baker; expecting the door to be opened by this gilded cherub I’d been hearing about, I was quite taken aback by the spectacularly ugly object that filled the door-frame.
He had probably been quite a looker some years ago, before he’d smashed his nose into a shapeless blob and snarled his lip with a nasty scar, before he blotched and spotted his com-plexion with drink, before the innate meanness of his personality had stamped his expression with sneering contempt; but he retained quite remarkable gooseberry-green eyes and really beautiful golden hair, and the remains of his beauty were made almost poignant by the otherwise total wreck of his face.
“Is Gabriel at home to visitors this evening?” Stan inquired with an arch sort of courtesy, hatred for Mike Baker gleaming from his very pores.
“Who’s paying?” Mike made the unmistakable gesture of rubbing his fingers together as if crackling bank notes and putting out his hand for payment.
“How much?” I inquired, pulling out my note-case.
“For the both of you?” Mike narrowed his eyes at me appraisingly, no doubt calculating my resources to within a penny, “A fiver ought to do.”
“Five pounds!” Stan yelped, “A sovereign each, and you’ll be glad of it.”
“You’ll leave immediately and not come back tonight,” I said with as much imperiousness as I could muster while handing him a five-pound note, “I’ll gladly pay extra to be spared the sight of you.”
“Saucy little toff, ain’t ye?” Mike leered at me while pocketing the note, then retreated behind the door to have a short conversation with his little brother and retrieve his cap and coat; returning to the landing, he executed a sarcastic bow followed by a lewd smirk before clattering down the wooden stairs.
“What a revolting creature,” I complained to Stan as I followed him into the tiny flat.
“Like I told you,” Stan shook his head sadly, “A bad lot.”
The sitting-room was empty when we entered, giving me an opportunity to study my surroundings before getting down to business: it was a surprisingly comfortable room, the walls draped with printed muslin like an Arabian tent, worn but colorful Turkey rugs on the floor, a single bed fitted out like a divan with a profusion of cushions, and a couple of easy chairs and a pouf in front of a tiny fireplace with an electric heater made to look like a coal fire.
“Oh, it’s you, Stan!” Gabriel entered from the room next door, which I assumed was the bedroom, dressed in well-fitting trousers with embroidered braces, an open white shirt, and carpet slippers; he was as exquisitely beautiful as I’d been led to expect, his golden curls hanging loose around his heart-shaped face, the big pale-green eyes fringed in long lashes, the scarlet mouth a perfect Cupid’s-bow, the peaches-and-cream skin blooming on his smooth rounded cheeks. His voice was sweet and musical, his diction the carefully refined accent of a shop-assistant or waiter; his figure was slight but gracefully proportioned, his movements as elegant as a dancer’s. He was perfectly enchanting, and I understood the devotion he inspired in those who knew him.
“How’s my boy?” Stan asked lovingly, enfolding the boy in a tight embrace and kissing him on the nose, then turning to introduce me, “This is my friend ‘Bastian, he wanted to meet you.”
“A pleasure, Bastian,” Gabriel glided over to me, gently grasped my lapels, gazed adoringly up into my eyes and planted a warm wet kiss on my mouth. It was perhaps the most remarkable greeting I’d ever received.
“My name is Sebastian,” I corrected my new friend, “Sebastian Saint-Clair.”
“Yes, I know,” Gabriel smiled mischievously, “I recognize you from your picture in the last Tatler, Lord Foxbridge. I just thought you’d want to remain anonymous.”
“Anonymity is for romance,” I smiled back, and stepped away from the boy; his closeness was distracting me from my purpose, “I’m here on a matter of business.”
“Those papers, I guess,” the boy’s manner altered from seductiveness to something even more disarming: embarrassed candour.
“Baron van der Swertz has asked me to arrange for their return. Would twenty pounds meet the case?”
“My brother told me to ask for fifty,” he blushed charmingly, his eyes on the carpet.
“Wait a minute!” Stan inserted himself into the conversation, rounding on me, “You’re a lord? The little round buster is a baron?
Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t help me,” I answered truthfully, “Reggie thought a bunch of titles would put people’s backs up, so he told me to stick to Christian names.”
“Reggie isn’t just an acquaintance from Oxford, then?” Stan narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“He’s my valet,” I said after a short pause in which I weighed the advantages between complete honesty and further dissimulation.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he shook his head again, vigorously this time, as if trying to make the new information jostle into place.
“But to return to the papers,” I perched on the edge of an easy-chair and pulled out my note-case again, “I was authorized to go to thirty pounds, but I will make it up to fifty myself, if it will help you out.”
“Really?” Gabriel was surprised by my acquiescence to the outrageous demand, “Why would you do that?”
“Because Gustaaf wants to help you, and Stan wants to help you. Even Charley said she’d help you; now I’ve met you, I want to help you, too. You’re in a bad corner with this brother of yours. Is there anything I, or the Baron, can do to rid you of him?”
“He’s my brother,” Gabriel sagged down onto the corner of the divan, “Nothing anybody can do about that.”
“Nonsense,” I leaned back in the chair and put my feet on the pouf, “Brothers don’t treat brothers the way I’ve heard he treats you.”
“Maybe in your world, Lord Foxbridge; but in my world, they do,” Gabriel sighed sadly.
“Balderdash,” Stan put in, furious, “If my brother tried to bully me the way Mike does you, I’d have his guts for garters.”
“I bet your brother’s not twice your size, and a boxer,” Gabriel looked at Stan bitterly.
“Well, no,” Stan ceded the point, sitting down on the opposite corner of the divan. “But just because you can’t knock him down doesn’t mean you have to stay with him.”
“He’s all I have in the world,” the boy said lifelessly, as if repeating a lesson.
“That’s absolutely not true,” I leaned forward again, “You have Gustaaf and me, and Stan here. You have a lot of friends. That’s worth more than any number of useless blood relations, and certainly worth more than that brute Nature paired you with.”
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