by Pearl Love
Female prostitution had long been recognized as an unavoidable evil, and brothels that catered to ordinary men generally went unmolested. Save for the institution of the Contagious Diseases Acts, meant to protect customers from the nasty, unintended consequences of their illicit dalliances, the legal system more or less turned a blind eye. Not so for those of his ilk. Sodomy, while no longer punishable by death, was still a crime warranting grievous punishment.
Church pointed at the object in Wilcox’s hand. “Like the card says, ‘Purveyors of Fine Flowers and Exotic Teas.’ A brothel that fronts as a greenhouse and tea shop. Well, I think it’s bloody brilliant,” he sniffed when Wilcox continued to look skeptical.
This so-called “brothel” sounded like nothing but a sham. Such a place could not possibly exist, not outside of Wilcox’s most secret fantasies at any rate. “Have you visited the place yourself?” he asked, certain of the answer. Church might be many things, but a fool was not one of them. No one made an excessive fortune in banking by the tender age of twenty-nine, as he had, by being feebleminded. His friend would never risk such exposure.
“Of course not. I would never go without you, which is why I’ve made an appointment for the both of us to visit a week from now.” Church smiled benignly at the horrified look he received at this pronouncement.
Wilcox sputtered, unable to form a coherent response for nearly a full minute. “Are you insane?” he finally managed.
Church took a moment, as though he were seriously considering the accusatory question. “I don’t believe so.”
“This so-called brothel is most certainly a ruse,” Wilcox tried again. “The police will likely be waiting to apprehend us the moment we arrive.”
“Oh, it’s very real.” Church stood and stretched, his long arms allowing his hands to brush against the bottom crystals of the overhanging chandelier. “That new acquaintance I mentioned, he was quite elaborate in his description of the place. Plus, his family owes me quite a bit of money, so lying would be most imprudent on his part.”
Wilcox had to concede the point. If the man did business with Church, then his story was likely true. After all, who would make up such a dangerous ploy and relate it to someone who could have you thrown in jail as well as ruin you financially? “Still, it all seems most unbelievable,” he mumbled, bemused by the very idea.
“Believe it,” Church answered. “We’ll go, have a few sips of tea, and sample the flowers. What say you?” He approached Wilcox and clapped him heartily on the back. “And this way, I won’t have to worry about the bobbies fishing your bloodless corpse out of the river.”
Wilcox blinked at the genuine note of worry in his friend’s voice. Back at Oxford, shortly after they’d first met, he’d considered pursuing a connection with Church. Tall and graceful, with a slender yet strong build reminiscent of a dancer. Blond hair more lustrous than gold and animated emerald green eyes that could break a man’s heart. Church was undoubtedly beautiful. But, in the end, having Church as a friend was far more important than having him in the more base sense, no matter how difficult Wilcox often found keeping his hands to himself. It would be foolish to read too much into this show of concern. Church was ever the trickster, mockery far more at home on his mercurial features than solemnity. Even so, Wilcox couldn’t stop himself from being touched by the consideration.
“Fine,” he said, knuckling beneath Church’s demands as he’d done for the past fourteen years. “Now, show me to my room, or you’ll have to drag me up the stairs.” Contenting himself with the sound of his friend’s laughter, Wilcox tried not to think about all the ways their prospective adventure could end in disaster.
“THIS DOESN’T look like the way to Soho to me.”
Wilcox spoke sotto voce to prevent the driver from overhearing his observation. As if the man cared what the swells in his cab were yammering on about. By the look and smell of him, they’d be lucky if they didn’t end up turned over in a ditch courtesy of alcohol-fueled carelessness. Wilcox had earned the sense of moral superiority. Days had passed since he’d indulged in the comfort of Church’s largesse, and he was as sober as his friend’s surname. Which was a pity, since it allowed him the wherewithal to deeply ponder—for the twentieth time—why this was an incredibly bad idea.
“That’s because we’re not going to Soho.” Church’s sanguine expression betrayed nothing as he stared idly out of the window at the passing scenery. Southampton Row was fairly quiet, permitting the cab to trundle down the street at a good clip. Only the few souls who were late leaving the Museum were about to disturb the stillness.
Wilcox struggled not to roll his eyes at Church’s deliberate vagueness. “Then where are we going? I thought all of the pleasure houses were there these days. Or, at least the ones where you’re more likely than not to escape with your throat intact.”
Church smiled indulgently as he might to a small dim-witted child. He pulled the curtain across the window, hiding their trajectory. Wilcox rolled his eyes at the unnecessary mystery. “All of the pleasure houses that cater to those of mundane predilections, perhaps. It would be the perfect location to call attention to oneself if one were running the type of establishment that could fall afoul of the authorities.”
“Seems like hiding among others of a similar ilk would be a wise course,” Wilcox commented, bracing his hand against the door as the cab made a sharp right.
“Ah, except that a house full of pretty boys might seem somewhat odd midst the painted birds of Soho.”
Wilcox grunted in agreement. “I suppose I can see the sense of that. So, where are we headed?” he repeated, attempting to bring the conversation back around to his original point. The hansom swung left, and Wilcox rapped his fist against the roof to express his displeasure at the driver’s recklessness.
In lieu of answering, Church drew back the curtain once more. “Just there, as luck would have it.”
Wilcox leaned toward his friend and looked out over his shoulder, trying to ignore the unique scent that wafted toward his nose this close to Church. An enticing blend of sandalwood, cedar, and almond, Church had commissioned it personally from the finest perfumer off Piccadilly Circus. Shifting as much as he dared to adjust the suddenly uncomfortable fit of his trousers, Wilcox searched about for what had drawn his friend’s attention. “Covent Garden?” he asked skeptically. The distinctive semicircular arches of glass rose over the rooftops of the buildings lining the corner as they turned off Drury Lane and onto Russell Street.
“Or thereabouts,” Church confirmed.
“Seems a conspicuous place for such an undertaking.” Although distressingly close to the Seven Dials, the area around Covent Garden itself bustled with those availing themselves of the busy market. Men, women, and children were underfoot and under carriage, making the going slow as they crept down Russell toward Bow Street.
“Well, I should say Neil’s Yard, to be more precise.”
Wilcox shot Church a look. He had been in Town every year since he’d turned thirteen, and he had no clue what his friend was talking about. “Neil’s Yard? Where in the bloody hell is that?”
“Just off Queen Street, in the Dials.” Church was looking smug, as though thrilled to know something about London that Wilcox did not.
“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” Wilcox grumbled. “But Queen Street, you say? Surely we could have found a more direct route.” The cab took a cautious right due to the crowd. “We came too far down Drury Lane, and now we’re near the Opera House, for Christ’s sake.” He shot the driver a gimlet glare. “Or is this fellow trying to extort us?”
“Relax,” Church soothed. “He’s going exactly the way I told him to go. I thought if we took the shortest way, you wouldn’t have time to properly work up a good case of nerves regarding our little quest.”
Wilcox struggled against the profound desire to punch the grinning buffoon in his full-lipped mouth. “Oh, ha-ha,” he replied, settling for the note of faked humor as he retreated back to his s
ide of the cab.
The hansom crawled even more slowly toward Long Acre Street as the driver worked to avoid the late-night shoppers scurrying home. The opera was holding a performance that night, and carriages dropping off patrons brought them to a near standstill. The area near the main entrance was particularly congested as no one wanted to walk any farther than was strictly necessary in order to avoid the worst of the stinging wind. Sighing, Wilcox slouched on the uncomfortable seat, unwilling to give Church the victory of acknowledging the growing butterflies in his stomach. He couldn’t account for his apprehension. It wasn’t as if he were a stranger to licentious partnerships between men. He had been indulging his fancy with servant boys and boarding house lads from the day of his fifteenth birthday, when the stable groom who cared for his father’s horse had given him a ride of an entirely different kind. And it wasn’t the potentially ruinous nature of their endeavor that worried him. If that were a concern, he would never have been on the docks to proposition that sailor.
No, Wilcox thought, his gaze sliding toward his companion. It was Church, or rather, his presence, that was making his gut churn with anxiety. While his friend reportedly enjoyed male intimacy, he had never personally seen Church with another man during any of the years of their long friendship. His knowledge had come solely from Church’s own bragging and the recounting of others. Having this side of his friend suddenly thrown in his face in such a manner was certain to make his self-appointed vow even more difficult to keep. Nursing a secret longing was manageable, but hope, no matter how faint, was a far more daunting prospect.
After clearing the hurly-burly around the venue, the going was smoother. The foot traffic thinned out as though it had never existed at all, and the cab was soon crossing Castle Street. The only signs of life were the glowing street lamps and the occasional shadowy figure that appeared just beyond the circle of light they cast. Remembering his recent mugging, Wilcox’s nerves were rapidly becoming those of a more sensible kind.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” He blushed, much to his chagrin, as Church laughed in his face.
“Safe? My dear sir, we’re approaching the heart of the city’s underskirts, and you ask me if it’s safe.” Church patted Wilcox on the back of his hand, and Wilcox resisted the urge to grab it with his other to stop the patronizing gesture.
“Well, then, answer me this. What kind of man runs this establishment to have chosen such an unseemly locale?”
Church blinked, and for once, looked genuinely stumped. “The proprietor? I dare say, I don’t know who he is. My informant named him as a ‘Mr. Leslie.’” He shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“Comforting,” Wilcox mumbled. He shook his head, wondering how he got himself into these situations. As the cab passed yet another lamp, the light illuminated Church from behind, making his golden hair glow like an improbable halo. Ah, yes, Wilcox remembered, that’s how. The cab turned left onto Shorts Gardens, and given Church’s vague description, Wilcox knew they couldn’t have much farther to go. “So, do you have some sort of plan for the evening? You are, after all, the expert on brothels.”
Church tossed him a cheeky grin, completely unfazed by the weak attempt at an insult. “Just you leave it to me, old chap.” He reached over to clap Wilcox firmly on the shoulder. “I’ll make certain that you thoroughly enjoy yourself.”
Why? Will you be on the menu? Wilcox was forced to withhold his rejoinder—not that he would have ever dared voice it aloud—when the hansom came to an abrupt halt at the mouth of an unlit road just beyond King Street where Shorts Garden exchanged its moniker for Queen. “Road” was overly generous, Wilcox decided as he exited behind Church and glanced around. The only light came from the lamp at their end of the narrow alleyway, and the illumination barely penetrated the gloom that stretched between the tightly packed buildings. Although it was difficult to tell, he suspected that the area might be a shopping district, but the darkness made it appear sinister and unwelcoming. Hardly the place for a pleasure house, he thought uncharitably.
Church turned back from paying the driver, who left promptly, announcing his departure only with the clop of his horse’s hooves. Blowing into his hands to warm them, Wilcox glared up at his slightly taller friend. “Do you actually know where you’re going? I have no desire to die here tonight.” And he didn’t mean only from the cold. A glance down toward the far end of the alley, which angled off to the left so that the egress was out of sight, exposed what looked suspiciously like movement.
“Hmmm,” Church hummed uncertainly, his finger tapping his lip in a gesture he favored for contemplation.
The shadows resolved themselves into three figures that began to slink toward them. Wilcox hefted his cane, wishing he’d thought to bring the one that concealed a sword. His older sister had bought it for him as a joke three years prior after returning from her travels to India with her husband, who Her Majesty had appointed to the Foreign Service. Unfortunately, that cane was safely tucked away in his bedroom at his father’s estate in Leicestershire. “Church!” he hissed in warning.
“Indeed,” Church said abruptly, finally seeming to appreciate the precarious nature of their situation. “It’s this way.” He walked quickly toward the building two down from the mouth of the alley, stopping when he reached a nondescript door painted a featureless black. In place of a number was an enameled carving of an unidentifiable flower in muted tones of bronze and forest green, though the exact shades were difficult to discern in the gloom. The sign creaking above the door read “Fine Flowers and Exotic Teas.” Without another moment’s delay, Church reached out and pulled the cord hanging next to the door. A chime sounded from somewhere within, and seconds later the dark wood swung open to reveal a man with silver hair, impassive gray-blue eyes, and a stately bearing. His butler’s livery was pressed and spotless and made Wilcox feel as though he were shabbily dressed.
“Good evening, sirs. Welcome to the Garden.”
THE BUTLER—Sebastian, he’d politely informed them—led them from the Spartan vestibule through a second door opposite the main entrance and into a blessedly warm sitting room. With a deep bow, Sebastian disappeared back the way he had brought them. Apparently, they were simply to wait, so Wilcox took the opportunity to examine his unexpected surroundings. The furnishings were a surprisingly pleasant mix of traditional masculine taste and exotic luxury. The wood floor made of dark cherry matched the window frames. The trim around the door they had entered was painted a vibrant blue on its interior face, and its gold-painted opposite on the far side of the room continued the opulent Ottoman theme. The furnishings consisted primarily of a settee and several chairs and were likewise fashioned of the decorator’s preferred shade of timber. The solid cherrywood frames were upholstered with rich fabrics of brocade and satin in refined hues ranging from maroon to azure and gold. Velvet hangings in complementary tones covered the windows, providing a dark intimacy to the room that would likely carry over even through the daylight hours. The floor was covered nearly wall to wall by a stunning carpet, no doubt of Turkish origins, the design of which was effectively reflected in the wallpaper. A modest chandelier of frosted glass spheres hung from a ceiling painted in a cream and gold motif of abstract geometric shapes. Dominating the setting, an ostentatious desk, likewise of Prunus avium origins, reigned from its location in front of heavily draped windows that likely overlooked the alley.
The total effect of the parlor was reassuring after the questionable nature of the shop’s external setting, and Wilcox felt himself relax. Slightly.
Church took in the sitting room’s appointments with a pleased look. “Well, this is all very nice. You see, old chap, I told you that I had this place on good authority.”
“Indeed, I am glad that you approve, Sir Wallace.”
Wilcox spun at the unexpected voice and stared at a tall man with stunning chestnut hair standing in the now-open doorway athwart where they had entered. The gold-painted door’s hinges we
re so well-oiled, there had been no warning of the man’s arrival. Wilcox wondered briefly if the theatrics were purposeful as he sized up the newcomer.
“Ah,” Church exclaimed, his hand outstretched in greeting. “Mr. Leslie, I presume?”
The man closed the door behind him before Wilcox could get a glimpse into the room beyond. “Indeed, my good sir. And to you as well, Mr. Wilcox. I welcome you both to my humble establishment.”
Leslie bowed with the proper degree of supplication, but Wilcox doubted the proprietor considered himself subservient to anyone. Neither he nor Church were shrinking violets, but the owner had at least several inches on their own impressive heights. They certainly couldn’t match the man physically, benefitting as they did from nothing more than the exercise fitting their stations as men of leisure. Leslie might be the owner of a prosperous establishment, if these tasteful decorations were any indication, but he had obviously begun life as a man who’d earned a living by the strength of his muscles. His shoulders and arms were more suited to a dockhand than a businessman, and his chest strained at the buttons of his fine woolen vest. His thick hair swept back fashionably from a high brow, and eyes of deep forest green took their measure, perhaps calculating to the farthing the weight of their purses. Leslie’s attire was imminently respectable, his dark gray vest topped by a matching jacket of equal quality, and his long legs were hidden by trousers in the same muted tone. Black boots polished to a high gloss shod his feet, every subdued detail proclaiming his success. Wilcox might have found the man attractive if he wasn’t at the same time relieved that they were meeting in this civilized setting and not in the darkened street outside.
“You are too modest, sir.” Church beamed at the man, his demeanor giving no indication that he shared any of Wilcox’s reservations. “Our mutual acquaintance recommended you quite highly.”