by KJ Charles
“No, don’t say that,” Rowley cut in. “Gratitude doesn’t come into it. Uh—I am glad you said that, and thank you, but the thing is…” He bit his lip, colour flushing his usually pale face. “I like to be…undemanding in bed. To, well, have the other person make the decisions. There’s something about someone doing what he wants to do with me…”
Clem felt his mouth round with surprise. “Oh.”
“Which isn’t to say I don’t want a voice in the matter, or to be, you know, hurt,” Rowley added hastily. “That’s not what I mean at all. I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain. But knowing you were doing just what you liked to me, with me, and the look on your face…”
Clem could understand that, because the look on Rowley’s face was enough to send a jolt through his softening cock. “Oh,” he said again. “Well. Um, if you’re sure.”
“I don’t mean that I want you to do all the work. It’s only…” Rowley’s fingertips traced a precise, unreadable message on Clem’s back. “It’s only, if you’d like to say how you want it, what you like to do, and have me do exactly what you want, just as you like it, as slowly as you want…”
“You’d like that?”
“I like to wait,” Rowley whispered. “And have absolutely nothing except what you choose to do with me, even if I’m aching for more.”
“And that’s good? Really?”
Rowley nodded, decidedly red in the face, but not looking away. Trusting Clem with his truth. “Very good.”
“If that’s what you want…” Clem thought about it. “It sounds perfect. I can take my time?”
“Mmm.”
“And not do anything unless I want to?”
“Mmm.”
“But if I do want to do something…” Clem dipped his head and licked at Rowley’s flattened ear, making it a slow, deliberate movement, winning a little gasp. “I’ll just say so?”
“You tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if I don’t like it,” Rowley said. “I won’t expect you to guess, I promise.”
“And what I do and how fast I do it is up to me.” Clem’s breath felt short with the words, the unaccustomed thrill of power, the look on Rowley’s face. “I might not move at all quickly, you know. In fact, I might be very slow. I might make you wait for ages. Would that be difficult?”
“It might be agony.” Rowley’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “Luckily, I’m an extremely patient man.”
Chapter 6
Rowley decided they’d go to the music hall again on Friday, once more taking a box. It was a wild extravagance, and he hadn’t sold anything large to pay for it, but he wasn’t sure he’d felt so lighthearted in his life. It was a struggle not to whistle his way around the lodging house, which would hardly have been decent with Mr. Lugtrout horribly dead for less than a week. He did whistle in his shop, though, while preparing linnet skins that the bird-seller up the road had brought in for pennies. He felt entitled to whistle.
He, Rowley Green, nondescript, quiet Rowley Green with his thick spectacles and peculiar solitary occupation, was Clem Talleyfer’s lover. Clem, who needed a quiet man, and who found Rowley’s yearning for passivity in bed not boring or lazy or selfish, but perfect. They were two such odd-shaped men, and they fit together so naturally, he and Clem, with his stunning eyes and his achingly open heart and his trust like a gift. Rowley was aware of an increasing urge to do something sharp and pointy to the people who saw nothing in that trust except advantage to be gained. He’d have liked to do something sharp and pointy to Clem’s swine of a brother, in particular.
In fact, to his whole family, Rowley thought on Thursday afternoon when Clem poked his head into the shop with a half-hopeful, half-hunted look. “Rowley? Could you help me? Only, it’s my brother.”
Rowley followed him to the lodging house and his bedroom, and blinked at what he saw. A grey coat, rather old-fashioned but obviously well made, was laid out on the bed, with a waistcoat on top of it. “What’s this?”
“My brother,” Clem repeated, looking somewhat sheepish. “It’s his birthday, and my cousin Phineas will be there too, and they’ll make such a fuss if I’m not dressed to the nines. And these are the only, uh, nineish clothes I have.”
“They’re very nineish.” Rowley felt the cloth with finger and thumb. “You might be dressed to the tens in these.”
“I can’t do the cravat,” Clem said. “I can’t really do any of it, actually—the waistcoat buttons are hopeless—but the cravat’s the worst, and I just wondered if you could, well…”
“Valet you?”
“Help a bit. Would you mind?”
As if anyone could resist the pleading look in his eyes. “I don’t mind helping, but I’m no sort of expert on dressing,” Rowley said. “On the other hand, I’ve stuffed plenty of fine feathers, so let’s have a go.”
The extraordinary thing was, Clem really did suit the clothes. In the deeply unlikely event that he was ever called upon to dress like the higher sort, Rowley knew perfectly well he’d look like a poorly cast actor in a cheap melodrama. Whereas the suit fitted Clem as though it had been made for him, albeit perhaps a few years ago when his chest was a touch less broad. Rowley had to tug hard on the waistcoat to fasten it, which led to a certain amount of giggling and grappling entirely inappropriate to Clem’s severe garb. He tied the shoestrings of a rather dusty pair of shoes, managed a very creditable sort of knot to the cravat, helped Clem get the coat over his shoulders, then stood back to assess the effect. “Good Lord.”
“Just a moment.” Clem picked up a cane from the bed, squared his shoulders, tilted his chin. “Very good, Green. Tell John Coachman I shall require him.”
“Good Lord,” Rowley said again. “You really do look like a gentleman.” It wasn’t just the clothing but the posture, and the expression, a severe, superior look that fitted his face far better than Rowley could have guessed. He hadn’t known Clem was any sort of mimic. “Where on earth did you get those clothes?”
“Oh, hand-me-downs,” Clem said vaguely, dropping the aristocratic stance.
Rowley’s idea of hand-me-downs were trousers with the arse hanging out. “What kind of people hand clothes like that down?”
“Ones who can afford new. Whereas I’m going to wear these until I’m eighty.”
Rowley wasn’t sure he liked that idea. Clem looked wrong. He looked wonderful, undeniably, handsome and wealthy and groomed, but wrong. It made him a different person, one even further from Rowley’s reach. “What about the stick? You just had that lying around?”
“I used to carry one. For balance, in crowds. It does help, but I whacked quite a few people on the shins, and after I left my third one behind, I decided not to bother any more. But it does go with the whole…” He gave a vague wave to indicate the ensemble.
“It does. And this is all for your brother’s birthday?” It seemed extraordinary to Rowley, but then Edmund had been both well dressed and an arrogant swine. Normal Clem doubtless wasn’t good enough for him.
“A glass of sherry and polite conversation with Cousin Phineas,” Clem agreed with a grimace. “At least Tim will be there, another cousin. Still, I’m looking forward to coming home and taking it all off again.”
“Yes,” Rowley said, giving him a long, leisurely examination. “Do you know, I’m rather looking forward to that too.”
—
They went to their box at the Grand Cirque the next night, with Clem returned to himself and Rowley in his usual clothes. He didn’t talk about his family evening, and Rowley didn’t ask.
This time they enlivened the wait for the Flying Starlings with the touches they’d denied themselves before. Clem, who was thoroughly enjoying his role in their unfolding relationship, spent a good fifteen minutes while the comic singer brayed exploring Rowley’s thighs. Through the cloth of his trousers, of course, rubbing and stroking, until Rowley was shaking and desperate and praying to be asked for more.
Clem didn’t ask for anything. He was rapidl
y developing a taste for making Rowley hard and then making him wait, and because he was Clem, he applied himself to it to the exclusion of all else. Rowley was almost sobbing, from frustration and the breath-stopping pleasure of having Clem play as he chose with him, by the time the Flying Starlings emerged.
The trapeze artists were both male tonight, or at least both clad in close-fitting costumes that suggested masculinity, though from their roost high up, Rowley could clearly see one Starling’s tightly restrained bosom. It didn’t seem to trouble her as they flipped and tumbled through the air with an exuberance that made Rowley’s heart pound in response. He took the time to watch Clem’s rapt expression too, with its almost painful yearning for their effortless grace.
Afterward they slipped out as before, avoiding the crowds, and found a quiet corner in a chophouse to eat. Rowley had a rare pint of beer with his meal, Clem a lemonade.
“Rowley?” Clem asked, studying his glass. “Would you like to come to my club sometime?”
“Your club?”
“Well, it’s like a public house really, but private. It’s where my friends, of our sort of people, meet. You know.”
“Oh. I see.”
“It’s very comfortable.” Clem ran a finger down the side of his glass. “One can talk openly and sit together and just be, oh, usual. Do you have anywhere like that?”
“No.”
“I’d like to take you. I might have mentioned you,” he added with a grin.
That was a little nerve-wracking. Rowley was not a sociable man, and God knew what the denizens of a molly’s club would be like. If, as Clem said, he was no longer indulging with anyone else there, would that be resented? How would Rowley possibly compare to men with the confidence and experience to go to these places? What on earth would he say?
He needed to answer. “Uh. If you’d like.”
Clem frowned a little. “Would you rather not?”
“I’m not very clubbable. But I would like to meet your friends,” Rowley made himself add, giving himself a mental kick. It wasn’t much to ask, for heaven’s sake. “Perhaps we could drop in tonight?”
Clem’s smile broke out, sunny as ever. “I’d like that.”
The Jack and Knave proved to be an unobtrusive house on an unobtrusive alley, Greystoke Place, a little way west of Farringdon Market. Its sign showed two playing cards, the jacks—or knaves—of hearts and clubs. Clem chatted quietly with the doorman, a powerful-looking fellow with a bulbous nose and heavy-lidded eyes who looked Rowley over with reassuring caution before nodding. “Mr. Rowley on Mr. Clem’s say-so, all righty then. In you go, gents.”
Rowley wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see. He’d read the newspaper reports from the Boulton and Park trial, and accordingly imagined a world of well-dressed gentlemen and pretty youths in frocks, French draperies, purple hangings, and pink gin. This wasn’t that. It looked, as Clem had said, like a private public. There was a cosy sort of snug, a tall woman behind the bar, several booths, tables in the middle of the room, perhaps twenty drinkers talking at them. They were mostly men, though a few tables were occupied by women, in pairs or fours, a couple in very mannishly cut jackets. Several people called out greetings or raised hands as Clem came in, and most of them gave Rowley assessing looks. He felt himself cringe.
“Clem, darling!” the barwoman called in a deep, husky voice. “Come here at once, and—oh! Is that your stuffer?”
Rowley froze. Clem gave him a little push between the shoulder blades, toward the bar. “Rowley, this is Phyllis. Phil, meet Rowley. Don’t make a fuss.”
“Would I?” She clasped her hands to a bosom that Rowley realised was distinctly flat, even as he registered her Adam’s apple. “I wouldn’t embarrass either of you for the world. Good evening, Rowley, how lovely to have you here at last. Any friend of Clem’s and all that, and especially this friend, Clement Talleyfer, took you long enough.”
“Phil.”
“Welcome to the Jack and Knave, Rowley, the first one’s on the house. Drink, that is.” She fluttered her lashes.
“Uh, pale ale, please. Thank you,” Rowley managed.
“So this is the famous Rowley,” said a voice behind him, a stocky man wearing a light, not quite sincere smile. “Charmed, I’m sure. We’re all desperately jealous of your stuffing and mounting.”
“Many a true word,” Phyllis remarked to the room in general.
Clem ignored her. “Rowley, this is Gregory. He’s the stage manager at the Lyceum Theatre.”
“And you’re the one who got our Clem to the music hall. I salute you, Rowley.” Gregory gave a deep bow with a decidedly theatrical flourish. “Are you a lover of the dramatic arts?”
“I like the acrobats,” Rowley said, feeling entirely drab and conversationless.
“The Flying Starlings are wonderful. Really, Gregory,” Clem said earnestly. “You should go and see them.”
“Darling, don’t make me give you my opinion of vulgar spectacle for the ill-informed masses. Are you an ill-informed mass, Rowley?”
“God help us all,” said a deep, educated voice behind Rowley. “Leave the man alone, Greg, it’s not his fault you can’t make your actors behave. Ignore him—Rowley, is it?” The speaker was a tall, dark-haired man with a pronounced widow’s peak and an air of authority. He held out his hand. “I’m Nathaniel, good to meet you. If you enjoy the company of ill-tempered flibbertigibbets, carry on, or sensible conversation can be had over at that booth. Mark’s in, Clem.”
“Oh, good, let’s go,” Clem agreed, picking up Rowley’s pint and his own lemonade. “Thanks, Phyllis. Come on.”
He slid onto the bench and Rowley followed, perching awkwardly. The man already there lifted his glass, giving Rowley a sharp look. He was a square-shouldered, powerfully built man of perhaps thirty, with short blond hair, light eyes, and only one arm. The left ended well above the elbow, halfway up the bone, and his coat sleeve was cut and sewn to fit, not pinned into the pocket as one often saw.
“This is Rowley,” Clem said. “Rowley, this is Polish Mark.”
“Mark will do. Nice to meet you, Rowley.”
He sounded English enough to Rowley. In fact— “That’s a South London accent. Herne Hill?”
Mark nodded. “Thereabouts. You’ve a good ear.”
“If he’s Clem’s preserver, I assume he has several,” Nathaniel observed.
“And has probably heard that joke before.”
“Now and again,” Rowley agreed.
Nathaniel raised a hand. “Mea culpa. I shall refrain. So you lodge with Clem, is that right, Rowley?”
Rowley agreed that it was, and then found himself answering a number of searching questions about his occupation and habits. Clem seemed unconcerned. Mark stood it for a few minutes and then interjected, “Nathaniel’s a journalist, but in case you hadn’t guessed, he trained as a lawyer. Old habits die hard.”
“Whereas Mark represents the detective force,” Nathaniel said. “No shortage of law round here.”
“Is there a judge?” Rowley asked, in an effort at humour.
“If you’re looking for good judgement, you’ve come to the wrong shop. Shove up.” That was Gregory, moving in. “All right, Nathaniel, no need to give me the evil eye. I will be civilised, despite my troubles. Rowley, you have no idea of my troubles.”
It seemed he was intended to ask. “Uh, what are your troubles?”
“For God’s sake don’t ask me, I want to forget,” Gregory assured him, and immediately launched into a long, involved, and wildly overblown account of a complicated theatrical feud and its participants, culminating in an onstage fight. It was obviously a performance, irresistibly funny, and perfectly judged. By the time he’d reached the climax of the tale everyone around the table was in whoops, and Rowley was wiping away tears of laughter and struggling to breathe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. His ribs hurt.
After that, it was impossible to feel awkward. They all told stori
es; Rowley was persuaded to recount his tale of the unfortunate army officer and his dog, to hilarity that was probably down to the mood of the evening, but felt no less satisfying for that.
It was, in fact, simply a hugely enjoyable night in the pub. Rowley knew that it was a place for men’s men because Clem had said and Gregory was wildly campish, and of course there was Phyllis behind the bar, but there wasn’t anything apart from companionship here. Except that he’d been greeted and assessed and embraced as Clem’s fellow, and Clem was seated close by him, hip to hip, shoulders touching, without any need to worry.
That was what this was. Not a place people came to do illegal things, or if they did, it wasn’t in public. Just a place they came to be sociable, and affectionate, and relax. Rowley wasn’t a gregarious man, but to learn there were places like this, to think he’d spent his whole adult life up to thirty-five without ever having had a single such night, such friendships, made him feel as though there had been a great hole in his life he’d never even noticed.
Clem recounted the distressing events of the previous weekend, and after some conversation about the dangers of London and the obligatory exchange of a few penny-dreadful stories, Clem and Nathaniel went to get the next round in.
“Serious face there,” Mark commented.
Rowley resettled his spectacles. “I was just thinking, I haven’t been anywhere like this before.”
“It’s a good place to have. Second home to some. We look out for each other here. We all look out for Clem.”
That, Rowley thought, was probably a warning. “Good,” he said deliberately. “That’s what friends are for. Although he’s perfectly capable of looking out for himself.”
“Fair point. So, Rowley Green. Any relation to Denny Green, of East Brixton?”
Rowley’s stomach lurched horribly. He wanted to lie, to deny, but it was obvious Mark knew. Nobody would guess from the surname alone. He’d have to say. Say and leave, and not come back. That was what he did, and it always worked, but if he’d contaminated Clem’s place of safety…