A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  Smiling, Wes would run a finger down his cheek. “It’s all right. Let me take care of you, my lovely. Let me take you back to my rooms. We can sample wine together, and then…”

  God help him, and then.

  But this, of course, was only a fantasy. The one time the pretty young man glanced Wes’s way, his gaze passed through him as if he were invisible. A pause just long enough to register—and reject.

  Wes made himself turn away, forcing his mind back to his true reason for attending the ball.

  The room had become full as he stood against the wall. The way to the door was thick with people, and even thinking of pressing through them made him sweat. Even the indomitable Miss Brannigan had been swallowed up.

  He began to feel dizzy. Though he’d been warmed by the heat of the room since his arrival, perspiration now ran down the back of his neck in a steady stream. Pressing himself to the wall, Wes fought his uneasy stomach, regretting the punch he’d sipped. He would be sick. He would be sick, and then he would pass out, and once his father found out what a disgrace he’d made of himself, and where, and why, he’d give Wes that long, sober look that made it quite clear that never in the history of the world had a son been more disappointing than he.

  Just one more pill.

  Wes shut his eyes, trying to push the thought away. He couldn’t take another pill. He’d taken too many already. But the panic was too great, and the thought kept coming back. It was true, he’d taken this many once before. He’d passed out that time, but with as much tolerance as he had now, surely he’d be fine?

  At this point it was practically an emergency. Because he wasn’t Penelope Brannigan. He was Lord George Albert Westin, stammerer and all-around disappointment. He needed this much opiate just to haul himself to a plant.

  The white pill slipped between his lips and slid into his stomach with a large gulp of punch.

  Ten minutes later he made his way through the press of people toward the door, mindful of the crowd but uncaring of any of it. Uncaring, in fact, of anything at all. A few people glanced worriedly at him, but he didn’t mind. What did they know? They were all liquid color anyway, nothing but stalks of feathers with eyes, swaying in the breeze. He didn’t need Miss Brannigan’s brass or her tricks. He had his little pills. He would be fine.

  His thoughts were blurry, however, and he had to wrench them back to his purpose. Orchid. He wanted to see Mrs. Gordon’s orchid. “There’s something odd about it,” his source had told him. “Something strange. She paid dear for it, that much is known.” A new, blooming orchid. It would be lovely, far more lovely than any of the women in this ballroom.

  Perhaps even more beautiful than the man who had shunned him to flirt with a fat, balding man whose tongue never failed him, not even in his cups.

  The additional opium had shaken out the dark corners in Wes’s mind, and his disobedient tongue sat soft and tingling in his mouth. I would like to show you my tongue, pretty young man. I would like to thrust it between the cheeks of your round little bottom and into the heat of your hot passage.

  Wes let the image possess him for a moment, arresting him on his path to the door. He glanced back into the room, catching sight of the man, and he waited. His breath caught when the blond head turned his way—then continued turning, as if Wes weren’t even there.

  Shunned not once but twice.

  Wes let the opium swallow his disappointment as he squared his shoulders and continued to the hall, taking himself deeper into the house. The flower. He’d come for the flower, and once he found it, once he saw it, he would forget all about the indomitable Miss Brannigan and the delightfully delectable blond-haired man.

  He hoped.

  As the crush of bodies in the northwest corner pushed Sir Joshua closer and the drunken baronet pressed an eager erection into his backside, Michael Vallant repressed a shudder. This was all Rodger’s fault.

  And damn if the bastard wasn’t leaving the room, abandoning him to the grubby hands of the baronet. Without his spectacles, the world was as always a thick blur of color and movement, but Michael watched the tall, familiar tailoring and dark hair disappearing into the crush, and his panic rose. Rodger was playing an odd game, weaving unsteadily—playing the drunk? But why?—and heading for the door to the main hallway. What the devil was he about? Punishing Michael for being a fool and not staying home as he’d been ordered? Rodger was a vindictive bastard, but never like this.

  Not with Michael.

  Sir Joshua’s hand gripped Michael’s backside firmly as he thrust into Michael’s hip again. “I’m going to take you upstairs, boy,” he slurred, “and fuck your backside raw. And you’ll love it, you whore.”

  “Be quiet.” Michael glanced around in a panic to make certain no one overheard him. “You’ll get us both arrested, you drunken sot. And I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He winced as Sir Joshua’s grip on his backside tightened. “You’ll go, nancy-boy. You’ll go, and you’ll beg for my cock. I have your fucking coin, and I’m going to buy every hole you have.”

  Michael didn’t answer this, unwilling to antagonize the fool into shouting. Instead he held still, swallowing his revulsion and biding his time as the baronet continued to molest him. When the crush that had allowed Sir Joshua to press him into the darkened corner parted enough that he dared an escape, Michael pushed away.

  He darted and wove between clusters of party guests, across the dance floor and down the hall toward the drawing room where other gentlemen were playing cards. He scanned for Rodger but saw only unfamiliar blurs. However, he did see a familiar raven-haired beauty in royal blue coming out of one of the retiring rooms.

  “Darling!” he breathed, rushing toward her. He grabbed her arm, drew her back inside and shut the door.

  “Michael Vallant!” she scolded him, her carefully cultivated voice slipping back into a rough Cockney. “You can’t come in here, luv! This here’s for ladies!”

  “Then you shouldn’t be in here either.” After verifying they were alone, Michael let his forehead fall against the center of her chest. “God help me, Clary, but Sir Joshua is groping me in the bloody ballroom.”

  Clarissa stroked his hair. “Is he out of money?”

  “It’s control he’s lost. He’s off my list, and he’s angry about it. Had I known he’d be here, I wouldn’t have come.”

  “We shouldn’t have come at all.” Clarissa lifted Michael’s head with both hands. “We should have listened to Rodger and stayed at Dove Street. He’s likely to tan us both when he finds out.”

  Michael pursed his lips and pulled away, tugging at his coat. “He’s already here.”

  Clarissa’s eyes grew wide. “He isn’t!” She frowned toward the ballroom. “He can’t be here. I didn’t see him.”

  “I did. Just now.”

  “Huh.” Clarissa shoved her sleeves up higher on her arms and leaned back against the wall. “What did he say when he found you? And where is he now? Off dealing with Sir Joshua?”

  “I don’t know.” Michael’s jaw was tight with irritation. “Either he didn’t see me, or he left me with Sir Joshua as a punishment.”

  Clarissa’s eyes narrowed. “That ain’t like Rodger at all. Mikey, you’re blind as a bat. Are you sure it was him you saw? How the devil’d you see Rodger from that far away?”

  “It was Rodger, I swear to you. I know the cut of his coat and the spread of his shoulders and the way he moves. He was playing fumbling gentry, from the look of him.”

  “Hmm.” Clarissa folded her arms over her chest, but she looked thoughtful, not angry. “Well, perhaps he’s on an assignment of his own. In any event, we must find him.” She paused a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. “I heard Daventry’s lad is out there too.”

  Michael hated the way even the name made him shiver, both now and when he’d heard the whispers on the dance floor. Which was ridiculous. He tried to brush it off with a laugh. “It’s the second son, not Vaughn, according to
the gossips. Harmless. A poor stammering simpleton.” Yet even with the dismissal, the idea of encountering any of Daventry’s spawn made Michael’s blood run cold.

  “I got a peep at him. Heard him too. Good Lord, but he can barely talk, he stammers so badly.” She shook her head. “I don’t know I could do a man like that. What if he went sixes and sevens on me when he was givin’ me the tickle?”

  Michael didn’t want to talk about Daventry or his son. Though his fear shifted focus as another thought occurred to him. “Do you suppose Rodger would do anything to him?”

  “Oh no.” Clarissa paused. “Well—likely no. Depends on whether or not Rog was drinking.” She bit her lip. “We’d best find him in case and kiss his arse, though I do long to give him a good chivey for not rescuing you.”

  Oh, Michael intended to do more than scold Rodger for this farce. But Clarissa was right. “I suppose we must find him and move on to the next.”

  Now Clarissa looked doubtful. “You want more of this? I thought to go home and poke into the Dove Street ball. Might as well make a few pennies in the booth. Rodger was right on more counts than one. I haven’t found a thing here. Everyone’s too desperate for other things to care for a tup.”

  Michael waved his hand in irritation. “This is the only party we’ll come into cold. The others will be better.” He grinned and put his hands under her breasts to plump them playfully. “Edgar Almton is said to be at the party I plan to take us to next. Isn’t he one of your favorites?”

  Clarissa’s eyes lit up before narrowing along with her dangerous smile. “Him and his deep pockets and great big cock—yes, he’s my very favorite.”

  Michael sighed. “So I’ve heard, both about the pockets and the cock. Oh, if only he wanted to play with a pretty boy instead of a pretty girl.”

  Clarissa laughed throatily. “Go on, you greedy thing. You’ve got cocks enough, all of them worshipping your pretty bum. Let a girl have some leavings.”

  Michael kissed her cheek and took her arm. “Come. Let’s find Rodger, call a carriage and leave this dreary old place.”

  They stepped into the hall—and into the path of a red-faced, bleary-eyed Sir Joshua.

  “There you are, lad,” the baronet roared, his eyes full of lust as he reached for Michael.

  Clarissa shoved him away. “Go on. Dodge him and meet me ’round back. I’ll go find Rodger. Go.”

  Michael gave her a brief look of gratitude as she threw herself into Sir Joshua’s arms, and then he did run, right down the hall, which was filling with people as Clarissa, back in her lady form, began to squeal and protest loudly at her assault. Michael moved through the bleary figures, unsure of where he was going, hoping to God he didn’t end up down a dead end.

  As he rounded the corner, though, he saw a familiar figure heading up the stairs. “Rodger, you devil,” he whispered, and hurried up the stairs after him.

  Finding the orchid was more difficult than Wes anticipated.

  He had spent the better part of a half hour hunting for it, a search which would have been easier without so much opium. Getting into Mrs. Gordon’s conservatory would have been as simple as shy, stuttering Lord George, but with the opium his words slurred, his feet faltered and he kept wanting to giggle, making him appear either drunk or alarmingly unstable. He decided to sit on a stool in the hallway and flush some of the drug out with more punch, but even this act was apparently not done with enough innocence, for none other than the hostess herself was brought to him by a worried-looking footman.

  “Are you well, my lord?” she asked carefully.

  Heavens, no. I’m high as a kite. Wes smiled, trying not to let it appear too dopey. “Just taking a small r-rest, Mrs. G-G-Gordon. Though I was h-hoping I might take a p-p-peek at your cons-servatory.”

  She looked at him with surprise at such a lengthy speech and with barely a stutter. Wes wanted to snort. Surprised to see I’m not quite as stupid as you thought? Ha!

  Oh, but he loved opium sometimes. He bit his cheeks to keep back the giggle that threatened.

  Her smile was still hesitant, though more confused than worried. “But of course.” She gestured down the hall. “Just through there.”

  “Would you c-care to escort me yourself?” His heart pounded as he spoke the words, but the opium carried him onward, and he winked. “F-For the Society.”

  Ah, there—there it was, bright hope and eagerness lighting her entire face. Hurrah for opium! “For the Society. Yes, my lord. But of course.” Blushing and beaming, she stood back as he rose, offering her arm carefully, as if to an invalid. Unfortunately, Wes was obliged to take it, overcome by the drug as he was.

  She chatted absently as they stepped out the back door, over the flagstones and up to the glass door of the greenhouse, but Wes ignored her, too busy taking foggy inventory of the conservatory itself. Oh, yes, it was a beauty, and he envied every pane of glass and piece of piping. It was one of the larger stovehouses he had seen, twenty by thirty feet, likely thirteen feet high at the apex, and though it couldn’t be but a few years old, it had the smell of a seasoned garden shed. Moss, mold, dirt, peat, all of it heated by stoves and damped by a series of copper pipes set to mist at regular intervals—oh, yes. This was a proper conservatory.

  And her plants! Most were tropical, though she had a few fruit trees as well. She had several ferns draped from above, the usual maidenhair and sword, but there were a few he’d thought only the Society had access to: Marsilea and Pyrrosia, and another which he thought might be the Asplenium he’d been struggling with. She had more varieties of begonia than Wes had thought a private collector could have, several cyclamen, a bromeliad—and of course, an entire shelf of orchids, two of them in bloom. Cattleya, laelia—even a paphiopedilum. But not the orchid he had come to find.

  “My husband’s ships travel regularly to Brazil,” Mrs. Gordon confessed, smiling as she reached out to stroke the petals of an angel’s trumpet. “He sends along a botanist and has him treat the specimens with great care.”

  So that was her secret. Wes wondered how he might bribe his own botanist without losing the prizes.

  “It is a l-l-lovely col-l-lection,” he said.

  She sighed. “I have trouble with the orchids. They so rarely survive the voyage, even with great care.” She pointed to the flowers in their glass jars, clinging to their rocks and moss. “These I’ve had for six months, which is a record for me. But you see how the blooms begin to fade?”

  Wes reached up to stroke the glass and shook his head. “Shouldn’t be k-kept here. T-T-Too unst-stable.”

  She frowned at him. “What do you mean, not here? Not in the conservatory? But—” He could see the light dawn in her eye. “But yes. The humidity is excellent, but the temperature is too variable, isn’t it? Even with my servants stoking the fires regularly through the night. Of course. And that’s why when I keep them in the—”

  She stopped abruptly and glanced at Wes.

  It was a painful moment. There was indeed a precious new orchid, or a precious something—a flower so beloved it wasn’t kept where a clumsy guest could harm it or a servant accidentally might mangle it. Kept close to be watched, nursed in a private room inside the house, a room where, most likely, the temperature was more even and controlled.

  There was an orchid, and she wasn’t going to tell him about it.

  Oh, she would have, he knew. That was why she paused. Here was his chance to clear his throat and hint that, should she show him this flower, he could perhaps give her a bit of a leg up into the Royal Botanical Society. Like so many others present, his favorable report could buy whatever he wanted from the Gordons. It was this she waited for.

  It was this, Wes acknowledged with thick regret, he could not give, not even with the cleanest tongue. Oh, he was a member of the Society. But his word would get her nowhere.

  Mrs. Gordon smiled, the flat, polite smile that made it clear she would be showing him none of her prizes. “Please take your time in the conservatory, m
y lord. Examine whatever you like. It’s a pleasure to have a member of the Royal Botanical Society present, and I do hope you will share with me any other advice you might have for my plants’ improvement. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my other guests.”

  With a curtsey, she was gone.

  For a few minutes, Wes poked about the leaves, hating his stammer, hating Mrs. Gordon, hating life in general. Then he drew a deep breath of loamy air, squared his shoulders and left the greenhouse to explore.

  With a much more manageable bit of opium coursing through him, he was able to move about quite easily, peering into rooms and closets. He’d meant to look further on the ground floor, but there was a sudden hubbub in the hallway toward the ballroom, and so he escaped up the stairs.

  And it was good he did, for in the very first room he came upon the orchid, whereupon he let himself inside and shut the door behind him.

  It was not an area, he was sure, Mrs. Gordon intended guests to be. It was just off a bedroom which appeared only partly remodeled, with a door joining the two rooms directly. Likely at one point this had been a servant’s room. Now, from the look of what was scattered throughout, this was the lady of the house’s working retreat. The table was piled high with the detritus of a true botanist: clippers, bags of stones, jugs of soil and moss, pots, jars and containers of every type and size.

  There in the center of it all, he saw it: the orchid. It was indeed everything he had heard it described to be. The flower was kept inside a tall glass jar. Its lid was in place but kept from a perfect seal by a small twig, which Wes took care to place on the table where he could find it again as he opened the jar to full air.

  Most sailors and sea captains simply stowed the orchids they found wherever they could manage, and as a result many of them were so mangled by the time they arrived in the London docks that it took great care to nurture them back to glory. Not this orchid. Especially given how far it had travelled, it was pristine—which made it all the more tragic that it was also clearly dying. That was the trouble with taking orchids in full flower, why he told his procurers to take only plants not in bloom. At the slightest sign of stress, the flower was wont to put all its effort into seed, sacrificing itself for the sake of the next generation. A noble flower indeed. But even in its danse macabre, this one was breathtaking.