His brother had turned on his heel and stalked out of the library before Wes could recover from the blow enough to mentally prepare a retort, let alone find means to deliver it.
The insult had carried the devil’s barb in it, Wes acknowledged as he leaned back in his seat on the hack ride home. His brother’s verbal slap robbed him of his usual solace—“playing with dirt” as Vaughn had put it. No Regent’s Park garden for him, not that afternoon. He would have nothing but cigars and whiskey and the din of men’s conversation drifting into the club library. The prospect of dinner with more of the same had turned his stomach, and so he’d headed for home, content to ring up a sandwich for supper or send the potboy out for a loaf later if he grew hungry.
Though the thought of sliding into a warm bath with a large pot of poppy tea had a great deal of appeal. A bit of opium would make all the day’s misery drift away. No, he shouldn’t use it as such, but surely today warranted a bit of bending the rules.
It wasn’t as if he were required to be of use to anyone tonight.
By the time the driver let him off, Wes’s mood was so black he found himself wishing he had opium to smoke and could lose himself properly. He was halfway to the door and nearly resolved to fetch his purse and a warmer coat and head right back in to the City again to seek out a decent den, when he looked up to see Rawlins, the building’s butler, hurrying down the walk to meet him.
Wes stopped short and blinked in confusion, but before he could form a question, Rawlins closed the remaining distance between them and made a bow.
“Forgive me for troubling you, my lord.” He held out a slip of unsealed cream paper. “But a gentleman brought this by three hours ago and was most insistent I get this note to you as soon as I saw you.”
Before I even stepped in the front door? Something was odd here, that was certain. Frowning, Wes took the paper from the butler.
Require a moment of your time to discuss a mutual acquaintance. Will stop by at four this afternoon. Sending pleasant regards from Mr. V.—R.
Wes stood on the steps, staring at the paper, confused. Mutual acquaintance? V? Who was V?
Slowly, terribly, the words and what they meant permeated his brain.
Mutual acquaintance.
Mr. V. Which could only be Vallant. Michael Vallant.
Someone knew.
Wes crumpled the paper into his fist. “Th-th-th-th—” He shut his eyes, forced himself to calm, and tried again, but he was so rattled it was work enough to keep himself speaking. “Th-Th-Th-Thank you.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Rawlins said, sounding almost as agitated as Wes was. “It is not my wish to deliver what is clearly bad news to you so abruptly, but the gentleman was most insistent.”
Wes couldn’t reply. He ran a hand over his face as he pushed past the butler into the house, fighting against the torrent of potential ruinations this unknown R could bring to him and to his family. His father. Heaven help him, he would put a pistol to his head before he would let his father hear of this—
He didn’t realize he’d become so anxious that he’d passed out until he was lying on the floor, Rawlins bent over him with smelling salts.
“My lord! My lord!” Rawlins’s face was gray. “Oh, I am so sorry—I should never have let the man bully me into giving you that note. I will call the authorities straightaway—”
“No!” The word came out in a sharp, desperate bark, the stammer not even able to rouse itself in time, Wes’s panic was so acute, though it quickly regained its ground. His plea of “Do not call anyone” stalled at the back of his teeth, reduced to desperate spits of Ds and Ns.
“Very well, my lord,” Rawlins interrupted him, clearly trying to soothe his distraught master. “I shall not call. But I shall stand ready, should you need me.”
Wes wanted to balk at that as well, but practicality won out in the end. After ten minutes of sputtered assurances to Rawlins, he dismissed the man and continued to his apartments, where he took some pills and poured himself a large tumbler of brandy.
Ten minutes after that, after growing impatient for Doctor Jacob’s opiates to take effect, he brewed himself some poppy tea.
When the knock on his door came at four, he had drugged and drank himself into a strange sort of calm. There was little he could do now but meet this R and hope his demands were reasonable. Upon reflection, he suspected Rawlins had been blackmailed as well, which would explain his nervousness and breaking form to meet him on the walk. Whoever this was would not be easy to dispatch. But Wes resolved not to panic. He would face this calmly and rationally.
And very, very drugged.
Wes opened his door ready to face down Rawlins escorting a greasy, shifty-eyed miscreant, or perhaps a leering, gap-toothed thug. Which was why when he found instead a polished, well-tailored man of fashion standing beside the butler, he was taken aback to the point that instead of returning the man’s polite nod he glanced around the empty hall, still looking for a scoundrel.
“Lord George,” the stranger said smoothly, as if Wes weren’t gaping at him slack-jawed. “Such a pleasure to meet you, and so kind of you to agree to interrupt your affairs to see me. I begin our acquaintance already in your debt.” The man bowed low. “I am Rodger Barrows.”
Chapter Four
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to utter much beyond consonants, Wes dismissed Rawlings with a stiff nod and motioned for Barrows to take one of the chairs in his sitting room. Barrows sat and waited patiently, Wes knew, to be spoken to so he could begin.
It was with some pleasure that Wes didn’t speak. He studied his visitor instead.
Rodger. That was who Vallant had mistaken him for at the Gordons’s, wasn’t it? Surely he must be the same man. They were of the same height, Wes and his guest, and roughly the same build, though Barrows was a bit beefier across the shoulders than Wes. His clothes truly were exquisite. Like Barrows, Wes favored darker tones and clean lines, though he saw Barrows adopted the more modish necktie and pin rather than the cravat Wes wore. There was also a hint of flamboyance to Barrows’s dress in his tie, the detail on his lapels and embroidering on his collar, ostentation that Wes himself eschewed.
Barrows, likely realizing he would wait until Doomsday to be invited to speak, cleared his throat and began, though he didn’t seem put-off by the silence at all. In point of fact, he was easy, breezy and smiling.
“Perhaps it is best if I get right to the point, my lord. I understand you recently met my good friend Mr. Vallant. You did him no small service at Mrs. Gordon’s party. Relieved him of the attention of a particularly rude guest.”
Wes nodded once and waited for the rest. I understand afterward he thanked you in a rather singular fashion.
But Barrows only nodded, the gesture almost a bow. “I must thank you. By rights I should have been there to rescue him myself. I am grateful from the bottom of my heart that you were there to do what I could not.”
There was an odd sharpness to Barrows’s tone, and Wes’s already churning insides rolled over themselves. Dear God, was Barrows Vallant’s lover? That sealed it then, didn’t it? Possibly the only thing worse than being blackmailed by an opportunist wanting to expose his sodomy was a jealous sodomite wanting to expose his sodomy. Vengeful lovers could rarely be bought off.
Barrows had paused again, giving Wes an opportunity to speak. He didn’t take it.
“Ah.” Barrows’s smile slipped just slightly before he continued. “Well. As I have said, I am grateful to you. We both are, in fact.” His smile righted itself. “Which brings me to my errand today. I hope I may humbly appeal to more of your good nature and implore you to do my friend yet one more service.”
Wes laced his fingers together and leaned back, not bothering to hide his grimace. Lend us the figure of, say, five hundred pounds. To send me and my good friend packing from London—at least until we need another five hundred pounds.
Barrows barely paused this time, adapting to Wes’s unwillingness to participate i
n his conversation. “I ask you, my lord, to pay a visit to Mr. Vallant. At your convenience, of course, but I implore you to come sooner rather than later. Tonight in fact would be most welcome. It is a matter of utmost importance.”
Wes frowned, waiting for the rest, but now it was Barrows who kept his silence, and after a full minute, Wes was compelled to rouse his words. He said a small prayer that just once he could control the stammer, but as usual, his prayer went unanswered. “I d-d-do not underst-t-t—” He stopped, closed his eyes and visualized the word. “Understand.”
“A visit, Lord George. To Mr. Vallant, at his residence.” Barrows paused, though this time Wes could tell it was for effect. “His business residence.”
Wes’s eyes went wide, and even if words had come easy to him, he doubted he could have spoken them, not at that moment.
Barrows continued breezily, as if he had not just asked a marquess’s son to visit a brothel. “It would be a particular kindness to me if you would do so. So much, in fact, that I should be happy to give you a much reduced rate.”
Wes had to bend forward and press his fingers against his lips to strangle his exhalation—a laugh? A gasp? Whatever it was, it tasted of madness and terror in his mouth. Friend. No. Barrows was not Vallant’s friend. He was his procurer.
Come fuck my whore, please, and I’ll give you half off.
Even before the shock receded, memories were rising inside of Wes: memories of blond hair in his hands, of a sweet mouth on his, of long slender hands clutching him as a hot cock slid against his own. Of wicked laughter, a bright smile and dancing eyes.
Mr. Barrows, tell me where he is, protect my anonymity, and I would pay you double.
Wes had a feeling that blackmail still lurked in this somewhere—likely if he refused. What he didn’t know yet was why Barrows had sought him out.
“H-how do you c-care for p-plain sp-p—” Wes gritted his teeth. Damn the stammer. “Sp-speech,” he finished at last.
Barrows’s composed face broke into a wry grin. “Plain speech? You mean we stop dancing around like ninnies and say what we actually mean? Fine by me, guv.”
Wes blinked. And then, whether it was pent-up shock or simply insanity settling in at last, he laughed.
“Careful,” Barrows said, though he smiled as he settled back in his seat. “Now, I know you have trouble with words, and I already know you peg me for a blackmailer. Which”—he flashed Wes a dark grin—“I might yet be, though I’d rather have you as a customer. So I suggest you sit back, my fine lord, and listen as I do my best to explain.”
Wes leaned into the corner of the sofa. “V-very w-well.”
Barrows grinned.
“So, I’ve checked into you a bit, Lord George Albert Westin. As someone who looks into people regular, I don’t mind telling you that you were something of a challenge. You’re a very private gentleman. At first I thought, no, a man can’t be that reclusive without having something to hide.” He chuckled. “You do, of course. But I fell out of my desk laughing when I saw it was plants you was smuggling. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said, when Wes glared at him. “I don’t care about that. It was me I was laughing at, really. Thought for sure it’d be guns or little girls.”
Wes sputtered. Barrows waved his indignation away.
“After everything I’ve seen, I’ve learned not to be surprised.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Like I said, you’re private. And you’re clever. And excepting your little moment with Michael, you are the most discreet buggerer I’ve yet met.” He smiled sadly. “Unfortunately I’ve two servants who will swear they saw the two of you together. You and Michael, that is.”
In his seat, Wes went very still. So it would be blackmail after all. What he had feared all afternoon now had come true. Odd, how after his earlier terror, he felt oddly calm. Perhaps it was shock.
Or opium.
He straightened and gathered his words. “H-how m-much do you w-want?”
Barrows pursed his lips and tilted his head back and forth, considering. “Well, regular at Dove Street is fifty pounds for an evening. That’s in a posh room, mind you. For weeklies we drop it back a bit, thinking of the long term and all, and I wouldn’t mind setting that up, especially if this goes like I hope. He’s right worth fifty as you well know. And should this become a regular event—which is my goal, if this works at all—you’ll pay the regular rate, period. Perhaps a bit more, seeing as you’re such a fine gent with pockets deep enough to bribe shipmen.” He sighed. “But just now, since it’s me asking you, and since even I don’t know how this will go down—” He winced, then nodded in resignation. “Ten. Ten pounds, up front. And no money back, you got me?”
Wes was getting dizzy from all the earthquakes in this conversation. “You only w-w-want t-t-ten p-p-pounds to k-k-keep qu-qu-quiet?” Then he remembered the part about a “regular event”. Ah, now it made sense. “A m-m-month?” Even so, that was a bargain. Goodness, but Barrows was a reasonable blackmailer.
“Well, you can come weekly, you know. And at that rate you know you can afford to.” He stopped. “Wait. Keep quiet?” He laughed. “Guv, this ain’t hush money. I want you for a customer.”
“C-C-Customer?” Wes repeated.
“You didn’t figure it yet? I’m the madam, or the mister, or whatever you like. I run a house on Dove Street. Right posh we are at that. We serves all kinds, no questions. I inspect anybody who wants a private room, but once you’re cleared, you’re in. And before you start worrying about discretion, we keep the right palms greased, if you know what I mean.”
“I kn-new who you w-w-were,” Wes said, trying to take his time, but he was desperate for understanding now. “B-but wh-why—?”
“Why did I scare the piss out of you and your uptight butler? So you’d give me the time of day. I didn’t feel like waiting around for you to ignore the trash on your doorstep. Same reason I put on the duds and the talk.” He winked at Wes and slipped back into his formal speech. “I daresay I did quite well, don’t you think? And I imagine Michael is correct. Your tailor is Garret on Bond Street?” He grinned as Wes nodded, and he went back to his colloquial speech. “Yeah. I knew an actress awhile. She taught me how to blend in. Right handy for a man in my profession. But you want to know why I bludgeoned into your life to get you to come fuck my friend for half-price, yes?”
Wes nodded. Yes, he couldn’t wait to hear the answer to this one.
Barrows snorted. “Well, you ain’t gonna hear. So you can sit and wonder. But the offer stands. For ten quid, you come—tonight would be lovely—and you shag Michael Vallant good and proper. In return, I will keep your visit a secret and any such visits in the future. And if you don’t agree to my offer, I will spend as much effort as I did in getting your attention in letting any and everyone you don’t want to know you fucked a sodomite that you did. That speech plain enough, my lord?”
Wes was hanging on to the edge of the sofa now in a vain attempt to keep the world from spinning crazily around him, but the problem wasn’t with the world, just with Rodger Barrows’s presence in it. Wes was intrigued, even half hoping Vallant had wanted him badly enough to extend this invitation. Add to this, of course, that Wes desperately did want to see Vallant again—especially for sex. The fact that Barrows was giving him virtually no choice was almost a blessing. Odd, but a blessing all the same.
But did Vallant want him?
Wes sat up and braced his elbows on his knees. What did Vallant want?
Had he asked for this?
“Well?” Barrows prompted. “What’s it to be?”
Wes didn’t move for a long second, letting the last of his doubts be strangled. When they were gone, he stared straight ahead and nodded.
“Wonderful!” Barrows exclaimed. “How about we get started?”
Wes sat straight up. “N-now?”
“Now, my lord. We’ll hire a closed hack, and I’ll whisk you away. We’ll set you up with a nice hot bath and brush up your clothes for you as you so
ak. Dinner too, if you like. And when you’re ready, you can hand over your ten-pound note, head upstairs, and fuck Michael good and proper.”
Wes sank back into the sofa again, too stunned to sit upright any longer. Why not now, indeed?
Barrows rose. “Would you like to ring for the cab, or should I?”
Michael was wrapped in a blanket and huddled in his bed with a book when Rodger appeared in his doorway.
“Oi, Princess,” he called out, startling Michael. “Put down your book. You have a customer.”
Michael sat up, blinking even though he had his spectacles on. “What? Now?” He glanced out the window, but no, the sun was still up. His guess was it was just around six.
“He’s in the bath and having tea. Yours is waiting downstairs. When you’re done, head to the blue room.”
Michael pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. His limbs felt heavy, and his head threatened to spin off his shoulders. “A private room? But—Rodger, I still can’t—”
“You’ve an hour at best, love. Make yourself pretty.”
Rodger started back down the stairs. Michael threw off his blanket and followed.
“Rodger! Are you insane? Or is this your sick idea of a joke?”
Rodger kept walking. “Not a joke.”
Michael grabbed Rodger’s shoulder and made him turn around. “Stop it. Whatever you’re up to, stop it. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I did.” Rodger’s face was a mask. “You have a customer in the blue room in an hour.”
“Do I get a name? A list of his preferences? A hint?”
Rodger’s eyes danced with devilry. “Flowers. I think he likes flowers.”
Michael’s knees threatened to give way. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” Rodger swatted Michael’s backside. “One hour. Look pretty.”
Rodger left. When Michael could move, he headed to the first floor to what they had all come to think of as the ready room.
He went through his ablutions in a daze. Several of the girls were there, likely sent by Rodger, and they dressed him, and he let them, moving like a doll, his mind rolling helplessly in fog.
A Private Gentleman Page 6