Wes smiled a wry smile. “P-Plants.”
He almost laughed at how crestfallen Vallant looked. “All day?”
Still smiling, Wes went back to his notepad. He scratched a quick reply and handed it over. He watched Vallant’s face as he read, pleased when a bit of interest lit and his eyes lifted to Wes, appearing impressed.
“You work at the Regent’s Park gardens?” He turned suspicious. “Work, my lord?”
Wes rolled his eyes and took the notepad back again.
“Royal Botanical Society?” Vallant read when he was finished. “Ah. You study or manage or some such, I presume. That makes more sense.” He lowered the notebook. “Well, I suppose if you wish to pay eight hundred pounds to show me plants all day, I can hardly object. At least it will be warm.”
Wes could just picture pretty Vallant sitting on a wooden bench in the stovehouse. It was a lovely image, but yes, the man would be horribly bored. “W-We can g-go to m-my c-c-club, if you l-like.” Vallant leveled a look at him, and then Wes couldn’t help it. He had to laugh. “Or n-not.”
“What on earth would we do at a club?” Vallant demanded. “I don’t know how to play billiards.”
Wes shrugged. “Eat. W-Watch p-p-people. L-Listen.” He tipped a sideways smile. “Or t-t-talk.”
All at once, Vallant’s eyes sparkled. “That’s it! That’s how I’ll repay you. I shall help you with your stammer.”
Wes sighed and went back to the notepad. This reply wasn’t worth trying out loud.
I appreciate the thought, but there is no point. I have seen every specialist here and on the continent. He thought about mentioning the opium but decided against it. At best, when I am very relaxed, I don’t do too badly, but my stammer is part of me. You might as well try to remove my nose.
Vallant read the note. He looked as if he wanted to challenge Wes’s declaration, but he stopped and nodded. “Very well.” He studied Wes’s face before leaning forward, tracing a long finger down his cheek. “I will still want to fuck you, you know. And I might try, despite my inconvenient problem.” His finger slipped down to Wes’s neck and his chest, heading toward his left nipple.
Wes caught his hand, though he didn’t pull it away. “I h-have n-no objection t-to th-that.”
They regarded one another, desire filling the space between them. Wes held still, letting Vallant make the decision.
Vallant drew back. “Best not to push the matter today, I suppose.”
Wes’s hand fell to his lap. “Wh-When shall I c-come for y-you tom-m-morrow?”
Vallant was all breezy business again. “It is your shilling, my lord. You tell me when I am to be ready, and I shall be.”
Wes reached out and touched the underside of Vallant’s chin. “Albert. I d-do n-not d-do this as a l-lord.”
“First you want to escape your stammer, and now your title as well. Is that the attraction, Albert? Am I your escape?” Vallant met his gaze, but he appeared vulnerable and uneasy. “Why are you doing this?”
Wes paused, his fingers lingering on Vallant’s jaw. “Because I r-r-remember how it f-feels.”
Vallant went still. “How what feels?”
Wes’s fingers stroked Vallant’s cheek. “W-Worrying about B-B-Bedlam.”
Vallant softened in comprehension. “Oh. For the stammer. But that’s ridiculous. You aren’t mad. Not in the slightest. Any fool can see it.”
Wes shook his head. “Y-You are n-not m-mad either.”
Vallant looked haunted. “How can you know?” he whispered.
Wes smiled. “Any f-fool can see it.”
Vallant’s hands rose toward Wes’s face, though they stopped at his shoulders, suddenly uncertain. Gone was the whore. Vallant already seemed young, but now he looked much younger. So soft. So sweet.
So beautiful.
So vulnerable. Remember that.
Wes leaned forward, closing the distance between their mouths, but only to apply the briefest, gentlest of kisses to Vallant’s parted lips. He faltered when Vallant’s breath exhaled against his cheek, and he indulged in one last brush of flesh in acknowledgment, and then he drew back, collected himself and rose.
“El-leven.” He fastened his trousers. “I w-will c-come by at el-leven.” Reclaiming his cravat and coat, he paused and turned back to Vallant. “W-Will that do?”
Blinking, Vallant nodded. “Y-Yes. That will be fine.”
Wes nodded back. “Until t-tomorrow,” he said, and left the room.
In the hall he paused, leaning against the wall and shutting his eyes. Fear and excitement swelled within him over what he had done, over what he had promised.
Eight hundred pounds. If Father finds out, I won’t know what to tell him I used it for.
One month. What shall I do with him for an entire month, indeed?
Dear God in heaven, but I hope we do make love again.
Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him…
Don’t let him hurt you.
The voices swam within Wes’s head for a full half minute. Standing, he drew a deep breath and shoved them firmly down as he left, ready to find Barrows and submit his promissory note, his father’s potential questions be damned.
“So let me get this straight.” Rodger poured a liberal amount of brandy into the two tumblers on his desk before reaching for his pipe and packet of tobacco, methodically packing the leaf as he spoke. “You couldn’t let him fuck you. You told him the reason why—mostly, leaving out the fact that your rapist was his own dear da. He offered you eight hundred pounds to give him ‘the pleasure of your company’ for one month. He gave no stipulations for this. Not whether or not you’re having sex, how often you’re meeting, where you’re meeting, or whether or not anyone else gets to lay hand or cock on you. You accept this and tell him to stop by on the morrow, would you, love? To which he says, ‘Sure, ducks.’ Except with an incredible stammer. Then he fastens his trousers, writes me up a note for a princely sum with a bloody seal and all on it, doffs his hat and takes off. That it, love, or did I miss something?”
Michael took one of the tumblers and cradled the glass to his chest, drawing the banyan closer to him as he stared down into the amber liquid. “That’s essentially the tale, yes.”
Rodger lit the end of his pipe, puffed a few times and pulled it from his mouth, shaking his head. “Bloody hell.”
Michael grimaced into the glass, then downed a significant portion of it. “I made us some money, at least.”
“But you still can’t fuck?”
Reluctantly, Michael shook his head. Rodger swore and put his pipe back between his lips. A sudden agitation seized Michael.
“I think it might work eventually.” He tangled his finger in a loose thread at the edge of the banyan. After tightening the string into a neat curl, he let it go. “Part of the problem, I think, is that for some reason I seem to want to lose myself in him, and that’s not good business. But…well, he’s so…” Michael stopped and stared at his lap, smiling faintly. “It’s hard to explain. Gentle, but not gentle.” He stayed quiet another moment, still lost in memory. When he realized what he was doing, he cleared his throat and placed his hands in his lap. “In any event, I think we’re heading in the right direction. At least he’s paying.”
Rodger watched Michael as he smoked his pipe. He puffed thoughtfully for a long minute, during which time Michael drained the entirety of his brandy. His throat burned, and his head was starting to spin. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel any less agitated after this glass than after any of the others he’d had. He reached for the brandy bottle to give himself another dose.
He paused, though, hand resting on the neck of the bottle when he caught Rodger looking at him oddly. “What?”
Rodger puffed once more before pulling out the pipe. “Michael, are you in love with Lord George?”
Michael toppled the brandy bottle and nearly fell out of his chair. “What? No, I’m not in love with him. Sweet Christ! I’ve met him twice.”
Rodger rig
hted the bottle. “Sometimes that’s all it takes. Sometimes just a look can do it.”
“Please.” Michael curled his lip in derision. “I’m not a romantic fool. I don’t even believe in love.”
Rodger snorted a laugh. “Yeah, and them’s the worst kind that falls in it. Walking around in it like a lost chicken without a clue.”
“I am not a lost chicken.” Michael poured himself more brandy and threw it back. His eyes burned, and his voice was rough with the sting of alcohol as he slammed the glass back onto Rodger’s desk. “I am not in love with Albert. Stop being an idiot. And give me your damned pipe.”
Rodger passed the pipe over to Michael, who sucked on it with a vengeance. And gagged.
Rodger laughed out loud. “You’re a fine mess, you are. I think you do love him. I think you took one look at p-p-precious Lord George in his greenhouse, saw his soft smile, and you fell in love.”
“Ridiculous.” Michael coughed. Good Lord, how did Rodger smoke the thing?
“And it upsets you because of Daventry, but it already doesn’t matter. You want your Albert and only him. And that’s why you can’t fuck. Because he’s on your mind. Inside you, mucking about. You want to let go to him, to surrender your heart, but you can’t, much as you want to. Because of what happened to you. Because of who he is.”
Michael glared at Rodger. “What happened with Daventry is done. It’s the past. I don’t care about it, and I haven’t for some time. Do I like the man? No. But I don’t cry into my pillow over my poor lot in life. I don’t peer around corners to be sure he’s not lurking there. It’s over. It’s been over for a long, long time.”
“That’s just it, love. It ain’t over. Or rather, you called it over too fast.” Rodger held up a hand as Michael started to sputter indignantly. “Look. I was there the night you ran off from home. I fed you your beer and looked into your wide little boy eyes.”
“I wasn’t a little boy,” Michael shot back.
“He was there in your eyes. If you’d been the Michael I know now, I’d have just robbed you and gone on. I don’t care that you was twelve. It was a wee lad I met in that alley. It was a wee lad I heard in your voice as you told your tale. It was a sad, hurt little boy that sniffled quietly in his nest of blankets on my bed while I lay by the fire. Oh, you had him snuffed out by morning, I’ll grant you that. You was hard lines and indifference by breakfast, and you never looked back. I kept waiting for you to crack, but you never did. I was impressed. Always have been.” Rodger aimed the mouthpiece of the pipe at Michael. “That boy is still inside you, though, no matter what you think. He’s been sleeping all this time, maybe. Or maybe he lives in all them damn books you read. But he’s not gone. And I think, my lovely, he’s waking now. Because after all this time, he’s finally seen something worth waking for.”
Rodger’s speech was the most ridiculous thing Michael had ever heard, but it chilled him to the bone. “I’m not in love with him. I couldn’t be. I can’t be.” His hands tightened against his gown. “I won’t be.”
Shrugging, Rodger puffed on his pipe. “Think what you like. Just be advised that thinking you aren’t in love won’t change the fact that you are, if I’m right.”
Michael rose, glaring at Rodger. “I’m going to bed,” he declared. Cinching his robe, he turned to go, but at the last second he grabbed the bottle of brandy and took it with him.
“Sweet dreams, love,” Rodger called. His voice sounded sad and possibly even a little resigned. Michael hugged the bottle against his body and slipped out into the hall.
He could hear the chatter and coo of the whores working the front room. It was whispers and giggles there, but in what Rodger had deemed the chambers down the hall came the sound of music and bawdy laughter and plenty of groans. In semiprivate alcoves around a small ballroom, men and women, men and men, and occasionally women and women joined in no more than fifteen minutes of ecstasy, unless they paid the footmen under the table to go a bit longer. Couples and groups danced in the center tonight, though sometimes special-event performances were held there instead.
As Michael climbed the three flights of stairs that led to his attic room, he passed the progression of suites the more wealthy patrons favored—where he had always worked before, and where he had met Albert just a few hours ago. Here the moans and cries were more muted, thanks to heavy padding and thick walls, but only so much could be done about a bed, and a steady rhythm of creaking springs and thumping headboards drifted out. The next floor offered the occasional swish of a whip or slap of a backside. These were the more aggressive rooms, and Michael would step nowhere near them, no matter how much fun Rodger promised they were. He’d had enough shackles and bonds to last him the rest of his life, thank you.
He walked through the last floor, full of small, crowded rooms where the whores slept during the day and the day servants slept now. At the end of this hall, he pushed open a narrow door and climbed the creaking stairs to his room.
The other half of the attic was storage and smuggling caches for some of Rodger’s sideline exploits, but this nook was all Michael’s. It was quite spacious, considering, and grand, hosting its own stove. His wardrobe and mirror occupied one corner with a small vanity the space near that, and beside his bed beneath the window was a wooden crate he used as a nightstand. Everything else was books.
Shelves of books, piles of books. Rare books, worthless books, books in languages Michael knew and books in ones he didn’t. Some of them were purchased, some of them were stolen, and still others he honestly wasn’t sure how he’d come by them. He had penny dreadfuls and erotic notebooks and preachers’ sermons. He had reprints of plays both old and new and other people’s discarded journals. He had books he loved and books he despised.
After lighting a lamp, washing his face and climbing into a nightshirt, he selected one at random. This one was in German, a language he’d never quite been able to wrap his mind around enough to read. Nevertheless, he curled up with it in his bed all the same, tucking his coverlet around his body, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose and angling himself toward the light so he could see. His eyes passed over the unreadable words, digesting sentences he could not understand. Rodger called it a “damned odd thing to do.” Michael found it relaxing.
When he’d scanned his eyes over two full pages of text, he let the book fall against his chest and stared across the room.
He wasn’t in love with Albert. It annoyed him that Rodger had carried on so much about it.
He wondered what in heaven’s name they were going to do at eleven tomorrow.
He wondered why Albert had offered so much money for him.
He wondered why he had accepted.
He wondered what Albert expected for such a payment, despite what he’d said about only wanting Michael’s company.
He wondered if he should send a note telling him not to come the next day, or ever again, and if he should insist Rodger give the money back.
He wondered what in heaven’s name he should wear.
With a heavy sigh and a grimace, Michael picked up the book again, found the place where he’d left off and resumed reading, letting the comforting shape and rhythm of unknown words shut out all the thoughts rattling crazily around his head.
Chapter Six
At ten thirty the next morning, Wes stood in the shadow of the alley between a slopshop and a tavern, trying to ignore the din from the pub as he stared across the street, telling himself that under absolutely no circumstances should he cross and go into the opium den.
There was no sign on the door of the establishment, for this was the sort of place one needed to know of in advance to enter. Wes wouldn’t have known the coffeehouse was anything but a coffeehouse, either, except that the last time he’d met Legs, the seaman had made mention of the business’s other allure. Back then Wes would never have considered going into a den of any kind, let alone one in such a bad neighborhood as this.
This time, matters were different.
Legs was always there when he said he would be. Which was why Wes had lingered, but he’d lingered too long. His nerves were a wreck, he’d used all the pills he’d brought with him, and now he would never have time enough to get back to Mayfair and then over to Dove Street, not by eleven.
And there was the opium den, like an answer to his prayers.
He had never been in a den. He knew of a nicer one not far from his club, but dens of all kinds were about opium for pleasure. His pills were medicine. It seemed important not to blur the line. At least it had until now, when he was so overwrought he couldn’t bring himself to hail a hack.
A sip or two of poppy tea would put everything to rights.
But would a den even have drops for tea? He’d never smoked opium, though he’d thought about it—never seriously, but he’d do anything to calm his nerves. He couldn’t face Vallant like this. He should have brought more pills.
He should cross the street, go into the den and be done with it.
Wes studied the other buildings, reminding himself in what company the opium den was kept. On the one side was a brothel, and not the well-bred sort on Dove Street. This was one where half the girls were just that, girls, young enough that Wes had difficulty meeting their gazes. On the other side was another brothel, though this one was rumored to be a molly house. Occasionally Wes would see young boys at the windows, looking soul-stricken. In every one of their eyes he saw Michael.
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