A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  Albert only smiled wryly and held out the spectacles, dangling them from his fingers. “Wh-Wh-Why will you n-not wear them? You p-p-prefer not to see?”

  Michael’s cock was pounding as hard as his pulse now, and as he knew neither would get release, he lost his temper. “My lord, I make my living by my looks. How many whores have you met with glasses thicker than most windowpanes?”

  He doubted he’d have been able to read Albert’s face even if he could see it. It made him angry, and he would have stormed out, but he couldn’t leave his glasses. He’d fallen asleep before he’d finished the Dickens.

  “Wh-Wh-Why d-did you ask m-m-me to k-k-kiss you?” Albert asked at last.

  “Because you haven’t kissed me all week,” Michael shot back.

  Albert’s reply was measured, careful. “You w-w-wanted me to?”

  “Yes.” Michael folded his arms over his chest. “I did.”

  Albert took a step forward, his blurry form coming into partial focus. “H-How m-many c-clients h-have y-you m-met with s-s-s-such a c-c-clumsy st-st-st-stammer?”

  Heat raced up Michael’s cheeks. “You’re different,” he whispered.

  “S-S-So are you,” Albert whispered back.

  Don’t fall in love with him. Rodger’s words rose up in faint echo, a last warning.

  Too late, Michael admitted, frozen in place as Albert lifted Michael’s glasses and arranged them carefully on his face.

  Repulsed as he was by the idea of anyone, let alone Albert, seeing him in his spectacles, Michael couldn’t help himself as he stared ahead, watching Albert come fully, sharply into focus. After a world of softness, it was always strange to see the edges and angles his glasses brought him, but to behold Albert with such vivid clarity captured him and held him in place. He could see the line of his nose. The detail of his eyebrows. The circles of his irises. The tiny cut above his lip.

  His lips. Coming closer once again.

  This time when they kissed it went deep instantly, and Albert ground his own hard cock against Michael’s. When Albert broke away, Michael cried out in despair, but Albert only reached over and locked the door before taking Michael back into his arms, resuming the kiss with enthusiasm.

  When Albert turned him to the wall and pressed him against it, Michael trembled briefly. Albert slowed and nuzzled his jaw.

  “W-We can st-stop,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to stop.” Michael’s hands were shaking. He wanted to sob. “Why am I like this? I don’t understand. And why are you so kind about it?”

  Albert laughed into his neck. “I d-don’t m-mind.”

  Michael’s answering laugh was hollow. “You don’t mind throwing a small fortune at me so you could drive me around London and show me trees? That I can’t see properly?”

  Albert lifted his head and looked at Michael. With his glasses on, he could see the subtle play in his eyes much more clearly, could watch the walls go down as he prepared to confess something too. “I w-would l-like t-to t-take y-you s-somewhere b-b-better. B-But I am a p-p-poor escort.” He ran his index finger sadly down Michael’s cheek. “Wh-Where w-would you h-have m-me take you? If I w-w-were n-n-normal? Wh-What do you l-l-long to s-s-see?” When Michael said nothing, he began to suggest sights. “V-Vauxhall? Opera?”

  “Bookstores.” Michael’s cheeks flamed hot, but he pressed on before he lost his courage. “Bookstores and literary salons.”

  Albert had an odd look about him now, something like hope and hard thought all at once. “B-Bookstores I c-c-could d-d-do. S-S-Salons m-m-might be h-harder. I sh-shall ask at the c-c-club.”

  “Club? Oh—your gentlemen’s club.” He wondered if he dare ask to see one of those as well, or if he would simply seem like an eager child. He tried for nonchalance and polite interest. “Which is yours? White’s, I suppose?”

  Albert recoiled. “N-No. I p-p-prefer the Ath-th-then-naeum.”

  Michael’s nonchalance melted away in abrupt, blatant envy. “You belong to the Athenaeum?” Michael almost wept. Every literary and scientific genius belonged to the Athenaeum.

  Dickens belonged there.

  Albert nodded, watching him carefully. “W-Would y-you l-l-like to g-g-go?”

  Michael could not help himself. “Yes,” he confessed breathlessly.

  Smiling, Albert brushed another kiss against his lips. “C-Come s-see m-my orchids.”

  Michael did. With Albert beside him, touching his arm, Michael took in the flowers, properly this time. They were beautiful, he admitted. Not quite worthy of the rapture in Albert’s voice, but they were lovely all the same. Delicate and strong at once, which suited them in a way Michael couldn’t quite put his finger on. The stems were thin and long, the leaves fat and pulpy, and the petals were intricately marked, with lines and veins shot with color. The shape of the flowers varied, one looking like a star, another looking like a slipper.

  Albert lifted the glass off each in turn, leading Michael’s fingers out to touch the plant as he explained haltingly the name and origin of each one. He explained how the plants came from all over the world, that there was quite a race to find them and a vibrant black market for their purchase. The longer he talked about his flowers, the less pronounced his stammer became. The flowers, clearly, were the man’s passion. Michael found himself intrigued more than anything by the infectious excitement in his lover’s tone.

  “I had no idea such things even existed,” Michael said as Albert put the glass back over the last flower. “But yes, you’re quite right. They’re absolutely lovely. Thank you for showing them to me.” He turned to Albert, smiling.

  Albert smiled back.

  They left shortly after that, Albert giving him another tour of the main body of the greenhouse, this time with Michael able to see. He took a moment to speak to a few of the workers and another gentleman who appeared to be a caretaker, and then, with Michael still wearing his glasses, they headed back to Dove Street.

  “I w-w-will n-not c-come tom-m-morrow,” Albert said as they came up to the curb. “I m-m-must take d-dinner with my f-f-family.” He forced a smile. “P-P-Perhaps the day after w-we can v-visit b-bookstores and m-my club.”

  “Thank you,” Michael replied, not knowing what else to say.

  They kissed again before he exited—a brief, lingering brush of lips. Once Michael stepped out, the carriage rolled away.

  Michael watched him go. Pocketing his spectacles, he hunched into his coat and hurried inside, stumbling twice on the paving stones as he adjusted to life without clear sight once again.

  When Wes returned home that evening, Legs was waiting for him in the alley. He had his translator with him.

  A thrill rushed through Wes as he hurried forward to meet the sailor, a high almost as good as opium. He’d feared Legs had met with an accident, and the very idea of trying to find a new agent for his botanical ventures had begun to make him more than a little ill. But now Legs was here and looking well.

  A sailor on a merchant ship since he was thirteen, Legs had run afoul of a particularly sadistic captain and had his tongue cut out for insolence almost as soon as he began. He was first mate now on a ship that ran primarily to the West Indies and down to Brazil on occasion. He’d been due to sail to the latter on his last voyage, and he’d promised to try and secure Wes a new orchid upon his return. Though he’d been in port three days and had sent word for Wes to meet him, he hadn’t showed at their appointment nor sent any follow-up correspondence. Wes was beyond glad to see him now. The fact that he was not clutching a glass jar or a plant wrapped in burlap, however, was not a good sign.

  Legs inclined his head and removed his hat as he approached Wes. Wes returned the incline and touched his own brim. The rather raggedly dressed and dark-skinned woman beside him made a brusque and businesslike curtsey before returning her full attention to Legs.

  Conversation began.

  Wes nodded at the door to his building, then gestured to it and lifted his eyebrows at Legs.

&nbs
p; Care to go inside?

  Legs wrinkled his brow and cast a dubious glance at himself and at his escort before nodding pointedly at Wes’s finery.

  You sure you want us riffraff in your nice place?

  It was true, they usually met at Legs’s rooms. Irregular as it was to take Legs into his apartments, Wes was too eager to follow him back to the docks or to schedule for another time. Wes shook his head and waved his hand impatiently. Smiling a half smile, he mimed a drink.

  Legs grinned a toothless grin and laughed. It was amazing how different the sound was in a throat missing a great deal of tongue.

  Legs and the woman made their way down the hall to Wes’s rooms, pausing to gawk at paintings and the gilded finery of an upscale gentlemen’s apartment house. The butler and night maid, in contrast, regarded Wes’s guests with great wariness. Wes carried on, ignoring the servants and letting Legs and his woman take their time. When they finally arrived, Wes had the door to his rooms unlocked and had gone around the corner to light a lamp.

  “S-s-s-sit on the s-s-sofa,” he directed his guests as he procured clean glasses from his cabinet. He poured brandy for himself and whiskey for Legs, but he paused and gave the woman an inquiring look.

  She held up her hands and shook her head. “No thank you, milord,” she replied in a heavy West Indies accent.

  Once Wes had given Legs his liquor and taken a seat in the chair opposite him, it was the woman who spoke.

  “He say he sorry, but he lost you plant.” She scowled and motioned in the general direction of the docks. “That dog Renny called in he debt and sent he to the prison. I get he out, but they take all he things. They sell he hat and he boots, and they throw you plant away.”

  Wes’s heart sank. He’d nearly had it, and now it was in the bottom of some garbage bin. Though he knew he should leave well enough alone, he found he had to torture himself. Picking up his notebook from the desk beside him, he passed it over to Legs with a questioning look.

  Which one was it?

  He knew this would be bittersweet when Legs grimaced before even opening the book, but when Legs pointed to a cattleya gigas orchid and held it up for illustration, Wes had to shut his eyes and lean forward, pressing his hands over his mouth. It was like being told someone had crossed the Alps to bring him a diamond but some idiot had mistaken it for glass and tossed it into the bottom of a lake.

  Legs put the book down, shoulders falling forward. “Rah-rah,” he said in a rough, thick voice, his tone sorrowful.

  Wes sat back up and shook his head as he waved the apology away. “N-n-not y-y-your f-f-fault.”

  Though Wes reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet to produce a note, Legs held up his hands. “Rah.” He gestured to the woman, who sat up straighter and launched into what had clearly been a prepared speech.

  “He want no money for failure, he say. He want to try again. He think he know somebody else who bring black-market flower. Somebody who owe him favor. He get this flower for you for fair price. He say he respect his lordship and want to make things right.”

  Wes nodded solemnly, biting back a wry smile. Over the past three years, between his own purchases and those for other members of the Royal Botanical Society, Wes had given the sailor at least seven hundred pounds. Yes, he suspected Legs was highly interested in making sure his steady paycheck didn’t look elsewhere for specimens. He was curious to know what flower it might be, though, so he tapped the notebook again and gave Legs an inquiring look.

  Legs frowned and gave a grunt, leafing through the notebook for some time. Wes was certain he was about to confess he didn’t know what flower, but at last Legs flipped all the way to the back and began to slow down.

  Wes’s heartbeat, however, sped up. Legs was looking at the orchids. When Legs turned the book around again for Wes and pointed at the half-finished illustration of Mrs. Gordon’s flower, Wes had to press a hand over the center of his chest in his excitement. Legs gestured animatedly to his translator.

  “He say it like this one, but has different leaves and flower.”

  Wes could scarcely breathe. Wes looked levelly at Legs. “Are y-y-you s-s-s-sure?”

  Legs nodded emphatically. He gestured in his crude hand-speaking code to the woman.

  “He say he saw the man on the other ship take the flower. He say he know where he likely to be in London.”

  Wes couldn’t take his eyes from the illustration. “L-L-Likely he-he-he already h-h-h-has a b-buyer.”

  Legs grinned a wicked grin and chuckled before making more sign. When the woman translated, she was grinning too.

  “He say this man no know what he have. He say this man idiot.”

  Legs pounded his chest proudly, then gestured to Wes and to the book. Wes smiled back. That had been his insurance, teaching Legs what were the most valuable plants to search for and where they were likely to hide. No, Legs was no idiot.

  Wes nodded and took a few breaths to speak directly to Legs. “I w-w-will w-w-wait to h-h-hear f-from you.”

  Legs nodded back and rose, pressing his hat to his chest and bowing to Wes. The woman curtseyed again.

  “Thank you, milord,” she said.

  Once they were gone, Wes locked the door. He poured out two more of his pills, made himself another brandy and retired to his bath.

  Wes had signed a lease in the building where he lived for several reasons: it had common servants who kept things running but stayed out of his way, it had indoor plumbing, gas lighting and immense windows facing south. His apartment had three rooms, the sitting room, the bathroom and his bedroom, and each were glutted with plants.

  Plants hung from the ceiling. Plants spilled out of shelves. Plants occupied windowsills and floors and a few claimed chairs. He kept plants which liked an even temperature in the sitting area, for that room was heated by a stove. The plants in his bedroom were ones which could tolerate the dry and soot of a fireplace.

  The ones in the bathroom were his prizes.

  He had six types of ferns, which was almost standard, but he also had pelargoniums, heliotropes, salvias, lobelias and cannas, which was something of a trick to pull off in a bathroom. Every inch of the room overflowed with foliage. It was his haven.

  Wes whispered to his plants as he stoked the fire to heat the water for his bath, and as the water boiled, he made his way around the room to stroke petals and leaves, testing soils and sometimes dipping into his own bath water for their drinks. He lingered at the orchids. Currently he had three: a cattleya, and two phalaenopsis. If Legs did indeed produce the leafless orchid, Wes would keep it in here.

  As he slipped into the water and sank deep into the warmth to soak, Wes stared at the windowsill and shelves and cabinets overflowing with plants without seeing them. The orchid. He might have the orchid. Oh, but he hoped it was still intact. The odds were grim, if it were brought over by a man who didn’t know how to tend to them, but Wes had brought many a plant back from the dead. For as poorly as he did with people, Wes could charm any plant.

  He grimaced and reached for the sponge and cake of soap, remembering that on the morrow he was to talk about plants with his father’s friend. The very thought of the meeting made him anxious. So anxious, in fact, that he dropped the soap twice into the water, his breath coming out in short pants as he leaned over to fish it out.

  He shouldn’t be this unsettled, not after two pills. But what should he expect? He took them daily now, and in heavy doses, so that he could spend the day with Michael without dissolving into a trembling idiot. The cost, as the doctor had warned, was that now when he needed it, the drug would fail him.

  Still shaking, Wes climbed out of the tub and back to his bedroom. He took two more of the pills, despite the physician’s warning never to take more than two at once. Certainly it wouldn’t kill him this one time.

  To be safe, however, he wrapped himself in a blanket and sat by the stove as he waited for the drug to take hold of him. Waited for the raw panic in his breast to melt away
. Waited for the edges of the world to soften. Waited for the sleepy smile of opium to crawl up the sides of his face.

  It did. He laughed out loud, tossed the blanket aside and strode boldly naked back to his bathroom where, new brandy in hand, he warmed his bath again. And then he settled back into the tub, letting his thoughts wander. As tendrils of steam wafted over him, so did his thoughts drift inside his mind, rising and mingling and dissipating as quickly as they came into being, colored by the opium swimming through his blood.

  Most of his thoughts were of Michael Vallant.

  Vallant sitting primly on the coach seat, trying not to let on how much he enjoyed the velvet cushions. Vallant listening with genuine interest as Wes explained in his hesitant speech about the flora and fauna of London. Vallant’s blush as he confessed his nearsightedness, his awkwardness as he wore his spectacles.

  His naked yearning as he said, “Kiss me.”

  Wes shut his eyes and let his thoughts drift back further. To Vallant in his silk gown, looking up at Wes with hungry eyes. Vallant’s wicked smile as he slid down Wes’s chest to take his cock in his mouth.

  Vallant’s long, lovely throat exposed as he tipped back his head and opened his body for Wes’s pleasure.

  For a fleeting moment a voice of conscience scolded Wes, telling him he should focus on Vallant’s plight, not his carnal allure. He had done so well all week to try to make the other man feel at ease, but two words and the taste of that sweet mouth had undone him entirely.

  Legs and the potential new orchid were forgotten, his father’s party dismissed to the furthest reaches of his mind. With his cheek pressed hard against the metal rim of the tub and his voice echoing in sharp, breathy cries against the tile, Wes shut his eyes and stroked himself to completion as he imagined himself emptying not into the tepid waters of a bath but into the hot, eager channel of Michael Vallant.

  Michael woke from a nightmare with a scream that went on and on and on until Rodger was found and brought up to the attic. Even then it took him fifteen minutes and several swallows of brandy to calm Michael down, turning the screams into wretched sobs as his dark dreams played over and over again in his mind.