A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  Michael faltered, falling back.

  Albert turned toward him immediately, looking concerned. “Everything all r-r-right?”

  No, it wasn’t. Michael tried not to glance around like a nervous cow in the slaughterhouse, but he couldn’t help it. What had he been thinking? What on earth had possessed him to think he belonged here, even for a visit? And what if, God help him, he met a client? Rodger kept the ton well away from him, but not everyone here was upper class, were they? He ran a nervous hand over his hair.

  A firm clasp stopped his arm from falling back down. He’d been so lost in his paranoia he was almost surprised to see it was Albert’s grip that had caught him.

  Albert smiled at him, a patient, kind, Albert sort of smile. The smile widened and reached his eyes as he nodded at the hall before them. He lowered Michael’s arm and held on to his elbow a moment, squeezing it. The touch lingered once he let go, as if he were still holding Michael there as he walked them forward, remaining as close at Michael’s side so that, indeed, he could have kept holding him.

  Which, Michael realized, he likely would have were others not around to witness them. The thought warmed him deeply and propelled him forward, on into the hall.

  It was without question the sort of place one went only if one belonged. The halls were a maze of doors, opening and closing to reveal men in various displays of fine dress. Upon peering discreetly inside one of the rooms, Michael saw men in their shirtsleeves—shirtsleeves rolled up—smoking cigars and drinking brandy and guffawing over something one of their peers had said. In others it appeared the men were conducting some sort of meeting, around a table and all. Other salons saw men grouped around fireplaces, chatting with one another in one and sitting silently together in another. Old men leaned back in chairs and napped with their mouths hanging wide open. Younger men read by windows or sat reviewing papers. Men, men everywhere, existing in pods and groups, united in station, divided by individual and unspoken selection.

  In short, just like school had been.

  Occasionally Albert offered quiet explanation of where they were, or what a portrait on the wall depicted. At one point they ended back up in the main foyer and headed up the stairs, where on the landing Michael saw a strange clock.

  “Why does it have two sevens and no eight on the face?” he whispered to Albert as they finished ascending.

  Albert’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “N-No one knows. Has always b-been that way.”

  They toured some more, up and down different sets of stairs. Michael was now hopelessly lost and nearly asked if he could lie down in one of the bedrooms Albert had shown him and rest his dizzy head.

  As if he had been working hard to avoid it, Albert took him to a set of double doors behind which could be heard a great deal of commotion and noise. It took him several attempts before he could begin to speak, and when he did, his voice was full of disdain.

  “H-H-Here is the c-c-common room. M-Most m-m-members c-c-congregate within.”

  Michael tried not to laugh. “I take it not you, however?”

  He snorted in derision. “D-D-Didn’t care for the sch-sch-sch-schoolyard when I was there. D-D-Don’t now either.”

  Now Michael could not stop a smile. “I thought it seemed like school as well. I mean—the whole club.” His smile faded. “I had hoped it would be a kind of learned society. All the great minds are allegedly members here.”

  This seemed to make Albert thoughtful. “That m-m-might happen on oc-c-c-ccasion. But m-m-mostly it is p-p-peers p-p-posturing.” He nodded at the doors. “W-Would you like a tour?”

  “How can I resist, after such a billing?” After a subversive glance around the hall to be sure they were alone, he brushed his fingers against Albert’s hand. “Thank you for showing me, Albert.”

  This earned Michael a smile, and he suspected had they been alone would have netted him a brush of a kiss as well.

  The room was bigger than any of the others, and in truth it better fit the image of a gentlemen’s club Michael had harbored. Men were gathered in pods at billiard tables, around the fireplace, at tables and in clusters of chairs, but there was an element of display here that had been absent from the private chambers. Only those at the billiard tables had stripped to shirtsleeves, but even they were not truly relaxed. Everyone was aware of everyone else or was boldly ignoring them. With a single sweeping glance Michael was able to spot the bully, the pack of buffoons and several braggarts—some deserved with no ability to temper ego, some hiding fear of lack of worth in boasting. A second glance revealed the clusters of men who dealt with the noise of the others by leaning close to one another, ignoring them as much as possible. There were several groups of friends, probably grouped by discipline and social standing and sometimes simply by money. Of course there were the poor wallflowers, hovering at the fringes of sympathetic groups but never joining, or out-and-out stationed alone, alternating between trying not to look as if they noticed the others and trying not to let their depression get the best of them.

  Yes. Precisely like the schoolyard.

  Albert led them to a table by the window, near the door but far enough away from the loudest of the noise to give a weak reprieve. He indicated for Michael to sit, not seating himself until his guest was settled. Even then it was clear he wouldn’t be able to fully relax in the room. Michael felt guilty, knowing he was the cause—clearly Albert generally favored one of the smaller salons. Before he could work out an apology, a handsome young servant came up to them, smiling brightly in greeting.

  “Welcome, Lord George. Would you like your usual this afternoon?” When Albert nodded, the servant turned to Michael. “And for your guest?”

  Michael froze, having no idea what exactly was happening. Was the man taking drinks? Food orders? Bringing the newspaper? He dared a panicked glance at Albert.

  Albert’s eyebrow quirked before a flash of understanding, but both expressions had barely registered on his face before he wiped it clean and addressed the servant again. “The s-s-same. But with a p-p-p-plate of scones.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The servant gave a bow as befit his station and Albert’s before weaving his way through the room toward a door at the back.

  A loud shout across the room made Albert wince. He tried to wipe his face clean and sit easily back in his chair, but the extraordinary care his host took in appearing relaxed gave him away.

  “We don’t need to stay here,” Michael said. “I’ve seen the common room. We can go elsewhere if you’d rather.”

  This only seemed to embarrass Albert. “N-N-No. I’ll be f-f-f-fine.” He forced a little more ease, slouched in his seat and threaded his fingers across his chest. “H-H-How did you sleep last n-n-night?”

  This was a question Albert asked every day of him, without fail. Michael smiled. “Well. I nodded off in Rodger’s office around three, and at nine I went up and finished the last few hours in my own bed.” He rubbed his cheek ruefully. “I wish I dared try beginning there.”

  “P-P-P-Progress takes t-t-time.” The way Albert phrased it had Michael thinking he was repeating it from somewhere else, speaking to himself as much as Michael.

  A sharp crack from the billiard table startled them both, but the chorus of male shouts of delighted surprise that followed made Albert jerk again, and much harder. He paled and shut his eyes, swearing through his stammer under his breath.

  Michael checked his reach for Albert a hairsbreadth from his wrist. He rested his hand on the armchair beside Albert and let his thumb brush briefly, lovingly over the back of his lover’s hand instead. “Albert,” he whispered. “Albert, there is no need to stay here and torture yourself.”

  For a moment Michael thought he would argue, but then Albert nodded. Grimly. Rising shakily, he gestured for Michael to precede him to the door.

  “What of your order?” Michael said, glancing back to where the servant had disappeared. “Should we let someone know where we are going?”

  Albert stopped
and blinked. He looked completely surprised at the thought. Recovering, he shrugged. “They’ll f-f-find us,” he said with confidence.

  And here, Michael realized, was a true gentleman. A man born of a marquess and not a whore. A man who left a room with every confidence that his order would follow him wherever he went within his club. Michael couldn’t decide if he was amused, irritated or envious.

  Likely it was a bit of all three.

  They weaved through the maze again. More men were in the hall this time, and several nodded to Albert, though most of them did so stiffly. Michael began to study the odd reaction, unable to place it. They were aloof but attempting not to look so. This wasn’t any playground maneuver. This was a complicated mix of respect, revulsion and…fear? It didn’t make any sense.

  At the end of a hall, Albert stopped at another set of double doors, though this one promised to open into silence, or something at least distinctly more hushed than the common room. He paused before opening them, his hand on the knob. He turned his head back to glance at Michael, looking grim.

  “M-My ap-p-pologies,” he said.

  Now it was Michael’s turn to be baffled. “What for?”

  A parade of emotions crossed his face in the seconds he struggled with speech. After four false starts, he gritted his teeth, shut his eyes and exhaled an angry breath. “F-F-For n-n-n-not being n-n-n-normal.”

  Even butchered, the words went straight to Michael’s soul. God in heaven, he wished he could grip Albert’s face and push him against the door in a ferocious kiss. He smiled instead. “But, darling. Normal is so very tedious.”

  His pulse fluttered like a trapped butterfly at Albert’s answering smile. Oh, but for a shadowed alcove and a downstairs distraction.

  “You l-l-like b-b-books,” Albert said, clearly hoping for confirmation.

  The butterfly flapped its wings with more sensual languor now. “No, Albert. I adore books.”

  Albert nodded as if this pleased him very much. “Th-Then you should l-l-like this.” He opened the doors with quiet flourish. Stepping aside, he revealed the step-down entrance to a large, long room whose walls were filled floor to ceiling with books. “Th-This is the Athen-n-n-naeum’s library.”

  Michael could not move. Not until that butterfly inside him flapped hard enough to propel him forward, taking him inside, down the stairs, onto the thick carpet that hushed his steps. His steps into the library. The Athenaeum’s library.

  “Oh my,” he whispered, his voice shaking. And then he did not speak at all, only walked in a daze along the shelves, hand shaking, blood pounding, soul soaring.

  Chapter Ten

  Watching Michael lose himself in the Athenaeum’s library, Wes decided, was a pleasure second only to making love to him.

  It amused him, in a delighted way, to see how completely his guest forgot him as he wandered about the room, remembering him only when he found a particularly amazing volume and had to share his amazement. Michael didn’t register the servant’s entrance into the room with their refreshments either, and several attempts to point out his tea was going cold went unheard as well. Wes gave up and enjoyed his lover’s enjoyment.

  The only mar on the moment was the fact he was still shaking, which meant that more than the raucousness of the common room was upsetting him, that as Miss Barrington had warned him, he was beginning to feel the effect of withdrawal from the opiates. He had not cut them out entirely, but he had reduced his dosage significantly, and it was beginning to affect him. In an attempt to deflect temptation, he had only brought the usual dose for late afternoon, which he wasn’t due to take for another two hours.

  “When yearning for the drug seizes you, remind yourself why you are trying to turn away from it.” This had been Miss Barrington’s advice, and it was, he would admit, sound. In fact, the very reason he wanted to break opium’s hold on him had shed his jacket and was enthusiastically mounting a ladder to investigate a higher shelf. Wes had already been wary of his increasing dependence on the drug, of how his options seemed to be paranoid bouts of the shakes or complete stupefaction. Having Rodger, Michael’s self-declared guardian, see this fine line and doubt his ability to walk it, had been what propelled him to try and manage himself better. But it was Michael, the joy of him, the desire to be with him not just here but everywhere—that was what drove him.

  To his shame, he found that when the drug gripped him like this, not even Michael was enough deterrent, for the opium had found its own voice, and it whispered to him now.

  Where do you think this is going, this affair? Your sponsored month is nearly up. What do you propose to do, set him up in a house and visit him as a normal man would his mistress? You would both be hanged.

  Wes’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He’d sponsor another month.

  The opium kept whispering to him. You think he will still want you? What could he possibly see in you? You saw his eyes in the common room. He loved it as much as you detest it. He loves opera too—you think you can stomach such a crush without me? What of Covent Garden? He mentioned it once as a joke, but there was longing in his eyes. He is already restless of the type of entertainment you can stand. Now you want to make yourself more vulnerable? Fool!

  Within a half an hour of their entrance to the library, Wes broke and took the dose early. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it did take the barest of edges off his nerves and allowed him to force a smile when Michael eventually returned to sit beside him, breathless.

  “Albert, it’s simply the most amazing library I’ve ever seen.” His cheeks were flushed with color, and his eyes danced with light. “They have everything. Everything in the world, and more, somehow, I swear. And some of them signed. Dickens. Three signed volumes by Dickens.”

  “H-H-He is a m-m-member,” Wes said, then added, “P-P-Perhaps w-w-we shall b-b-bump into him.”

  Michael’s hands flew to his mouth, and his eyes widened. “Oh—oh. I—Albert, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’m sure I’d look like a complete simpleton.” But he looked absolutely giddy at the prospect of meeting the author. It made Wes want to pen a note to the man at once and invite him to dinner.

  Why would a celebrated author accept the invitation of the Marquess of Daventry’s damaged son? New waves of anxiety passed over Wes, and he began to shake again. Michael noticed.

  “Darl—Albert,” he amended hastily, biting off the endearment as he glanced at the library’s few other occupants. “Are you unwell?” He dared a discreet stroke of Wes’s knee. “Perhaps you should take some of your medicine.”

  Yes, Albert. Why don’t you? Why didn’t you bring more?

  Wes shut his eyes as he drew a breath to steady himself. It took him three tries to break into his voice. “I’m f-f-fine. Th-Th-Thank you.”

  Michael didn’t appear convinced. “Perhaps we should get you home. You should rest.”

  Wes wanted to argue with him, but the truth was he was now so rattled by withdrawal he could barely speak. Eventually he gave in, and within a mere three hours of having collected Michael, he was now returning him to Dove Street.

  Back in his own rooms, he paced in agitation for another hour before he gave in and took enough opiate to render him unconscious.

  He confessed his failure the next morning with Miss Brannigan. Though he’d expected chastising from her, she surprised him by projecting only empathy.

  “Setbacks are expected,” she told him as she poured what had become their ritual tea. It was something herbal, not proper British black, and the grassy scent of it had yet to seem palpable to him. “In my experience, it’s best to work hard to avoid setbacks, but when they occur, it’s wise to forgive one’s self and move on.”

  Wes tried not to make a face. His irritation, however, he could not stow. “It’s qu-quite one thing to th-th-th-theorize over addiction and an-n-n-nother to experience it.”

  She raised an amused eyebrow at him. “I agree. Nevertheless, if your goal is to be free, focusing on the difficulty of t
he task will not aid you. Only working toward freeing yourself will.” She took a sip of her tea. “For the record, it isn’t just the drug, I think, whispering to you, telling you that you need it. It’s your own fears and sense of desperation trying to keep you from stumbling out into danger, which to your mind is anything that exposes you. Destructive as the opiate is, it feels safer than the alternative.”

  Wes stared at her, unnerved. How had she known about the voices?

  She smiled at him in her kind, patient way. “Before we do exercises today, I believe it’s time we delve into some of your history, since these fears seem to be holding great sway with you now. Have you given any further thought to what might have caused the onset of your stutter?”

  No, he hadn’t, and he had no intention of doing so. “I d-d-don’t wish to discuss my p-p-past.”

  The eyebrow again. He longed to pluck it out. “You have state secrets, my lord, you must preserve?”

  He glared at her. “I w-w-was shy. R-R-Reserved. I h-h-had no f-f-friends. They th-th-threatened to send me to a m-m-mental ward. Th-This isn’t r-r-reason enough?”

  She tilted her head slightly and regarded him with new thoughtfulness. “Except they didn’t threaten to commit you until after you began stuttering. Yes?”

  Wes paused, first confused, and then angry. He had a vague sense that it was irrational, but the thought was easily displaced with the tide. How dare she. Stupid American upstart. If this was not enough, before he could gather himself to give her a piece of his mind, she spoke again, carrying on in the same mild tone as if she had no idea how offensive she was being, prying into his life like this.