A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  Wes did. “I c-can’t let him get away with w-w-what he did. I c-c-can’t face him. I c-can’t just let him go free. Not after this. Not n-now.”

  Michael kissed his face. “I don’t want him to hurt you too.”

  “You don’t think I’m strong enough?”

  “That’s not what I mean at all. I think that Daventry is powerful, though, and I don’t think your being his son will save you. Be strong with me, love. Stay with me. We can forget him. I have lived all this time without retribution. I can live the rest of my life as well.”

  “But he haunts you.”

  “Yes—and he will continue to do so even if he is dead and the whole world knows what he did. It can’t help me. Only I can help me.” He kissed Wes’s nose. “You help me, beloved.”

  Wes settled in beside him with a frustrated sigh. “I want to f-fix it.”

  “You already have,” Michael whispered. “You already have.” He ran his hand along Wes’s leg. “Make love to me, darling. Now. Here. Let me show you how fixed I am.”

  Wes met his kiss, and stroked him, and pushed him into the bed and loved him, all the night long.

  Out of deference to Michael, to Penny, even to Rodger, Wes tried. He truly tried to let it go, to do what Penny said and give himself his own worth. He thought he’d at least gotten a handle on a corner of the concept too, when one morning when Michael was visiting, Rodger came storming through the front door and into Penny’s salon.

  “Thank God,” Rodger burst out at the sight of Wes, not bothering with a greeting. He collapsed against a wall, catching his breath. “I was afraid you’d hear before I got here and be gone already.”

  Wes sat up in alarm, and Michael rose. “What’s going on, Rodger?” Michael asked. Penny had appeared in the doorway, and she listened too.

  Rodger held up a hand. “I wasn’t looking for anything. I swear. I’d only sent Jane over when we first couldn’t find you to see if Daventry House would give us any leads, and when we located you, I called her back. But she took it upon herself to keep tabs on the boy Edwin, not wanting to come to me until she had solid information.” His mouth flattened into a grim line before he continued. “And now she has it. Goddamn the bastard.”

  “What do you know?” Penny said, her voice a hard warning.

  Somehow Wes knew before Rodger said the words. He couldn’t have, of course—it was just that once he saw the expression on Rodger’s face he began to try and imagine the worst, and once the thought was lodged there, it stuck. He could only imagine one thing at Daventry House that would involve Edwin and invoke such a look on Rodger’s face. He could only hope and pray that he was wrong.

  He wasn’t.

  “Daventry,” Rodger said at last, looking sick and almost choking on the words. “Daventry has been using him.”

  Michael sat back down next to Albert, feeling cold.

  He was dimly aware of the others. Penny had come fully into the room and was ushering Rodger into a chair. Beside him on the sofa, Albert went very still. Despite their presence, Rodger’s declaration made him feel as if he were sitting alone in a long, echoing hall, listening to the others discuss the situation at the other end.

  “He w-w-would not,” Albert said to Rodger. “Edwin is h-his heir.”

  Rodger sagged into his chair and rubbed wearily at the side of his face. “That’s what I told Jane. Said she had to be wrong. No way on earth would Daventry harm his own heir like that. A second son, yes. A servant boy. A stranger’s heir. But his own? No. It would be like fucking himself.” His expression turned grim. “But perhaps that was the thrill of it. Or perhaps he’s gone mad. Or—bloody hell. I don’t know.” He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What I do know is that Jane hid herself beneath the boy’s bed for a full night. Hid herself there, and waited, and then sure enough, the marquess came to the lad. She said she heard the lad whimper, heard him say, ‘No, I don’t want to do it again’ but the marquess just laughed and told him he wanted it, he knew he did. Told him—” Rodger looked like he might choke. “Told him this was part of making him a man, since he was failing every other way.”

  Michael had no trouble imagining such a speech from Daventry. In point of fact he could hear the marquess’s voice echoing around the words inside his head, and he could smell the spice of his tobacco as he leaned in close to move his hand around Michael’s waist, sliding the other down to his groin.

  Michael pressed his hands against his stomach.

  Rodger went on, his voice strained. “Jane says the marquess had the boy get on his knees. Said he didn’t fuck him right off, that at first she thought it would just be a spanking. But then the marquess asked if the boy wanted more spankings or wanted something else. This went on until the boy, sobbing, said he wanted ‘something else’. Which was when the marquess told him to—”

  Rodger stopped for several seconds before continuing.

  “Jane said she cut her palms with her own fingernails wanting to go out from under the bed and help the boy. If she’d thought for a moment she could get away, she would have, but she figured, and rightly so, that Daventry would have her killed. So she waited. And while she was there, she saw the box, up in the springs. A box with a knife inside, razor sharp. And a journal. Written in some sort of odd code.”

  Michael had turned away, only half listening, but at this he returned his full attention to Rodger. He had the journal with him, a small, beaten and bound leather diary. Penelope looked at it, but she shook her head and passed it to Albert. Michael glanced over his lover’s shoulder at the tremulously penned passages and knew instantly what code the boy had used.

  “Latin,” he whispered. “Inverted Latin. With some French tossed in, I suspect to make it difficult to read. But it isn’t, not truly.”

  “What does it say?” Rodger asked.

  Michael took the journal from Albert and held it carefully in his hands. He examined it for several minutes before speaking. When he did, his voice was quiet.

  “He says his grandfather does terrible things to him, things to make him a man, but things he thinks cannot be so. He says they hurt worse than a beating and make him feel ashamed and confused.” Michael’s hand trembled a bit on the edge of the journal. “He hates himself for letting them happen. He—he wants to kill himself, but he is afraid it will hurt. He hates himself for this as well, fearing his grandfather is right, that he is weak and not a true man.” Michael flipped through, hoping for a better entry, but they were all the same. A few detailed the acts Daventry made him perform.

  Michael pressed the book back to Albert and rose. “Excuse me,” he whispered. Or rather, he tried to, but his throat was thick, and he hurried from the room.

  He went through the kitchens out back to the small garden, where at last he felt he could breathe. It should have been the stale, stinking air of a London slum, but Albert had been staying here, and so it was now a paradise of foliage. He sat on a crudely constructed bench and let himself crumple forward, not weeping, but not feeling well, either.

  He wasn’t surprised to hear the door open to admit another to the garden—and he was relieved it was Rodger, not Albert, because he didn’t think he could stand to comfort his lover just now. He needed too much of that himself. To his surprise, Rodger didn’t come to him, only sank against the wall.

  “I’m so sorry, Michael,” he whispered.

  Michael frowned. “Why? What are you sorry for?”

  Rodger looked wrecked. “I should have just killed him,” he whispered. “I should have gone then like I wanted all those years ago, killed him, then let them hang me. Because God only knows how many others there have been since you.”

  Michael stood and went to Rodger, stunned, moved and upset. “You think I would want you dead?”

  “Better me dead and all those other lives saved.”

  Michael took Rodger’s face in his hands, displacing his palms. “You saved mine,” he said quietly.

  “To make you a whore,” Ro
dger shot back.

  “To make me myself,” Michael corrected. He kissed Rodger. “Hush. It’s all right.”

  He found, somehow, that in saying the words, they were true. Yes, Daventry made him sick. The thought of him using another boy, right now possibly, one as sweet as Edwin, made him physically ill.

  But it was all right—he was all right.

  “You got me out,” he said to Rodger, speaking the revelation aloud as it came to him. “You rescued me and took me in. And you taught me, Rodger. You taught me to respect myself. To be strong. You taught me to forget the past and to look ahead.”

  “I tried,” Rodger said, sounding a little stronger. “I should have done more.”

  “We will do more—now. We’ll help that boy somehow. We’ll go back inside, and the four of us will think of a way.” He squeezed Rodger’s hand. “We’ll save him too. And we’ll take our time and do it right.”

  The door burst open, and Penny came through, looking harried and upset.

  “He’s gone,” she cried. “Lord George is gone—I tried to stop him, but he was so angry, and he wouldn’t listen.”

  Rodger straightened. “Where did he go?”

  Penny shook her head. “He didn’t say.”

  But they all could guess. Just like that, Michael felt cold again. “We have to stop him.”

  Rodger took hold of his arm. “You don’t have to go, ducks. I can do this for you.”

  Michael withdrew. “No. I’m going with you. I won’t let Daventry take him too.”

  “We have to hurry, I’m afraid,” Penny said.

  Michael nodded and followed her, back into the house, back through the parlor, out onto the street where Rodger’s man shouted for a carriage that would take them across town to Mayfair and into the lion’s den.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wes’s father was having a party.

  It was a small gathering of political players and their wives: some lords, some ministers, some businessmen. They were in the drawing room, talking and laughing. In the center of it all was the Marquess of Daventry. Wes’s father.

  Michael’s demon.

  Edwin’s tormentor.

  When Wes had stood in Penny’s salon listening to Michael read from Edwin’s journal, Wes had nearly been sick. Sick with disgust, rage and despair. But he had felt no fear whatsoever, which was why, once his emotions reached a fever pitch, he had ignored Penny’s pleas and headed out the door. He hadn’t even taken his carriage. He had walked, moving so fast each step jarred his jaw, until he came to Bond Street, where he had hired a cab to the edge of Mayfair. There he had walked again, on and on, through traffic, across the park, through a crowd which had gathered to watch a boat launch in a pond. None of the noise or crush bothered him, because he could see nothing, hear nothing but Edwin crying as his grandfather, Wes’s father—his father—

  Now he was here, at his father’s party. He was not wearing the appropriate clothes. He was dirty and full of sweat. Now that he had slowed down, now that the moment was upon him, fear blocked his throat. Now that he could hear his father, now—now—

  Wes shut his eyes, pushed the fear aside, letting it rest like metal in his mouth, and he bit down on it, pushed open the doors and entered the drawing room.

  The conversation did not still, but it hushed, going from a burble to a murmur. They were talking of him, Wes knew. Laughing. Fear tried to grip him.

  He shoved it away and aimed a finger at his father. His angry accusations rose like fire inside him.

  And lodged at the back of his throat, unable to move.

  Wes stood frozen and mute—and the worst was that he didn’t know why. No more fear, not half so much as rage, and yet still he could not speak.

  His father came over, concerned. His brother loomed behind him, looking uneasy and uncomfortable. Wes fixed his focus on his brother instead.

  Your son, Wes tried to say, but remained mute.

  “George? Where on earth have you been all this time?” Daventry tilted his head to the side, still regarding Wes carefully. “George Albert, are you unwell?”

  Mad, son? Are you mad?

  Wes hated him. He longed to decry him here, in front of them all, in front of Richard, but still, still the words would not come. He drew a deep breath, but all he could let out was a strangled cry.

  And then he drew his fist back, stepped forward and punched his father hard across the jaw.

  The room erupted into shouts and screams as the marquess stumbled backward—it was a clumsy blow as Wes’s punches always were, and his hand was injured more than his father’s face, but it had done the work after all, for now, finally now, Wes was able to speak.

  He spoke loudly and in a constant stream, fueled by rage, fueled by pain, fueled by decades of misery, of cowering before a man he had thought was a god but was only a monster—he bared it all, all in one nonsensical, incomprehensible stream. Not a word of his furious ravings could be understood. He didn’t even care. It felt so good. It felt like heaven to speak like this: incoherent, yes, but without hesitation. His speech was unending, blissfully connected to itself, never halting, simply pouring out of him, words and words and words, one after another until they fell at a heap at his feet. He felt drunk, higher than any opium could ever take him.

  “Hurt him!” he shouted. “You hurt him, hurt M-Michael, hurt Edwin, hurt me. Hurt everyone. Wretched m-monster. Vile devil. M-Make us all worship you, but you are the d-d-devil, you bastard. Your soul is full of m-m-maggots. You bastard. You vile, seething, b-b-bastard.”

  They were coming for him now—men brave enough to tame the madman, to stop his tirade. Not Daventry—he seemed, somehow, to understand, and just stood there coldly, staring through Wes as if he did not exist. As if he did not matter—because of course, he didn’t. Not to Daventry. No one did. The world was full of his playthings. And now that Wes was no longer interesting, he would be removed.

  One of the men removing him was Richard. As the hands closed over Wes, he turned to his brother, looked him in the eye and said, clear as a bell, no slurring, no stops, no hesitations, “Our father is raping your son.”

  His brother blinked and recoiled.

  And then he turned to their father.

  They were dragging Wes off. They were carrying him away, and Wes knew it was over—he would never escape now. Nothing could undo this. No one could shout at a marquess in public like this, not with his history. He would lose Michael, which he could feel the pain of distantly now, but much as he loved him, it did not matter, not next to this. And it was worth it. Because he could see his brother’s face, could see the shock and the pain, and maybe he was mad—maybe he had broken finally after all. As they dragged him off, out the door—he thought he saw his brother break. His brother believed him, or at least he doubted.

  Wes hoped it would be enough. It was too late for him, but for Edwin he hoped with all his soul it would be all right.

  They bundled him into a carriage, and Wes went quietly, almost eager for a bit of respite, wherever it came from.

  The shouts began, and panic rose like an old friend—and then a fist caught up alongside his head, and he had his rest after all.

  Michael cried out as he watched Wes crumple inside the carriage, but Rodger held him fast and angled him toward the door to Daventry House.

  “The boys have him, love,” Rodger rumbled in his ear. “They’ll keep him safe. I hope to Christ we’re meeting up back at Dove Street, but if not, they’ll head straight on out of town, and we’ll meet up with him after. We’ll sail to bloody France if we have to.” He nudged Michael toward the door. “Come on, love. Let’s finish this, one way or another.”

  He had dressed well, but still, Michael had never felt more naked. Daventry’s house. They were walking into Daventry’s house, with Daventry himself there.

  He shut his eyes, reached into his jacket to close his hand on the journal, trying to focus on the child upstairs.

  There was so much commotion in th
e foyer that it was easy enough to slip inside. It was easy to find Daventry, for he was speaking loudly and calmly. Vaughn was shouting.

  “What did he mean? Why would he say you would do that to my son?” Albert’s brother demanded.

  “You are overwrought,” Daventry said. “You have let your brother’s madness delude you as well. Someone please pour my son a drink.”

  “He said—he said that you—that you—”

  Rodger stepped forward into the room, held out his hands and smiled. “Ah. A party. Wonderful. And everyone here. Good evening, Daventry. And Vaughn too. How excellent.”

  “Who is this?” Daventry leveled a stare at him. Michael looked quickly away, but he could feel those eyes pass over him, and they made him cold. “Who are these fools? Remove them at once.”

  “Not quite,” Rodger said. “Not yet. Not until I tell Vaughn what you’ve been doing with his son.”

  “Remove them,” Daventry shouted, but Vaughn stepped forward, staying the few who tried to follow Daventry’s demand.

  “No.” The earl’s voice was raw and hoarse. “No. I want to hear them speak.”

  “You don’t even know who they are,” Daventry shot back.

  Rodger inclined his head in a bow and reached into his vest pocket. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Herbert Williams, and I am an investigator. You may check with my references at the Yard.” He handed the card to Vaughn. “I was contracted by Lord George as he was concerned for the welfare of his nephew. It turns out his concerns were justified. I hope you shall all forgive him his unruly outburst. Were you to know what he knew, what I have discovered, you would likely be inclined to do the same.”

  “Get them out of here,” Daventry snarled. Vaughn stayed him with a hard look and motioned for Rodger to continue.

  And Rodger did. He spun a fancy story about Jane being his agent—which she was, though she was also a first-class whore. He told the truth, the grisly whole of it. Through it all, Daventry stared daggers at him, while Vaughn gaped at him, looking ill.