Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
A Private Gentleman (14 page)
“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
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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.
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“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
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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.
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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.
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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.
The docks were close enough that he could hear the whistles and calls of the
sailors loading and unloading their ships. This part of London was never fully
safe, not even at this time of morning, but it was at its quietest now, its residents largely passed out or too hungover to move. But even this relative calm was too
much for Wes today. He was nervous about meeting Vallant at eleven, and now
he was nervous additionally about being
late
to meet him. Legs was late, and Legs was never late, not without sending word. At the appointed time, Wes had
departed from a hired cab, went up the stairs to the small apartment above the
tavern and knocked four times on the door. Legs had not answered.
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
A Private Gentleman
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.
His gaze drifted back to the alley, to the opium den.
Just one little bit. The filth and the likely debauchery inside would be
motivation enough to contain himself. It would be a good lesson to him to see
what true addiction was.
Yes. Yes, it was practically
good
that he go over. Just a quick visit. He needn’t even finish his tea, or his pipe, or however they delivered it.
Shoving his trembling hands into the pocket of his coat, Wes stepped
forward onto the sidewalk, heading for the street.
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“I expected better of you, my lord.”
Wes stopped short and turned around. It was Penelope Brannigan, his
wallflower companion from the Gordons’s ball.
She stepped forward out of the shadow of a door, the toes of her plain, worn
brown boots peeking out from an equally ragged hem. Gone was the velvet
finery of the ball, but she spoke to him with the audacity of a duchess. “I thought
you were convincing yourself you didn’t need it. And you don’t. A cup of plain
black tea or some soothing mint will do you much better.”
Wes looked the woman up and down. At the ball he had been too distracted
by his mission and his nervousness, but here now he saw that she was ghastly
tall and built broadly. She wore what had to be a man’s jacket over an ample
bosom, and her dress was the most faded thing he’d ever seen. It was brown in
the way all fabrics were when they aged—brown-gray, or brown-blue, but
mostly brown. She wore several petticoats beneath it as well, hinting that she
lingered often in the cold.
A crash from the tavern startled him, and he glanced back toward the
window nervously. The shouts inside were starting to sound like a brawl.
Brannigan nodded behind her at the narrow, unpainted door. “I would very
much like you to come sit in my parlor, sir, and allow me to give you a
restorative cup of tea and a moment to strengthen your resolve. At the very least
I owe you that for setting me up with my favorite new benefactor.”
Take
tea
with him. He grimaced and turned back to the street, willing a
hackney to be passing by.
There were none.
Miss Brannigan stood directly beside him now. “I do not wish to see you
sucked into that den, Lord George.” She put a hand on his arm.
Wes drew back sharply, glaring at her. “M-madam! D-d-d-do n-n-n—”
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The brawl inside the tavern broke through the door and became a scuttle on
the sidewalk. Shaking, Wes stumbled backward. The street was suddenly full of
people shouting. He found it hard to breathe. People, people everywhere, and
sound. And Miss Brannigan haranguing him, and—
His vision went black, and he felt his breakfast rising like a sea inside his
throat—
Strong hands led him to the mouth of the alley, where he cast up his
accounts, then brought up the ghost of them a few times more just for good
measure. A fragrant but serviceable handkerchief wiped away the slime from his