A Private Gentleman (39 page)
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
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.
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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,” Rodger shot back.
“To make me myself,” Michael corrected. He kissed Rodger. “Hush. It’s all
right.”
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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.
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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—
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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
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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
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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 the 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.
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“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.
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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.
“This is all a mad stunt,” Daventry said, calm and cool. “I am sorry you have
all been exposed to such chicanery, but I promise you, this man and
all
his
associates will hang.”
“We have proof, of course,” Rodger replied calmly. “Beyond the witness.”