by Merry Farmer
Again, Joe’s warm smile and the way he’d touched his hand in sympathy as they talked about their problems earlier jumped to his mind. Joe had listened so attentively and had offered such cogent advice. And the man had concerns of his own, so it wasn’t as though he was merely humoring him. In fact, Alistair hadn’t encountered anyone who made him feel so heard in years.
“Ah, I know that look,” Darren said, his grin teasing. “Some fine woman has caught your eye after all, hasn’t she?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Alistair insisted. Although, to be honest, in a way, it was.
“It wasn’t Lady Alice, was it?” Darren laughed. “Knowing you, whichever woman Father would suggest for you would be the last one you would be interested in.”
“Father and I have very different tastes,” Alistair said carefully, walking back to the liquor cabinet to splash another gulp of scotch into his tumbler.
“There were plenty of fine ladies assembled at Eccles House this evening.” Darren followed him at a slower place, setting his glass on the table in front of the cabinet. “What we really need is a ball or soiree of some sort, filled with debutantes eager to make a good match.”
“I’m sure one will come around in a matter of days,” Alistair said. He swallowed his scotch, then set his glass beside Darren’s. “I may consult someone on the matter.”
Darren’s brow inched up. “A matchmaker?”
Alistair shook his head. “A consultancy, if what I was told is correct.” In fact, he still wasn’t entirely certain what The Brotherhood Joe had mentioned could do for him. Perhaps it was a matchmaking agency of sorts.
“Well, as long as you take action and take it soon.” Darren gave his back one more slap before heading out of the room. “We could make a game of it,” he said, turning to walk backwards as he neared the door. “See which one of us makes it to the altar first.”
“I’m certain you’ll win,” Alistair laughed.
“I’m not half the prize you are,” Darren said with a brotherly smile before stepping around the corner.
As soon as he was gone, Alistair’s own smile dropped. He may very well have to race Darren to the altar, though if he won that prize it would be no victory.
He turned back to the liquor cabinet, contemplating another drink, but decided against it. If he turned to alcohol every time he was faced with an unpleasant task, he would be dependent in no time. And he already had enough vices to damn a man ten times over, as was evident in the way his thoughts rushed right back to the fascinating Joe Logan. What he wouldn’t give to spend just one night with the man, no matter what his rank or position in life was.
He headed for the door with a sigh, knowing full well he had a night of delicious self-abuse ahead of him while remembering the touch of the handsome valet’s hand and the fire in his eyes.
Chapter 4
As it turned out, the memory didn’t have to suffice him for long. Alistair ran into Joe again the very next day. As soon as his parents were downstairs and settled into their usual routine for the day and Darren had gone out to his club, Alistair donned his winter coat and hat and set out to investigate the address Joe had given him for the club belonging to The Brotherhood.
It wasn’t hard for him to imagine that an organization catering to men like him existed in London without him knowing about it. As much as he’d protested to Darren that he wasn’t shy, the truth was that he would rather have kept his own company or stayed at home in the safety of a place where no one would push him too far or ask too many questions. He had friends from university whom he regularly conversed with at the club that he and Darren belonged to, but when it came to embracing the world and all its charms, he had always given society a pass.
He wasn’t certain what he was expecting of The Brotherhood’s club, but it wasn’t the plain, imposing, grey building that faced Hyde Park along Park Lane. The nondescript facade was so unimpressive that he walked past it twice before realizing that the ordinary, black door was, in fact, the entrance to a social club.
He approached the door, squinting at a small, brass plaque to one side that read “The Chameleon”. A faint grin twitched on his lips. If ever there were an accurate description of the lot of men like him, that was it. But he continued to stare at the door for a moment before reaching for the handle and letting himself in.
The world on the other side of the door wasn’t much different than the lobby of White’s. As soon as the door shut behind Alistair, silence reigned, but for the ticking of some distant clock. A middle-aged man sat behind a desk off to one side, absorbed in the book he was reading. Tall columns of cream-colored marble rose up to gilded, Corinthian capitals where they met the painted ceiling. Part of Alistair expected lurid, homoerotic scenes to grace the canopy, but only clouds and birds looked down from above, almost as if he’d stepped outside into a world where he could breathe easily. The lobby stretched on into a long hallway with several, open doorways. A few liveried servants passed through the hall, carrying trays of tea or tobacco. In the distance, Alistair heard male laughter, but not the ribald variety. The overall mood of the place was one of tranquility.
“Can I help you?” the man at the desk asked, prompting Alistair to shake himself out of his stupor and approach. He noticed a cloakroom of some sort behind the man. It was neatly arranged with woolen coats that ranged from fine and expensive to serviceable and plain.
As soon as he reached the desk and the mildly curious look of the middle-aged man, panic poked at him. He was in the wrong place. The club where he found himself was too sedate, too normal to be what Joe had described. There wasn’t a hint of drunkenness or debauchery. None of the coats he could see in the cloakroom were ostentatious or theatrical. The place wasn’t teeming with men in gowns or the velvet suits that had been made so popular by the Aesthetic movement. No one had made a pass at him the moment he walked through the door or leered at him, and there wasn’t a single, desperate-looking call-boy in sight.
The man at the desk cleared his throat, snapping Alistair out of his thoughts.
“Sorry,” Alistair apologized, though he wasn’t sure what for. “I may be in the wrong place.”
“Is there something you were looking for, sir?” the man asked.
Alistair opened his mouth, hesitated, then forced himself to push ahead. “I was directed to this club by a friend of mine, Mr. Joe Logan?”
He expected the man to give him a snide look or a knowing laugh. Instead, the man nodded as if there were nothing unusual about strange men wandering off the street and throwing the names of valets around. He slid his chair back, opened a drawer, and pulled out a ledger bound in red leather, then opened it and thumbed through the pages until he reached the “L” section. He scanned his finger down the page until it landed on the name “Logan, Joseph”.
“Ah. I see,” he said, then smiled up at Alistair. “Yes, Mr. Logan is a member.” He reached for a second, smaller ledger, opening it and turning it toward Alistair. “If you could just sign in, sir.”
Alistair stared down at the book, his heart beating suddenly in his throat. It was an ingenious idea, given the nature of the club. It appeared that to be granted admission, a man had to record his presence, which was as good as a declaration of who he was, written down and preserved. The method would ensure that anyone who was merely there to snoop or snicker wouldn’t see it as worth the risk of being labeled. It also told Alistair that the men who spent time at the club truly wanted to be there. Anyone who signed their name in the guestbook was resigning his fate into the hands of the club. If the ledger was ever stolen, everyone who had ever signed it would go down together.
The thoughts rushed to him in an instant as he took the pen that the man behind the desk offered. Alistair stared at the book, pen poised over the last empty line. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked at the names above his and the dates those men had visited. He recognized none of the names, which came as a slight disappointment.
That
flicker of emotion brought a grin to his face, and he chastised himself for being an old gossip as he carefully signed the ledger “Alistair Bevan”, leaving off his title.
“Thank you, sir.” The man behind the desk put away both ledgers. “The ground floor is open to non-members. If you should choose to pursue membership, I can provide you with the proper paperwork. We limit inquirer’s visits to one hour, so if you lose track of time, a page will be sent to fetch you. Please let us know if you need any assistance or an explanation of the club’s amenities.”
“Oh, thank you.” Alistair nodded, surprised at how easy the interaction had been. He glanced to the long hallway, then back at the man behind the desk. “So, I can just go on in?”
“Ground floor only. You may explore on your own. Unless you would prefer a guided tour.” The man nodded.
Alistair’s brow shot up, and he stepped back from the desk, facing the hallway. He felt as though he had been granted admittance to a curious new world, and he wasn’t entirely certain how to proceed.
“I think I’ll make my own way,” he decided, sending the man one last smile before starting forward on what felt like the journey of a lifetime.
The club was perfectly maintained. There wasn’t a stain on the carpets or a smudge on the walls. Once he passed through the lobby and up a small set of stairs to the hallway, more of a feel for the place seeped into his bones. The whole club had a relaxed sort of feeling. The stuffiness of White’s wasn’t there at all.
A group of men sat around a table, playing cards and smoking in the first room Alistair passed. There was nothing unusual about any of them, other than how companionable they seemed together. The second room Alistair encountered was much larger and stretched the length of the building in that direction, like a reception hall. It held several tables, some of which were occupied by groups or individuals, and one wall was lined with bookshelves. Tall windows stood uncovered at the far end of the room, letting copious amounts of light into the vast space. Liveried footmen seemed to be keeping a table of refreshments organized to one side of the windows. The whole scene was peaceful, which felt beyond strange. Peace was not the word Alistair associated with his sort.
“Can I help you?”
Alistair nearly jumped out of his skin at the question, asked by a man about his age, with hazel eyes and a mass of dark, curly hair, a few feet behind him. His heart dropped to his gut when he turned to find a man he knew staring back at him with a polite smile.
“Lord Farnham,” the man said, his smile brightening as he extended a hand. “What a surprise to see you here.”
Alistair’s alarm at being recognized immediately seemed out of place. He took the man’s offered hand. “Hillsboro. What a delight.”
Maxwell, Lord Hillsboro, grinned back at him. “It can’t be that much of a shock to find me here, all things considered.” He glanced around at the room.
Alistair didn’t know how to answer. He’d known Max at university. They’d had the same set of friends then, but, like all but a few friends from his university days, Alistair had barely kept up with him. He supposed he knew on some level that Max was like him, but at Oxford, he hadn’t been in a hurry to dive deeper into the matter.
“I’m new to this club,” Alistair said, fairly certain he looked like a complete fool. “And the entire Brotherhood organization, as it happens.”
“I’ve been a member for years,” Max said, clapping Alistair’s back and gesturing for him to walk with him toward the table laid out with tea and cakes. “It’s the only place in London I feel completely comfortable.”
Alistair’s brow rose. “That’s quite an endorsement.”
“Safe places are hard to come by,” Max added with a lopsided smile. “Whoever came up with the idea for The Brotherhood and this club was a genius.”
“Who did come up with it?” Alistair asked, glancing around at the details of the large room as they walked through. A few of the men at the tables looked up from their activities to nod in greeting to Max, sending Alistair welcoming smiles as well.
“Nobody knows,” Max said with a slight laugh. “It’s been in place for generations.”
“And the police have never raided it? Its existence has never been exposed?”
Max shrugged. “No. My theory is that there are men in high places protecting the place. Probably members themselves. That or the fact that, since the rules strictly prohibit misbehavior, the enemy has never had reason to invade.”
Alistair couldn’t believe it. Why had he never heard of such a place before? It would have made so many things so much easier in his life. But he supposed that was what he got in return for his antisocial ways.
They reached the tea table, and Max poured him a cup. Alistair sipped it in silence as he took in everything around him. Joe had been right about men of all social classes belonging to The Brotherhood. He could tell from the quality of the clothing worn by the men at the tables that some were quite well off indeed and some were merely middle class. There didn’t seem to be any working-class men in attendance, but as Alistair sipped his tea, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see some.
“I take it when you say you’re new, you’re very new,” Max said.
“I only learned about the club last night from…a friend,” he confessed.
“So you’re not fully a member yet?” Max asked.
Uneasiness filled Alistair. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all. And it’s something we’ll take care of as soon as possible.”
Wariness twisted Alistair’s stomach. “There isn’t some morbid initiation ritual, is there?” A thousand disturbing, masochistic images—things he’d seen at university or heard about in the years since that had given him nightmares—jumped to his mind, filling him with the urge to run.
“No,” Max laughed. “Nothing at all like that. It’s mostly paperwork, nondisclosure agreements. The membership criteria are simple, and I’ll vouch for you.”
The surprises and the acceptance just kept coming. “We’ve barely spoken since university.”
Max shrugged. “That doesn’t change who you are. And I’m certain that whoever it was who gave you the club’s address would vouch for you as well.”
There was a question in Max’s eyes, but Alistair didn’t answer it. “To tell you the truth,” he said, facing Max and lowering his voice, “this Brotherhood was recommended to me as an organization that might be able to help me with a particular conundrum I’m facing.”
“That’s what the organization is for,” Max said, taking a small plate with a slice of cake from the table. “Is it a legal problem?”
“Not exactly.” Alistair stared at his tea, then glanced to the cake Max was enjoying. The whole situation was beyond surreal. By all outside appearances, he and Max could have been at a garden party hosted by one of society’s most upstanding dowagers. Which was, perhaps, why it didn’t feel as bizarre as it could have for him to blurt out, “My father is anxious for me to marry.”
Blessedly, he didn’t have to say anything else. Max hummed and nodded. “Aren’t they all,” he said in a wry voice. He ate another bite of cake and went on with, “I assume you’re hoping The Brotherhood might have some ideas about suitable ladies, all things considered.”
He couldn’t help himself. Alistair laughed and shook his head. “This is all so much to take in,” he said. “I feel as though I’ve gone through the looking glass to a world where some formal organization keeps a stable filled with women who wouldn’t mind marrying a man like me.”
“Yes, well, we are rather in a fantasy world at the moment, and thank God for it,” Max replied. “I never did care much for reality.”
Alistair couldn’t stop laughing. Everything around him was utterly improbable and completely beautiful. A world simply didn’t exist in which he was safe to be himself and discuss the problems of his life openly. Except that now he knew it did. He couldn’t quite fit the pieces together in his mind.
It was at t
hat moment, when his defenses were at their lowest and his head was spinning, that Joe Logan walked into the room. Immediately, his laughter switched from verging on hysterical to drying up completely. Joe caught sight of him, and it was as though an electric current shot across the room.
“So that must be your friend,” Max said wryly, though Alistair barely heard him.
Joe seemed as surprised as Alistair was to see him. He picked up his pace, his smile growing as he crossed the room. “I had hoped to see you here, but I didn’t think I could possibly be that lucky,” he said as he reached the table.
“You referred me to The Brotherhood, and I figured there was no point in waiting,” Alistair answered.
“Any luck so far?” Joe asked, his casual manner making Alistair feel more at home by the second.
“I’ve only just started to explain my problem to Hillsboro here,” Alistair said, then remembered his manners. “Joe Logan, meet an old friend of mine from Oxford, Maxwell Preston, Lord Hillsboro. Maxwell, this is Joe Logan.”
The two shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Max sent Alistair a knowing look and a teasing grin, but blessedly kept his thoughts to himself.
“I’m glad I brought up The Brotherhood last night,” Joe said, clearly better at conversation than Alistair ever would be. “After you left Eccles House, it occurred to me that they might be able to help with my search for my sister.”
Max’s smile changed to a look of concern. “You have a sister that needs searching for?”
“She’s been missing for eight months now,” Joe said. “She came to London to work in service and vanished soon after.”
“That’s terrible,” Max said.
Joe gave Max a sad but grateful look, then turned back to Alistair. “I don’t know why I haven’t consulted The Brotherhood about her disappearance already, though I suspect a little bit of pride and self-reliance has something to do with it. That and the fact that I’ve always considered this more of a social club than anything else.”
Alistair glanced from Joe to Max. “Are missing person investigations the sort of thing The Brotherhood does?”
