A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  Wes nearly sent a message to Dove Street with his regrets several times. He had been unable to eat breakfast and shook like a leaf until he’d doctored his tea with laudanum, enough to put most men to sleep. Even then the thought of riding a short distance in a carriage made him reach for the chamber pot. Clearly any kind of outing with Vallant would be impossible.

  But though he drafted two missives to excuse himself, he tossed both into the fire. After choking down some toast and peppermint-leaf tea, he loaded his pill pouch, ordered his carriage brought around, and headed for Dove Street. At the very least he could deliver his regrets in person.

  Upon his arrival, Wes smiled and tipped his hat at the gardener tending to the boxes outside the bawdy house. Often he would stop and inspect the man’s work, offering tips and praise, but today he was too fixated on collapsing into a settee in the drawing room. By the time he passed through the doorway and handed his coat and hat to Barrows’s man, he was shaking.

  When he started down the hall, Barrows himself appeared from a doorway and stopped him with a grim look, jerking his head to indicate the room behind him. “Michael’s curled up in my office, asleep at last. He’s had nightmares the past few nights, and they’re starting to wear on him.” Barrows grimaced. “I’d send you on your way, but he’ll be furious when he wakes if I do. So your choices are to wait him out here with a copy of the Times, or I send a lad over to fetch you when he comes around.”

  Wes knew there was no way he could make a trip back and again. He nodded toward an open armchair near the fire. “H-h-here.”

  “Done and done.” Barrows held the door open wide for him. “I’ll send a gel ’round with tea and nibbles. Let her know if you need anything else.”

  With that Barrows headed down the hallway. Wes watched him for a moment before slipping inside, heading for the chair he’d seen from the doorway. As he came fully into the room he caught sight of the figure on the sofa, and he stopped, stricken.

  Michael was curled up in the corner, lying on his side with his back to the cushions, all but his eyes covered by a knitted afghan someone had tucked all around his sleeping form. His long blond hair tumbled across the pillow, over the blanket and into his face. He looked like a child sleeping.

  All around the sofa were books, at least twenty of them, ranging from the very ragged to pristine, and the shelves behind the sofa were full of them as well, most stacked haphazardly. They were books of all sorts, ranging from novels to serials to nonfiction. To Wes’s surprise, one stack contained nothing but books on botany, one of them a volume to which Wes had contributed.

  A young man entered, bearing a tray unsteadily. When he saw Wes, he smiled and blushed, trying to bow and not drop his tray, barely succeeding at both.

  “Your tea, milord.” The boy looked around anxiously. “Where should I put it, sir?”

  Wes nodded at the floor before the chair. “Th-thank you.” He opened the volume he had picked up and thumbed through the pages.

  The boy lingered. “You a reader like our Michael? He’s famous for it, you know. Them’s all his books, but he has more in his room. Acres of them.” His cheeks went crimson. “He’s teaching me to read. Says I’m natural with letters. And Mr. Barrows will get me a good job once I learn them all.”

  Wes nodded hesitantly, not wanting to encourage him exactly but not wanting to wound him either. He suspected he needn’t have bothered, for the boy clearly had something he wanted to say and would not leave until he’d managed the courage to say it.

  The boy shifted on his feet, lifting his chin higher and higher as if courage could be gained by becoming more vertical. “I—I wanted to tell you, sir,” he began, his voice shaking a little in his eagerness or fear, or both, “that I’m keen.” His entire face became red. “I’m not shamed to be a nancy boy. And—and if you know another gent wh-who wants to pamper a lad like you do our Michael—I am keen, sir. Very keen. Or—” He took a deep breath and said the next very quickly. “Or if you and Michael ever want a bit of sport with a lad, I’m keen there as well. Just wanting you to know, sir. How very keen I am.”

  Wes had no idea what to say to this. He simply nodded and stammered, “Th-th-thank you,” exhaling a quiet sigh of relief as the lad bowed and hurried from the room.

  A soft, sleepy laugh came from the sofa, and when Wes turned toward the sound, Michael was awake.

  “Peter’s a good lad,” he said quietly, his voice still sleep-rough. “A bit too naive, but he’s a good lad. Rodger’s very careful with who beds him. He has quite a crush on me, but I’ve never been able to stomach the idea of indulging him of an evening. He’s barely older than I was when—” He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gaze lowered to the floor. “Well. Let’s just say I have no taste for young boys in bed.”

  Wes stared after Peter with new eyes, suddenly envisioning his nephew. He felt slightly ill. Clearing his throat, he shook the image away.

  “Sit,” Michael urged him, tucking his feet as he sat up. “You look like hell, darling. Did your party keep you up too late? You could have given me your regrets, you know.”

  Wes smiled blackly and collapsed into the space Michael made for him. The cushions of the sofa creaked and bounced at his abrupt arrival. He tried to summon a dismissive response, but the disjointed shards of memory flashed before his eyes before piercing his heart, and he swallowed hard.

  “Albert?” Michael called softly.

  Shaking his head, Wes tried for a brittle laugh, but he choked on it. Panic rose on a tide inside him. He saw his nephew’s hollow face, heard his brother’s disdainful rebuke, his father’s flat dismissal.

  “Albert?” Michael touched Wes’s arm.

  Wes swallowed, barely managing to push the lump down this time. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Only the terror of falling to pieces in front of Michael kept him in check. Weeping like a child was bad enough, but to do it now? He bit his tongue, willing the shock of iron taste to jolt him back. He brushed Michael’s hand from his arm and fumbled against his waistcoat.

  “P-p-p-p—” Self-revulsion flooded his system, and the fury gave him the push he needed to find the word. “Pills. In my p-p-pocket.”

  The sweet scent of Michael’s hair filled his nose. Long, deft fingers pressed against his abdomen, poked gently at him. He heard the soft crack of the pill case as it opened.

  “How many?” Michael asked softly.

  All of them. Drug me senseless. Wes’s nostrils flared, and he took several unsteady breaths. “Three.”

  The case rattled, then snapped shut. “I’ll fetch some water.”

  “N-N-N-No.” Wes opened his eyes and fumbled for Michael’s hand. “D-D-Don’t n-n-nee-nee-nee—”

  He stopped abruptly as first one, then two, then three pastilles pressed past his lips. Suppressing a shudder of anticipation, Wes rolled them on his tongue and shut his eyes as he swallowed. Should have chewed them, he thought, too late, but then he felt the gentle brush of lips against his. When he opened his eyes on a long, slow blink, Michael was there before him, his face only inches away, looking at him with tender concern.

  I love you.

  For the first time in his life he was relieved for his stammer. The words clanged at the back of his throat, not even making it to his tongue. But they echoed in his head, ridiculous and true. I love you. I love you. I love you, Michael Vallant, my beautiful whore. Run away with me. Marry me. I will buy you every book in the world.

  Laughing at himself, he shut his eyes again.

  When Michael brushed sweet, dry kisses against each lid, his heart turned over.

  Michael stroked his cheeks. “I take it the party did not go well.”

  Wes sighed roughly and shook his head.

  Michael’s hands slid down to stroke his neck. Softly, almost absently. “I’ve been dreaming again. Remembering.” His fingernails curled briefly against Wes’s skin. “I hate it. It makes me feel weak. I thought I left these ghosts so long ago, but n
ow they are back, laughing at me.” He pressed a kiss to Wes’s chin. “What happened to you, my love?”

  Wes opened his eyes, staring at the abruptly blurry ceiling. “W-W-Waste.” This time he could not swallow the lump. “S-S-Said I was a w-waste.” He shut his eyes, letting the brief overflow of tears slide into his hair. The opium reached up and embraced him, easing the pain. “G-G-Good for n-n-nothing. D-D-Disgrace.” He remembered Edwin, and this pain even the opium could not contain. Tears slid into his hair, and his voice was thick with more at the ready. “T-T-Told m-m-my n-n-nephew. N-n-not t-t-to en-en-en-end up l-l-l—” He broke off, letting the rest out on a shuddering sigh.

  Not to end up like me.

  This time he could not stop a sob and, despite the opium, it carried him away on the wave, this sorrow. He covered his eyes, but the damned tears streamed on. He tried to breathe, but he choked. Michael cooed gently and stroked his shoulders, and Wes hissed in disgust as he sat up and pushed him away.

  “T-T-True,” he sputtered. “It’s t-t-t-true.” He shut his eyes tight and hung his head. Idiot. Idiot.

  The firm hand on his chin caught him by surprise. He went slack enough for it to lift his face, and the sight of Michael staring at him with such a hard expression made him still.

  “You mean something to me.” One corner of his mouth quirked in a flat smile. “Though perhaps I’m nothing too?”

  Wes touched Michael’s cheek.

  You are everything.

  Michael shut his eyes and leaned into Wes’s palm. Beautiful. So beautiful. So precious.

  “I’m so tired,” Michael whispered.

  Wes stroked the line of his jaw with his thumb. “Sleep.”

  Michael laughed, letting his head fall against Wes’s shoulder.

  Wes kissed the side of his head. Dizzy with opium, he swung his feet up onto the sofa and adjusted Michael carefully against his body. Michael snuggled in, hesitantly at first, but with one encouraging stroke from Wes down his back, he burrowed in like a ground squirrel, positioning himself between Wes’s thighs, pillowing his head on Wes’s chest, tucking his arm beneath his back. Wes adjusted as well, and then Michael adjusted again, and eventually they were comfortable and still.

  Michael turned his head enough to press a kiss against Wes’s chest. “You are good for me.”

  Wes swallowed a different kind of lump, a full, radiant blockage rather than a hollow one. I love you. I love you like a fool. I would give up all the orchids in the world just to lie for an afternoon like this with you.

  He shut his eyes and stroked Michael’s hair.

  He floated away on the opium, dreaming of pink clouds and rays of sun he could catch with his fingers. They briefly faded as someone stuck a pillow beneath his head. Michael nuzzled his chest, the afghan was tucked in place around them, and then he fell back into the dream, holding Michael’s hand and laughing as they leapt naked through the clouds, swinging around the beams of sunlight and riding them up to the stars.

  Chapter Nine

  Thanks to Michael, the week after the dinner party, instead of marking the beginning of a black funk, ushered in a period of almost idyllic bliss. The habit became, after rising, breakfasting and seeing to any needs at the gardens, Wes would take a day’s worth of pills along and head over to Dove Street, where a bleary Michael would welcome him with a kiss before settling down with him on the couch in Barrows’s office to nap. If Barrows’s office was busy, they went off in Wes’s coach and drove around town, or found a quiet space to park the carriage.

  And there was kissing. There was always a great deal of kissing.

  They hadn’t kissed that first afternoon as they slept together on the sofa, not until the evening bustle began when Wes became unnerved by the noise. Michael shooed him away, looking rested and happy, and as he’d sent him out the door, he’d pressed a kiss to Wes’s lips. It was meant to be chaste and quick, but it surprised Wes so much that he lingered. And then it was done, but it seemed heavy between them. It lingered all night until he arrived the next morning, at which point Michael met him in the foyer, pulled him into a dark corner, pressed his back to the wall and kissed him full on the mouth. By the time the kiss ended they were both hard and breathless. And smiling.

  And so it was every day: Wes would arrive, they would kiss and then they began a long day of nothing. Michael would nap on him, and Wes would review notes from the gardens or read the paper or one of Michael’s books, and then they would drive. While they rode about town, Michael climbed into his lap and made love to his mouth.

  That was all. Sometimes Michael ran his hands over Wes’s chest, but mostly they kissed. Wes could embrace him, could run his hands up and down his back, could, sometimes, thread fingers into his hair, but if he slid his hands over Michael’s backside or ran them over his thighs, Michael shuddered and pulled back.

  “I’m sorry.” He buried his forehead against Wes’s neck. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  Wes wanted to tell him he didn’t mind, but he settled for brushing a kiss against his ear. When Michael eased, Wes resumed stroking his back, but in a gentling, not arousing manner. Michael ended up curled up beside him with his head in his lap, sleeping heavily for an hour.

  At each outing they made sweet love like tender young fools meeting in the meadow in some sort of fairytale. Wes found that he cherished it more than if they had fucked every afternoon. Certainly Michael seemed to be blossoming beneath it. He said he hadn’t had a nightmare since their ritual began.

  Barrows, however, was less convinced. He frequently worked in his office while Michael slept draped over Wes, and he did a lot of glowering.

  “This isn’t a workable solution,” he grumbled on the third day as Michael slept. “Ignoring the fact that I have to do my business in the drawing room, you’ll notice he can’t do this in a bed with you. Only in your carriage or in here.”

  Wes had noticed. He said nothing, though, only stroked Michael’s pale hair as he slept. He didn’t know what to do about it. When Michael curled up beside him, when he smiled at him, when he pressed his mouth to Wes’s own, he could forget everything his brother or father ever said to him, every slight he received at the Society, every whisper at the club. But yes, beneath this veneer it all still lurked, just as Barrows said. This wasn’t a solution. Like everything else in his life, it was a panacea, an escape. He couldn’t fix anything but a dying plant.

  When the heaviness of this realization got the better of him, he reached into his pocket for his pill pouch and took two. He’d have taken three, but it had been barely two hours since his last dose, and it was getting harder and harder to find the line between mental ease and unconsciousness. He popped the pills in his mouth, closed his eyes and rolled the pastilles on his tongue, working up enough saliva to swallow them, but also anticipating—hoping for—a moment of bliss as well.

  Once he opened his eyes, from the corner of his vision he saw Barrows lean back in his chair, watching Wes. Barrows’s face was closed and unreadable. “You’re chasing the dragon.”

  Wes blinked at him, genuinely confused.

  Barrows rolled his eyes and grimaced. “God above. You don’t even know you’re chasing the dragon. I suppose a kindly doctor sends you to your bliss, does he?”

  The pills. Barrows was speaking of his pills. Wes faltered. “F-F-For-For m-m-my n-n-n—”

  “Nerves?” Barrows finished for him acidly. He shook his head in disgust.

  Wes felt his cheeks burn. “I c-c-c-can’t f-f-f-fun-function w-w-w-without them.”

  Barrows stared at Wes very hard, his piercing gaze making Wes squirm despite the opium. “I take men out of the gutter every day, my lord, and give them new life. Drunks. Washed-out sailors. Street whores. Any man or woman with a spark left, I tell them, come to Dove Street, and you won’t go hungry again, and you’ll fuck who you like for real money. We bring in girls who were mothers at thirteen and traded their cunts for a crust of bread, teach them manners and self-respec
t, and they go on to be maids in decent households or run pubs with their men or retire happy and sated after making themselves a tidy sum on their mattress. I train lads how to steal and not get hanged, who to steal from, and what to do with the stash. I turn street thugs into my thugs, and they’re loyal as the day is long. I make ten silk purses out of sows’ ears before breakfast each day.” His voice hardened. “But as soon as I smell the poppy, I leave them be. Dragon claws are sharp, and they quickly steal what little spark a body has left.”

  Wes flushed at this, not a blush on his cheeks but a hot rush over his whole body, an odd mix of insult and cold fear. He wanted to argue, to explain to Barrows that it wasn’t for pleasure that he took the pills, but for medicine. He wanted to insist no dragon had claws in him, that he hadn’t had a spark to steal to begin with. But he could not. Because even as the defiance tried to rise, it drowned in guilt. Guilt that he knew he had long ago left the dose recommended to him by his physician—and had yet to confess this to his medical guardian. Guilt that he hardly waited for true anxiety any longer, dosing himself higher and higher to keep the empty feelings at bay, always hoping for that softening of the edges of the world that he could rarely get any longer, which only severely upping the dose would do.

  Which sometimes he did at night, just so he could lie back on his bed and ride away on the rainbow tides of soft, careless pleasure.

  Barrows said nothing more on the matter, simply returned to his work with grim determination. His words echoed in Wes’s head for two days, however, and one afternoon, having left Michael curled in the window seat of Barrows’s office with a new book Wes had brought him as a present, Wes went not to his apartment but to the east side of town, to the docks, to the street where he had meant to meet Legs but had met Penelope Brannigan instead.

  He rapped hesitantly on her door. A white-capped old woman ushered him inside, but Miss Brannigan herself rose from a chair beside an invalid on a sofa and hurried over to greet him.