by Lee Rowan
The room was well-appointed, with a small writing desk beside the window. It contained paper and pen, all he needed to write a short note to Goodbody. He expressed his unwillingness to put the household to any unnecessary trouble in its owner’s absence, and requested that his luggage be packed and sent on to the Pulteney Hotel. He signed the note with a meticulous “B. Townsend,” blotted it carefully with sand, and left it on the writing desk where the maid would find and deliver it.
He marveled at how well-trained he was. A true gentleman. He could write a courteous note even though he was barely aware of the floor beneath his feet.
Still feeling disoriented, he dressed himself and assessed his finances. After extracting enough for vails to the butler and the cost of sending his luggage, he still had a few pounds left, so there would be no need for an immediate trip to the bank. He would have funds enough to pay for his room at the Pulteney for a day or two, and to purchase a bottle of some sort of spirits for himself along the way. Getting blind drunk after a serious disappointment was a perfectly acceptable way for a young gentleman to conduct himself, so long as he was discreet. The staff at the Pulteney would not give him a second thought. No one would know him, no one would care. No one would ask the questions that might shatter the fragile shell that was keeping the pain encased within.
Brendan smoothed Philip’s note and folded it away in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. He should tear it to shreds or burn it, but could not bear to think of doing such a thing. Perhaps later. Perhaps never.
He opened the bedroom door with care, found the hall empty. Moving quickly, he was down the stair and out the front door before anyone in the household made an appearance. The sun was excessively bright; no doubt that was what made his eyes water so fiercely.
“Two rooms, Cranton? That’s all?”
“Afraid so, sir. Happen there might be another gent coming in later…”
Dicky Dee glared at his doorkeeper, then shook his head. He couldn’t expect the man to go out and drag people in, not in an establishment that catered to such a particular clientele.
So… two couples had reserved rooms for the night. Only two! Damn that sniveling Hillyard brat and his upper-crust catamite! And the man claiming to be his father—who was he? A patron? A relative of Hillyard’s? Or a close acquaintance of “Mr. Smith?”
Whoever he was, he had finished The Arbor, and all Dobson’s plans. Oh, the molly-house was still there, the working-class clientele were still in attendance—for the moment. But business had begun to diminish there, too. That was inevitable. Some of the wealthier sodomites had a taste for the rough, which resulted in many of the downstairs mollies making personal arrangements with members of the upstairs club. That poisonous word blackmail was beginning to spread through both establishments. In another month, The Arbor would be little more than a memory.
It would—Dobson laughed mirthlessly—it would wither on the vine.
He was, somehow, not at all surprised to hear a knock on his door, and see a familiar form. It only needed that.
“Yes, my lord?”
His visitor closed the door carefully behind him, placed his hat on the desk and dropped his gloves into it, then made himself comfortable in the chair opposite Dobson’s desk, not waiting for an invitation.
“May I offer you a drink?” Dobson essayed.
“No, thank you. I am concerned, sir. I understand you had a rather unpleasant incident on the premises recently.”
“Yes, a…” Dobson chose his words carefully. “A member who was not content with our customs. He—”
“Don’t humbug me,” His Lordship said. “It was that lad I wished to see onstage, was it not? It seems to me you have handled the matter very badly.”
“I—Yes, that’s who it was. Why ask me, if you already know?”
“I was curious to see what sort of lies you might concoct.”
Dobson was not in a mood to be sneered at. “My lord, the truth of the matter is that I was trying to be tactful. Since you have dispensed with that nicety, I feel free to remind you that I was exerting pressure upon that young man entirely on your behalf, and at your insistence.”
“You dare—”
“I was doing so in order to find a way to give you what you demanded, without compromising the confidentiality of our membership list.”
His Lordship leaned across the desk, looming. “You sank to blackmail?”
“I did not threaten him with the police; I threatened to tell his father. What would you have had me do?”
“As I told you!”
“He had no need for your money, my lord; he was plump enough in the purse to pay his own membership in the club. I did persuade him to repeat his performance—is it my fault you were not in attendance that night? If you had taken my suggestion, been patient, waited until he returned so that you might approach him in an ordinary manner—”
“Damn you!”
Dobson flinched as his lordship’s fists came down upon the desk, and moved his chair back a few inches.
“I am finished doing business with you, Dobson,” his visitor said. “I loaned you a thousand pounds to set up this establishment. You have repaid four hundred. I want the rest, and the interest, by the end of the week.”
He had expected anger, even fury. He had not expected this. “But, my lord—even if I were to sell the place tomorrow, it would not be possible—”
“You heard me.”
Dobson’s ire was beginning to get the better of his patience. “And what will you do, my lord, if I cannot? Have me up before the debtor’s court?”
He could not see the man’s face, but what he could read—eyes and mouth—were dumbfounded.
“Of course you will,” Dobson said fallaciously. “The trial will be a sensation—there’s been nothing like it since the Vere Street Club affair. How many men were hanged, then? How many mangled in the pillory? ‘Your honor,’” he mocked, “‘this man came to me with a scheme to turn a set of apartments into an exclusive mollyhouse, so that I and my sodomitical friends might cavort in the luxury to which we are accustomed.’”
He laughed. “Certainly you may take me to court, my lord! Why should you not? I am sure, if you can only find a judge who is one of your disgusting fraternity, you might even win a writ requiring me to sell the property! Of course, your reputation is no doubt so very high that it could withstand the scandal…” He was certain that the face beneath the velvet mask was now apoplectic. “No, you won’t do that, will you?”
“What I will do, sir,” His Lordship finally growled, “is file an anonymous complaint against you, and see to it that the men you batten on are warned in advance. The men who frequent this establishment can scatter. Yours is the only name on the deed of title.”
Ah, threat and counter-threat. This was nothing but fencing. “And your investment?”
“Well lost. I never gamble more than I can afford to lose, you half-wit. Why do you suppose I gave you cash, without asking for signed surety?”
Dobson snorted.
“You think I bluff, sir? You are mistaken. Were I to tell certain men that you used your membership roster for blackmail, you would be found out in that alley with your throat cut, and I’ll be damned if I don’t think that a capital idea. There is but one thing that can save you. Where is that register?”
Dobson felt his bones turn to water; the room suddenly seemed oppressively hot. “Why, it should be here in my desk.” He tugged at the handle of the locked drawer. “I must find the key; perhaps I left it at home...”
“Liar. Do not trifle with me. I have the tale from the lips of a man who saw it all. Someone took that book—that boy’s father, if the story is true.”
“It is not. That is to say, the man was not his father, I know that much. Some other molly, I’ll wager.”
“So a stranger, a man whose identity you do not even know, now has the signatures of the entire Arbor membership.”
“Except yours, my lord,” Dobson pointed
out. “You are in no danger.”
“I am here in this building right now, you fool! What if that man was an agent of the police?”
“Then I should have expected them to be here before now.”
His lordship signed heavily. “You are worse than a fool. Do you think a warrant can be obtained out of thin air, and for such a charge, against so many men of consequence? The police would take their time, to be sure of tightening the noose.”
Dobson began to feel solid ground beneath his feet once again. “I do not think a warrant will be obtained by anyone, my lord, not for any purpose. I believe Mister—” He caught himself, smiling. “I believe the boy who took your fancy asked another gentleman friend to help him obtain the book for his own protection. If they had any sense—and I’ll give them their due, Wellington himself could not have done better—the book went into the fire before the sun rose.”
“If I could be certain of that...” His lordship nodded once, and got to his feet. “Very well, then. You find out what became of that book. Find it—or find that boy, and arrange for me to meet with him. If he will give me his assurance that your clientele are in no danger of exposure, I’ll see about helping you move this club to a safer place, to see if you cannot repay me, after all. You’re an extortionate weasel, but you do run a good club.”
“But—why should he assist me? Why should he be willing to meet with you?
A thin smile touched the lips barely visible at the lower edge of the mask. “Because when I spoke to him, the lad did not seem reluctant to make my acquaintance. I believe you merely botched the job, and I am convinced a little friendly persuasion would get the truth out of him.”
Dobson thought rapidly. He knew where Tony Hillyard lived, and could no doubt find him. Whether or not he could convince him to meet with His Lordship—well, that mattered very little. The fate of the membership book—he could get that out of the brat by threatening to tell his father. It had worked before, it should work again. “What if I can get the truth from him, but he refuses to meet with you?”
“I must speak to him. You don’t imagine I would accept your word, do you? Bring me the boy. Otherwise,” said Lord Cedric,
“I’ll see that every sodomite in London learns that you blackmailed a man who revealed his identity and trusted your word to keep it secret. Your business will perish, if it is not already dead. And you will be fortunate indeed if that is the worst that befalls you.”
CHAPTER 15
Brendan pried his eyes open and thanked St. Gambrinus for finding him a room on the north side of the building, safe from the piercing shafts of the morning sun. His head hurt. Truth be told, his whole body hurt, and the dull ache in his heart defied all description, but for the moment he was grateful that the headache overpowered the rest of the misery.
What had awakened him? There had been a noise… There—a tapping!
Someone was at the door. He sighed and called “One moment!” Wincing at the racket of his own voice, he grappled with the bedpost and hauled himself to his feet, a maneuver that required more physical coordination than he had at his command.
He found himself blinking stupidly at a maid holding a tray, but when she said, “Nine o’clock, sir. Your breakfast,” he remembered that he had left an order for coffee and rolls to be brought up in the morning. He let her place the tray on the table and gave her a penny, then lowered himself carefully back onto the bed.
Why did I tell them to bring food? The very idea made his stomach—no, best not to think about it.
He had downed half a cup of coffee before realizing that the white object on the tray was a letter. A snake would have been more welcome, but he did not recognize the handwriting. It was not franked and he hadn’t been asked to pay postage, so it must have been delivered by someone here in London.
Inside the letter was a second letter, and this handwriting he did recognize. He wondered blearily why his mother was writing to him, then realized that the first layer of paper bore a brief note, signed by Goodbody, Carlisle’s butler, explaining that the enclosed note had been delivered to the house by a Townsend footman very early that morning.
He read the missive and groaned. How had he managed to forget that Elspeth’s party was this very afternoon? Have I really been here for two days?
The brandy was at half-mast in the bottle he’d brought with him, so he concluded that yes, it could very well have been two days. There was no reason on earth, short of his own demise, that would excuse him from attendance at that party, and he had no intention of doing Ellie such a bad turn. He might feel like death on toast and he probably looked it, but he must make an appearance. Sodomite or not—and apparently not, at least not a very successful one—he was still a gentleman.
Tony Hillyard was a fool. Dicky Dee knew that the young man had left his previous lodgings—and he could guess why—but finding out where he had gone took no more effort than writing a note to Hillyard and attempting to deliver it at his former lodgings.
The landlady refused to reveal where he’d gone, but she was not averse to pocketing a sixpence to forward the gentleman’s letter. She was already calling to the boy-of-all-work to come and run an errand as the housemaid showed Dobson to the door. After that, it was a simple matter to follow the boy, who obviously preferred to dawdle along on a beautiful, sunny day rather than hurry on his errand and run back to his place of employment.
The look of panic on Hillyard’s face was almost worth the trouble of running him to ground. His first reaction was to attempt to slam the door shut in his visitor’s face, but Dobson had expected that, and shoved both his foot and his shoulder through the doorway. “Now, now, Mr. Scarlet, you mustn’t be hasty,” he said. “I’m here with a business proposition.”
“I should have you thrown out.”
“No doubt you should, but if you do not hear me out first, you would regret it.”
“Not as much as you would!”
“Your ability to bluff is improving. You must have been taking lessons from that gentleman who claimed to be your father.”
Hillyard scowled and threw himself on his bed. “Very well. State your proposition and take yourself to perdition!”
“How very poetic,” Dobson said. “I expect you can imagine what I want: that registry. You can tear out the page with your name on it, if you have not already done so. I suspect that won’t matter very much, but one of the other members is demanding to see the book, and he has become excessively insistent.”
“He’s going to be excessively disappointed,” Hillyard replied smugly. “He can’t have it.”
“I am willing to buy it back from you,” offered Dobson.
“Oh, really? How much?”
“That would be difficult to say. You might have to conduct your negotiations in person. I am merely a go-between, as it were.”
“Well, you’ll just have to go on back and tell your member that he’s fresh out of luck. The damned thing’s been burned.”
“What?”
“Of course, Dicky. What did you expect? You were blackmailing me, so who’s to know what other lovely tricks you had set in motion? We decided that there was no good place to hide it, so my associates took the damned thing and burned it.”
That would be good news, Dobson was sure—but he also knew that Hillyard was about as reliable as a rumor from a drunk. “Are you certain? Did you see it destroyed?”
“Not exactly…” Hillyard temporized. “But Mr. Smith and his friend were dead-set on throwing it in the fire, and I know Smith well enough to know that his word is as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.”
“So, in fact, you do not know. They might have kept it… for their own purposes.”
“I do know. They were wild to destroy that book. As for using it for blackmail—impossible. They would not even let me look in it,” he complained. “Said my discretion could not be trusted.”
“So they are intelligent men,” Dobson concluded. “Very well. I shall see if my client will take
your word on this matter.”
“He might as well,” Hillyard said, shrugging. “I can’t imagine they would be willing to talk to him. Washed their hands of the matter.”
“They can afford to, can they not?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think my meaning should be clear even to you, Mr. Hillyard. I cannot prove that either of them was ever in my club before that night, and apart from charging them with theft—which you did not witness, so the matter is entirely my word against theirs—I have no hold over them.”
“You’ve no hold over me, either,” Hillyard shot back. “Not now, and you can be sure I’ll give you no handle on me in the future, you bloodsucking leech!”
“Now, now… you’ll do yourself no service with name-calling.”
“Nor harm. You have no proof of anything now.”
Dobson pasted a smile over his uncertainty. “Mr. Hillyard, I still know what you did as a member of The Arbor, and I can still have a little chat with your father—your real father.”
“‘The matter is entirely your word against mine,’” Hillyard said mockingly. “I daresay my father knows I stretch the truth from time to time, but when it comes to taking the word of a molly-house keeper against that of his only son and heir… I don’t think you have much of a chance, Dicky.”
Dicky Dobson had acquired a certain City polish when he went into the business of innkeeping. But his youth and childhood were in no way similar to that of this rich man’s son, and he was not inclined to be sneered at. Seizing the arrogant young man by his oversized lapels, he pulled him off the bed and onto the floor and planted a knee in his chest.
“You listen to me, you soft-headed little sodomite,” he spat. “I must speak to the man who burned that book. Do you understand? My client is not going to take your word for it, and I would not expect him to, because of all the two-faced lying bastards I’ve met, you are at the very top of the list.”
