by Bonnie Dee
Flagstaff, the other member of their party, showed no reaction to the blatant joke. He was deep in his cups already and seemed only intent on sucking deeply from his flask and emitting belches that filled the carriage with alcoholic fumes.
Where had Alden heard about Cyril’s sexual predilections? There was no one in London who could have told him with complete certainty that Cyril preferred the company of men. His life had been too circumspect for that. And why was Alden pushing him and Wentworth together?
The carriage grew stuffy and Cyril’s tie too tight. He wished he could loosen it or else throw open the door, jump out, and run down the street, away from this awkward tension. Instead, he cleared his throat and gazed out the window— just as the carriage stopped in front of their destination.
This was his opportunity. He could beg off entering the gaming hell, say he wasn’t feeling up to snuff, and have the driver take him home. He’d be safe and comfortable there. And yet… He stole another look at Wentworth. It might be quite nice to talk with someone like himself, someone with whom he might let his guard down just a little. As lovely as his elderly friends from the Orchid Society were, he could share only one aspect of himself with them. Whatever Alden’s motives, perhaps he’d done Cyril a favor, bringing him together with the handsome Mr. Wentworth.
Cyril stepped out of the carriage and followed the rest of the loudly joking party into Carter’s. Noise, smoke, and the stench of overheated bodies overwhelmed him. This was no gentleman’s gaming club, but a dark, sinister place where the wealthy might behave as they wished without fear of judgment from their peers. Ladies clothed in barely-there garments lounged about, draping themselves over the suited, sweating men sitting at card tables or throwing dice. There was even a roulette wheel spinning slowly in one corner of the room. Cyril moved his cash clip from his jacket to an inside breast pocket lest he return home without it.
Jonathan Hunt and company strode through the crowd like princes on parade, greeting friends with casual nods and drunken hullos. They stopped at a red-and-black-numbered table, at the head of which the large wheel spun round before click, click, clicking slowly to a stop. Shouts of exuberance or brays of disappointment filled the air as the croupier cleared the markers from the table.
“Roulette is all the rage in France,” Alden explained. “Put a bet down before the next spin.”
Cyril leaned toward Wentworth to be heard over the din. “This place is illegal as the devil, isn’t it?”
“I believe so. We should find a spot near an exit so we may be first out of there is a raid.” Wentworth cocked his head to look up at Cyril, drawing his attention to the fact the other man was quite a bit shorter than he. Looking down into those vivid eyes set another flutter of excitement spinning through his body. If this was what games of chance felt like, no wonder many became addicted to gambling.
Cyril nodded and followed Wentworth away from the roulette wheel and past tables of card players. He wasn’t quite certain where Wentworth was leading him, but the man snagged a pair of champagne glasses from a passing waiter and confidently walked toward a vacant pair of chairs. It was marginally quieter in that corner alcove, sufficient so they didn’t have to shout to be heard.
“How did you come to meet Alden?” Cyril asked once he was settled in his seat. He could scarcely imagine any connection between such dissimilar men.
“We have several mutual friends in India. When I mentioned I would be in London on business, Alden insisted on introducing me around.” Wentworth amended his apparent disinterest by offering Cyril a smile that cut deep grooves in his cheeks. “For which I find myself quite grateful.”
Even Cyril, naïve in the ways of flirtation, could not mistake the man’s tone. It ignited both a thrill and a scurry of anxiety in his breast. He did his best to volley back, “As am I.”
Wentworth’s gaze was too intense, so Cyril studied his glass of champagne and changed the subject. “You must tell me more about mining in India and what it is you do.”
“My family owns several mines in the Karnataka province, which is one of the largest exporters of mica in the world. Mica is a great insulator when added to glass.”
“Ah, I see. Alden mentioned gold. I suppose he got it wrong.”
“Yes, well…” Wentworth trailed off, which only piqued Cyril’s interest.
“You have found gold as well?”
The man sipped his champagne before answering. “Preliminary explorations suggest so, but it is not a certainty. My father sent me to London to meet with potential investors.” He frowned and set the glass on a side table. “I’ve said too much. A potential gold strike could attract an unwelcome flood of prospectors. Please, forget I mentioned it.”
Cyril nodded vigorously. “Forgotten already. Your secret is safe with me.”
Wentworth studied him with a gaze that pierced deeply. “I believe you, and thank you for your discretion.”
Wentworth’s intensity flustered Cyril so much, he babbled, “I’ve heard India is an astonishing county. I myself have never traveled farther than Europe. Please, tell me what it was like to grow up in such a foreign environment. I want to hear about the scenery and the people, and what life is like for them, and…oh…everything!”
“I’m afraid there is too much to tell.” Wentworth shook his head, a lock of brown hair escaping its pomade to fall over his forehead enticingly. “I believe Mr. Kipling has given better descriptions in his books than I ever could.”
He paused to stroke his pencil-thin moustache, drawing Cyril’s attention to the full lips below it. “I was often alone as a boy due to various illnesses that kept me isolated. However, I made friends with one of our servant boys, a rapscallion who led me into all sorts of adventures. I would wear some of his clothing so we could climb over the wall surrounding the garden and race through the streets of the city. Sometimes, we wandered into the surrounding countryside to visit the nearby ruins of a temple where a large colony of monkeys lived. How they would chatter and screech at our incursion into their territory.”
Rich and sweet as syrup, Wentworth’s chuckle trickled through Cyril’s body to settle low in his belly. “That sounds exciting. I can picture the monkeys swarming everywhere like London alley cats.”
“In India, cows wandered the streets of the city at will. One had to give way to them or rouse the ire of the locals as bovine are considered sacred by the Hindus.” Wentworth’s humor abruptly disappeared and his lips tightened. “My friend and I carried on our escapades for the better part of a year before we were caught. I was locked in my rooms for several weeks. Poor Ishan was beaten and banished from our house. I never saw him again.”
“I am sorry. That is sad, not only for the poor Indian boy sent off without a reference, but for you. It is not easy to lose a friend.” Cyril had to work hard to imagine it since he’d never had a boyhood mate to lose.
“Ishan was my first and last playmate.” Wentworth waved a hand. “But enough of that. Tell me about yourself.”
What an embarrassment to admit his life had been as dull as a pencil in desperate need of sharpening. “Nothing to tell, really. Like you, I was an only child raised to be a quiet, dutiful lad. Unlike you, I never strayed from between the lines. At school, I was an unremarkable scholar, unmemorable to both teachers and my peers. You can imagine how shocked I was when Alden popped in out of the blue, behaving as if we had once been the best of friends.”
“It sounds as if we were rather alike and would have befriended one another if we had met,” Wentworth said. “Two quiet chaps who spent much time in our own minds. I imagine you read a great deal, as I did.”
Cyril nodded. “I lived in Camelot for years, going off on quests and rescuing fair damsels in distress. I was a most chivalrous knight and King Arthur’s right hand, far above Sir Lancelot—that vile betrayer.”
Wentworth grinned and pushed back that teasing lock of hair. “I was very fond of the tales of magic in Indian lore, gods, goddesses, demons, and the
humans caught up in their battles.”
“Tell me a story,” Cyril begged.
“I don’t know. Perhaps this is not the time or place.” He looked around at the increasingly drunken patrons.
Braying laughter erupted from across the room where George and Fred Smith each had an arm slung around the naked shoulders of two doxies.
Flagstaff waved a bear paw at Cyril and Wentworth. “Come watch. These lovely ladies have agreed to wrestle so we can bet on the match.”
“In the nude!” Fred blared. “Winner to earn a great reward.” He put a hand to his crotch in a lewd gesture that quite shocked Cyril.
“Don’t the ladies appear thrilled?” Wentworth muttered.
Cyril snorted. Both the blonde, and the woman in a bright magenta hat which sat slightly crooked on her head, appeared bored and resigned.
John Hunt led the crew closer. “Downstairs, there’s a ring for the fights. Are you two joining us?”
“We all win.” George giggled in a surprisingly childish falsetto.
“But we’ll also bet. With money,” Alden sounded eager.
Hunt stared at Cyril, then at Wentworth with ice-blue eyes. “Coming?” he repeated.
“I think perhaps we’ll sit this one out,” Cyril replied. “We’re enjoying our conversation.”
“Conversation. Right,” Hunt drawled. “Come on, fellows.”
He and the others walked away, trailing a mist of alcohol fumes and too much cologne.
“Would you care to go to a quiet pub where we may continue to speak without interruption?” Wentworth invited. “I would ask you to my room, but the landlord of the inn might look askance.”
To Cyril, it was a barely veiled offer of a desire for more than a pint and a talk. He inhaled slowly.
“Or, perhaps… Perhaps you might accompany me to my house. It is quiet there, and we will be undisturbed. To continue our talk,” he quickly added.
Wentworth inclined his head, and the same lock of nearly black hair fell over his forehead. Cyril’s body quivered at the thought he might be allowed to brush back those strands before this evening was over. The idea of touching this man in an intimate way, no matter how brief or chaste, swelled inside him till he could not draw a full breath. He waited.
At long last, Wentworth leveled a dark blue gaze upon him. “Yes. I should very much like that.”
Cyril exhaled. “Good.” He rose and led the way through the throng toward the door, attempting to feign confidence as if he went home with strange men often. In truth, it would be his very first time.
Chapter Five
Jody’s mind leapt ahead to his next move in a game that was unfolding much more quickly than expected. Tonight was supposed to have been a simple meeting with a few tidbits dropped to entice his mark down the path Jody wanted him to follow. Belmont’s questions about mining had provided the perfect opportunity to drop those bread crumbs. Sharing personal stories convinced his lordship they had much in common. Then, just as Jody was congratulating himself on how well things were going, Belmont invited him home, skipping another “get acquainted” meeting to move right into Jody’s sights.
Except, Jody wasn’t ready to hit this particular target, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because Belmont seemed to be such a very nice man, shy, unassuming and so open and trusting.
Still, Jody had stolen from several nice men over the years. They hadn’t all been predatory blackguards. What was it about this particular man, with the disheveled brown hair, wrinkled suit, and hopeful puppy-dog eyes, that made Jody want to pet him rather than snatch away his bone?
Sitting beside Belmont in the carriage, inhaling the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne, Jody gave himself a mental shake. This was not the time for doubt or hesitation. Clearly, Belmont had some expectations of how the evening would play out. It was Jody’s job to fulfill those expectations and draw the man closer. That would certainly not be a chore since his cock tingled every time Belmont looked at him.
In the dark privacy of the carriage, sexual magnetism dragged Jody from the opposite seat to sit beside Belmont. He held the other man’s steady gaze. “Am I wrong?”
Belmont did not play games, but simply answered with a soft “No. You aren’t wrong.”
That was all the permission Jody needed to place a hand on the other man’s thigh and apply gentle pressure. He announced his presence and his intent without making demands. Intuition told him Belmont was inexperienced, so Jody would move slowly, reassuring him every step of the way.
Belmont exhaled an audible whimper at that light touch. A shudder passed through him, and his eyes closed. “I should tell you, I am not very well versed in this sort of thing.”
“That’s all right. No need to do anything more than what you want.”
Jody leaned close to press a soft kiss on the sharp corner of Belmont’s jaw. The earthy smell of a forest grew stronger.
Belmont moaned very quietly, a sound of such deep yearning, it made Jody’s chest ache and his cock swell. The poor chap sounded so needy, Jody wanted to please him and make his first sexual experience—if this was indeed his first—kind and sweet. He cupped Belmont’s face and moved his mouth over warm, smoothly shaven skin that tasted only slightly of salt.
Belmont turned his head and met Jody’s mouth with his own. The damp pressure of lips coming together was such a minor thing, yet it sent Jody’s blood raging. His erection grew, and he squeezed Belmont’s thigh harder as he dissolved in the pleasure of the kiss. This moment was lovely. Belmont was lovely. For the moment, Jody forgot his mission and simply enjoyed the physical sensations. A bloke only lived once. Might as well enjoy life as best he could.
When he probed the tip of his tongue between Belmont’s lips, testing the waters, the man pulled back uncertainly…then quickly leaned in for more. It took only a moment for Belmont to follow Jody’s lead, touching, tasting, exploring, until their tongues danced, not in a polite waltz, but to wild tribal beat.
A missionary to Africa Jody once knew had described the activity: “Nearly naked bodies gyrating and thrusting. It was beyond immodest. Very primitive and repulsive!” the oh-so-proper cleric had judged prissily not ten minutes before begging Jody to suck his cock.
Jody had been quite happy to seduce and swindle that hypocritical clergyman for everything he could get. Likely the man’s wealth was generated in the collection basket anyway, or by wealthy parishioners who believed they could buy their way out of hell.
Pushing the memory from his mind, Jody concentrated on the much more pleasant sensation of kissing Cyril Belmont. Soon, however, it wasn’t nearly enough. He slid a hand down the slick silk of Belmont’s waistcoat to the top of his trousers and began to open the fastening with deft fingers. He pulled his mouth away, panting, “How far to your house? I can finish you off now if we have enough time.”
Belmont’s eyes gleamed in a streetlight as the carriage rolled past. “Here?” He licked his lips. “No. We should be nearly home.”
“There, then, but will your servants be a problem?” He’d learned from various rich chaps the life of a swell might be plush, but it was also a straitjacket. There were eyes everywhere in those fine houses, and tongues ready to tattle about any indiscretion. Sex in a carriage could actually be easier than using Belmont’s bedroom.
“No worries about servants. I no longer keep a butler or housekeeper. There is no one to note whom I bring home.”
Just then, the carriage came to a stop. Both men adjusted their clothing before getting out. Belmont paid the driver and led the way toward a white row house on one of the streets Jody had always admired. Mayfair and other such neighborhoods looked like heaven might with orderly, clean dwellings. About as far as one could get from the crumbling tenements propping each other up in the filth of Shoreditch. No rats lived here. Even a mouse would likely be caught, tried, and hanged.
Jody paused on the threshold before entering Belmont’s house. Too many years of training to look and listen before enterin
g a building. A bloke never knew what waited around any corner. But there were no unexpected surprises here, just a quiet front hallway illuminated by gaslight turned low to welcome the master home.
After the door closed behind them, Belmont hesitated. He neither turned up the lights nor make any move toward Jody. Now that he had him here, it was clear he wasn’t sure how to proceed.
Jody obligingly showed him. He pushed Belmont’s coat off his shoulders and drew it slowly down his arms. He tossed it over a small table beside the door, then set to work on removing the man’s jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Belmont shifted uneasily before grasping Jody’s hands. “Wait.”
Jody patiently paused. “If you’re not ready, it’s all right. You’d rather talk a bit first?”
“Y-yes. I think so. It feels so…rushed like this. Will you come into the parlor? I have a fairly good port available.”
“Lovely.”
Jody assessed the contents of the front hall and the parlor as they entered it. Neither was as opulent as those in Alden’s house. He’d expected a peer of the realm to live in a more luxurious abode. But then he recalled a gentleman who’d once told him old money, the sort that came with lineage and title, was not extravagant. Only gauche, newly wealthy people put on a show. So, some of the darkened paintings and ugly curios were probably much more valuable than Jody imagined.
He took a seat on a threadbare chair and accepted the small glass of port Belmont offered. After a sip, he set aside the drink and watched his evening’s companion settle on another chair.
Belmont exhaled audibly.
“I hope you’re not uncomfortable. We will merely talk if that is all you wish to do,” Jody said.
“No! I want…!” Belmont’s cheeks colored in an adorable blush. “I detest that I sound so eager. I mean to say, I do want what you offered in the carriage, but I haven’t actually done this before. I’ve met men a few times in certain locations, but never like this, here in my house. It feels very, um, intimidating.”
