by Bonnie Dee
Jody found Belmont’s uncertainty ridiculously endearing and hurried to put him at ease. “Tell me about your life. How do you spend your days?”
“Very quietly, I’m afraid. I read the newspaper at breakfast, putter about the house, then take a restorative walk in the park. Afterward, I might go to my club for lunch. On certain afternoons, I attend Orchid Society meetings or play cribbage with friends.”
“What is the Orchid Society?”
“Exactly as it sounds, a group of people who share an appreciation for breeding, growing, or simply admiring orchids.”
Jody cast around in his mind for the definition of an orchid. He had learned many things over the years about the posh world, filing away each detail that might prove useful in helping him pass. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall any man ever mentioning an orchid. Breeding suggested it was an animal, but that didn’t seem right.
“Would you show me yours?” he asked.
“You would like to see them?” Belmont’s eyes brightened with enthusiasm. Whatever orchids were, they seemed to bring great joy to this man. And maybe they were worth a lot of dosh.
“Absolutely.”
Belmont led the way through the house, while Jody memorized the layout of the ground floor and noted potentially expensive items. If the investment scheme failed, he might at least be able to nick some things of value.
The dark polished wood trim and faded yet beautiful wallcoverings gave a sense of a house that had sheltered a family for generations. Portraits of ancestors gazed sternly at them all the way down the hallway. They passed through a sitting room, a lady’s room, Jody guessed from the décor, then his host opened a pair of glass-paned doors. Even before Jody passed through, the odor of damp earth and green things wafted to him. The room smelled like springtime in the park and looked like a fairy-tale world. He stopped dead and simply stared around the glass room. This was what a jungle must look like. Several trees were tall enough to touch the ceiling. Beneath them were waist-high boxed beds of earth in which flowers grew. Bright red and yellow, soothing purple and blue, candy pink and purest white blossomed on long stalks that grew from clusters of shiny green leaves.
“They’re beautiful!” he gasped. It might have been the most completely honest Jody had been all evening.
Belmont pointed out various flowers as he recited Latin names. “As you can see, this group contains the usual varieties, lovely but nothing out of the ordinary. Over here, however…” He indicated flowers of such a deep purple hue, they were nearly black. “Over here are black Cymbidium Faberi. Aren’t they simply marvelous? I bought these plants from an overseas breeder and have been attempting to cross them with the spotted purple-faced Phaelenopsis.” He moved across the stone-paved floor to an apparently empty bed. “The hybrid plants are growing here.”
Jody leaned close to the soil and noticed several tiny bumps with green tips poking through. “A nursery.”
“I am beside myself with excitement to see what the cross-pollination has produced. It probably seems silly to you. A man should be doing something more valuable with his time than cultivating flowers.” Belmont laughed sharply. “That is what my father always said. The greenhouse was Mother’s passion. Unfortunately, I inherited her interests rather than his.”
Jody straightened to look at him. “Not unfortunate. What you’ve grown here is far more worthwhile than increasing wealth just for the sake of having more money. I wish my father understood the concept.” He took a breath and plunged back into lying. “I’m not interested in inheriting our mining interests. Father sent me to London to speak to potential investors as a test, I suppose. There are strong indications of gold in this new mine, but I would rather be doing almost anything than approaching men I’ve never met and trying to entice them to place their trust in an exploratory venture.”
Jody trailed a finger through the crumbled dirt at the edge of the flower bed. “When I’ve done what I was sent to do, I hope I can gather the confidence to tell Father I plan to step back from our family business.”
“What do you want to do instead?”
“Travel. I don’t know quite where. Perhaps to the United States. I should quite like to see the Wild West.” Some truth there. If he ever had cash enough all at once, he’d buy a ticket to America and leave before Lassiter could wheedle him out of it. Jody sifted soil between his fingers. “May I touch one of the plants? Their leaves look so soft.”
“Certainly, so long as you’re gentle.”
“I’m always gentle,” Jody murmured as he moved to a bed with flowers in full bloom.
Belmont stood near him. “The blossoms are hardier than they look. As long as they have the proper climate and growing matter, these plants thrive even in cloudy London. Although they come from tropical places, they exist under a forest canopy, so they cannot bear direct light.”
Jody stroked the bright pink petals of one of the ornate flowers. It was indeed soft, and the glossy leaves at the base were smooth as silk to the touch.
Belmont touched another broad leaf on the same plant. “I fear I’m rather like these plants, overly protected and dependent on certain conditions. My life has been constrained, and I’ve become rooted in routine. I agreed to Alden’s outing simply to try something new. I don’t wish to associate with his set again, but I’m very glad I went tonight else I would not have met you.”
“I feel the same. I did not care to meet Alden’s friends, but look where it has led.” Jody stroked the back of Belmont’s hand with one dirty finger.
Belmont turned his hand so their fingers could entwine and slide around each other in a warm caress. Far less of a touch than the hungry groping in the carriage, yet it affected Jody even more powerfully. His body throbbed with a longing that went beyond a desire to fuck. The powerful wash of emotion unnerved him. He snatched his hand away as though from a hot stove.
Belmont gave a startled look. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just…” Jody was rarely at a loss, but just then, he was torn between two desires: to lean Belmont over with his hands clutching the edge of a flower box and roger him soundly or to flee this stuffy room filled with dangerous feelings. Both options seemed equally appealing.
In a panic, he broke Lassiter’s rule of never embroidering facts beyond what was absolutely necessary. Adding too much detail might trip him up later.
“You see, I was recently with a man for a rather long time. Our friendship ended on very bad terms, and it has left me rather gun-shy. I do want to be with you, but just now I am…” Rattled, confused, losing my mind and my sense of purpose. “I am not ready to further our…friendship at this moment, but I do want to meet again. Might we set a time and place?”
“Absolutely! How long will you be in town? I’m certain your schedule is much busier than mine. Tell me where and when you wish to meet, and I’ll be there.”
Belmont was so easy, never doubting his new acquaintance meant exactly what he said. What a fool to trust a stranger! Such blind innocence made Jody wish to slap the stars out of Belmont’s eyes and wake him to reality.
“Shall we walk in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon if the day is clear?”
“That sounds lovely. What say we meet at the Marble Arch at one o’clock?”
Jody nodded. They could retreat to someplace more private if the day took a turn, but first he wanted to be in a wide-open place as he spun his web of deception. Explaining he’d just come from an investors’ meeting, he would have a satchel full of forged documents with him.
Ever so gently—because Jody was always gentle—he would entice Belmont to ask to see them. Every step of the way, the mark must be the one to initiate things and to imagine he was in control.
Chapter Six
Cyril smiled up at the little sheep clouds dotted across the blue sky-meadow and thanked God for fine weather that followed the morning’s light rain. Only after Wentworth had left the previous night did Cyril realize he had
no way of contacting the man should the weather dictate a change of venue for their meeting. Wentworth had never mentioned the name of the hotel where he stayed.
His smile vanished as Cyril wondered if it had been a purposeful omission. Perhaps his new acquaintance would not come today and had never meant to. That story about a broken heart might have been a fabrication to spare Cyril’s feelings. The truth could be he was not interested in furthering their friendship.
Doubts are a wasteful extravagance, my son. Consider them dispassionately if they are legitimate. If they are not, do not allow them to deter you from your purpose. Mother’s voice was as clear today as if she spoke near his ear. Perhaps she did, continuing to impart wisdom from the Great Beyond. If the Spiritualists were right, the ability to commune with the departed was possible, but perhaps it didn’t require a séance or psychic. Perhaps it was as easy as opening one’s mind to memories and heeding advice given long ago.
Cyril bought a newspaper from a passing boy and took a seat on a nearby bench. When Wentworth arrived, he would see an unconcerned man reading the headlines. If the man didn’t come within the next hour, Cyril would fold up his paper and go to lunch on his own. He would not be disappointed or start enumerating any personal flaws which may have lost Wentworth’s interest. For the most part, Cyril liked who he was and was perfectly capable of being “sufficient unto himself,” as the philosopher Epictetus had said. Just because a particular man wasn’t interested in him did not mean he was undesirable.
“Sorry I’m late. I took the Tube and got a little lost down there. I’ve never before ridden in an underground train.”
Cyril looked up at the silhouette against the sun that seemed to rise along with his heart and stood to greet Wentworth. “No matter. I took the time to read the paper. But I am very glad you came,” he admitted.
Wentworth lifted his straw boater, ran a hand through his hair, and returned the hat to a rakish angle. “I want to apologize again for my behavior yesterday.” He glanced around for anyone within earshot. “To lead you toward…certain expectations, then change my mind was unpardonably rude.”
“No trouble. If you merely wish for a friend with a listening ear, I am happy to be that and nothing more.”
It was a lie, of course. Even now, he wanted to grab Wentworth’s hand and drag him off someplace private, to go down on his knees in a barely hidden corner of the park and draw every bit of pleasure from the man. A thrill of excitement at such wildly lustful fantasy made his member stiffen. Cyril tamped down taunting images before continuing. “Shall we walk to the Serpentine and watch the boats?”
“Perhaps we might rent a rowboat. I’ve always longed to do that.”
Cyril wondered when, since Wentworth had never been to London before. But perhaps he’d read descriptions of boating on the river that edged the park, or meant he’d never been rowing anywhere before.
They left behind the city on the other side of the Marble Arch to enter the emerald slice of heaven in the midst of London. Whenever Cyril missed the country, he made do by strolling here. Of course, it wasn’t quite the same as striding across wilder lands with his dog foraging ahead, but at least the air seemed marginally cleaner than the usual haze of coal smoke.
He felt acutely aware of the man walking in sync with him and found himself beginning to breathe the same rhythm. It was as if they were connected by invisible tendrils. An odd feeling to have about someone he scarcely knew.
“Tell me more about your home,” Cyril requested. “Paint a picture of what India is like.”
“The countryside is green and lush. The city is crowded and smelly. Bangalore is more similar to London than you might imagine despite differences in clothing, customs, and language. Poverty and wealth rubbing shoulders.” Wentworth changed the subject by pointing at the sky. “Look. Kites above the treetops.”
They headed toward an open area on the far side of the grove to find children and their parents enjoying a rare day together. Geometric bits of colored paper soared high overhead like oversized butterflies. Laughter and excited shouts resounded in the clearing, but one small boy cried loudly over a shredded kite. Nanny consoled him while his parents distanced themselves from noise. Another pair of boys argued about one of them not running fast enough and the other not letting go of the kite at the right moment to make it take flight.
Cyril regarded the scene with a smile. “What a charming sight. It reminds me of flying kites with Father. Only one time, yet the day remains vivid in my memory. Have you similar recollections?” He glanced at Wentworth and glimpsed a smile before the man shook his head.
“No. I don’t recall ever flying a kite. I was occupied with other things.”
“Did you have an Ayah to look after you?” Cyril had looked up the name for an Indian nanny.
“Yes. She was old and half deaf, which is how it was possible for me to play with Ishan and escape for hours at a time. But most of my time, I spent alone reading. Perhaps too much.” Wentworth pointed out the two lads ready to come to blows over how to fly their kite. “Maybe it wasn’t all bad being an only child.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I should have liked to have a brother or sister to bicker with.” Cyril shrugged. “I did have a good companion in my dog, Rollie. He lived to the ripe old age of eighteen, and I haven’t had the heart to get a new pup since then. If I get another dog, it would be a small breed. I think it would be heartless to keep a hound like Rollie in the city. How he did love to bound over the moor! Had you any pets as a child?”
“Not really. There was a cat who sometimes allowed me to pet her when she wasn’t slapping me with her claws instead.”
Wentworth shifted the satchel he carried from one hand to the other, and Cyril nodded toward it. “You mentioned having a meeting this morning. How did it go?”
“Rather well, I think. The men I spoke with seemed interested in the geological report. I wish I had had the time to leave this case at my hotel before coming here.”
“We could carry in turns. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Thank you, but it’s not heavy.” Wentworth took another look skyward at the bobbing kites and at the brothers, whose scolding mother parted them and took charge of their kite.
“Shall we carry on to the river?” he asked.
As they walked the gravel path between flower beds and under tree branches festooned with pale green buds, Wentworth said, “Enough about me. I want to know you better. Tell me of your family.”
“My parents were kind, although Father was strict and rather distant as fathers tend to be. I gained my love of orchids from my dear mother, who had such a green thumb. She died in 1893 from pneumonia, and Father a year later, due to a heart condition. I have still to grow accustomed to being addressed as Lord Belmont. It is a role I feel I can never fill, and I honestly don’t wish to.”
Wentworth stopped walking. “You would consider renouncing your title. Is that even possible?”
Cyril rubbed a thumb over the head of his cane so he wouldn’t have to meet the other man’s gaze. It was precisely that note of shocked disbelief that had kept him from admitting defeat. Society would be nearly as horrified as if he admitted publicly that he liked having sexual relations with men.
“I’m considering. But please, keep this information to yourself. I should not have said it aloud.”
“A secret for a secret,” Wentworth promised. “You keep my news of a potential gold strike to yourself, and I will never breathe a word of your confidence. And then, of course, we both share another secret, don’t we?”
The allusion to those hot kisses and the frantic through-the-clothes fondling last night made Cyril sweat. He wanted… No, needed more.
He resumed walking to keep Wentworth from noticing his agitation. “Agreed. Now, please, tell me another story from India.”
“Ah well, let’s see.” Wentworth rubbed his forehead. “I once rode an elephant.”
“Really? How was it?”
“Very tall
.”
“Come now, you can’t make such an announcement and not give more detail. What were the circumstances?”
“A maharishi with whom my father has some business dealings invited our family to his palace. The elephant’s headdress and the pavilion on its back were gilded and ornate. The mahout…that is to say the driver, made the animal kneel so we could climb into the howdah. We rocked side to side until I felt quite ill and lost my lunch over the side, a memory I’ll never forget.”
They both laughed companionably as they reached the boat pavilion on the edge of the glistening Serpentine. Wentworth’s customary aura of guarded watchfulness dropped away, and boyish eagerness peeped through. “I’d rather row than hire a boatman. Will you allow me to ferry us down the river?”
Cyril smiled. “I will be happy to simply enjoy the ride while you do all the work.”
Wentworth moved so quickly toward the boat launch that Cyril had to hurry to keep up. His new friend insisted on paying the boating fee, leaving both his satchel and jacket in the care of the charter agent. Before climbing into the rowboat moored beside the dock, Wentworth removed his tie, unbuttoned his vest, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He took his place between the oar locks, and Cyril gingerly climbed into the bobbing craft.
Wentworth pulled hard on the oars. The boat sped away from the safety of shore like one of those kites that had snapped its string. Cyril could not stop watching the ripple of muscle in Wentworth’s forearms as he plied the craft. Each stroke made them dance. How wonderful it would be to have those strong, capable arms embracing him. Perhaps today, they would continue where they’d left off last night. Cyril hoped so, but he would leave the decision to Wentworth and his broken heart. He wanted to ask more about the affair that had hurt this man so deeply, but he would not be so bold as to raise the subject.
The rhythmic splash of oars hitting the water propelled the boat forward parallel with the shore. Dragonflies and swarms of gnats floated just above the water. Birds twittered in the tall grass along the riverbank. A lone swan glided majestically past. Cyril wondered if its mate sat on a nest somewhere.
