by Bonnie Dee
He threaded his way between tables to reach the corner Toby occupied. “Hullo! Good to see you again.” Too enthusiastic! He spoke as if they’d been apart for weeks rather than a handful of hours.
Toby looked up at him with an expression Cyril could not interpret. Gloomy or guarded, he thought. But almost immediately, his face cleared in a smile that warmed Cyril down to his toes. “Good to see you again. Do sit.”
Cyril took the chair beside Toby rather than across from him, so they could speak quietly and not have to shout to be heard above the din. “Was your meeting today successful? Have you finished your business in London?”
“I have, and I sail tomorrow, I’m sorry to say. How did you spend your day?”
“Completing the sale of my country house, which should keep me solvent for a time. Now I must decide what to do going forward. Perhaps I should purchase a few shares in your mine. I might be set for life.”
Toby frowned. “I’m afraid I have no more shares to offer. At any rate, I shouldn’t like to bring a close friend into a business deal which might prove unsatisfying. It wouldn’t be right.”
Cyril ordered a glass of ale from the waiter before replying. “A poor joke on my part. I’m not intrepid enough to speculate and will need every bit from the sale of the property if I am going to travel.”
“Is that what you intend to do? What about your orchids?”
“I shall sell as many as I can and perhaps even take some seedlings with me on my journey.” Cyril caught his breath and leaped. “I thought I might see a bit more of the world. India, for example.” He studied his companion’s face, praying Toby would not wince.
His expression stilled to blankness. “India.”
“Since I now know someone who lives there. Unless…” He faltered. “If you don’t wish me to visit you there, I understand. Presumptuous of me to ask. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Toby drew a slow, audible breath. Cyril’s heart plummeted, and he braced for a refusal. Clearly, the man intended to return to his normal life. Cyril had had stars in his eyes to imagine this was more than a holiday dalliance for him.
“I hardly know how to respond,” Toby replied at last. “Naturally, I would love to host you, but as I plan to tell my father I wish to leave the family business, my life will be changing. This is not a good time to return home with a guest.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean right away. I should like to travel up to Scotland first to see the mountains. Or I might buy a steamer ticket to America and enjoy the sights of New York and other parts of that vast land.” Cyril tried to sound like a will-o’-the-wisp world traveler who might go anywhere on a whim. He smiled even as his dream died. “At any rate, we have tonight in which to enjoy a proper goodbye. Shall we go someplace more private?”
Toby gazed at his nearly empty glass. “I would dearly love to, but my ship sails very early. I can’t afford a late night or a chance of oversleeping.”
“I see. Then you must return to your lodgings early and be well rested for the journey.” Cyril remained determinedly chipper. He would not plead for a scrap of time like a mongrel. “We’ll finish our drinks, then, and say farewell. It truly has been a pleasure spending time with you.”
The frown turned to a scowl. “I’m sorry.”
“No matter. We both knew our special time could not last. What difference if we part sooner rather than later?”
Now Toby rubbed his brow smooth again. “I suppose I could see you home at the very least.”
“If you like,” Cyril replied casually. He should take to the stage for how well he portrayed indifference.
Cyril had never been so glad to see his own front door. He wanted Toby inside the house and then inside him. If this was to be their final night, he wanted to experience every aspect of lovemaking and commit every detail to memory to relive later.
They stopped on the doorstep.
“Will you come in?” Cyril asked.
Toby gazed at him with a hunger so powerful, it made Cyril’s knees weak, then he nodded.
Cyril unlocked the door. They were scarcely in the foyer before he knew something was wrong. A cool breeze blew not from behind them but from inside the house. He had not left any windows open. “Do you feel that?”
Toby had already roughly dragged him close. “I feel your body pressed against mine.” Toby pressed a kiss against Cyril’s jaw.
Cyril broke away from his embrace. “There is fresh air flowing down the hallway, and I can smell the orchids.”
He hurried toward the conservatory with Toby right behind him. Before they drew near, Toby clapped a hand on his shoulder and drew him back. “Hold back. Someone may have broken in. Let me check.”
His protective concern touched Cyril, but he was no weakling who required a white knight. Cyril stayed behind Toby down the hallway, but moved beside him as they entered Mother’s favorite sitting room. There, he froze, peering through the wide-open French doors into the conservatory. Someone had smashed enough window panes to allow entry. He’d trod through a raised bed, leaving broken glass and crushed plants in his wake. A trail of dirty footprints marked the flagstone floor and crossed the carpet of the sitting room.
“He may still be inside the house. Wait here while I check upstairs,” Toby ordered.
Cyril didn’t argue or try to stop him. He was too stunned by the wreckage of his beloved haven. He entered the solarium to find the robber had ripped some of the orchids from their soil and stuffed them into clay pots as if he intended to take the plants with him. That was mad—unless he understood their value and had come here specifically for them. Then, it seemed he’d changed his mind and decided to search the rest of the house for something of higher worth.
Cyril snapped out of his fugue state as he realized Toby had charged upstairs all alone. The intruder could be armed with a knife or cudgel. He could injure Toby or even kill him.
Cyril spun on his heel, grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from a table, and bounded up the stairs two at a time. His heart raced even faster when he heard two voices arguing inside his bedchamber. Ice flowed in his veins. He hadn’t truly believed the thief would still be in the house. Now he must play this wisely so Toby would not be attacked.
Brandishing the candlestick in both hands, Cyril moved stealthily down the corridor toward the voices. His skin was slick on the cold metal, and he wondered if he had the nerve to smash a man over the head or in the face if he had to. But before Cyril entered the room, something about the tone of the argument stopped him from entering. Toby’s voice was wrong. He spoke with a thick Cockney accent and addressed the other man as if he were no stranger.
“Wot the bloody ’ell do you think you’re doin’? There’s nothin’ here worth stealin’. Get out before I beat you to a pulp.” Toby sounded the definition of menacing, dangerous, and not a man to be trifled with.
“Fuck yerself. I’m ’ere to do the job you wouldn’t. I ain’t going to Lassiter with nuffin’ to show besides some fuckin’ plants,” the fellow bleated like an angry goat.
Do the job you wouldn’t. Cyril clutched the candlestick to his chest and studied the phrase from every angle, trying to make it mean anything other than what it sounded like. Toby had planned to steal from him? He’d “cased the joint,” as they put it in true crime periodicals, with the intent of returning later. Then he’d learned there was nothing of value. It also appeared he was in league with this fellow and with someone named Lassiter.
The stranger continued, “Anyway, them posies are supposed to be worth some dosh, so guess I’ll just take those.”
“You massive wanker, how you going to keep ’em alive now you’ve ripped ’em up by the roots? Get out before the beak gets ’ere. Climb out that window, or I’ll throw you out.”
“You’re mad! I’ll break me neck if I jump.”
“Climb down the drainpipe.” The sound of the window sliding open followed Toby’s demand.
Cyril backed a few steps down the hallway. He would not charg
e into the middle of a confrontation that had turned out to be very different from what he’d expected. The two men might beat him and leave him lying unconscious as they made their escape together. In the space of a heartbeat, everything had changed. All he believed he knew was utterly false. What a fool to imagine he knew a complete stranger after only a few meetings. Years of loneliness had made him leap at the hope he’d found someone special, but fairy-tale princes didn’t wander into one’s life like a wish come true.
Bile rose in his throat, and for a moment, he believed he might vomit. But he swallowed the sour taste and retraced his steps down the stairs, the sound of his footsteps masked by the noise of the stranger whining as he climbed out a window.
Cyril reached the front hall before stopping. What should he do next? Should he flee into the street and find the nearest policeman, or play the part of idiotic victim a bit longer? He could allow Toby to leave believing him nothing more than a naïve fool. Other than some broken glass and the destruction of a few orchids, no real harm had been done, and Cyril could not imagine trying to explain this break-in to the anyone in authority.
Toby appeared at the top of the stairs. “Are you going for a constable?”
Cyril glanced toward the front door. “I thought I might. Is everything all right upstairs?”
“Yes. Signs someone’s been rummaging around, but the robber has gone.”
“Lucky I had nothing for a thief to steal, I suppose. I wonder what made him choose this house and why he would have taken orchids, of all things.” Cyril couldn’t keep an angry edge from his tone as he stared at Toby intently. He could not keep his newfound knowledge from either his voice or his eyes.
Cyril watched Toby’s features shift through a series of emotions and pinpointed the moment he realized the game was up. “You heard us.”
“I heard.”
His mind clamored with why me? and how could you?, but Cyril would not give Wentworth the satisfaction of hearing his horrified dismay. Silence might prompt more information.
“I didn’t plan to steal from you. Not like that, anyway. I was to convince you to invest in a confidence scheme.” Wentworth began to descend the stairs.
Cyril held up a hand. “Stop right there!”
Wentworth halted his descent.
“Alden arranged our meeting. Did he tell you I had money?”
“Yes. He owed my employer a debt and offered an introduction to you as a way to pay it off. Clearly, he miscalculated your financial worth.”
All a scam—the seduction, the friendship, the sex—and he’d fallen for it as lightly as a feather drifting into a fire. Molten lead burned through his veins, then abruptly froze hard. Cyril became a statue in the hallway, a coatrack to hang things on.
“Once I learned you had no money or the means to get any, I told my employer to leave you be, so he sent this other fellow.” Wentworth jerked a thumb behind him. “I’m sorry he ruined your plants. And I’m sorry I couldn’t have taken my leave with you none the wiser. I wanted to spare your feelings.”
“Well, thank you for that,” Cyril snapped. The lead became molten again, igniting his entire body. The top of his throbbing head might explode in a fiery blaze any second. “Who are you really? Never mind. Just get out!” he shouted.
Wentworth’s erect posture dissolved into a slouch as he descended another step. He leaned into the wall, adopting the lazy posture of the bully boys who hung around the docks looking for trouble. “You ain’t callin’ the beak?” Wentworth’s accent slipped into a stranger’s harsh Cockney growl.
A shiver of nerves tickled Cyril’s spine, and he clutched his silly candlestick more tightly. “I’m sure you could thrash me to death before I got the door open. Simply leave, and I’ll clean up the mess you left behind.”
Wentworth pushed off the wall and trod the last few stairs to stop a few feet away from Cyril. “Why would you let me go without callin’ the law?”
“I don’t wish for any violence.” Cyril placed the candlestick on the floor, then straightened, palms spread. “Nor to explain any of this to the authorities.”
“Besides, I know your secret. Maybe you think I’d tell if you brought coppers into it. Say you brought me home to shag me.”
Cyril’s stomach lurched at the suggestion of blackmail. “I can’t imagine how admitting such a thing would help you. You know I possess nothing of value to buy your silence.”
“I wouldn’t try to blackmail you. Just saying its best if you don’t report any of this.” He sounded hard and dangerous, and looked like the sort of fellow you’d cross the road to avoid on a dark night. Was this Wentworth’s real face behind the mask? Had the man with the teasing voice, hungry eyes, and gentle hands ever truly existed?
“I promise you may walk away without expectation of retribution on my part. At any rate, you haven’t really done anything, have you? You never extracted so much as a penny from me.” Cyril kept his tone level and cool, a slick of ice on the surface of a boiling sea. “Leave now, and we will both pretend none of this ever happened.”
He strode to the door and opened it.
Wentworth slunk forward without removing his gaze from Cyril.
Cyril stepped back to let the man pass by, using the door as a shield to stand behind. A whiff of Wentworth’s scent wafted to him, and, God help him, Cyril’s entire being filled with aching longing for what had been stolen that night.
After slamming the door closed and locking it, Cyril gasped for breath. Blackness edged his vision, and he thought he might pass out. Surely this was what dying felt like. He huddled on the floor until the first wave of despair diminished.
Another cool draft from the hallway reminded him he must tend to his damaged plants. Some might still be salvaged if he hurried to board up the windows. It took every effort of will to stand and move toward the conservatory. Sweeping shattered glass would distract him from wallowing in the tattered bits of his heart that littered the front hall.
Gullible! Foolish victim! Unlovable! Cyril shut down his mind’s taunts and focused on working to save his plants, fragile, helpless dependents that would never betray him.
Chapter Eleven
Later, Jody could not remember his trip across London to Lassiter’s flat. Pure rage carried him in the hot breath of its beak. Fury made him strong. It was better than sobbing at the hurt, lost look in Cyril’s eyes when he realized he’d been betrayed. Better to howl in rage than in sorrow. By the time he reached Lassiter’s place, he’d built up a head of steam to rival a locomotive.
Jody slammed open the door to confront the old man swathed in a shawl and sitting close to the stove. “What the bloody ’ell have you done? I told you to leave Belmont go and you send Simonds? I told you the man had nothing worth stealing!”
Lassiter slowly set down his glass of gin and reached for his walking cane before he replied, “Have you forgot all my lessons? I told you there’s always something worth nicking in a toff’s house, even one who’s fallen on hard times. Simonds collected enough trinkets to make up for the time you wasted on Belmont. May not be the payday we dreamed of, but they’ll fetch a decent sum.”
Jody looked around the room that had once housed a group of boys as well as Lassiter, but saw no items he recognized from Cyril’s house.
“Already sold by now,” Lassiter said. “Simonds stopped in, then went to the fence. Surprised it took you so long to get here. What kept you? Trouble with your little lovebird?”
The words of his exchange with Cyril exploded like mines in a field. Jody tried not to recall them. Their brief conversation had given Simonds a head start. Whatever he took must have fit in the pockets of his coat.
“You fuckin’ bastard.” Jody advanced upon Lassiter. “You right fuckin’ bastard. Why couldn’t you ’ave just let this one be?”
Lassiter clutched his cane tighter. “Easy, lad. Can’t put a yolk back in a shell. What’s done is done. You fell for the mark and didn’t have it in you to skin ’im, so I sent a m
an who could. You always did have too much heart. It’s yer weakness.”
Jody loomed over the old man. “Give me the money,”
“I don’t have it yet, but you’ll get a cut later—after Simonds, who did the work.”
Jody braced his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping Lassiter. “Not that money. All your money. What you’ve saved up all these years.”
Wide, watery eyes stared innocently at him. “I have nothing—nothing, my dear. I live hand to mouth, as you well know. It costed a lot to keep you lads warm, clothed, and fed…”
“That’s shite. You always held on to most everything we brought in. So where’s your bank?”
Lassiter pressed back into his chair, away from Jody’s rage. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You’ve planned ‘final’ heists for your retirement more than once. You’ve never spent much on this place, your clothes, or the boys who once worked for you, so it has to be somewhere.”
Lassiter’s single darting glance toward the brickwork behind the coal stove aimed Jody toward his goal. He walked over to examine the wall, and one scan showed him what he’d been too blind to notice over the years. A few bricks were tamped into place without any mortar between them, down low and hidden behind the stove.
Jody knelt and pried one brick free. Behind it was a hole, and inside the hole, the edge of a canvas bag. He started loosening another brick, the heat from the stove singeing the hair on the back of his hand.
“No! You can’t,” the elderly man screeched as if pleading for a child’s life. “Don’t take it from me.”
Jody continued to work the bricks free one by one, leaning away from the stovepipe to keep from burning himself. Suddenly, something slammed across his back, knocking him off his feet. He reached out to stop the fall and seared his hand on the stovepipe. Before he fully landed on the hot cast iron, Jody twisted to end face-up on the floor—in time to see Lassiter lift his cane again.
Time sped up and slowed to a crawl simultaneously. The bloody rage in the man’s eyes told Jody his mentor was about to split his head open if he could land a blow. There was no doubt in his mind Lassiter would continue thrashing him with the makeshift cudgel until Jody was either unconscious or lifeless.
