The Uncertain Customer (2 page)

Raising an eyebrow in moderate interest, Wilcox settled in to drink, more interested in the alcohol itself than in its origins. “So,” he said after Church had finally taken a seat on the adjacent chaise longue. “You said you had a story for me.”

“Ah, indeed. And it’s one to which you should pay close attention if you’re tired of risking life and limb on the docks for a simple dalliance.”

Sleepy though he was from his overindulgence, the implication made Wilcox bristle. “And how else do you suggest I go about it? Proposition the son of a peer at court?” He snorted and slumped further down into his chair. “I haven’t the slightest interest in spending time in Newgate simply because I desire to scratch an itch.”

“So, you’ll just continue to make do with the occasional sailor or young man from the stews willing to suckle your cock for a spare farthing?” Church shook his head, ignoring the dark glare he received at the crude description. “That, my dear friend, is the way to a knife in the gut and an early grave.”

“You have a better way, I take it?”

Wilcox felt no hesitation in asking such a delicate question. He remembered vividly the drunken night in the junior common room of Trinity College when Church had confessed to sharing his proclivities. He’d never had reason to doubt his friend’s sincerity, but as he was well aware, Church wasn’t exclusive with his preferences with regard to gender. Wilcox had witnessed firsthand as his friend debauched the highest and lowest the demimonde had to offer. Not a week ago, he’d had a first row seat to precisely such a scene. He’d watched uncomfortably as Church, his pants around his ankles, stuffed his cock into some nameless strumpet in a dimly lit upper room at the Great Northern in King’s Cross. He’d been woefully unable to keep his gaze from fixing intently on Church’s arse, the flexing and bunching of muscles shifting beneath the pale flesh leaving him aching for his own release. As for the woman, even Wilcox had to acknowledge her beauty, but she’d left him completely unmoved. Unmoved and angry with himself that he was unable to respond to the sight of her painted lips, flushed cheeks, and the dusky rose of her exposed nether regions. Of the vanishingly few close friends who knew of his affliction, only Church had never asked him to try and explain why he felt no desire for female companionship. That was merely one of the reasons he felt such reluctant affection for the otherwise maddening fellow.

“Of course, I do,” Church replied, briskly waving away the notion that he didn’t have an answer for every little thing that plagued Wilcox’s life. Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out a small card. “I have been carrying this around on the off chance that you tired of trying to get yourself killed.” He flicked the card toward Wilcox. “You see, I met the most interesting gentleman at this delightfully tawdry pub near Covent Garden a few weeks ago.”

Resisting the urge to ask why Church had such an incomprehensible compulsion to talk to strangers in seedy pubs, Wilcox squinted at the card. It was muted in color, and the embossed letters were difficult to see since Mrs. Good had neglected to light any of the candles resting in the sconces along the walls in favor of the fire burning merrily in the hearth. Bracing his legs beneath him, Wilcox pushed himself up from his chair and weaved a path over to the fireplace so he could better read the tiny print.

“The Garden.” Wiping away the dampness that beaded his upper lip from the heat, Wilcox tossed an annoyed glare toward Church, who grinned at him in recumbent splendor. “As though I have any interest in horticulture.”

“Tut-tut!” Church interjected, holding up a hand to stop Wilcox before he could incinerate the rectangular piece of cardstock. “This is not merely some run-of-the-mill hothouse.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially, even though they were completely alone. “I heard through a certain like-minded grapevine that the flowers there are particularly choice.”

Wilcox breathed an exasperated sigh, his capacity for riddles erased by the senseless amount of alcohol he had consumed that evening. “Enough with your bloody theatrics, man. Speak plainly, or I’m going to sleep.” He flopped back into his abandoned seat, card still in hand, and partially closed his eyes to make good on his threat.

“You have no sense of drama.” Church made a moue of distaste. “Very well, then. The Garden, as it’s called, is a brothel stabled entirely of beautiful young men. There, is that direct enough for you?”

That got his attention, and no mistake. Wilcox straightened and stared across at his grinning friend. “You’re serious.”

“Of course.” Church tilted his head curiously. “Have you never considered that flesh peddlers have just as much interest in catering to the interests of the few as to those of the many?” Graceful fingers pushed away a blond lock that had fallen into his face. “Those in the business of making money will find a way to do so, whatever the risk. Demand and supply, my good fellow. It is the law which rules us all.”

“But, how do they remain unnoticed by the authorities? I mean, surely they can’t be operating out in the open.”

Female prostitution had long been recognized as an unavoidable evil, and brothels that catered to ordinary men generally went unmolested. Save for the institution of the Contagious Diseases Acts, meant to protect customers from the nasty, unintended consequences of their illicit dalliances, the legal system more or less turned a blind eye. Not so for those of his ilk. Sodomy, while no longer punishable by death, was still a crime warranting grievous punishment.

Church pointed at the object in Wilcox’s hand. “Like the card says, ‘Purveyors of Fine Flowers and Exotic Teas.’ A brothel that fronts as a greenhouse and tea shop. Well, I think it’s bloody brilliant,” he sniffed when Wilcox continued to look skeptical.

This so-called “brothel” sounded like nothing but a sham. Such a place could not possibly exist, not outside of Wilcox’s most secret fantasies at any rate. “Have you visited the place yourself?” he asked, certain of the answer. Church might be many things, but a fool was not one of them. No one made an excessive fortune in banking by the tender age of twenty-nine, as he had, by being feebleminded. His friend would never risk such exposure.

“Of course not. I would never go without you, which is why I’ve made an appointment for the both of us to visit a week from now.” Church smiled benignly at the horrified look he received at this pronouncement.

Wilcox sputtered, unable to form a coherent response for nearly a full minute. “Are you insane?” he finally managed.

Church took a moment, as though he were seriously considering the accusatory question. “I don’t believe so.”

“This so-called brothel is most certainly a ruse,” Wilcox tried again. “The police will likely be waiting to apprehend us the moment we arrive.”

“Oh, it’s very real.” Church stood and stretched, his long arms allowing his hands to brush against the bottom crystals of the overhanging chandelier. “That new acquaintance I mentioned, he was quite elaborate in his description of the place. Plus, his family owes me quite a bit of money, so lying would be most imprudent on his part.”

Wilcox had to concede the point. If the man did business with Church, then his story was likely true. After all, who would make up such a dangerous ploy and relate it to someone who could have you thrown in jail as well as ruin you financially? “Still, it all seems most unbelievable,” he mumbled, bemused by the very idea.

“Believe it,” Church answered. “We’ll go, have a few sips of tea, and sample the flowers. What say you?” He approached Wilcox and clapped him heartily on the back. “And this way, I won’t have to worry about the bobbies fishing your bloodless corpse out of the river.”

Wilcox blinked at the genuine note of worry in his friend’s voice. Back at Oxford, shortly after they’d first met, he’d considered pursuing a connection with Church. Tall and graceful, with a slender yet strong build reminiscent of a dancer. Blond hair more lustrous than gold and animated emerald green eyes that could break a man’s heart. Church was undoubtedly beautiful. But, in the end, having Church as a friend was far more important than having him in the more base sense, no matter how difficult Wilcox often found keeping his hands to himself. It would be foolish to read too much into this show of concern. Church was ever the trickster, mockery far more at home on his mercurial features than solemnity. Even so, Wilcox couldn’t stop himself from being touched by the consideration.

“Fine,” he said, knuckling beneath Church’s demands as he’d done for the past fourteen years. “Now, show me to my room, or you’ll have to drag me up the stairs.” Contenting himself with the sound of his friend’s laughter, Wilcox tried not to think about all the ways their prospective adventure could end in disaster.

“T
HIS
DOESN
’
T
look like the way to Soho to me.”

Wilcox spoke sotto voce to prevent the driver from overhearing his observation. As if the man cared what the swells in his cab were yammering on about. By the look and smell of him, they’d be lucky if they didn’t end up turned over in a ditch courtesy of alcohol-fueled carelessness. Wilcox had earned the sense of moral superiority. Days had passed since he’d indulged in the comfort of Church’s largesse, and he was as sober as his friend’s surname. Which was a pity, since it allowed him the wherewithal to deeply ponder—for the twentieth time—why this was an incredibly bad idea.

“That’s because we’re not going to Soho.” Church’s sanguine expression betrayed nothing as he stared idly out of the window at the passing scenery. Southampton Row was fairly quiet, permitting the cab to trundle down the street at a good clip. Only the few souls who were late leaving the Museum were about to disturb the stillness.

Wilcox struggled not to roll his eyes at Church’s deliberate vagueness. “Then where are we going? I thought all of the pleasure houses were there these days. Or, at least the ones where you’re more likely than not to escape with your throat intact.”

Church smiled indulgently as he might to a small dim-witted child. He pulled the curtain across the window, hiding their trajectory. Wilcox rolled his eyes at the unnecessary mystery. “All of the pleasure houses that cater to those of mundane predilections, perhaps. It would be the perfect location to call attention to oneself if one were running the type of establishment that could fall afoul of the authorities.”

“Seems like hiding among others of a similar ilk would be a wise course,” Wilcox commented, bracing his hand against the door as the cab made a sharp right.

“Ah, except that a house full of pretty boys might seem somewhat odd midst the painted birds of Soho.”

Wilcox grunted in agreement. “I suppose I can see the sense of that. So, where are we headed?” he repeated, attempting to bring the conversation back around to his original point. The hansom swung left, and Wilcox rapped his fist against the roof to express his displeasure at the driver’s recklessness.

In lieu of answering, Church drew back the curtain once more. “Just there, as luck would have it.”

Wilcox leaned toward his friend and looked out over his shoulder, trying to ignore the unique scent that wafted toward his nose this close to Church. An enticing blend of sandalwood, cedar, and almond, Church had commissioned it personally from the finest perfumer off Piccadilly Circus. Shifting as much as he dared to adjust the suddenly uncomfortable fit of his trousers, Wilcox searched about for what had drawn his friend’s attention. “Covent Garden?” he asked skeptically. The distinctive semicircular arches of glass rose over the rooftops of the buildings lining the corner as they turned off Drury Lane and onto Russell Street.

“Or thereabouts,” Church confirmed.

“Seems a conspicuous place for such an undertaking.” Although distressingly close to the Seven Dials, the area around Covent Garden itself bustled with those availing themselves of the busy market. Men, women, and children were underfoot and under carriage, making the going slow as they crept down Russell toward Bow Street.

“Well, I should say Neil’s Yard, to be more precise.”

Wilcox shot Church a look. He had been in Town every year since he’d turned thirteen, and he had no clue what his friend was talking about. “Neil’s Yard? Where in the bloody hell is that?”

“Just off Queen Street, in the Dials.” Church was looking smug, as though thrilled to know something about London that Wilcox did not.

“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” Wilcox grumbled. “But Queen Street, you say? Surely we could have found a more direct route.” The cab took a cautious right due to the crowd. “We came too far down Drury Lane, and now we’re near the Opera House, for Christ’s sake.” He shot the driver a gimlet glare. “Or is this fellow trying to extort us?”

“Relax,” Church soothed. “He’s going exactly the way I told him to go. I thought if we took the shortest way, you wouldn’t have time to properly work up a good case of nerves regarding our little quest.”

Wilcox struggled against the profound desire to punch the grinning buffoon in his full-lipped mouth. “Oh, ha-ha,” he replied, settling for the note of faked humor as he retreated back to his side of the cab.

The hansom crawled even more slowly toward Long Acre Street as the driver worked to avoid the late-night shoppers scurrying home. The opera was holding a performance that night, and carriages dropping off patrons brought them to a near standstill. The area near the main entrance was particularly congested as no one wanted to walk any farther than was strictly necessary in order to avoid the worst of the stinging wind. Sighing, Wilcox slouched on the uncomfortable seat, unwilling to give Church the victory of acknowledging the growing butterflies in his stomach. He couldn’t account for his apprehension. It wasn’t as if he were a stranger to licentious partnerships between men. He had been indulging his fancy with servant boys and boarding house lads from the day of his fifteenth birthday, when the stable groom who cared for his father’s horse had given him a ride of an entirely different kind. And it wasn’t the potentially ruinous nature of their endeavor that worried him. If that were a concern, he would never have been on the docks to proposition that sailor.