Addicted (39 page)

In the corner beside him, some young men, obviously well-to-do and of the burgeoning middling class, laughed and giggled as they shared a pipe around a circle of friends. That had been what it was like in Cambridge. Except Broughton had always vomited from the taste and Wallingford had more often than not passed out after one or two inhalations, leaving him free to smoke as much as he liked.

There were always whores in an opium den, and Tran’s was
no different. Tran was a man of discriminating taste. Only the finest Oriental beauties with their black shining hair and exotic eyes were employed by him. On occasion, Tran was able to procure local London girls with their famed peach-colored skin and ample bosoms.

“Here is pipe,” Tran said, holding out the bamboo stick. Bending down, Tran placed a brazier at Lindsay’s feet and lit it with a sulphur match. “You want girl this time?”

Lindsay looked about and saw a petite Asian girl eyeing him intently. She was lovely and exotic with long, straight, black hair that would wrap nicely around his hands and his body, and perhaps, in the days before he knew Anais carnally, he might have motioned her over to him. There they would have shared the pipe and shed their clothes in front of everyone. Sex was out in the open in a den, so that one could fuck and smoke at the same time. It had never bothered him before, but it disturbed him now. He couldn’t imagine anyone seeing Anais beneath him as he made love to her. He couldn’t imagine smoking opium while Anais watched him.

Suddenly he felt dirty and shameful, like a leper begging in the streets. He never wanted Anais to find him here. Never wanted her to see him smoking opium.

Not before tonight had he felt any shame in smoking. So what was different now? What made the very thought of lying down on this cushion and smoking the pipe so unpalatable?

“That girl?” Tran asked as he broke into a smile and pointed at the woman on the other side of the den. “Pretty girl. She please you.”

“Not tonight, Tran.”

Tran bowed and left him to prepare his pipe. Most men of Lindsay’s class preferred to have a servant sit with them and prepare the opium while they lounged about. He, on the other hand, preferred to do it himself. He enjoyed the slow seduction, the allure of preparing it, waiting for it, hearing it calling to him.

Crouching on his feet, he opened the tin that housed the opium and pinched some of the aromatic black strands that resembled tea leaves. Weighing it, he was satisfied he was using just the right amount to produce the desired effects. Placing the opium in the warming pan, he poured some water in the reservoir of the pipe and waved it over the heated brazier.

This was where the opium became a mistress. This was when she was to be coaxed and coddled so that she would produce a satisfying round of intercourse.

As he waited, Lindsay continued to look around and noticed that the once-giggling and boisterous young men were now sleeping deeply on their sides. One of Tran’s servants was blowing out the flame of the brazier while the Asian beauty he had seen earlier was busy rifling through the sleeping men’s pockets. Lindsay wondered how many times his own pockets had been picked while he lay in an opium-induced dream.

Below him, a sailor made a gurgling sound and flopped onto his back. Lindsay waited to see the rise and fall of his chest, but it remained utterly still. Another soul lost to the opium den, he thought with his characteristic detachment.

He had seen many die from smoking too much. He had seen many—men and women—sell everything, even themselves, for just another chance at the pipe. And as if to prove himself right, a young man barely into his twenties crouched beside him.

“Some company, guv’ner?” he asked. “I can do anything you want, if you’ll only share what yer havin’.”

Lindsay looked at the man and saw that his body was wasted and thin. The boy was dying and opium was his disease.

“Well, guv? How about it? A little pleasure, for a little opium?” The man—a boy, really—leaned forward and whispered, “I can give you mouth play. And from the looks of yer trousers, yev got something big beneath that fancy fabric.”

Lindsay dropped the pipe to the ground. He stood and saw the boy’s eyes go wide and begin to shine. “I knew that’s what ye wanted, guv’ner. A strong man likes to have his cock mouthed from time to time, isn’t that right?”

“Have it,” Lindsay growled and turned away to reach for his jacket.

“What’s that, guv?”

“You may have it. I’ll fix another.”

Lindsay left his spot and motioned for Tran to set him up with another kit.

“How about back room?” Tran motioned to a pair of crimson satin curtains with gold embroidered dragons. He had never gone to the back room, preferring the decadence of his own opulent den. Smoking with others had never been a priority to him. For so many, the company of other habitués is what drove people to the dens. For him, he had never wanted to be bothered by other people. It was the solitary moments of dreams and blissful surrender to the opium that seduced him.

Tran parted the curtain, and Lindsay followed him through. It was another world. One of Eastern decadence. There was flesh everywhere, writhing and moving. Smoke tendrils rose and
danced, curling along bodies. The scent of the alluring vapors drew him in.

This is what he wanted. Escape. To run and never feel. The back of his brain throbbed with the need for opium. The smell of it had raised his pulse made his breathing harsh and short.

A black-haired beauty, naked, walked toward him with her hand outstretched. “Come. I take care of you.”

Blindly, Lindsay followed her, obeying the call of the opium.

24

“Vallery, go to bloody hell,” Lindsay snarled as he pressed his face into the pillow, trying to shut out the lights and sounds of life that surrounded him.

“I’ve been there for the past three days, with you.”

“That’s what I pay you for,” he grumbled. “Now get me another pipe.
Please,
” he added when he peered through his lashes and saw his valet scowling.

“You’re killing yourself,” Vallery grunted beneath Lindsay’s weight as he rolled him onto his back.

“Good. P’raps the memories will finally die, too.”

“Listen to me,” Vallery spat, taking Lindsay’s face in his big, leathery hands and giving him a good shake. “You do not want to die. You might think so now, but you’ll regret it when the deed’s done.”

“Not likely. I’ve other regrets I find more pressing, I’m afraid.”

Vallery glared at him as he pulled him up from the pillows to stand. “I find your humor lacking, milord.”

“Do you? I thought I was lightening the mood. It’s gotten
rather morose in here, what with you constantly prophesizing about my bad end.”

“What other end can come out of this?” Vallery snapped.

“I’m not trying to do myself in, if that is what you’re insinuating. Good God, that’s far too dramatic for me. Besides, it reeks of a bad opera that one might see in Covent Garden.
Tortured Aristocrat Turned Opium Fiend,
” Lindsay drawled with a dramatic flare, “it’s like those Minerva novels my mother used to read, all melodrama and more hype than content.”

“If you’re not trying to kill yourself, then what the bloody devil are you doing?”

“Trying to survive, Vallery,” he murmured, “the only way I know how.”

“I’ve never seen you in such a bad way with the opium before.”

“That is because I’ve never used this much before. I believe this is what is meant by the downward spiral. I’m spinning in a vortex, Vallery, and it feels so bloody good. So good that I can’t stand to think about not having it.”

“A truly disconcerting notion, milord.”

Lindsay eyed his valet. “Did you ever just stand in the grass with your feet bare and the sun shining upon your face as you held your arms out wide and spun until you were so dizzy that you fell to the ground? And when you opened your eyes the blue sky was above you swirling, so, too, were the treetops and the clouds. And you would just lay there, watching the world go by in a pleasant twirl that made you smile. God, I remember such peace when I did that. And that, Vallery, is what the opium gives to me. Tranquility. A sense that everything is innocent and uncomplicated.”

Lindsay smiled faintly, remembering those days of ease. There was no opium, no regrets, no betrayals between them. There had only been him and Anais. He had been much too old to keep spinning beneath the sun, but he kept indulging in the activity because Anais would laugh and squeal, and he would watch her, then she would tumble to the ground—on top of him—and he would lie beneath her, pretending to be watching the sky, when really, he watched her and felt his body come alive beneath her lush form. She had thought him a knight in shining armor, a slayer of dragons.

Innocence and wonder. It was all lost now, save for the times when the opium ruled him. More and more, he allowed his mistress to govern his mind and body. He was dependent upon her to take the pain away. He needed her, not to die, but to live—or at the very least—exist.

Gone was the shining knight, replaced with a tarnished dragon chaser.

“You’re treading very deep and dangerous water, milord. You need to get yerself out of this.”

“Never tell an addict what he needs, Vallery, unless it is to tell him he needs more of his fix,” he snapped, irritated with Vallery and his lack of understanding of just how much Lindsay needed the opium. Not just mentally, but physically, as well. “Which, by the way, is exactly what
I
need. Now get me my opium or sod off and find yourself another job. I can have a Chinaman in here to do the task faster than you can say yen-shee boy.”

“You don’t need any more of that Shanghai poison. Now get cleaned up and clear yer head.”

“How the bloody hell do you know what I need?”

“I know you don’t need any more of that. You’ve been chasing the dragon for days.”

“And I still haven’t caught him.”

“Milord—”

“Vallery.” Lindsay placed his hands on his valet’s wide shoulders and stared down at him. “I
need
more opium.”

“No, you do not.”

“The price of my mistress’s pleasure is a complete and utter rapture. She has my mind and now she rules my body. She is calling me forth, Vallery, and she’s a painful little bitch when she doesn’t get her way.”

Vallery’s expression saddened. Lindsay looked away from it, not wanting to see his pitiful reflection in the dark brown gaze of his valet. “I feel ill, my friend. The effects of it are waning, and now I need more to feel good, to feel at least that my bones will stay within my skin and that my tremors will melt away. I need a little more. Just enough to take the edge away.”

“Not now, milord. Lord Wallingford is here.”

Lindsay shut his eyes and prayed for patience. In a few minutes the point would be moot, for he would be able to light his own spirit lamp, and heat the black gum on the silver needle. He could fix his own pipe, like he normally did. He did not know when it was that he had started to need Vallery to sit with him and fix his pipe so he had a steady supply of smoke.

“Did you hear me, milord? Lord Wallingford is here.”

“I heard you.”’

So Wallingford was still around, was he? Lindsay had done his damndest to turn his longtime friend away. Pity was some
thing he abhorred. He didn’t want anyone’s trifling pity. He didn’t want any speeches, or bloody heroics or cajoling demands to clean himself up. All he desired was a well-seasoned pipe, a never-ending supply of red smoke, and to drift off to the heavens where he didn’t have to think or feel anymore. And Christ above, he didn’t want an audience as he did it.

“It was Wallingford who helped me get you out of that rat hole in order to bring you home.”

“He needn’t have bothered,” Lindsay groaned. Scrubbing his face with shaking hands, Lindsay eyed the bamboo pipe with the jade inlay handle. His brain was throbbing, firing in pulsations that screamed,
I need opium—now.

“That hedonistic den will be the death of you.”

“As far as opium dens go, Tran’s is a virtual paradise. Have you not seen the pleasure to be found beyond those crimson-colored curtains? What a Garden of Eden. You can smoke, be fucked by an Asian whore and robbed while you idle away the hours in a fog, although I do not partake of the whores. The pickpockets, I cannot say.”

“I don’t let anyone near you,” Vallery said, “even though the women want you enough. Found one climbing on top of you the other night, her greedy little hands were in your pockets, and it wasn’t a six pence she was looking for.”

“Really?” How disturbing. He didn’t remember a blasted thing. But then, that was the point of smoking until he passed out—nothingness. Numbness. Had he been aware of her, he doubted he would have been able to rise to the occasion. He had never been one for whores.

Still, after all this time and everything that had happened,
there was only one woman he wanted crawling all over him, and that was Anais. God help him, he was a reprobate, but he could not stop thinking of how damn exciting it would be to be high on opium while he fucked her. Oh, yes, it would be beautiful to take her like that, endless hours of loving her body. Smoking and stroking, his body on top of hers, hers on top of his. His hips moving slowly at first, then with determined strokes. What a beautiful rhapsody it could be watching her back arch, seeing her expression as she came for him. She would look utterly stunning coming and shivering as he watched her through the smoky vapors that would curl around them like a gossamer cocoon.

Christ, he needed another hit of the pipe. He was beginning to feel, to experience the thaw around his heart, the heart that still beat with the faintest glimmer of hope that one day things might be like they once were.

“Lord Wallingford brings a letter from Lady Anais. She is in the district once again. Home from her aunt’s.”

Lindsay froze. It had been weeks since he had seen Anais. No, that wasn’t entirely correct. He saw her every night in his opium-fueled dreams. She was a vision, a fantasy come to life amongst the curling smoke. His dreams were all he had now. The opium was all he had.