The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (5 page)

Footsteps shuffled by along the sidewalk on the street. Someone mounted our front steps and rang the bell. I heard the front door open and muted voices. Collins thanked the visitor--one of Goddard's messengers, I'd have wagered from the brevity of the exchange--and shut the door.

"I'll get the dog back," I said.

"You're damned right you will." Goddard turned. Some of the color was coming back to his face, and the familiar arrogance returning to his voice. "But first, Dr. Hendricks will have a look at that bruise."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the door opened. The room filled with the rich aroma of coffee that Goddard chose himself, and which Collins roasted and ground to specification.

"Just put it on the bedside table," Goddard said.

Goddard walked over to the wardrobe and opened it, sighing as if he'd expected something other than the row of identical white silk shirts facing him. Laying out the day's clothing was Collins's job, and before remembering the tray in his hands the manservant started toward the wardrobe.

"On the table, please, Collins," I said.

The manservant regarded me with a disdainful flick of his eyes, but eventually crossed to the bedside table. He reverently placed the
Literary Quarterly
into the table drawer before setting down a small pot and a single china cup, sparing me not so much as a sneer. Goddard and I had shared a bed for two years. The manservant had to have seen me in that very spot a hundred times, in a hundred different states of undress. Yet each time he addressed Goddard as if they were the only ones in the room. Like his adamant refusal to call me "Mr. Ira," which would have indicated he considered me a member of the household rather than a fellow employee, pretending that I wasn't actually in Goddard's bed was a subtle but unmistakable snub.

"Sir," Collins began.

"I thought I said..."

Goddard's voice trailed off when he saw the envelope that Collins was tapping against his fleshy palm: white stationery with dark ink. My heart stopped.

"Good God, not another one," Goddard said.

"No, sir," Collins replied, his tone reflecting pleasant surprise. "Actually, it arrived just now from the chancellor's office."

Goddard sucked in a sharp breath.

"Then that's it," he said. "They've decided."

"I daresay it appears that way...Professor."

Though Goddard's criminal enterprises had brought him wealth beyond measure, he'd always felt that his proper place was in the ivory tower of academia. It sounds strange, I know. And yet he'd undertaken my own education with such thoroughness and patience that he'd convinced me as well. It was a shame the rest of the world didn't see it that way. Since his dismissal from Cambridge he'd spent as much time trying to insinuate himself back into the academic fold as he had buying judges and brothels. Yet no matter how many brilliant monographs he produced, it seemed clear that he was never going to go further than occasional evening lectureship at King's.

Until now.

"Phillips is retiring after this term," Goddard said as I pushed my way between them. "They have to give his post to me. The rest of them have five years' experience between them, and a handful of articles, if that. I can't look, Ira. Read it to me."

He thrust the paper into my hand. My heart raced as I took in the symbol of the college--the shield with its blue bar, red cross, and the tome at the top, covers splayed out like wings.

"'Esteemed Dr. Goddard,'" I began. I smiled at him. "That sounds promising."

He began pacing, his crimson dressing gown billowing behind him. I tried to read ahead, to soften any blows before they came.

"Well?" Goddard demanded.

"He wants you to meet with him at ten o'clock this morning in his office."

He stopped."That's all?"

I held up the letter. His dark eyes darted over the lines once, twice.

"Of course. He would want to tell me the news in person. Yes, quite."

Goddard raked his fingers through his rumpled hair. Between his avid pursuit of the fighting arts and his meticulous diet, he had not only managed to retain the physique of a much younger man, but also to keep the gray hair confined to a distinguished dusting at each temple. The combination of power and dignity never failed to stir me. I wondered what sort of salary a professor commanded.

"Leave us." Goddard dismissed the manservant with a wave. "Have some coffee, Ira."

"I'd prefer buttered rum," I said.

"
-Buttered rum
?" He laughed as if I'd been joking, while filling the little china cup. "Why, the day is just beginning, dear boy. The time for sleep is over. Drink and be refreshed. So Lazarus took the dog, but he doesn't have it anymore?"

"That's about the size of it," I said.

"Hmm."

The prospect didn't seem to vex him as it had in the dead of night. Now he stroked his mustache as if entertaining a philosophical question. I watched him cross back to the wardrobe, where he withdrew one of the identical silk shirts and held it up before discarding it onto the floor. When a second shirt joined the first, I realized that he'd simply traded one vexation for another. When he picked up a third, I set the coffee down.

"Cain, that's no way to treat silk."

Goddard was a man of contrasts. One of the most powerful men in London, he was consumed with concern about what to wear to a meeting with a stiff-collared chancellor whom he could buy and sell a thousand times over.

And though it was no little relief for my failure to be forgotten for the moment, I did hate to see him suffer.

"First," I said, taking the third shirt from his hands and replacing it in the wardrobe, "we choose the suit. Large details before small."

I might have spent the first twenty-three years of my life wearing other men's rags, but Goddard knew no valet could put together an ensemble better than I. He relaxed visibly while I chose a jacket and trousers in charcoal. The matching waistcoat also got the nod, though the crimson flecks did give him a moment's hesitation.

He balked when it came to the bright crimson cravat, however.

"No," he said. "Absolutely not."

"Trust me."

I opened a small drawer atop one of the wardrobe shelves, drawing out a silver stickpin with a ruby tip. I held it against the cravat. I considered putting the pin back in the drawer, but imagining how smashing it would look against the black silk I'd later tie around my own neck, I pocketed it instead.

"The suit is somber enough for the occasion, but not so formal as to let the chancellor think that he has the upper hand. The pattern of the waistcoat may seem a bit
outre
to your conservative tastes, but it makes you look like a man of the world."

"But the
tie
."

I smoothed the satin lapels of his robe.

"I bought it for your last birthday," I said.

"Oh. Well, then." He paused to smooth an errant curl from my forehead. "Dear boy, with you in my corner, how can I fail?"

"Now we're ready for a shirt," I said. "Might I suggest the white one?"

I leaned against the iron footboard and watched him put on the outfit I'd assembled. Sometimes our interactions took on a semblance of domestic routine that would have made it easy to forget my place. Goddard and I might be lovers, but I had begun as his whore. At some level, he still thought of me that way.

And whatever affection I might feel, the worst mistake a whore can make is to fall in love with a client.

"So," Goddard said, tucking his shirt into his trousers, "how do you intend to get the dog back?"

"I thought I'd start by asking at the clinic."

He had slid one arm into the waistcoat before stopping. The garment now hung precariously from his shoulder.

"Not Lazarus's clinic?"

"Of course, Lazarus's clinic. Everyone passes through there at some point, and Nurse Brand knows them all by name. Wait," I said. "You're not jealous?"

I was tempted to remind Goddard that I'd cut off Lazarus--and the rest of my regulars--for him. Having slammed that door shut behind me, it was preposterous to think that I'd jeopardize my present position by considering that penniless twit Lazarus as anything more than an annoyance to get past.

"Don't be ridiculous." He cleared his throat. "I'm just concerned you not give away our movements to St. Andrews."

"But--"

He turned to me. "Admittedly, it wouldn't be the end of the world if St. Andrews found the statue first. But I shall never forgive him for what happened at Cambridge. I will not work with that man, however common our goal might be."

Well, then.

I'd known, of course, that Goddard had left the university in disgrace. I'd known that St. Andrews had as well, around the same time. But this was the first time he had mentioned that the events were connected. Shooting me a nervous glance, he cleared his throat again and fidgeted with his mustache.

"And I forbid you to do the same with Lazarus," he added, somewhat subdued.

"All right," I said. I searched his face, but he had closed himself off to me.

"And do let Dr. Hendricks examine that bruise before you go. Your ribs--"

"I don't need a doctor," I interrupted.

Truth be told, I should rather have liked for someone to take a peek at the rash on my bollocks. An itch might have only been an itch in Goddard's world, but where I came from it was often a harbinger of something worse. I'd not strayed from Goddard's bed since he took me in. Of course, many a pestilence could sleep for years before thrusting its head through the floor of a perfectly serviceable domestic arrangement. And if that were the case, I'd appreciate hearing it from someone who wouldn't immediately report his findings to the Duke of Dorset Street.

"But I'll have the nurse look at it," I conceded.

Jacket and waistcoat in place with socks firmly gartered, Goddard crossed to the bed and took my hands.

"Forgive me, dear boy," he said. He brushed his fingers across my cheek and pressed me against the footboard with his hips. "The past few days have been most distressing. I'm afraid I'm finding it difficult to be completely rational. And on top of that, the thought of someone doing you harm...Humor me. Please. My physician has been summoned. Don't waste my money or his time, hmm?"

He set his lips to mine with a tenderness that turned my legs to jelly. His kisses became insistent as he leaned me back over the footboard, torso to torso, his hands pinning mine against the cold iron.

"I do love you, you know," he breathed.

I reached for his belt buckle. What should have happened next was interrupted by that meddling manservant. At the sound of the knock, Goddard pulled back with a rueful look and tucked his shirt back into his trousers.

"Come," he called.

The door opened. Collins raised both eyebrows as I self-consciously pulled the edges of my pajama top closed.

"Your carriage is waiting, sir."

"Yes, of course," Goddard said, smoothing his hair back into place. "Thank you, Collins."

As the manservant cleared away the coffee tray, Goddard raised my palm to his lips.

"Later, dear boy. I promise."

"But the meeting isn't until ten," I protested.

I tried to slide my arms around his waist, but he caught my wrists and held them at my sides.

"I've business to attend to."

Then, with a wistful smile, he added, "And I need time to gather my nerve before walking into the lion's den. But when I return, I'll be all yours."

He kissed his fingertips and pressed them against my cock. He turned on his heel, leaving me alone with my face burning, his cologne lingering in the room like a ghost.

After the door swung shut behind him, I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and took a few deep breaths to calm my racing blood. The bed was rumpled, still warm and smelling of him. But I would not resort to self-abuse. It was a waste of time and betrayed an unflattering lack of discipline. After repeating this thought four or five hundred times, the urge subsided. I smoothed down my hair and pajamas and slipped through the door to my own room.

∗ ∗ ∗

Goddard had set up the blue bedroom for my use when I'd first come to live at York Street. It was a pleasant room, despite its lack of use. The single bed along the south wall was covered with a quilt in complementary shades of azure and sky. There was a desk by the window, outfitted for the confidential secretary I was supposed to be, and a wardrobe that was a three-quarter-sized copy of the one in Goddard's chamber. Next to the wardrobe was a battered trunk, where I kept the few possessions I'd brought with me from Whitechapel. The air always smelled faintly of the lavender water Eileen used to iron the linens, and the fragrant soap Collins used for my morning shave.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the manservant appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray with a basin of steaming water, fresh towels, and a wicked-looking straight razor. Without greeting or preamble, he set the tray down on my desk and then pulled out the chair and laid one of the towels across the back.