The Uncertain Customer (3 page)

No, Wilcox thought, his gaze sliding toward his companion. It was Church, or rather, his presence, that was making his gut churn with anxiety. While his friend reportedly enjoyed male intimacy, he had never personally seen Church with another man during any of the years of their long friendship. His knowledge had come solely from Church’s own bragging and the recounting of others. Having this side of his friend suddenly thrown in his face in such a manner was certain to make his self-appointed vow even more difficult to keep. Nursing a secret longing was manageable, but hope, no matter how faint, was a far more daunting prospect.

After clearing the hurly-burly around the venue, the going was smoother. The foot traffic thinned out as though it had never existed at all, and the cab was soon crossing Castle Street. The only signs of life were the glowing street lamps and the occasional shadowy figure that appeared just beyond the circle of light they cast. Remembering his recent mugging, Wilcox’s nerves were rapidly becoming those of a more sensible kind.

“Are you sure this place is safe?” He blushed, much to his chagrin, as Church laughed in his face.

“Safe? My dear sir, we’re approaching the heart of the city’s underskirts, and you ask me if it’s safe.” Church patted Wilcox on the back of his hand, and Wilcox resisted the urge to grab it with his other to stop the patronizing gesture.

“Well, then, answer me this. What kind of man runs this establishment to have chosen such an unseemly locale?”

Church blinked, and for once, looked genuinely stumped. “The proprietor? I dare say, I don’t know who he is. My informant named him as a ‘Mr. Leslie.’” He shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“Comforting,” Wilcox mumbled. He shook his head, wondering how he got himself into these situations. As the cab passed yet another lamp, the light illuminated Church from behind, making his golden hair glow like an improbable halo.
Ah, yes
, Wilcox remembered,
that’s how
. The cab turned left onto Shorts Gardens, and given Church’s vague description, Wilcox knew they couldn’t have much farther to go. “So, do you have some sort of plan for the evening? You are, after all, the expert on brothels.”

Church tossed him a cheeky grin, completely unfazed by the weak attempt at an insult. “Just you leave it to me, old chap.” He reached over to clap Wilcox firmly on the shoulder. “I’ll make certain that you thoroughly enjoy yourself.”

Why? Will you be on the menu?
Wilcox was forced to withhold his rejoinder—not that he would have ever dared voice it aloud—when the hansom came to an abrupt halt at the mouth of an unlit road just beyond King Street where Shorts Garden exchanged its moniker for Queen. “Road” was overly generous, Wilcox decided as he exited behind Church and glanced around. The only light came from the lamp at their end of the narrow alleyway, and the illumination barely penetrated the gloom that stretched between the tightly packed buildings. Although it was difficult to tell, he suspected that the area might be a shopping district, but the darkness made it appear sinister and unwelcoming.
Hardly the place for a pleasure house
, he thought uncharitably.

Church turned back from paying the driver, who left promptly, announcing his departure only with the clop of his horse’s hooves. Blowing into his hands to warm them, Wilcox glared up at his slightly taller friend. “Do you actually know where you’re going? I have no desire to die here tonight.” And he didn’t mean only from the cold. A glance down toward the far end of the alley, which angled off to the left so that the egress was out of sight, exposed what looked suspiciously like movement.

“Hmmm,” Church hummed uncertainly, his finger tapping his lip in a gesture he favored for contemplation.

The shadows resolved themselves into three figures that began to slink toward them. Wilcox hefted his cane, wishing he’d thought to bring the one that concealed a sword. His older sister had bought it for him as a joke three years prior after returning from her travels to India with her husband, who Her Majesty had appointed to the Foreign Service. Unfortunately, that cane was safely tucked away in his bedroom at his father’s estate in Leicestershire. “Church!” he hissed in warning.

“Indeed,” Church said abruptly, finally seeming to appreciate the precarious nature of their situation. “It’s this way.” He walked quickly toward the building two down from the mouth of the alley, stopping when he reached a nondescript door painted a featureless black. In place of a number was an enameled carving of an unidentifiable flower in muted tones of bronze and forest green, though the exact shades were difficult to discern in the gloom. The sign creaking above the door read “Fine Flowers and Exotic Teas.” Without another moment’s delay, Church reached out and pulled the cord hanging next to the door. A chime sounded from somewhere within, and seconds later the dark wood swung open to reveal a man with silver hair, impassive gray-blue eyes, and a stately bearing. His butler’s livery was pressed and spotless and made Wilcox feel as though he were shabbily dressed.

“Good evening, sirs. Welcome to the Garden.”

T
HE
BUTLER
—Sebastian, he’d politely informed them—led them from the Spartan vestibule through a second door opposite the main entrance and into a blessedly warm sitting room. With a deep bow, Sebastian disappeared back the way he had brought them. Apparently, they were simply to wait, so Wilcox took the opportunity to examine his unexpected surroundings. The furnishings were a surprisingly pleasant mix of traditional masculine taste and exotic luxury. The wood floor made of dark cherry matched the window frames. The trim around the door they had entered was painted a vibrant blue on its interior face, and its gold-painted opposite on the far side of the room continued the opulent Ottoman theme. The furnishings consisted primarily of a settee and several chairs and were likewise fashioned of the decorator’s preferred shade of timber. The solid cherrywood frames were upholstered with rich fabrics of brocade and satin in refined hues ranging from maroon to azure and gold. Velvet hangings in complementary tones covered the windows, providing a dark intimacy to the room that would likely carry over even through the daylight hours. The floor was covered nearly wall to wall by a stunning carpet, no doubt of Turkish origins, the design of which was effectively reflected in the wallpaper. A modest chandelier of frosted glass spheres hung from a ceiling painted in a cream and gold motif of abstract geometric shapes. Dominating the setting, an ostentatious desk, likewise of
Prunus avium
origins, reigned from its location in front of heavily draped windows that likely overlooked the alley.

The total effect of the parlor was reassuring after the questionable nature of the shop’s external setting, and Wilcox felt himself relax. Slightly.

Church took in the sitting room’s appointments with a pleased look. “Well, this is all very nice. You see, old chap, I told you that I had this place on good authority.”

“Indeed, I am glad that you approve, Sir Wallace.”

Wilcox spun at the unexpected voice and stared at a tall man with stunning chestnut hair standing in the now-open doorway athwart where they had entered. The gold-painted door’s hinges were so well-oiled, there had been no warning of the man’s arrival. Wilcox wondered briefly if the theatrics were purposeful as he sized up the newcomer.

“Ah,” Church exclaimed, his hand outstretched in greeting. “Mr. Leslie, I presume?”

The man closed the door behind him before Wilcox could get a glimpse into the room beyond. “Indeed, my good sir. And to you as well, Mr. Wilcox. I welcome you both to my humble establishment.”

Leslie bowed with the proper degree of supplication, but Wilcox doubted the proprietor considered himself subservient to anyone. Neither he nor Church were shrinking violets, but the owner had at least several inches on their own impressive heights. They certainly couldn’t match the man physically, benefitting as they did from nothing more than the exercise fitting their stations as men of leisure. Leslie might be the owner of a prosperous establishment, if these tasteful decorations were any indication, but he had obviously begun life as a man who’d earned a living by the strength of his muscles. His shoulders and arms were more suited to a dockhand than a businessman, and his chest strained at the buttons of his fine woolen vest. His thick hair swept back fashionably from a high brow, and eyes of deep forest green took their measure, perhaps calculating to the farthing the weight of their purses. Leslie’s attire was imminently respectable, his dark gray vest topped by a matching jacket of equal quality, and his long legs were hidden by trousers in the same muted tone. Black boots polished to a high gloss shod his feet, every subdued detail proclaiming his success. Wilcox might have found the man attractive if he wasn’t at the same time relieved that they were meeting in this civilized setting and not in the darkened street outside.

“You are too modest, sir.” Church beamed at the man, his demeanor giving no indication that he shared any of Wilcox’s reservations. “Our mutual acquaintance recommended you quite highly.”

Leslie smiled, the gesture transforming his features from shrewd into something that stirred the interest of Wilcox’s manhood despite his better judgment. His initial impression had been correct, he acknowledged. The owner of the Garden was a dangerously attractive specimen, and Wilcox briefly entertained the notion of inquiring whether the owner ever took a more direct role in his business.

“Indeed, Sir Wallace,” Leslie replied. “His Grace was quite effusive in his praise of you and Mr. Wilcox.” He bowed his head toward the former. “As you may be aware, we operate only by word of mouth.”

His Grace?
Wilcox shot his friend a look. Clearly the story about the interesting gentleman Church had met in a pub had been less than truthful.

Church tapped the side of his nose. “And very clever of you, to be sure. It wouldn’t do to advertise your presence to the masses.”

“Indeed not,” Leslie agreed.

“Well, then, since you already know who we are, why don’t we get on with it?” Wilcox could picture his governess cuffing him on the ear for being so rude, not that that good woman would ever imagine him in such a place. But the prolonged niceties were straining his already frayed nerves. Although he had never known Church to be nonplussed in any situation, he was still rather surprised by how normally his friend was behaving. As far as he knew, neither of them had ever frequented such an establishment as this. Perhaps it was Church’s experience with more traditional brothels that made him seem so much in his element.

Leslie graced Wilcox with an inscrutable twitch at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth and swept out a hand, gesturing them toward the desk. Church sat in one of the blue-and-gold upholstered chairs, leaving the other for Wilcox, who sat reluctantly, unhappy with the drawn-out preliminaries.

“I do apologize, sir,” the owner began as he settled behind the desk, “but I pride myself on ensuring that I have a complete understanding of a guest’s expectations.” Leslie folded his large hands on top of a blotter that took up nearly half the surface of the desk, protecting the gleaming wood. “We cater to a multitude of tastes, and to maximize your enjoyment, I must ascertain which of my flowers will best suit you.”

“Flowers?” Wilcox asked, only to be interrupted by Church’s bark of laughter.

“I thought for sure that His Grace was having me on when he mentioned how you refer to your boys. The Garden, indeed!”

“We all have our affectations, my good sir.” Leslie’s lips curved enigmatically before he cut his gaze toward Wilcox. “And so, please do tell me what you expect from your evening. I promise you, nothing you request will shock me, so there is no need to be bashful.” Wilcox squirmed under the man’s verdant regard, and he was grateful when Church gamely took up the challenge on both their behalves.

“Nothing too exciting, I’m loath to admit.” Church sat forward in his seat as he favored the owner with a grin of roguish bonhomie. “A proper tumble would do me right well. Although if any of your
flowers
are capable of such, I do adore the sight of flushed cheeks. A touch of ‘Persephone overcome,’ if you will,” he elaborated. “Innocence spoiled is such a delightful notion. Otherwise, I don’t have any unusual interests, beyond the obvious, of course.”

Tame though Church’s declaration was, Wilcox found himself fighting against a nebulous vision of his friend and some anonymous, blushing lad rolling together naked atop a bed. He crossed his legs to hide his body’s sudden interest in the topic. So preoccupied was he by his own concerns, Wilcox was initially unaware that a pair of impish green eyes were scrutinizing him closely.

“And as for my loquacious friend, here—”

Wilcox looked up sharply when he realized he was being referenced. “Church,” he began, intending to state that he was perfectly capable of speaking for himself.

Church blithely ignored him. “My companion could use some honest, uncomplicated fun.” His demeanor turned playfully sympathetic. “He has experienced some unfortunate setbacks of late in his pursuit of
amour
, and it has made him tragically dull and tiresome.”

Wilcox curled his fingers into a fist as he contemplated which would bring him more satisfaction, hitting the grinning idiot seated next to him or simply leaving and braving the unknown dangers of Neil’s Yard. He was annoyed at Church for exposing his difficulties to this stranger, no matter how veiled the allusion.

The incident with the sailor hadn’t been the first near disaster he’d encountered as the result of a failed assignation. There had been the misunderstanding with the mill worker he’d met in Dorset while inspecting the disposition of the grain crop from one of his father’s holdings. It was work normally left to his father’s steward, but the viscount had insisted he become more involved in the house’s finances lest he become a complete waste of his education. The mill worker had fixed him with a pointed stare throughout their dealings, which Wilcox now knew to be the man’s habit. At the time, the unwavering look had led him to believe the mill worker held some interest in him beyond their business dealings. A murmured suggestion that they retire somewhere more private later that evening had, unfortunately, left him with a nearly broken nose from a particularly vigorous punch.