Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
A Private Gentleman (4 page)
She sighed. “I have trouble with the orchids. They so rarely survive the
voyage, even with great care.” She pointed to the flowers in their glass jars,
clinging to their rocks and moss. “These I’ve had for six months, which is a
record for me. But you see how the blooms begin to fade?”
Wes reached up to stroke the glass and shook his head. “Shouldn’t be k-kept
here. T-T-Too unst-stable.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean, not here? Not in the conservatory?
But—” He could see the light dawn in her eye. “But
yes.
The humidity is
excellent, but the temperature is too variable, isn’t it? Even with my servants
stoking the fires regularly through the night. Of course. And that’s why when I
keep them in the—”
She stopped abruptly and glanced at Wes.
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It was a painful moment. There was indeed a precious new orchid, or a
precious something—a flower so beloved it wasn’t kept where a clumsy guest
could harm it or a servant accidentally might mangle it. Kept close to be
watched, nursed in a private room inside the house, a room where, most likely,
the temperature was more even and controlled.
There was an orchid, and she wasn’t going to tell him about it.
Oh, she would have, he knew. That was why she paused. Here was his
chance to clear his throat and hint that, should she show him this flower, he
could perhaps give her a bit of a leg up into the Royal Botanical Society. Like so
many others present, his favorable report could buy whatever he wanted from
the Gordons. It was this she waited for.
It was this, Wes acknowledged with thick regret, he could not give, not even
with the cleanest tongue. Oh, he was a member of the Society. But his word
would get her nowhere.
Mrs. Gordon smiled, the flat, polite smile that made it clear she would be
showing him none of her prizes. “Please take your time in the conservatory, my
lord. Examine whatever you like. It’s a pleasure to have a member of the Royal
Botanical Society present, and I do hope you will share with me any other advice
you might have for my plants’ improvement. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get
back to my other guests.”
With a curtsey, she was gone.
For a few minutes, Wes poked about the leaves, hating his stammer, hating
Mrs. Gordon, hating life in general. Then he drew a deep breath of loamy air,
squared his shoulders and left the greenhouse to explore.
With a much more manageable bit of opium coursing through him, he was
able to move about quite easily, peering into rooms and closets. He’d meant to
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A Private Gentleman
look further on the ground floor, but there was a sudden hubbub in the hallway
toward the ballroom, and so he escaped up the stairs.
And it was good he did, for in the very first room he came upon the orchid,
whereupon he let himself inside and shut the door behind him.
It was not an area, he was sure, Mrs. Gordon intended guests to be. It was
just off a bedroom which appeared only partly remodeled, with a door joining
the two rooms directly. Likely at one point this had been a servant’s room. Now,
from the look of what was scattered throughout, this was the lady of the house’s
working retreat. The table was piled high with the detritus of a true botanist:
clippers, bags of stones, jugs of soil and moss, pots, jars and containers of every
type and size.
There in the center of it all, he saw it: the orchid. It was indeed everything he
had heard it described to be. The flower was kept inside a tall glass jar. Its lid
was in place but kept from a perfect seal by a small twig, which Wes took care to
place on the table where he could find it again as he opened the jar to full air.
Most sailors and sea captains simply stowed the orchids they found
wherever they could manage, and as a result many of them were so mangled by
the time they arrived in the London docks that it took great care to nurture them
back to glory. Not this orchid. Especially given how far it had travelled, it was
pristine—which made it all the more tragic that it was also clearly dying. That
was the trouble with taking orchids in full flower, why he told his procurers to
take only plants not in bloom. At the slightest sign of stress, the flower was wont
to put all its effort into seed, sacrificing itself for the sake of the next generation.
A noble flower indeed. But even in its
danse macabre
, this one was breathtaking.
Wes didn’t know how to classify it. It appeared to be a cattleya, but…no, not
quite. The color was wrong, as was the shape. He’d seen plenty of two-toned
orchids, but never one colored only on the lip. And such a vivid, dark purple—
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even faded, it was striking. The leaves were straplike, but the pseudobulbs
weren’t nearly as pronounced as others he’d seen.
Wes stood, pressing his hands together and lifting them before his lips. He
was shaking, though not from fear or opium but excitement. This was
new.
This was a
new
orchid. Unnamed. Unknown.
And dying. No care would save this one now. But Wes had seen it. The hell
and humiliation of the night had been worth it.
Pulling his notebook out of his pocket, he blinked a few times to try and clear
his head enough to work. A great deal of the drug had left him, yes, but he was
still somewhat groggy. His notes would be rough, alas, though it could
accurately be argued that without the opium, he’d have no notes at all. He
wondered if he dared linger a little longer to allow the narcotic to wear off
entirely—ah, no, couldn’t let himself be discovered by a servant who would
come in vain to nurse the doomed favorite of the mistress of the house.
Still, he thought, shuffling to the window, a bit of cold air would do him
good, and it wouldn’t matter to the dying plant. He threw open the casement
and leaned on the sill, staring out at the sea of houses below. The windows had
been opened in the ballroom, letting the din spill out into the night. From here it
was a noise that almost soothed, and he shut his eyes and took deep draughts of
cool night air, willing it to sharpen his opium-muddled mind. The wind rippled
his hair. The mist dampened his face.
A warm, firm hand took bold and possessive hold of his backside.
“No more hiding. I’ve found you, darling,” a soft, sensuous voice said from
behind him. “And thank goodness, for I am in the most desperate need of a
rescuer.”
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Chapter Two
Wes startled, but the hand behind him slid coyly over the curve of his cheek,
fingers tucking meaningfully into the crease of his buttocks.
His assailant spoke again. “You were right. This party isn’t worth doing. But
leaving me to that randy baronet is too cruel by half. You’ve made your joke.
Now help me dispatch Sir Joshua, love.” He stroked Wes’s thigh. After a pause,
he added, “I shall give you an entire night for free.”
Wes fumbled at the sill, bracing against the wood to keep from falling out the
window. Even if he could speak, for once, he’d have no idea what to say.
“Please, darling? Help me?” The hand around Wes’s waist crept forward to
the front of his thigh. “I will be so very, very grateful.”
Wes might have been frozen in confusion, but his erection was not so
encumbered, and it swelled to full mast, making a mighty sail of the front of his
trousers. He wanted to see who this was, but fear—and lust—kept him still. This
was most certainly a mistake, and when the man learned this, the exchange
would be over.
His assailant’s fingers brushed sensually against the ridge of Wes’s cock. The
man laughed, sounding surprised. “Ooh,
Rodger.
I was jesting, of course, but—I take it this is a yes? And such a very
big,
delicious yes.”
Wes let out a sharp, short, “Huh!” and turned around.
It was the pretty flirt from the ballroom, ignoring Wes no longer.
The long blond curls were even more enticing at close range, playing
delectably around his elegant face, all cheekbones and sensuous lips and bright
Heidi Cullinan
hazel eyes. The sodomite—no question of that now—smiled seductively, his
expression promising carnal delight as his hands played over Wes’s hips.
The man stopped, leaned forward in a squint and went very pale.
“Sweet heaven.” He drew back in alarm. “You aren’t Rodger.”
No, Wes wasn’t, and he was suddenly very sorry. But he had to put the man
at ease. “N-N-No, b-b-but you n-n-needn’t w-w-w—”
“You’re him.” If it were possible, the blond man seemed
more
terrified now.
He stumbled backward, looking as if he might faint. “You’re—you’re
his
—
Daventry. You’re Daventry’s son.”
Wes searched for words, but none came to his aid. It didn’t help that the
pretty man was no longer full of charm and wiles. He was clearly terrified.
“F-forgive me.” The man’s hand went to his throat, tugging weakly at the
exquisite cravat. “I didn’t know— I thought— P-Please. Please, don’t—don’t—”
His hands were held out before him, warding Wes away, but he was still backing
up, and on the last “don’t” he ran into the wall. He did cry out then, and he
flattened himself against the barrier.
“Please.”
Confused and more than a little concerned, Wes took a careful step toward
the blond man.
“G-g-g-g—” he began, stopped, sighed and drew breath to try again.
The sound of a door opening roughly down the hall stayed him, though, and
made the man against the wall cringe.
“Vallant?” an angry voice called out. “Vallant, you sod, come out at once.”
The blond man crumbled into himself, sinking slowly down the wall.
“Vallant, when I find you, I’m going to spank that pretty white bottom until
you scream.”
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Wes looked to the door between the sitting room and the unfinished
bedchamber, then glanced at the door to the hall. Not even bothering to speak,
he stepped forward, closed his hand over the blond man’s elbow and pulled him
into the adjoining bedchamber just as the door to the sitting room crashed open
with a mighty thump.
“Vallant!”
Wes took the trembling man into the shadows with him, tugging a sheet
away from a chair it was protecting. With a deft toss he draped it between the
chair and end table and secured both ends before drawing the man with him in
the narrow space beneath the makeshift tent. The sodomite tried to recoil from
Wes, but the door into the bedroom opened, and when the shout came again, the
blond man stilled.
“Vallant!”
Wes stared into the dim, blue-tinged depth beneath the sheet. His
companion had stopped shaking, but he appeared distinctly unwell, and it made
Wes ache. Vallant, if that was indeed the man’s name, seemed vacant now, numb
with his terror, torn between fear of the intruder and of Wes himself. He
supposed the man feared exposure, that Wes would have him arrested for being
a sodomite.
He longed to explain this was in no way the case.
Though he supposed he could simply fear Wes, stammering madman. The
thought made Wes’s heart heavy and sad.
The intruder’s voice drew him out of his self-pity. “Vallant, you bugger,
bring your lily white arse out here where I can see it, or so help me, I’ll drag you
back to my house and do it in front of my staff. And then do you
with
my staff.”
He chuckled darkly, sounding proud of his joke. He also sounded very, very
drunk.
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Footsteps echoed around the room before stopping not far from Wes and
Vallant’s hiding place. Wes heard the sound of liquid sloshing, as if in a flask.
Vallant shut his eyes.
The newcomer’s words began to slur. “Nasty little sod. Don’t play coy with
me. You know you want this cock.” Another grunt. “Yes. You want it, you filthy
whore. Had a taste of it, and now you want it again. Come on.” A pause gave
way to a sharp slap of hands. “Come on!”
Vallant jumped at the sound. Without thinking, Wes reached out to gentle
him with a hand on his knee. Vallant’s eyes flashed to him, full of terror, and the
sight made Wes ache. He tried to smile his most reassuring smile. He kept his
hand on Vallant’s knee, stroking his companion with his thumb. It wasn’t exactly
an erotic gesture, but neither was it innocent.
Vallant eyed him with guarded suspicion.
Wes extended his free hand, palm up. Then he lifted his other from Vallant’s
knee, and with a wry smile, inclined his head in a small bow.
Vallant continued to watch him.
“Vall
ant
!” Sir Joshua barked. The shout echoed against the empty walls. The
baronet mumbled beneath his breath as the sound of footsteps came closer. Both
Vallant and Wes tensed when the sheet rippled and the chair creaked. But Sir
