Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
A Private Gentleman (18 page)
If I w-w-were n-n-normal? Wh-What do you l-l-long to s-s-see?” When Michael
said nothing, he began to suggest sights. “V-Vauxhall? Opera?”
“Bookstores.” Michael’s cheeks flamed hot, but he pressed on before he lost
his courage. “Bookstores and literary salons.”
Albert had an odd look about him now, something like hope and hard
thought all at once. “B-Bookstores I c-c-could d-d-do. S-S-Salons m-m-might be
h-harder. I sh-shall ask at the c-c-club.”
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“Club? Oh—your gentlemen’s club.” He wondered if he dare ask to see one
of those as well, or if he would simply seem like an eager child. He tried for
nonchalance and polite interest. “Which is yours? White’s, I suppose?”
Albert recoiled. “N-No. I p-p-prefer the Ath-th-then-naeum.”
Michael’s nonchalance melted away in abrupt, blatant envy. “You belong to
the Athenaeum?
” Michael almost wept. Every literary and scientific genius
belonged to the Athenaeum.
Dickens
belonged there.
Albert nodded, watching him carefully. “W-Would y-you l-l-like to g-g-go?”
Michael could not help himself. “Yes,” he confessed breathlessly.
Smiling, Albert brushed another kiss against his lips. “C-Come s-see m-my
orchids.”
Michael did. With Albert beside him, touching his arm, Michael took in the
flowers, properly this time. They were beautiful, he admitted. Not quite worthy
of the rapture in Albert’s voice, but they were lovely all the same. Delicate and
strong at once, which suited them in a way Michael couldn’t quite put his finger
on. The stems were thin and long, the leaves fat and pulpy, and the petals were
intricately marked, with lines and veins shot with color. The shape of the flowers
varied, one looking like a star, another looking like a slipper.
Albert lifted the glass off each in turn, leading Michael’s fingers out to touch
the plant as he explained haltingly the name and origin of each one. He
explained how the plants came from all over the world, that there was quite a
race to find them and a vibrant black market for their purchase. The longer he
talked about his flowers, the less pronounced his stammer became. The flowers,
clearly, were the man’s passion. Michael found himself intrigued more than
anything by the infectious excitement in his lover’s tone.
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“I had no idea such things even existed,” Michael said as Albert put the glass
back over the last flower. “But yes, you’re quite right. They’re absolutely lovely.
Thank you for showing them to me.” He turned to Albert, smiling.
Albert smiled back.
They left shortly after that, Albert giving him another tour of the main body
of the greenhouse, this time with Michael able to see. He took a moment to speak
to a few of the workers and another gentleman who appeared to be a caretaker,
and then, with Michael still wearing his glasses, they headed back to Dove Street.
“I w-w-will n-not c-come tom-m-morrow,” Albert said as they came up to
the curb. “I m-m-must take d-dinner with my f-f-family.” He forced a smile. “P-
P-Perhaps the day after w-we can v-visit b-bookstores and m-my club.”
“Thank you,” Michael replied, not knowing what else to say.
They kissed again before he exited—a brief, lingering brush of lips. Once
Michael stepped out, the carriage rolled away.
Michael watched him go. Pocketing his spectacles, he hunched into his coat
and hurried inside, stumbling twice on the paving stones as he adjusted to life
without clear sight once again.
When Wes returned home that evening, Legs was waiting for him in the
alley. He had his translator with him.
A thrill rushed through Wes as he hurried forward to meet the sailor, a high
almost as good as opium. He’d feared Legs had met with an accident, and the
very idea of trying to find a new agent for his botanical ventures had begun to
make him more than a little ill. But now Legs was here and looking well.
A sailor on a merchant ship since he was thirteen, Legs had run afoul of a
particularly sadistic captain and had his tongue cut out for insolence almost as
soon as he began. He was first mate now on a ship that ran primarily to the West
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Indies and down to Brazil on occasion. He’d been due to sail to the latter on his
last voyage, and he’d promised to try and secure Wes a new orchid upon his
return. Though he’d been in port three days and had sent word for Wes to meet
him, he hadn’t showed at their appointment nor sent any follow-up
correspondence. Wes was beyond glad to see him now. The fact that he was not
clutching a glass jar or a plant wrapped in burlap, however, was not a good sign.
Legs inclined his head and removed his hat as he approached Wes. Wes
returned the incline and touched his own brim. The rather raggedly dressed and
dark-skinned woman beside him made a brusque and businesslike curtsey
before returning her full attention to Legs.
Conversation began.
Wes nodded at the door to his building, then gestured to it and lifted his
eyebrows at Legs.
Care to go inside?
Legs wrinkled his brow and cast a dubious glance at himself and at his escort
before nodding pointedly at Wes’s finery.
You sure you want us riffraff in your nice place?
It was true, they usually met at Legs’s rooms. Irregular as it was to take Legs
into his apartments, Wes was too eager to follow him back to the docks or to
schedule for another time. Wes shook his head and waved his hand impatiently.
Smiling a half smile, he mimed a drink.
Legs grinned a toothless grin and laughed. It was amazing how different the
sound was in a throat missing a great deal of tongue.
Legs and the woman made their way down the hall to Wes’s rooms, pausing
to gawk at paintings and the gilded finery of an upscale gentlemen’s apartment
house. The butler and night maid, in contrast, regarded Wes’s guests with great
wariness. Wes carried on, ignoring the servants and letting Legs and his woman
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take their time. When they finally arrived, Wes had the door to his rooms
unlocked and had gone around the corner to light a lamp.
“S-s-s-sit on the s-s-sofa,” he directed his guests as he procured clean glasses
from his cabinet. He poured brandy for himself and whiskey for Legs, but he
paused and gave the woman an inquiring look.
She held up her hands and shook her head. “No thank you, milord,” she
replied in a heavy West Indies accent.
Once Wes had given Legs his liquor and taken a seat in the chair opposite
him, it was the woman who spoke.
“He say he sorry, but he lost you plant.” She scowled and motioned in the
general direction of the docks. “That dog Renny called in he debt and sent he to
the prison. I get he out, but they take all he things. They sell he hat and he boots, and they throw you plant away.”
Wes’s heart sank. He’d
nearly
had it, and now it was in the bottom of some
garbage bin. Though he knew he should leave well enough alone, he found he
had to torture himself. Picking up his notebook from the desk beside him, he
passed it over to Legs with a questioning look.
Which one was it?
He knew this would be bittersweet when Legs grimaced before even opening
the book, but when Legs pointed to a cattleya gigas orchid and held it up for
illustration, Wes had to shut his eyes and lean forward, pressing his hands over
his mouth. It was like being told someone had crossed the Alps to bring him a
diamond but some idiot had mistaken it for glass and tossed it into the bottom of
a lake.
Legs put the book down, shoulders falling forward. “Rah-rah,” he said in a
rough, thick voice, his tone sorrowful.
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Wes sat back up and shook his head as he waved the apology away. “N-n-
not y-y-your f-f-fault.”
Though Wes reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet to produce a
note, Legs held up his hands. “Rah.” He gestured to the woman, who sat up
straighter and launched into what had clearly been a prepared speech.
“He want no money for failure, he say. He want to try again. He think he
know somebody else who bring black-market flower. Somebody who owe him
favor. He get this flower for you for fair price. He say he respect his lordship and
want to make things right.”
Wes nodded solemnly, biting back a wry smile. Over the past three years,
between his own purchases and those for other members of the Royal Botanical
Society, Wes had given the sailor at least seven hundred pounds. Yes, he
suspected Legs was highly interested in making sure his steady paycheck didn’t
look elsewhere for specimens. He was curious to know what flower it might be,
though, so he tapped the notebook again and gave Legs an inquiring look.
Legs frowned and gave a grunt, leafing through the notebook for some time.
Wes was certain he was about to confess he didn’t know what flower, but at last
Legs flipped all the way to the back and began to slow down.
Wes’s heartbeat, however, sped up. Legs was looking at the orchids. When
Legs turned the book around again for Wes and pointed at the half-finished
illustration of Mrs. Gordon’s flower, Wes had to press a hand over the center of
his chest in his excitement. Legs gestured animatedly to his translator.
“He say it like this one, but has different leaves and flower.”
Wes could scarcely breathe. Wes looked levelly at Legs. “Are y-y-you s-s-s-
sure?”
Legs nodded emphatically. He gestured in his crude hand-speaking code to
the woman.
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“He say he saw the man on the other ship take the flower. He say he know
where he likely to be in London.”
Wes couldn’t take his eyes from the illustration. “L-L-Likely he-he-he already
h-h-h-has a b-buyer.”
Legs grinned a wicked grin and chuckled before making more sign. When
the woman translated, she was grinning too.
“He say this man no know what he have. He say this man idiot.”
Legs pounded his chest proudly, then gestured to Wes and to the book. Wes
smiled back. That had been his insurance, teaching Legs what were the most
valuable plants to search for and where they were likely to hide. No, Legs was no
idiot.
Wes nodded and took a few breaths to speak directly to Legs. “I w-w-will w-
w-wait to h-h-hear f-from you.”
Legs nodded back and rose, pressing his hat to his chest and bowing to Wes.
The woman curtseyed again.
“Thank you, milord,” she said.
Once they were gone, Wes locked the door. He poured out two more of his
pills, made himself another brandy and retired to his bath.
Wes had signed a lease in the building where he lived for several reasons: it
had common servants who kept things running but stayed out of his way, it had
indoor plumbing, gas lighting and immense windows facing south. His
apartment had three rooms, the sitting room, the bathroom and his bedroom,
and each were glutted with plants.
Plants hung from the ceiling. Plants spilled out of shelves. Plants occupied
windowsills and floors and a few claimed chairs. He kept plants which liked an
even temperature in the sitting area, for that room was heated by a stove. The
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plants in his bedroom were ones which could tolerate the dry and soot of a
fireplace.
The ones in the bathroom were his prizes.
He had six types of ferns, which was almost standard, but he also had
pelargoniums, heliotropes, salvias, lobelias and cannas, which was something of
a trick to pull off in a bathroom. Every inch of the room overflowed with foliage.
It was his haven.
Wes whispered to his plants as he stoked the fire to heat the water for his
bath, and as the water boiled, he made his way around the room to stroke petals
and leaves, testing soils and sometimes dipping into his own bath water for their
drinks. He lingered at the orchids. Currently he had three: a cattleya, and two
phalaenopsis. If Legs did indeed produce the leafless orchid, Wes would keep it
in here.
As he slipped into the water and sank deep into the warmth to soak, Wes
stared at the windowsill and shelves and cabinets overflowing with plants
without seeing them. The orchid. He might have the orchid. Oh, but he hoped it
was still intact. The odds were grim, if it were brought over by a man who didn’t
know how to tend to them, but Wes had brought many a plant back from the
dead. For as poorly as he did with people, Wes could charm any plant.
He grimaced and reached for the sponge and cake of soap, remembering that
on the morrow he was to talk about plants with his father’s friend. The very
thought of the meeting made him anxious. So anxious, in fact, that he dropped