Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
A Private Gentleman (28 page)
Michael stilled. “Are you jesting?” He realized what Albert must mean and
relaxed a little. “You want to take me to some suburban garden, don’t you.”
He must not have marshaled his tone very well, for Albert’s smile turned
from devilish to wry. “I’ve t-t-taken you to t-t-too m-many gardens.” He sighed
and turned his palm up in a conciliatory gesture. “No g-g-garden. Something j-
just for y-y-you.” He paused. “Though w-w-we w-w-will need to st-st-stay the n-
night. Is that a p-p-problem?”
Michael didn’t know. Was it? “How far out of town are we going?”
Albert’s lips quirked as he shook his head. Ah. So it was a secret.
Well.
Michael tried to think quickly, though he wasn’t sure if that meant reason or
heart were leading. He hadn’t been out of town in years. In fact, he’d left town
exactly twice in his entire life, and both had been…before. It shouldn’t make any
difference, but…well, it did. Overnight with Albert. There would be no running
away if things went badly. No bursting into the streets, finding an urchin and
summoning Rodger.
Rodger, who’d accused him of being unable to think for himself, take care of
himself.
“H-How long?” Michael asked. Despite his best efforts, it came out a
whisper. His blood wasn’t just pounding in his ears now. It was banging at the
back of his throat.
Albert looked somewhat chagrined. “I m-must be back by tom-m-morrow
evening.”
Michael let out a relieved breath. “That’s fine.” One night. One night with
Albert.
Three days.
He swallowed his fear and nodded. “Yes. Yes—I can go.”
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“Do y-you need anything?”
Michael shook his head. “I’ll need to send a messenger to Rodger, but other
than that, no.” His cheeks colored as he added, “Though I don’t have any coin
with me.”
Albert waved this idea away with his hand. “W-We will s-send word from
the st-station.”
Michael blinked. “Station?”
Albert nodded. “I th-thought you m-might enjoy the t-t-train. Is th-that all r-
r-right?”
Michael didn’t know. He’d seen the trains, of course—he’d gone down to
watch them for a lark. He’d read several papers about them. But ride one? Of
course he’d love to. But it just seemed so…so…
Well.
He cleared his throat. “Of course. I only—you surprise me, Albert. I would
think trains would be a bit…busy for you.”
Albert grimaced. “I w-w-wear c-cotton in my ears.”
“So you’ve been on the train before?”
He nodded. He was still watching Michael closely. “W-We could take a c-c-
carriage, if you’d r-r-rather.”
On a bumpy country road. Michael remembered that part very well. He
shook his head. “No, a train would be lovely. I’m simply…surprised.”
“In a g-g-good way?” Albert pressed.
Michael smiled. “In a good way.”
The carriage stopped shortly after that, taking them to
Euston Station, which Michael had ridden past a thousand times but never entered. They didn’t enter it
now, either. First Albert scribbled a few notes and gave them plus a small satchel
to a porter who promised, “I’ll deliver them right away, m’lord, and see to it that
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your bag makes it safe onto the train.” Then they headed toward a coffee shop
across the way. It was noisy and crowded, and Michael glanced at Albert,
worried.
Albert, who had gone white, tried to smile back.
Relieved when he saw a small park and a bench beneath a tree, Michael
pointed at it. “We’ll be stuck on the train all afternoon. Perhaps we should sit
outside for a while?”
Albert gave him a long, strange look. “It’s r-r-raining and c-c-cold,” he
pointed out.
Michael squinted up at the gray sky. “Well—yes, but—” He searched for a
polite way to duck around Albert’s fear of crowds, but it wasn’t easy. “It’s…so
busy in there, and I don’t feel like—I had coffee at Dove Street, really, and—”
Albert’s bemusement gave way to comprehension, and his mouth flattened
into a thin line. Before Michael could decide how to react, his escort took hold of
his forearm and walked with grim purpose toward the shop.
It was loud outside, but the din was deafening within. Michael stepped in to
guard Albert’s wallet as he recognized a few of the
gentlemen
at the bar working unsuspecting travelers. There wasn’t a free table anywhere.
“We don’t have to do this,” Michael said, leaning in close to Albert.
Albert ignored him, pressing on white-lipped to wave down a host.
Retrieving his handy notebook and paper, he scribbled a note and showed it to
the host, who nodded and motioned to a waiter. Just like that, they were led
down a hall to a parlor, not empty, but with better chairs and a lot more quiet.
The waiter seated them, Albert scribbled another note, and then he collapsed
carefully into his seat, shutting his eyes with a shuddering breath. He stayed that
way for several seconds, at which point he withdrew his pill case from his vest
pocket with a shaking hand.
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The opium.
Michael watched the white pill tumble into Albert’s hand. He thought of
everything Rodger had said about it, of how it ruined lives. Of how it was the
reason Rodger wanted Michael to end their affair.
As Albert lifted the pill to his lips, Michael reached out without thinking and
knocked it out of his hand.
Albert stilled. Michael drew his hand back quickly as the pill sailed over the
edge of their table and onto the floor. It felt like he’d walked into a dream. Had
he seriously done that? Knocked the pill out of Albert’s hand? He had. Oh God
in heaven, but he had.
“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered to the tablecloth, unable to meet Albert’s eyes.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I just—” He swallowed hard, and then it all came
out in a hushed torrent. “Rodger told me you take opium, told me what it does to
people, and I saw it in your hand and thought of it destroying you like he said it
did so many people, and I didn’t think.” He shut his eyes. Good God, he should
just get a shovel and make burying himself so much simpler. “I’m sorry. Truly,
I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
He kept his gaze down as a waiter appeared with their coffees. Neither of
them spoke. Michael made a few tentative sips, then sank back in his chair,
wishing he could crawl under the table.
A hand pressed gently against his knee.
Darting a glance at Albert, at first he thought he must have imagined it, for
Albert was engrossed in his coffee, not looking at him at all—but no, that was his
arm disappearing beneath the table. And that had to be his hand, his large,
strong hand on Michael’s knee, drifting to the edge of his thigh.
Stroking.
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Gently—not hard, not angrily. And not sensually, either. His hand shook a
little, and his face was pale. But the touch was…odd. Michael didn’t know what
to do with it. He reached down to close his hand over Albert’s, worried that he
might not be well.
Albert’s hand captured his—and squeezed.
Lord George Albert Westin, he supposed, had made a lifetime’s practice of
expressing himself without words. Looks, glances, mannerisms—and now this, a
touch. It was odd, because Michael had been touched so much, but never like
this. Never beneath a table in a fine salon. And never with such…passion.
Intensity.
Abruptly Albert’s hand went away, withdrawn almost guiltily. “V-Vaughn.”
Michael turned to where Albert was looking, and he felt himself go pale too.
Standing before them was Daventry’s eldest son.
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Vaughn’s smile was strained as he regarded his brother. It vanished almost
completely as he took in Michael. “George Albert. Good to see you. And
your…friend.”
A movement beside the earl caught Michael’s attention. A small, pale boy
stood beside Vaughn.
Albert saw this too and frowned. “Wh-What is w-wrong with Edwin?”
Vaughn’s lips flattened into a line. “I think Father is running him a bit too
hard. Or perhaps the tutor. I don’t know. He simply—” He cut himself off, but
Michael thought the man seemed worried before he erased the emotion from his
countenance. “At any rate, Edwin’s mother wants to see him, so it works out. He
gets a reprieve from the old man’s schooling on how to be a marquess, and his
mother gets to coddle him for a time.”
Michael made eye contact with the boy and shivered at the vacantness he
saw there.
“We should get going to our train,” Vaughn said. “Alice is already waiting in
Bristol for us.” His thin smile returned, and he made a slight bow with his head.
“Good to see you, George Albert. Sir,” he added, making an even tighter bow to
Michael. He tugged on his son’s hand. “Come along, Edwin.”
For several minutes Wes and Michael sat silent at their table, the earl’s
interruption resonating between them. Eventually Albert cleared his throat and
stood. “We sh-should get to our t-train.”
Heidi Cullinan
Michael rose too, but he did not miss Albert slipping one of his pastilles into
his mouth.
Albert kept a hand on Michael as they pushed through the crush to the door,
trying not to lose him.
Inside the station it was madness, hundreds of voices and harpers echoing
against the high ceiling, but Albert pressed on, huddling close to the wall,
eschewing ticket stations and leading them straight to the platform.
Their coach was sleek and black, boasting glass windows, the only car to do
so. Glancing forward, Michael saw the second class had a roof and open walls,
and third had no roof at all and not even seats, everyone clustered in like cattle.
In their car, Michael and Albert had fine leather seats, cushioned, and with lap
rugs, which Michael didn’t hesitate to put on. He sat beside Albert, who after
tucking his own rug into place, withdrew his notepad and began to write.
Michael settled in to wait. After several seconds of dutiful scribbling, Albert
handed it over. His writing looked rushed and slightly frantic.
I am not an addict. The laudanum is for my nerves. It’s true I’ve used too much
lately, but I am working on using less.
Michael glanced around the car, which wasn’t crowded but seemed too full
of ears. He took the pencil from Albert and wrote back.
But if you hadn’t gone into the coffeehouse, you wouldn’t have needed it. I wouldn’t
have minded waiting outside.
This only made Albert frown and scribble faster.
I will not have you thinking I am some pathetic weakling. It’s true that I don’t do
well in crowds. But I am not incapable. Only out of practice.
Michael barely had time to read this before Albert, looking pained, snatched
the notebook back and wrote again.
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I wanted to do something special with you today. I wanted to see you smile again the
way you did when you saw the Athenaeum. I didn’t want you to think of me as an addict.
Michael had read over his shoulder, but at this point Albert paused. Then he
went on.
I would tell you I would stop entirely, but I don’t think that’s wise. But I
promise you I will use it as little as I can.
Michael claimed the pencil again, but he fingered it nervously.
I don’t think
you’re weak,
he wrote at last.
You don’t need to prove yourself to me. Especially at such
cost. I am content—
He stopped, the lie catching him up. Content to tour gardens and ride in his
coach? No. He wanted more. But he couldn’t say that to Albert.
Albert took the pencil and paper back.
You aren’t content. I can tell. Please, don’t worry. You were right, I didn’t need the
drug just then. It’s a habit as well, taking a pill when I need to calm myself. The pills,
yes, are a weakness. I apologize. But I want to do this with you. To spend time with you.
To prove to you
—he paused, smiled sadly, and went on—
and perhaps to myself, that
I can do this.
Michael replied.
That’s well and good, but please don’t ever hurt yourself for me. I don’t care how
bored I get of gardens. I don’t wish harm for you, Albert. I care—
He stopped abruptly, realizing what he’d been about to write. He tried to
scribble it out, but Albert stayed his hand. He was looking intently at the paper.
“F-Finish,” he demanded.
With a shaking hand, Michael dislodged Albert’s enough to write the rest.
I care about you.
He swallowed a lump of fear and pressed on.
I care very much
about you.
They stared at the words. Around them the porters arranged the other
passengers, wealthy men and women chattering and complaining and speaking