The Uncertain Customer (5 page)

“I don’t think—” Wilcox spat out, determined to head off his friend’s madness, when his gaze happened to land upon Aster. The barely veiled relief on the lad’s face caused the protest to die unspoken on Wilcox’s tongue. It made sense, he surmised, that a novice like Aster would feel more at ease with the presumably more experienced Gardenia in attendance. Leslie had mentioned that the lad was the newest addition to his collection, and for a moment, Wilcox tried to put himself in Aster’s shoes. What must it be like, he wondered, to be made to entertain strange men for one’s livelihood? It couldn’t be an easy thing, no matter how base the lad’s background. A frisson of sympathy passed through Wilcox, rapidly shifting his intentions.

“You were saying?” Church prompted.

“That I don’t think I could have said it any better myself,” Wilcox improvised. Aster glanced at him shyly, his hazel eyes radiating gratitude. Wilcox did not presume that he was the cause of the boy’s solace, a conclusion borne out as the brown-haired courtesan shared a more energetic smile with his jovial colleague.

“Splendid!” Leslie declared, bringing his hands together in a firm clap. His rugged features grew momentarily contemplative before he apparently came to some decision. “Gardenia, since your quarters are more spacious, why don’t you and Aster escort the gentlemen there?”

“As you wish, sir.” With a bright grin, the slight blond turned to his guests. “This way, my lords, if you please.” Gardenia grabbed his quiet friend’s hand and drew Aster along in his wake toward one of the elaborately decorated screens.

Leslie nodded toward them in polite dismissal, leaving Wilcox to join Church, who eagerly followed the departing boys. Girding himself with a deep sigh, Wilcox accepted his impending fate and marched resolutely toward his onrushing doom.

T
HE
C
HINESE
screen hid a staircase that wound its way to an upper level above the main floor. The walnut steps and matching banister shone with a high polish, nary a speck of dust present to mar the gleaming surface. Wilcox wondered briefly if the owner had a cleaning staff, or whether the staircase’s pristine condition was due to the flowing passage of the boys’ silk robes as they mounted the steps. He recognized the thoroughly irrelevant thought as an attempt to ignore impending events, and for the dozenth time in the past few minutes, Wilcox silently cursed Sir Wallace Church.

When the foursome finally reached the top of the staircase, the tight curve had completely hidden the lower floor from sight. Though subdued compared to downstairs, the furnishings on the upper level shared Mr. Leslie’s preference for elegant opulence.
There’s a story there
, Wilcox mused idly, wondering how a man of such excellent taste had come to run so unusual a brothel.

“Farewell an’ adieu to you fair Spanish ladies. Farewell an’ adieu to you ladies of Spain!”

Aster sighed. “Gardenia, I hardly think we’re going to war.”

“Be prepared for anything, me da always said!”

Wilcox chuckled despite himself along with Church’s more blatant guffaw at the lad’s unapologetic absurdity. Gardenia swept down the hallway that stretched out before them, imperiously leading his followers along as he hummed the bawdy sea shanty. Barefoot, an idea Wilcox found unaccountably appealing, the boys were silent as they moved over the naked floorboards. The deep hue of the stairs was continued in the corridor’s paneled walls. Farther along the hall, a long runner began, boasting as intricate a design as its Turkish cousin down below. Sconces placed at regular intervals at the level of the men’s heads provided muted illumination and lent the space a warm intimacy well suited to the shop’s purpose.

“This is cozy,” Church noted confidentially beneath the volume of Gardenia’s singing. “Leslie has certainly spared no expense in disguising his business with a veneer of respectability.”

Wilcox ignored him, trying to convince himself that he was still angry at Church’s unmitigated gall. He remained silent when the boys stopped before one of the doors lining both sides of the hallway. The curious frown Church sent his way did not go unnoticed, but Wilcox pretended not to see it in favor of acknowledging Gardenia’s cheeky grin.

“Beware, all ye who enter heeeere—”

“Gardenia,” Aster repeated, his tone implying a soft rebuke. He glanced at them over his shoulder, his gentle smile for the first time completely unforced. “I assure you, sirs, we are delighted to entertain you.”

Wilcox almost believed the tall youth, the uncertainty that had darkened his lovely hazel eyes having mostly disappeared. All that remained was a bashful nervousness, which, of course, made him the perfect match for the qualities Church had requested. Still, Wilcox found himself preferring the smaller boy’s
joie de vivre
as it put his own trepidation at ease. Whatever one might say about his choice of professions, Leslie was certainly a proficient student of the human psyche.

“What horrors do you have in store for us, wee one, hmm?” Church grinned as he accepted Gardenia’s joking challenge. “A torture chamber perhaps? Complete with whips and chains and iron maidens?”

Gardenia giggled. “Of course not. After all, I’m not Hibiscus, am I?”

With that cryptic rebuttal, Gardenia threw open the door with a flourish, revealing a comfortably appointed room, blessedly free of any questionable implements. Absent were even the striking decorations Leslie had employed in the sitting room and the main audience hall to transport his guests to more exotic locales than Covent Garden. Instead, Gardenia’s room seemed nothing more than one would expect of a cheerful boy in his late teens, leading Wilcox to conclude that the young men’s employer allowed them at least this small bit of autonomy.

“I am all disappointment,” Church quipped as he likewise took in the sky blue wallpaper decorated with small white flowers, a most fitting choice for the lad who had styled himself in like fashion. Only a few candles were lit, though over a dozen sat unused, denoting Gardenia’s not unexpected preference for bright spaces during his normal routine. Two windows faced south—if Wilcox had kept his directions straight—which would no doubt provide a flood of natural light when the heavy blue velvet curtains were pulled back to welcome the daylight. Currently, they were closed against the night, the better to maintain the ambience suitable for the room’s present occupation. Only the baskets of
Calathea ornata
spoiled the unrelenting, delft pottery-inspired decor. The green leaves brushed with strokes of pink lent a pleasant contrast to the room’s blue-and-white character and brought to mind the fields of irises that covered the viscount’s estate in spring. Gardenia’s partiality for the color blue had carried over onto the carpet, the wooden boards completely hidden by a deep-hued pile into which Wilcox found his feet sinking nearly an inch.

On a whim, Wilcox toed off his shoes, earning an approving grin from the blond flower. Church raised an eyebrow at the maneuver, likely priming choice taunts at his expense. For all his unusual habits, Church had a reputation as a stickler for certain modes of appropriate behavior. Baring one’s stocking feet outside of the confines of one’s bedchamber was certainly not on that list. But Wilcox found himself not caring about propriety as the feel of the soft carpet beneath his feet encouraged him to go as barefoot as their young hosts.

Gardenia abruptly flung himself atop the large bed dominating the room, the hem of his kimono riding up to reveal his feet and shins as he landed with a bouncy plop. The top of his head barely missed the shelf affixed to the wall above the bed, on which was arranged half a dozen stoppered glass bottles. Aster followed, though in a more restrained fashion, and Wilcox smiled at the way the lad’s toes peeked out shyly from below his silken garment.

“Come on, then,” Gardenia chirped, patting the satin bedspread, which unsurprisingly matched the cheerful blue of the wallpaper. “There’s plenty of room for all of us!”

Church needed no further convincing, prodding off his own shoes and yanking at his tie as he approached the side of the bed on which Aster was perched. The boy nibbled nervously on his bottom lip and abruptly pushed himself off the bed before Church could reach him.

“Perhaps you would like some tea, my lords?” Aster hastened over to the white oak sideboard tucked against the wall across from the bed. It had been set with a tea service of hideously expensive china in the same motif as decorated the walls.

A matching set of cups, a sugar bowl, and creamer were arrayed alongside the pot on a silver tray. Beside the service was a plate laden with the same delicacies as were on offer in the main room below. Smiling at the slick evasion, Church’s gaze was uncharacteristically tender as he watched Aster scamper about. Wilcox felt his heart twinge at the gentle expression on his friend’s roguish features.

“Sounds like just the thing, don’t you agree, Wilcox?” Church settled himself on the spot recently abandoned by his intended prize. After he finished removing his tie, Church quickly divested himself of his vest, revealing the pristine white of his linen shirt.

In keeping with his stubborn avoidance of speaking to Church, Wilcox merely nodded his wish for refreshment. He couldn’t, however, so easily repress his distraction at the sight of the tantalizing valley of skin exposed by the shirt’s gaping neckline.

“Bring cups for both our guests, won’t you please, Aster?” Gardenia suggested absently, his gaze likewise tracing leisurely over the exposed glimpse of Church’s skin. Deftly shifting his attention as Wilcox joined him on the bed, the boy scooted closer to the center of the spacious mattress to give him room to sit. No sooner had Wilcox arranged himself comfortably than Gardenia was straddling his thighs, the gaping fabric of the lad’s kimono enabling him to spread his legs to the necessary degree. Wilcox’s startled comment remained unspoken as his lips were soon thoroughly occupied by far more pleasant pursuits.

“Might as well leave one of those cups behind, pet,” he heard Church quip as Gardenia kissed his toes into a curl. An intrepid tongue breached the barrier of his teeth and artfully engaged his tongue in a game of cat and mouse. “And do bring some of those delicious-looking biscuits with you,” Church added. The swish of silk across the carpet heralded Aster’s return a moment before the bed dipped with his added presence.

Wilcox hadn’t even noticed his eyelids drifting shut as Gardenia continued his skillful assault. The scent of fresh-cut flowers seemed to surround him, rising from the warming expanse of the boy’s skin. Perhaps Leslie’s garden held a mystical secret, he mused, wherein he’d learned to turn flowers into living, breathing human beings. Wilcox tugged on the sash holding Gardenia’s robes closed, and the fabric parted readily, the heavy silk falling into a pool about the young man’s waist. Wilcox’s hands found the bare expanse of the lad’s slender torso, the petal softness of his skin reinforcing the absurd fantasy. Gardenia moaned, the sound vibrating against Wilcox lips as he felt himself rising to meet the boy’s eagerness.

“Set yourself here on my lap. There’s a good lad.”

Thoroughly diverted by his own flower, it took Wilcox a moment to realized the comment had come from his left where Aster was entertaining Church. With his eyes closed as they were, he could only rely on his ears to interpret the scene occurring next to him. As though sensing his preoccupation, slim fingers slid into his hair, holding his head in place for the tongue that was currently seeking out every hidden corner of his mouth.

“Mmm, this tea is lovely. Tell me, what is it? I’ve never had its like.”

“It’s called rooibos, sir. Mr. Leslie had it shipped in all the way from the southern reaches of the Dark Continent.”

Wilcox felt a scratching at his chest as Gardenia applied nimble fingers to the buttons fastening his vest. He was clearly practiced in removing men’s clothes, for it was but an instant before Wilcox was free of the garment. Though they were likewise secured, Gardenia eschewed the closings that held together Wilcox’s shirt from his throat to midway down his chest. Instead, the boy pushed his suspenders off his shoulders and whisked his still-buttoned white shirt over his head. Wilcox took the opportunity to gasp for air as his lips were released just long enough for the maneuver to be accomplished. “There now,” Gardenia whispered, reapplying himself to Wilcox’s mouth with renewed vigor. Wilcox hissed in delighted surprise when blunt nails raked confidently over the exposed, dusky-rose nubs that peeked through the dark fur lightly covering his chest.

“Ah, rooibos. A most interesting bouquet, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not overly fond of it, though it was a favorite of my late moth—”

Wilcox heard a pause and a rustling, followed by a low murmur from Church. He briefly lost the thread of the other pair’s exchange when clever fingers trailed down his belly and made unerringly for the clasp holding the placket of his trousers closed.

“No more talk of sad things. Rather, I’m sure she had a favorite treat that she enjoyed with her tea. Which of these biscuits is best paired with rooibos?”

“Well, the shortbread biscuits are brilliant with anything, but perhaps the lemon? The tartness offsets the slightly bitter taste of the tea.”

Gardenia was tugging insistently at his trousers, and Wilcox lifted his hips to accommodate his impromptu valet. He felt the fabric being pulled down his legs until they were bunched at his ankles, leaving his drawers his only garment. Seeking retaliation for the imperious stripping, Wilcox trailed his hands up Gardenia’s slender legs, all the while expecting to encounter some sort of undergarment. When he reached the peachy softness of a small, round arse without hindrance, he instantly perceived his error. Wilcox’s vague curiosity concerning Aster’s knowledgeable chatter faded to nothingness upon his discovery that Gardenia wore nothing beneath his kimono, save for his English-rose skin.

“Then the lemon it is.” A quiet crunch followed by a loud slurp indicated that Church was testing Aster’s suggestion. Church had never been particularly exuberant when partaking of tea, ever claiming that the liquid was too hot to properly enjoy at first go. Apparently Aster had altered his opinion of the exercise. “Excellent! Your beauty is clearly matched by your taste in tea and biscuits.”