A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (8 page)

“Oh, yes, excellent. Enjoying White’s?” Higham asked, proving Julius’s point.

They talked for some minutes. Higham seemed to be a sensible man, no matter the absurdity of his dress. Others drifted up, joined in. Julius had disappeared, Harry realized after a while, and felt a twinge of panic. He looked round, and saw him, a few feet away. He seemed absorbed in conversation with a tall man but his eyes flicked to Harry after no more than a couple of seconds, then away again.

Julius was watching. And if he’d left Harry on his own, it was because he could. Because Harry was doing well. Fitting in. He felt a flush of pure pride.

He was discussing prizefights with Higham, Ash, and Freddy as if he’d spent his life rubbing shoulders with gentlemen when he saw Ash’s expressive features change to a look of almost comical dismay. Harry followed his gaze to a fleshy, red-faced, sandy-haired man looming in the doorway.

“Oh
no,
” said Ash and Freddy at once, as Ash went on, “I could have sworn he was at Warminster Hall for another fortnight. What’s he doing here?”

Warminster Hall was Ash’s family home. Harry glanced again at the new arrival and realized that he looked more than anything like a Hogarth caricature of his handsome friend.

“Is that your brother?”

“Maltravers,” Ash said miserably. “God help me. And I’ll wager anything he’s here to play, and Francis is at the tables. Oh, the devil. If one of you fellows could get him away, I’ll…” He braced himself visibly. “I’ll distract Mal.”

“Lord, don’t do that,” Freddy said, simultaneously with Higham’s, “I’m not standing between Webster and a pack of cards. I value my skin.”

Harry had no idea what was going on, and absolutely no urge to volunteer himself for either sacrifice. He glanced around, as if that might be helpful, and saw a dark head above the mingling crowd of men: Richard, moving purposefully in Maltravers’s direction, taking Lord Alvanley’s arm as he did so. Harry tapped Ash’s shoulder. “I think Richard may be dealing with your brother.”

“Oh God, really? He is quite the best of men. Come on, Harry. If we go out this way we can collect Francis and avoid a scene.”

“Would there be a scene?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” said Ash and Freddy in chorus. Freddy went on, “Maltravers doesn’t like Webster. Well, can’t say I do myself. Not the most likable of fellows.”

“
I
like him,” Ash said. “We settled our differences, Freddy, you know that, and he can’t help being awkward.” That was probably Ash’s idea of turning away suspicion, though the words were spoken with a betraying flush. “Come on.” He led the way to the gaming room, just in time for them to see Julius escorting Francis from the tables with a grip that looked as though it wasn’t going to be shaken off. For a poised exquisite, Julius had a decided knack for the frog-march.

“I say, Francis, Mal’s here,” Ash said, hurrying up. “Shall we go?”

“I have no intention of scurrying away for your repulsive brother’s benefit,” Francis snapped.

“
I
have no intention of watching you and Maltravers engage in a battle of wits,” Julius informed him. “If I want to observe an unnatural and ungainly spectacle, I shall watch the dancing dogs at Astley’s. Don’t be a bore, Francis, let us move on to Quex’s. Richard asked me to put Harry’s name down.”

“Yes, do let’s,” Ash said earnestly. Francis glowered, but let Ash tug at his arm.

“Thank God, a crisis averted,” Julius murmured as they stepped onto the street. The cool night air of early autumn was a welcome shock against Harry’s heated skin. “The only sight less edifying than Francis squabbling with that oaf Maltravers is Ash dancing around them with pity and terror writ large on his idiotic face.”

“Oh, that’s unkind,” Harry protested.

“Francis and Maltravers have been at daggers drawn for the best part of two decades now. Ash can’t change that, and nobody else cares. How are you enjoying your maiden voyage?”

“Enormously.” Harry grinned at him, full of relief and gratitude. He felt as effervescent as the champagne he’d been drinking. Nobody had looked askance at him. Nobody had disputed his right to be here or asked the probing questions he’d feared:
Where are you from? Where were you before?
He was Richard’s cousin, a Vane, a gentleman whatever anyone might say, and nobody was terribly interested in anything more. “It’s been the most wonderful night.”

“I thought the company was rather thin. It will be more interesting when the Season gets into full swing,” Julius remarked as he took Harry’s arm. The contact shivered through him. It was just the way gentlemen might choose to walk together, but it was Julius, and so close, and the fact was, all the excitement made Harry want to fuck.

If he’d been a normal man on a normal street, he could have pushed Julius down some dark and filthy alley, fumbled between his legs, shared gin-soaked kisses and hurried, sticky groping. Gentlemen didn’t do that, of course, and St. James’s Street had no suitable alleys degrading its classical marble grandeur. He’d just have to wait.

Richard caught up with them as they sauntered up St. James’s, past broughams and liveried servants, well-dressed men in little groups, a couple of noisier merrymakers.

“I say, thank you,” Ash told him. “I saw you draw Maltravers’s fire.”

“I put Alvanley in his way. Are we going to Quex’s?”

“We thought so,” Julius said. “Will Dominic join us?”

“I believe not,” Richard said. “It’s his, uh, regularly occupied night.”

“So nice for him to be regularly occupied,” Francis remarked blandly, and Harry felt Julius shake with silent laughter next to him. Freddy strolled on ahead with Ash, oblivious.

“In any case,” Richard said, refusing to be drawn, “the suppers are superior at Quex’s, so let us proceed.”

“Suppers.” Julius spoke with the scorn of the naturally slender to the much larger man. “At this time of night. You’ll look like Alvanley before you’re fifty.”

The spirited discussion provoked by this remark lasted until they reached Quex’s, which was at the other end of St. James’s Street.
Gentlemen out on the town,
Harry thought, keeping up his end of the conversation almost at random.
Six well-dressed, well-spoken gentlemen. Lords and Sirs and wealthy Misters. And I was a radical bred, and Ash was ploughing Francis over a desk while Julius and I kissed behind a curtain….

Are any of us gentlemen? Any of them?

“Wake up, dear boy, we’re here.” Julius’s voice recalled his attention. “Quex’s. Your new home from home.”

Quex’s was a smaller house, without the imposing columns and curlicues that marked White’s. A footman called out to the house as they approached, opening the door, and a black man in a dark green tailcoat stepped forward to greet Richard as they entered.

“My lord. We’re privileged to have your company. Lord Gabriel, Mr. Norreys, Mr. Webster, good evening.” The major-domo glanced at Harry. He was very dark, far more so than most of the men Harry knew who were called black, with a deep, educated voice. “Is this Mr. Harry Vane, Lord Richard?”

“Indeed it is. Thank you, Shakespeare. If we could have Quex?” The major-domo lifted an authoritative hand, a footman leapt to obey, and within seconds, a small thin man approached, walking with a slight limp. He had smooth features of a slightly effeminate cast, and shrewd, bright eyes that scanned Harry as though memorizing him. He wore a coat of identical cut and shade to the first man.

“Quex, who runs the house along with Shakespeare. My cousin Harry Vane.” Richard indicated Harry, who very nearly found himself bowing. He caught the motion almost immediately, turned it to a polite nod, and was aware of Julius’s gaze. Amused? Annoyed? He didn’t dare look.

“Harry is welcome to the private rooms as a guest,” Richard went on. Mr. Quex bowed his acknowledgment, and gave Harry a swift scrutiny that made him feel more exposed than any meeting so far this evening.

“A pleasure to welcome you, sir. Do ask Mr. Shakespeare or myself if you’ve any special requests. The house is yours, gentlemen.” Mr. Quex had rather a high voice, laced with the London street, jolting Harry to memories that seemed unreal. Both men bowed again to Richard and his guests, moving in perfect synchrony, and stepped back to admit the party.

“I say, you’re fortunate,” Ash muttered. “They barely let me in here when I was new to London. Oh, there goes Francis to the tables, excuse me.”

That left him with Julius, following Richard to the supper room, since Harry agreed strongly with his cousin on the subject of meals. “Who are those fellows?” he asked as they made their way through. “Quex and—was his name Shakespeare?”

“I’m afraid so, yes. They run this place and are waxing very wealthy on the proceeds, since this is one of the deeper hells. Do
not
play cards here without Francis at your back. And be aware that Shakespeare and Quex are Cyprian’s allies, Richard’s omniscient valet, you know, and he reports to his master. If you must misbehave, do it elsewhere.”

It sounded like Bonaparte’s Paris. “Is that how they knew who I was?”

“Doubtless. Dominic says that if the Home Office had a network of spies half as good as Cyprian’s, there wouldn’t be a seditionist or a Frenchman left in the country.”

Harry digested that. “And what are the private rooms?”

“You have people to meet,” Julius said, looking round. “Ah, Farquhar, how do you do? Let me introduce Harry Vane.”

Then it was another round of conversation, champagne, and dice. It seemed to go on for hours, or minutes. Harry couldn’t tell. The pall of tobacco from those who preferred smoking to snuff, the fumes of brandy, the smell of male bodies in proximity in a hot room. He smiled, bowed, made light conversation, repeated Ash’s observations about the prizefight as his own and drew appreciative laughs, until to his astonishment it was two o’clock in the morning and Julius was at his side.

“It’s late,” Julius observed unnecessarily. “Another brandy?”

Harry was undeniably a little the worse for wear. Not badly so, since the urge to soothe his nerves with spirits had been far less than the fear of getting foxed and blurting out some dreadful truth. But enough to make the idea of another drink, and one with Julius, seem very tempting.

“Could we find somewhere quiet?” he suggested, pitching his voice carefully but not obtrusively low. Julius hesitated, and there it was again, that flash of something like nervousness. Harry pressed his advantage, needing it. “We haven’t had the opportunity for a comfortable cose for days—”

“This way.” Harry followed Julius to the rear of the house, where he nodded to a sleepy-looking footman who scrambled to open an unobtrusive door. That brought them to a flight of stairs, and then a comfortable room, drapes drawn, a fire dying in the hearth and a single lamp burning.

“Is this the private room?” Harry asked, looking round. It seemed vaguely familiar, somehow, and he realized why: It was decorated in very much the style of Arrandene. The dark greens that Richard liked, chairs built for large men that promised comfort. He took one near the fire, grateful to be off his feet, as Julius went to the crystal decanter.

“One of them. This is Richard’s, our, area. I should advise you that you will be allowed up in the company of one of us and not otherwise, until Richard gives orders to the contrary. And only approved guests to these rooms may accompany you, so don’t invite anyone. The staff have their orders and Richard’s will is law.” Julius handed him a glass of port. “He protects our privacy.”

“Mmm.” Harry realized he’d probably had enough but he sipped it anyway. The drink was cloying on his tongue.

Julius was standing by the mantelpiece, holding his own untouched glass. His cravat was rather crumpled now, and Harry wanted to pull it off his neck, bare the pale throat. He wished Julius would come closer.

He shifted position, spreading his legs wide, and saw Julius’s gaze slide down from his face. “Will Richard join us? Or anyone?”

Julius’s throat worked under the collar, a little swallow. “I doubt it at this hour.”

A safe place, guarded, free from interference. What wealth could do. “Well, then…” Harry adjusted the uncomfortably tight fit of his pantaloons, giving his balls a blatant, shameless tug, saw Julius’s little shudder. “I’ve just spent the evening in the best clubs in the land, and nobody’s thought twice about me. You’ve turned me into a gentleman. And I’m drunk, and I feel like celebrating in a bloody ungentlemanly sort of way.” Let Gideon, the old bastard, talk of his father disgracing the Vane name. What would he think of this? He stroked himself through the cloth, let the pleasure show on his face, watched Julius’s frosty eyes darken.

“What sort of—ungentlemanly act do you have in mind?” Julius’s voice sounded a little strained, and still he hadn’t moved. Maybe Harry ought to go to him, but that would involve getting up, and he didn’t want to. In fact, what he wanted…

The devil with it. He loosened the front fall of his pantaloons with some relief, felt his hard cock spring up. He pushed away his drawers, baring himself, sprawled and indecent in one of the most exclusive clubs in London, one floor above some of the uppermost of the
ton.
The thought should have been quelling, but it wasn’t. Quite the reverse. He ran his thumb up his rigid shaft, pushing it toward Julius in invitation, heard his breath rasp.

“What I had in mind…” he said, drunk on success, hope, and champagne. “Well, it would be rather lovely if you’d suck me.”

Julius’s lips parted. There was a long moment, long enough for Harry to think,
Damnation, he doesn’t, I should have offered—
and then he put his glass on the mantel, took two steps forward, and went to his knees between Harry’s spread thighs.

“Oh Christ.” Julius’s hands gripped on his legs, holding them, either for balance or to keep himself upright. Julius’s mouth was hovering over his swollen cock, breath hissing over the sensitive flesh. His tongue darted out, licking over the head, and as Harry gave a groan of need, Julius leaned forward and took him down.

Sensation swept through him, almost unbearable. “So good.” He stared at the gilt-blond head bowed over him, felt pleasure spiking as Julius’s lips tightened. He knew how to gamahuche a man, that was for certain, though the death grip on Harry’s thighs betrayed nerves. As if sensing the thought, Julius’s hands relaxed, pushing into Harry’s loosened clothing and over his skin. Harry grunted, twisting under the cool fingers’ exploration, and Julius took hold of his hipbones, with just a little pressure, pulling him forward, urging Harry’s cockstand even farther into his mouth.