The Uncertain Customer Read online

  Leslie smiled, the gesture transforming his features from shrewd into something that stirred the interest of Wilcox’s manhood despite his better judgment. His initial impression had been correct, he acknowledged. The owner of the Garden was a dangerously attractive specimen, and Wilcox briefly entertained the notion of inquiring whether the owner ever took a more direct role in his business.

  “Indeed, Sir Wallace,” Leslie replied. “His Grace was quite effusive in his praise of you and Mr. Wilcox.” He bowed his head toward the former. “As you may be aware, we operate only by word of mouth.”

  His Grace? Wilcox shot his friend a look. Clearly the story about the interesting gentleman Church had met in a pub had been less than truthful.

  Church tapped the side of his nose. “And very clever of you, to be sure. It wouldn’t do to advertise your presence to the masses.”

  “Indeed not,” Leslie agreed.

  “Well, then, since you already know who we are, why don’t we get on with it?” Wilcox could picture his governess cuffing him on the ear for being so rude, not that that good woman would ever imagine him in such a place. But the prolonged niceties were straining his already frayed nerves. Although he had never known Church to be nonplussed in any situation, he was still rather surprised by how normally his friend was behaving. As far as he knew, neither of them had ever frequented such an establishment as this. Perhaps it was Church’s experience with more traditional brothels that made him seem so much in his element.

  Leslie graced Wilcox with an inscrutable twitch at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth and swept out a hand, gesturing them toward the desk. Church sat in one of the blue-and-gold upholstered chairs, leaving the other for Wilcox, who sat reluctantly, unhappy with the drawn-out preliminaries.

  “I do apologize, sir,” the owner began as he settled behind the desk, “but I pride myself on ensuring that I have a complete understanding of a guest’s expectations.” Leslie folded his large hands on top of a blotter that took up nearly half the surface of the desk, protecting the gleaming wood. “We cater to a multitude of tastes, and to maximize your enjoyment, I must ascertain which of my flowers will best suit you.”

  “Flowers?” Wilcox asked, only to be interrupted by Church’s bark of laughter.

  “I thought for sure that His Grace was having me on when he mentioned how you refer to your boys. The Garden, indeed!”

  “We all have our affectations, my good sir.” Leslie’s lips curved enigmatically before he cut his gaze toward Wilcox. “And so, please do tell me what you expect from your evening. I promise you, nothing you request will shock me, so there is no need to be bashful.” Wilcox squirmed under the man’s verdant regard, and he was grateful when Church gamely took up the challenge on both their behalves.

  “Nothing too exciting, I’m loath to admit.” Church sat forward in his seat as he favored the owner with a grin of roguish bonhomie. “A proper tumble would do me right well. Although if any of your flowers are capable of such, I do adore the sight of flushed cheeks. A touch of ‘Persephone overcome,’ if you will,” he elaborated. “Innocence spoiled is such a delightful notion. Otherwise, I don’t have any unusual interests, beyond the obvious, of course.”

  Tame though Church’s declaration was, Wilcox found himself fighting against a nebulous vision of his friend and some anonymous, blushing lad rolling together naked atop a bed. He crossed his legs to hide his body’s sudden interest in the topic. So preoccupied was he by his own concerns, Wilcox was initially unaware that a pair of impish green eyes were scrutinizing him closely.

  “And as for my loquacious friend, here—”

  Wilcox looked up sharply when he realized he was being referenced. “Church,” he began, intending to state that he was perfectly capable of speaking for himself.

  Church blithely ignored him. “My companion could use some honest, uncomplicated fun.” His demeanor turned playfully sympathetic. “He has experienced some unfortunate setbacks of late in his pursuit of amour, and it has made him tragically dull and tiresome.”

  Wilcox curled his fingers into a fist as he contemplated which would bring him more satisfaction, hitting the grinning idiot seated next to him or simply leaving and braving the unknown dangers of Neil’s Yard. He was annoyed at Church for exposing his difficulties to this stranger, no matter how veiled the allusion.

  The incident with the sailor hadn’t been the first near disaster he’d encountered as the result of a failed assignation. There had been the misunderstanding with the mill worker he’d met in Dorset while inspecting the disposition of the grain crop from one of his father’s holdings. It was work normally left to his father’s steward, but the viscount had insisted he become more involved in the house’s finances lest he become a complete waste of his education. The mill worker had fixed him with a pointed stare throughout their dealings, which Wilcox now knew to be the man’s habit. At the time, the unwavering look had led him to believe the mill worker held some interest in him beyond their business dealings. A murmured suggestion that they retire somewhere more private later that evening had, unfortunately, left him with a nearly broken nose from a particularly vigorous punch.

  Several weeks before that, he’d been having slightly better luck with a young man who worked at a lodging house near Charing Cross, but a night of shared drinks had led to nothing more than him passing out while his more tolerant companion had seen fit to relieve him of his purse while he slept it off. As a result, it had been months since he’d found release by any means other than his own hand. And all the while, he’d been forced to accompany Church on his varied exploits among the demimonde. The entire situation had left him cranky and out of sorts, as his friend had so helpfully pointed out.

  “I see,” Leslie said simply. “Well, then, I believe I know precisely which of my flowers will best delight you both.” He pushed his large frame up from his chair and walked around his desk. “Payment will be expected before you depart, but until then, we will speak no more of such unpleasantries.” Leslie stepped over to the gold-painted door. “If you will follow me,” he requested before pulling it open with a flourish.

  Wilcox brought up the rear as they passed into the other room. When Church suddenly paused in the doorway, he raised an eyebrow, noting the nonplussed expression that had overtaken his friend’s worldly countenance. Curious as to what could have left Church so entranced, Wilcox peered around him, only to find himself equally flummoxed by what he saw.

  “Paradise awaits you, gentlemen,” Leslie announced. “Do come in.”

  THOU WAST that all to me, love,

  For which my soul did pine—

  A green isle in the sea, love,

  A fountain and a shrine,

  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

  And all the flowers were mine.

  And all my days are trances,

  And all my nightly dreams

  Are where thy grey eye glances,

  And where thy footstep gleams—

  In what ethereal dances,

  By what eternal streams.

  The words of Edgar Allen Poe, the mad American poet, came to Wilcox as he stared into the main hall. For the first time, he appreciated just how aptly Leslie had named the miracle improbably tucked into the nondescript back alley of Neil’s Yard.

  Wilcox had never been to the Far East, or even to the heavily Chinese-populated city of San Francisco. But if someone had asked him to describe an Oriental teahouse, this is what he would have pictured. The furnishings were a clever blend of Asian simplicity and Victorian opulence. Beautifully painted screens depicting all the seasons of the year were placed at strategic corners of the room. The clockwise progression told an annual tale, from the snow-covered mountains of deep winter to the flocks of exotic birds seeking relief from summer’s torment in the blue waters of a running stream. The walls were draped with silks of gold, burgundy, black, and indigo, their share of the space broken at regular intervals by elaborately posed dragons and Chinese
lions fashioned of enameled ivory. Several chaise lounges and divans were arranged haphazardly throughout the room, the only regularity being that before each was a small table laden with varieties of sweets and delicate porcelain teapots of every possible description. Luxurious pillows covered in the same silks that adorned the walls were strewn about the floor, offering additional means for lounging around the tables. The tables themselves were also in the classic Chinese style: low to the floor, painted in plain, unadorned black. Beauty and function melded into one pleasing whole. And wherever a corner lurked that had not been otherwise festooned, planters of calatheas rested on ornate metal stands, hung from the ceiling in gently swaying pots, or peeked out from the shelves that braved what wall space remained.

  Wilcox quickly noted that he and Church were not the only customers present. A half-dozen well-heeled gentlemen sat on the divans or, for a daring two, lounged on the pillows, ignoring the risk to the expensive material of their tailored trousers. Perhaps unsurprisingly, one or two of the patrons were prominent members of the House of Lords. But far more diverting than the other guests now divulged as purveyors of forbidden fruit was the sight of those who entertained them.

  “All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,” Church murmured. Wilcox devoted a portion of his brain to being amazed at his friend’s reliance on the same obscure line of poetry as had occurred to him. The remainder was currently devoting itself to admiring the stunning tableau of Mr. Leslie’s living wares.

  Five young men, all seemingly in their late teens, were in various stages of servicing their chosen patrons. A stunning lad with deep auburn hair and intriguing violet eyes, his lanky figure adorned with a kimono fashioned from yards of silk matching his vibrant locks, was pouring tea for a leering gentleman of advanced years. The overwhelmed peer clutched a square of silk, which he regularly used to pat the sweat from his portly features, his composure no doubt undone by the redhead’s haughty expression and pouty lips.

  At the next table over, a slightly built lad with pink cheeks and equally pink lips peered up at the man feeding him a biscuit, the boy’s flush growing more pronounced as his attendant brushed a strawberry blond curl away from his pale blue eyes. The boy hid his face in the rose-colored sleeve of his cheongsam after every bite, prompting his suitor to tempt him with yet more delicacies.

  On the far side of the room, one of the members of Parliament was stretched out on a chaise lounge, his lap happily occupied by a ravishing specimen of olive-toned skin and dramatic raven tresses that fell in waves nearly to his waist. The young man was dressed, if one could call it that, in an outfit of crushed velvet in the deepest shade of purple, every inch of which sported silver beads. The lower hem of the lad’s shirt ended just below his breastbone, leaving nothing but acres of sun-kissed skin until the embroidered waistband of his skirt began low on his hips. The boy flashed the newcomers a curious glance, revealing a piercing amber gaze as captivating as the rest of him. Wilcox gaped when the young man popped a red grape into the peer’s mouth, only to follow it with a vicious application of sharp, white teeth to his grateful patron’s lower lip.

  The final pair of flowers knelt on pillows as they shared the attentions of a pampered young marquis in a suit of well-brushed black, and a middle-aged gentleman, who wore an unfashionable cravat complete with a pretentious ruby pin. Wilcox was acquainted with both men, but ignored the inconvenience of their mutual presence in favor of examining their attendants. Both boys sported Japanese-inspired fashions similar to their ginger colleague. The two lads were fairly conventional in appearance, clearly of good English stock. The shorter of the pair grinned broadly at whatever the debauched lord was saying. As though he could cast aspersions on that worthy’s character, Wilcox reprimanded himself acidly. A mop of overly long ash blond hair was pulled high into a ponytail atop the boy’s head, and it swung wildly, brushing against the elaborate neckline of his light blue kimono as he moved to refresh the nobleman’s tea. He looked over at his friend while he poured, the chirpy pitch of his voice carrying even though his words did not. Wilcox noted that the lad’s eyes were a striking gray reminiscent of storm clouds and quite at odds with his cheerful disposition.

  The boy’s companion was far more subdued. The young man’s cheeks bore a pinkish tint, though he blushed with less vigor than the lad wearing the cheongsam. Rather, he seemed more discomfited by what he was doing than anything else. Still, when he graced his customer with a smile as he refilled a delicate china cup, his expression was surprisingly genuine. The lad’s hair was relatively short compared to his friend’s, the medium-brown strands falling in a riot of waves to just below his chin. When he glanced up at his customer, Wilcox was afforded a view of gentle hazel-colored eyes, which were greatly enhanced by the green silk that covered his middling frame from his shoulders to past the end of his feet. Wilcox found himself fascinated by the kind-looking boy, and his interest did not go unnoticed.

  “I see that you’ve anticipated me, my lord,” Leslie said quietly so as not to be overheard.

  “How so?” Wilcox asked. He noticed Church raise an eyebrow in a silent echo of his question.

  “Aster and Gardenia are precisely whom I have chosen to entertain you this evening.”

  Church laughed. “You have certainly taken your garden motif to its furthest extent, Mr. Leslie.”

  Inclined to agree, Wilcox pondered the boys’ names as he vaguely recalled something his sister had told him when they were adolescents. Melinda had been studying the meaning of flowers, she and her friends convinced they could use them to subtly confess their devotion to whatever suitor had captured their fancy that week.

  “Gardenia,” Wilcox mumbled to himself. “It represents joy.”

  “And an aster connotes patience or trust.” Church smirked when Wilcox stared at him. “What? There was a woman over in Somerset who worked as a florist—”

  “Just so,” Leslie interrupted, cutting off the nascent limerick when it appeared that Church was in eminent danger of being throttled. “The aster flower also represents kindness. I have named my boys after flowers that best represent their personalities, as I’m sure you will soon be able to attest.” With a flick of his raised hand, the owner caught the attention of the two he’d named. They immediately rose and, after bowing to the peer and the gentleman, made their way toward their employer and his guests.

  Wilcox blinked in confusion. “Aren’t they already engaged?”

  “Unlike your lordship, Lord Preston and Mr. Robarts do not have appointments.” The owner was apparently aware that none of the gentlemen present were strangers to each other, or he would likely have declined to use names. “As are all of our guests, now that you are familiar with what we have to offer, you and Sir Wallace are welcome to come by at any time to partake of our hospitality. Ah,” Leslie remarked as his beckoned flowers reached them. “Aster, Gardenia, may I present you to Mr. Devon Wilcox and Sir Wallace Church.”

  “My lords,” the boys said in unison, sketching demure bows toward their new patrons. Gardenia peeked up through long lashes that matched his light-colored hair and broke his poise by tossing a cheeky grin toward Wilcox. Startled at the boy’s presumption, Wilcox stiffened for an instant before he found himself responding to the welcoming gesture. He was inexplicably delighted when he earned an ever-broader expression of delight in return.

  “Sir Wallace,” Leslie continued, “from your expressed preferences, I believe Aster will be the perfect choice. Although he has not been with us long, I trust you will find him a most delightful companion for the evening.”

  As if on cue, the pink tint that seemed permanently colored onto the taller boy’s cheeks grew more vibrant. If it was innocence debauched that Church sought, he could certainly do worse that the handsome—almost pretty—Aster. A brief glance at his friend told Wilcox that Church was, indeed, captivated by Leslie’s discerning pick.

  “And for you, my lord,” Leslie continued, “I am confident that our playful Gardenia will
suit.”

  The smaller youth certainly resembled his namesake. His complexion glowed with the paleness of alabaster, and against the ash-toned lightness of his hair and the colorless gray of his eyes, his blue attire provided the only relief from the singular fairness of his appearance. The young man’s beaming smile radiated such friendliness, Wilcox could almost picture the cheerful, pure white blossom nestled among a decorative bed of azure stones.

  “They will do quite nicely,” Church announced, his gaze tracing Aster’s blush with rapt fascination. When Leslie glanced at him, Wilcox likewise nodded his approval of the selection.

  “Very good. You are welcome to partake of the wide variety of refreshments and delicacies we offer here in the main hall.” Leslie waved a large hand toward the porcelain dishes arranged on the tables. “We have assortments of fresh fruits, which we receive daily. In addition to the usual fare of oranges and grapes, we also have a selection direct from the tropics,” he explained, noting a dish of tea bread smeared with a fig preserve, papaya, and several colorful specimens Wilcox could not identify. “And, of course, we have a fine choice of freshly brewed tea. Or,” Leslie added, noting Church’s fixed stare toward his assigned conquest, “my flowers can similarly entertain you in their rooms if you’d prefer.”

  “Yes, that would be fine,” Church said predictably.

  Wilcox knew something of his friend’s modus operandi when it came to trysts. He had no doubt that the tea would grow cold in its pot while Church made a meal of his star-shaped blossom. Now that he had a face to put to his imaginings, Wilcox found himself unable to relinquish the vision of his friend and the quiet brunet entwined in a passionate embrace. Gritting his teeth, he determined to concentrate upon his own impending pleasure and abandon any imaginings of what Church might get up to with Aster, as such musings could only lead to frustration and heartbreak.