The First Bloom of Winter, page 3
Any instinct to resist the arrogant summons died when Holden realized he was in danger of being left alone in the questionable location. The cab driver had already disappeared, and Sebastian was even then rounding the bend in the alley. Holden hurried to catch up to the butler, unwilling to let the man out of his sight. His satchel bumped against his leg, swinging fitfully in reaction to the abruptness of his nervous jog. Immediately upon gaining the turn, however, he was forced to an unexpected stop to prevent from accidentally running headlong into his quarry.
The building Sebastian had paused in front of was not far from the alley’s northern mouth. It was hidden only by the subtle curve of the passage as it connected Great St. Andrew Street with what Holden surmised was Queen Street at the far end. He was almost disappointed at the plainness of the black door the butler was pushing open as he rounded the bend. There was no number to identify the building’s address, only a bronze and green enameled carving of a flower. The bas-relief had been polished to a high shine and gleamed in the scant light that managed to penetrate the canyon-like effect of the tall buildings flanking the alleyway.
“Fine Flowers and Exotic Teas?” Holden squinted uncertainly as he read the sign hanging above the door. “Is this a shop?” he asked hopefully, grabbing at the chance to alleviate the dread that had nagged him since the clarence first approached the notorious district.
“Just so,” the butler replied, “though perhaps not the kind you are expecting.”
Holden was left pondering the enigmatic response as Sebastian entered the building, leaving him to follow or flee as he chose. Having already decided he would rather not wander in the Dials unescorted—or even escorted for that matter—Holden stepped inside after the butler without further hesitation. He found himself in an entrance hall as unremarkable as the door secluding it from the alley. The diminutive vestibule sported two equally featureless doors situated orthogonal to each other, both formed of unvarnished cherrywood. The entryway boasted no decorations, not even a coat and hat rack. The lone hanging that disturbed the wood-paneled walls was a large mirror set in a rather plain frame. The lack of ornamentation put Holden on edge. He was far more accustomed to homes crammed from basement to attic with any and every sort of knickknack within the decorator’s means. The austere surrounds seemed almost foreign by comparison. Fortunately, his sojourn in the ascetic hall was short-lived.
Holden fidgeted impatiently as Sebastian knocked on the door opposite the main entrance. The sturdy portal permitted only a low mumble to penetrate into the vestibule, but evidently the unintelligible utterance held some meaning for the butler. He turned to look at Holden, who tightened his grip on his satchel as he was assailed by a sudden and unaccountable bout of nerves.
“Mr. Leslie will see you now,” Sebastian announced before opening the door and gesturing with a graceful sweep of his hand for Holden to proceed before him.
The room into which Holden passed was a far cry from the dull entrance hall. Rather, it exhibited an impeccable blending of English respectability and Oriental decadence. The theme of cherrywood had been carried over in the flooring and window frames, but the door through which he’d entered and its opposite on the far side of the room had been treated in far grander fashion. The former had been painted a vibrant royal blue while the latter was tinted with imitation gold. Furniture of Turkish origins—or a reasonable simulation thereof—provided means of rest and relaxation, the sturdy pieces covered in fabric the likes of which Holden had seen illustrated only in books. Tones of maroon, azure, and gold dominated the decorative theme and were continued in the beautiful Turkish rug that covered almost the entirety of the floor. The walls had been bedecked in similar manner, providing a stunning contrast to the heavy crushed velvet window treatments of dark burgundy that sheltered the interior from the ugly world beyond. A chandelier fashioned of frosted glass provided light sufficient to remedy the lack of outside illumination by means of countless gas lamps. A handsome cherry desk sat directly beneath the chandelier, identifying the room as an office.
Behind the desk lounged an even more handsome man. Holden stared helplessly, completely forgetting all boundaries of etiquette and manners as the man rose to greet him. Not even the ominous click of the door shutting behind him could divert his attention. Though the man was standing clear across the room, Holden was forced to tilt his head upward to accommodate the marked difference in their heights. Holden had never considered himself particularly tall nor especially short, but this stranger made him feel small indeed. The stylish cut of the man’s suit did little to hide the broad shoulders and muscular torso of one accustomed to labor significantly more strenuous than sitting behind a desk. A slight ruddiness in his complexion suggested lowly breeding, though he carried himself in a superb imitation of a gentleman. The light from the gas lamps shone on the man’s head, drawing out the reddish highlights in his thick, expertly coiffed chestnut mane. He raked over Holden with a sharp, verdant gaze, leaving Holden with the impression of being weighed, measured, and uncomfortably exposed.
“Holden Peters, I presume.” The man’s voice was as overwhelming as the rest of him, deep with a commanding timbre that was likely unaccustomed to disobedience.
Nodding in acknowledgment, Holden struggled to regain his suddenly lost ability to speak. “Y-yes, sir.” He held his satchel in front of him like a shield, his hands clenched painfully around the handle, and took a deep breath to calm himself. Long-ingrained mores came to his rescue. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The pleasantry won him an amused twitch of the man’s lips, giving Holden the impression of a tiger smiling at a hapless mouse.
“Quite. Have a seat, Holden.” The man gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk from where he stood.
“And what should I call you, sir?” Holden asked as he moved to comply with the directive.
“Mr. Leslie will suffice.” He regained his seat and continued to subject Holden to close scrutiny. “How old are you? Seventeen? Yes, I believe you will do very well indeed.”
“Sir?” Holden replied quizzically. “I’m eighteen, sir. But what does—”
“You have quite a unique look about you,” Leslie continued, cutting off Holden’s nascent request for clarification. “Classic bone structure, excellent teeth. The color of your hair is not particularly noteworthy—brown is rather common—but I have rarely seen such a riot of waves. I suppose it must curl to a great degree when it’s shorter. Do tell me, what color are your eyes? I’ve never witnessed their like.”
Holden blinked, discomfited by the extremely odd nature of the interview. “Um, my mother described them as hazel, but, sir, I don’t understand. Your butler said this place is a shop of some kind. Am I to serve as a clerk? Is that why my father sent me to you?”
Leslie narrowed his gaze and leaned back in his chair. “What exactly did your father tell you?”
Holden cringed inwardly at the still fresh memory of his frigid sendoff. “Not much, sir. Only that I was to come work for you.” He shifted in his seat as Leslie continued to stare at him. “If I may ask, sir, how do you know my father? I never heard him mention you before….”
“Before he decided to sell you to me?” Leslie released a chuff of laughter when Holden’s eyes widened with shock at his characterization of the transaction.
“I hardly think that’s what occurred!” Holden sputtered indignantly.
“Believe what you will,” Leslie replied with infuriating nonchalance. “It’s the truth. You see, your father owes me a great deal of money. As part of my business, I require a steady supplier of fine and exotic comestibles. You saw the sign outside, did you not? Mmm,” he continued at Holden’s stiff nod, “then you are aware one of the things I offer for sale is tea.”
“Another being flowers?” Holden interjected. “Is this some sort of nursery? If so, it seems quite an odd place for one.” He sniffed huffily. “I can’t imagine you get much business hidden away in an alley,” he added, feeling secure in his acumen concerning matters of trade. He ground his teeth when Leslie merely chuckled at his show of pique.
“Oh, you would be surprised how in demand my flowers are to those with the means to admire them.” Leslie’s lips curved in an enigmatic smile. “However, as I was explaining, I purchased several of your father’s imports on recommendation and was extremely satisfied with his product. After a relationship of some months, he came to me with a proposition. He wished to borrow capital to increase his shipments from the East Indies. I saw it as a sound investment… at the time.” The smile vanished, replaced by a straight line betraying his displeasure with the outcome of his dealings with Franklin Peters. “Little did I know your father had planned to use my outlay to first satisfy his outstanding creditors before expending it on what I thought was our mutually shared goals.”
Holden swallowed, knowing all too well how the financial crises had diminished his family’s assets. Yet, he’d been kept completely in the dark about his father’s dealings with Leslie. He wondered how his father had kept the matter so completely hidden, given that Holden had been deeply involved in maintaining the books for Peters & Sons for over a year. He did, however, know his father had not taken on any new imports beyond those he normally received in any given season.
“He lost it all,” Holden surmised, certain he had the right of it. Leslie’s steady gaze was all the confirmation he required. The influx of orders for collection had been endless, though Holden had thought the business was compensating, if barely, for the majority of his father’s debts. Apparently he’d been gravely mistaken. “How much does he owe you?”
“Fifteen thousand pounds.”
“Fifteen—” Holden choked, blanching as he struggled to comprehend such a vast sum. Leslie’s venture must be a staggering success for him to have been able to afford the immense loan. Even in a bumper year when the harvest was stellar and their ships were among the first to reach port, Peters & Sons made barely half that amount per annum. How on earth did his father expect him to work off such a vast debt? Holden doubted he could achieve it should he work until he was eighty!
“So, you see,” Leslie continued smoothly as though Holden weren’t in the midst of suffering an apoplectic fit, “I required something to make his, dare I say, criminal behavior worth overlooking.”
Shaking himself out of his shocked torpor, Holden straightened his back and met Leslie’s gaze as directly as he dared. “I thank you, sir, for offering my father such consideration in light of his gross negligence. I promise you I am quite capable with both sums and writing, and I have served for years as a part-time clerk for my father. I freely offer you any service you might require to put this unpleasant matter to rest.” Perhaps assisting his father in this way would prove that he wasn’t entirely beyond redemption. Holden’s demeanor improved as he considered the prospect of proving his usefulness to both Leslie and his father. He sat straighter in his chair and looked Leslie directly in the eye. “I give you my word, sir,” he continued, “I will do my utmost to satisfy my father’s debt to you in its entirety.” The pledge was sealed, and Holden felt the contentment of decisiveness settle over him.
This time, Leslie’s grin revealed his teeth, and Holden’s newfound serenity vanished as the sight reminded him, with uncomfortable clarity, of the drawing he’d once seen of a shark. He’d been a small lad of five, and the picture of the creature’s dagger-like dentium and monstrous figure had given him nightmares for weeks afterward.
“Any service I might require,” Leslie echoed. “How fitting that you chose such an appropriate turn of phrase.”
Holden stared at the man across from him in bewilderment. “How so?”
Leslie tapped the blunt tip of his long index finger against the top of his desk for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You must be curious as to how your father and I came to our arrangement regarding your coming to work for me.”
“The question did cross my mind.” Incessantly, Holden barely resisted the urge to add. He’d thought of nothing else since his father had made his intentions clear several weeks before.
“Hmm. Well, it seems a number of your father’s trading partners suffered a not insignificant setback earlier this year, if I understood him correctly.”
“Yes,” Holden confirmed. Much of the crop this past spring had been lost when unusually fierce midspring storms had pummeled the land from the Bay of Bengal to the South China Sea. Although the vast majority of British tea importers had suffered, the farms contracted by the brokers in his father’s employ had been hit particularly hard. “It was not a good year,” he explained succinctly.
“An understatement, it would seem. I found your father sublimely deep in his cups late one evening at a pub in Soho I frequent on occasion. I was somewhat surprised to find him there, but decided to take the opportunity to press my claim while he was, shall we say, not at his best.”
Leslie’s expression held no hint of remorse over his admission that he’d taken advantage of his target’s obvious intoxication. Given the ignominy with which his father had dealt with his former client, Holden was unable to place the fault solely at Leslie’s door.
“You might imagine my surprise when your father confessed to me the most wildly incredible tale.”
Holden frowned. “What tale?” Never in his entire life had he ever heard his father tell stories. Franklin Peters was a man of facts and figures, not one given to flights of fancy.
The vaguely menacing grin spread wider across Leslie’s lips. “That he’d caught his only son and heir in flagrante delicto with another young man.”
“W-what?” Holden stared at Leslie slack-jawed, his ability to speak nearly failing him after the stunned utterance. “I don’t… how could… whatever do you mean?”
“Though his speech was slurred, the import of your father’s words was quite clear. Do you deny it?”
Clenching his fists, Holden speared Leslie with a furious glare, angry not only at this unrepentant brute and his unexpected drunkard of a father, but at his own inability to deny his guilt. He had no choice but to go on the attack. “And precisely what business is it of yours?” he spat defiantly.
Leslie raised a single eyebrow, his expression one of muted surprise. “Yet again, the accuracy of your terminology is impeccable. That is precisely my business.”
Holden’s rage faltered as confusion rapidly overtook it. He shook his head, his mouth opening and closing silently as he desperately sought to make sense of the incomprehensible response. After watching him flail about for a few moments, Leslie sighed, apparently tired of the game.
“This is a brothel, my dear Holden,” Leslie elucidated. “My flowers are, in fact, beautiful young men such as yourself, who serve the needs of customers who prefer to savor the forbidden fruit of the Greeks.”
His classical education had been rigorous and thorough, so Holden had no trouble discerning Leslie’s meaning. The needle of his emotions tilted once more toward outrage. Every instinct of politeness and duty burned away in a conflagration of indignation. Holden shot to his feet and jabbed an accusatory finger toward Leslie’s mocking face.
“Now see here! How dare you even imply I become entangled in your sordid enterprise?” His confidence growing with every word, Holden let loose with all of the righteous ire he could muster. “I will go to my father at once, and when he learns your true intent concerning my person, he will notify the authorities and have you thrown in jail!”
Leslie sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, weathering the barrage with an air of supreme insouciance. “Is that so?” he interjected when Holden paused to take a breath. “Then I’m certain your father will enjoy his stint in debtors’ prison. After all,” he added, watching Holden through eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, “who are the police more likely to believe? A respectable purveyor of horticultural curiosities with a clientele drawn from some of the wealthiest, most influential members of society? Or a known defaulter, who has run his family’s business into the ground?”
Holden wanted to call out Leslie as a liar, but he could not. He had no way of confirming the veracity of Leslie’s account regarding the security of his business, but why would the man perpetrate such an egregious falsehood? Holden accepted that he was innocent of many things, but even he knew that anyone in Leslie’s line of work could not expect to operate for long without powerful safeguards. The government, in fact, had finally taken an affront to the prostitute houses in Haymarket and like places that dabbled in merely the ordinary forms of sin, shutting the majority of them down forthwith. A brothel of young men? Holden could hardly believe such a thing could exist, and yet it seemed he was to become familiar with the concept in a most horribly intimate manner.
The notion of merely turning on his heel and walking away lasted for less than a moment in his consideration. He had no doubt Leslie would make good on this threat to reveal his father’s failures to the world. Everything the loathsome man had said about his father was true. Though Holden had tried to pretend all was well, he had seen the letters demanding payment. How many had slipped his attention? If there was anything he could do to spare his father from such humiliation, he would. And, in his most secret heart, Holden feared he was somehow deserving of such an unthinkable fate. For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind. The meaning of that ominous verse filled his mind with terrible clarity. After having proved himself such a disappointment, how could he refuse this chance to help his father in whatever way he could? Franklin Peters would never survive the disgrace of being incarcerated. Although Holden feared his sire might hate him until the end of his days, he would never consign him to such a fate. Not when he could prevent it—even though it be by means as terrible as these.
