The First Bloom of Winter, page 6
Gardenia laughed. “Good, isn’t it? Mrs. Peabody makes her own with whatever fresh fruit she finds at the Market that she deems good enough for her jams.” He matched Holden by devouring some of the blue jam—blueberry, Holden figured—which he followed with a forkful of egg.
“Where is Hibiscus?” Holden asked when he’d swallowed an adequate amount of his toast to enable speech.
“He likes to sleep in,” Peony piped up unexpectedly. He dropped his gaze back to his plate when he saw he had gotten Holden’s attention, his blush growing deeper in color.
“Indeed.” Gardenia slurped noisily at his drink to wash down the massive amount of food he’d swallowed. “He likes to sleep even later than you.” He pointed his fork in Holden’s direction teasingly.
The sound of cutlery being placed against ceramic plates and the scrape of chairs against the tiled floor heralded the departure of the pair at the other table. Leslie spared a moment to favor the three of them with a reserved smile before turning his full attention on Holden. Trying not to fidget under the weight of his new employer’s gaze, Holden attempted to deflect the impact by dropping his own to the table.
“When you are finished, Freesia, please come out immediately to the main hall. It’s time we get you outfitted.”
Holden blinked at Leslie’s retreating back, Amaryllis having preceded him without pausing. “What does he mean, ‘get me outfitted’?”
“You’ll see.” Gardenia resumed chewing steadily, seeming content to ignore Holden’s irritated stare. “Anyway,” he continued after his latest mouthful had been safely retired, “you must have a lot of questions about this place. Ah! Good afternoon, Hibiscus.”
The raven-haired beauty swept into the room, looking as stunning as he had the day before, if a little less alert. “Ha-ha,” he articulated drolly before quickly acquiring a selection of pastries and a cup of coffee. Sitting across from Gardenia, he tossed Holden a sly, examining glance. Apparently satisfied with whatever he’d discerned from Holden’s face, he took a bite of one of the pastries, neatly catching the dollop of raspberry jam as it oozed out the opposite side. “It sounds as though you were about to engage in your favorite topic, Gardenia. Gossip.”
“Indeed, I was!” Gardenia did not seem at all upset about being called on the unseemly habit. “I was all set to tell Freesia about how things are here at The Garden.”
“Is it really called that?” Holden asked.
Peony nodded. “That’s why we’re all named after flowers.”
“Let’s see.” Gardenia sat back in his chair and placed a hand over his stomach in a gesture of contented fullness. “You’ve already met Sebastian. He’s as much in charge here as Mr. Leslie.”
“Perhaps more.”
“He’s right.” Gardenia nodded at Peony. “Don’t get on his bad side, whatever you do.”
Holden raised an eyebrow. “And how would one do that?”
Hibiscus smiled at Holden in what he thought a most unnerving fashion. “By doing anything to embarrass Mr. Leslie.”
“Or by making a mess,” Gardenia intoned gloomily, his utterly serious expression connoting he spoke from some experience on the topic. “Basically, he makes certain everything runs smoothly, including that the customers arrive when they’re supposed to.”
“And depart when they should,” Hibiscus added.
Gardenia nodded in agreement. “Sebastian also oversees the rest of the household staff, which consists of Mrs. Peabody and a couple of maids who come in every day to clean. None of the women live here, though, as you might imagine.”
Holden swallowed. “Do they know what Mr. Leslie’s… er, business entails?”
“I don’t know about the maids, since Sebastian makes sure they only come in during the day to work. But Mrs. Peabody does,” Gardenia added. “I heard she’s been with him since he ran a similar business in Haymarket.”
Somehow, Holden was not surprised to learn Leslie had been in the profession of peddling flesh prior to opening this unique bordello. “And what about you three and Amaryllis? How did you come to be here?” He was deeply curious as to how their employer had caught the others in his net, but when he was met with silence, he instantly felt his gaucheness with acute severity. “I-I am very sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s all right,” Gardenia said. “But we all have our own stories to tell.”
“Not to mention, our own measures for how much we divulge to others,” Hibiscus finished in a quietly unnerving tone.
“Of course,” Holden murmured in polite acknowledgment. Figuring it was unfair of him to demand without offering something in recompense, he took a deep breath and forced himself to meet his companions’ gazes in turn. “My… my father sold me to Mr. Leslie to settle a business debt he owed.” The very concept still seemed utterly inconceivable, even more so when said aloud. “My father was very angry at me when he ordered me to leave home. Mr. Leslie said that my father doesn’t know what this place is, but I have to wonder whether he’d have objected even if he had.” The painful supposition had preyed on his thoughts since his first meeting with Leslie, regardless of the man’s reassurances on that front. “I don’t know if he’ll ever have me back again.” Of that depressing fact, he felt rather more certain, his fervent wishes to the contrary aside. Holden wondered at his reluctance to share the circumstances of their disagreement, but he couldn’t be sure the others shared his proclivities, even though they were in such an analogous line of work.
Peony toyed with his teacup. “My father worked for the Foreign Service in India. He and my mother left me with an uncle once my father received his duty station. They deemed me too young to accompany them at the time. About a year ago, however, they finally decided I could join them, but they were lost at sea on the return voyage while coming to fetch me. My uncle had a magistrate declare me incompetent, and he seized my inheritance. He didn’t throw me out of my home, but he devoted very little to my upkeep. Simon and Mrs. Peabody saw me begging down on the Strand near Trafalgar Square. I was trying to sell caricatures to get money for food. They brought me to Mr. Leslie, who offered me a job.”
Holden felt the shy lad had left a lot unsaid, but he felt in no position to press. He didn’t even ask who this Simon person was, though he was mighty interested.
“Hmm, well, I suppose my story has a few similarities to Peony’s.” Hibiscus’s eyes were surprisingly kind as he gazed upon his quieter companion. “Or, at least, it also involves exotic lands, as Mr. Leslie hinted. As he explained, though my father was English, my mother was not.” He paused as he took a sip of his coffee. “In fact,” he continued after a moment, “she was Persian. My father was part of the occupying force manning the British Residency in Bushehr. My mother was the daughter of an influential local chieftain, and, to hear her tell it, he fell in love with her as soon as he saw her. Romantic girl that she was, she bore him a child and was disowned by her father for her trouble. My father, of course, never acknowledged me and eventually came back to Britain, but my mother’s faith in him never wavered. When she became very ill a few years ago, she spent the last of her resources arranging my passage to the land of my father so I might come to know him.” Hibiscus smiled humorlessly. “She died right before I sailed. At least she didn’t live long enough to know what became of her precious son.” He swirled the last of his pastry in a blob of jam that had landed on his plate. “Fortunately my mother’s people didn’t abandon her, even after her own father had, and they taught me many valuable skills while I was growing up that I’ve been able to put to good use.”
“Such as?” Holden inquired, mesmerized by the tragic story.
Hibiscus grinned predatorily. “They were people of the horse. Raised some of the finest thoroughbreds outside of the Arabian Peninsula. Let’s just say I learned how to apply the bit and the whip to great effect.”
Gardenia guffawed, and Peony smiled softly.
“That’s a clever way to put it,” Gardenia crowed. He grinned at Holden, who blinked at him in bemusement. “Now, you wouldn’t want us to give away all of our secrets at once. Where’s the fun in that?” His expression grew milder as he prepared to take his turn at the impromptu confessional. “I grew up only a few streets from here in the Dials. When I came to the Garden, it wasn’t the first time I’d sold myself for the purpose of survival. Mr. Leslie merely gave me a smarter place to practice a trade I’d learned long ago. Anyway, enough of that,” he added, his face lighting up with his more customary jollity. “Breakfast certainly isn’t the time for sad tales.”
When it appeared Gardenia didn’t plan to divulge anything further concerning himself, Holden frowned. He opened his mouth to mention how paltry Gardenia’s offering had been compared to the others, but something in Gardenia’s expression gave him pause. Holden sensed there was an underlying darkness to his new friend that Gardenia took great care to hide beneath his sometimes ridiculous exterior. Instead Holden asked a question he considered far more pressing.
“Tell me,” he said hesitantly, uncertain of how his query might be received, “are you ever afraid when you’re… seeing customers?” He contemplated how better to phrase his concerns. “Do you ever worry you might be hurt?” Though he felt considerably better at discovering he was not alone in the dreadful circumstances that had led him to this place, he still lacked the one advantage the rest of the lads had—full knowledge of what his new life entailed.
“Did you show him the secret room, Gardenia?”
Holden glanced at Peony as the timid lad spoke. “Secret room?”
“Ah, I knew I’d forgotten something.” Gardenia peered at Holden questioningly. “Did you notice the door hidden beside the wardrobe?”
“Door?” Holden repeated again before he suddenly remembered the odd feature he’d discovered in the wall. “Do you mean the one that’s been covered over?”
Gardenia shook his head. “Not covered, merely concealed from view to anyone who doesn’t know to look for it.”
“It’s not the hidden door itself that’s interesting, mind you.” Hibiscus raised his empty cup and twisted it about carelessly on his index finger. “It’s why the door is there at all.”
“I was getting to that, Hibiscus.” Gardenia pouted before smiling at a visibly confused and increasingly exasperated Holden. “As I was going to say, we are all assigned personal minders. Bodyguards, if you will. They are responsible for keeping us safe during our assignations.” He scrunched his nose, as though smelling something unpleasant. “Sometimes the toffs who pay for our affections can get a little….”
“Rough,” Peony finished softly.
“Indeed,” Hibiscus affirmed. “So our minders keep watch over us in our rooms when we’re more isolated and vulnerable to make certain nothing untoward occurs.”
“You mean….” Holden swallowed nervously. “Someone is paid to watch us having… intimate relations?”
Gardenia howled with laughter, slapping his hand on the table to emphasize his amusement. “Gor! Ain’t you the proper little princeling?”
A snort broke his fit only momentarily, and Holden felt his face growing warm as he noticed Hibiscus and even Peony were watching him with varying degrees of mirth and sympathy. The worst part was that he knew he was being overly missish, considering where he was. “Fine, then,” he said, gritting his teeth. Best to begin as you mean to go on, he decided. “Someone is paid to watch us getting buggered?”
Hibiscus nodded with mild approval, and Peony reclaimed his monopoly on blushes. Gardenia grinned and reached out to deal Holden a friendly slap on the shoulder. “There’s the spirit!” he enthused. “And, yes, you guessed it exactly. There’s a small view port in the door behind the painting that allows whoever is inside to see everything happening in the room. They peer out at you through the dancing boy’s eyes.” He snorted in some secret amusement. “Trust me,” he added, sobering with jarring alacrity, “you will be glad to have someone looking out for you. Mr. Leslie really does care about our safety.”
Holden remained unconvinced, but there was little he could do about it. If Leslie decreed it, then it was surely so. At least he could take comfort in the knowledge he wouldn’t be the only one being spied upon in such a scandalous fashion. “Why haven’t I seen any of these handlers? Have they already breakfasted?” he asked, curious despite himself.
Gardenia shook his head. “Most of them have other jobs and show up at The Garden only when it’s time for us flowers to entertain. We rarely see them during the day, and none of them lives here save for Richard.”
“Richard?” The name sounded familiar, and Holden cast about for a moment before remembering a vaguely handsome face, sturdy figure, and a gravelly voice. “Oh, um, I believe I met him yesterday after I arrived.” He glanced around at his companions. “Is he one of your handlers?”
“No,” Gardenia replied. “He often does various jobs for Mr. Leslie, but not that particular one.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why Richard lives here. He stays belowstairs in the servants’ rooms beneath the kitchen. Sebastian’s room is down there as well,” he explained.
Holden nodded in vague interest, returning his attention to his breakfast and dismissing the enigmatic Richard from his thoughts. He had more pressing concerns than a jack with broad shoulders.
THE MORNING’S revelations had been more than enough to urge Holden to seek out a moment of solitary reflection, but it was not to be. No sooner had he and the others finished their morning repasts than Gardenia took him by the hand and led him back to the main hall. Holden started to inform him that he remembered the way back to his assigned quarters, but he stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Amaryllis, only then remembering Leslie’s parting instruction. Amaryllis was standing beside one of the larger couches with a length of ribbon in his hand, tapping his foot impatiently. He frowned at them as they emerged from the dining room.
“It’s about time you lot finished stuffing your faces. As though I have nothing better to do than wait around all day.” He swept toward Holden and unceremoniously wrapped the ribbon around his shoulders.
Holden gaped at the unanticipated assault. “What are you doing?” he asked, flinching when Amaryllis thrust the loose end of the ribbon at his face. Squinting, Holden was able to make out markings along its length, situated at precise intervals labeled in fractions of an inch.
“Taking your measurements,” Amaryllis replied testily. “What does it look like?”
“Um….” Holden felt rather stupid. A glance at his breakfast companions revealed he was the only one in the dark, the others looking on unconcerned as though Amaryllis’s pronouncement made perfect sense. He knew he was missing something obvious, though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what. “Why?” he finally voiced, his desire for enlightenment overcoming his reluctance to appear uninformed in front of the acerbic redhead. As expected, his question was met with an exasperated sigh.
“For your new wardrobe,” Peony said, coming to Holden’s rescue. He threw Amaryllis a subtly reproachful look as he perched on the arm of a nearby divan. Amaryllis merely shrugged it off and continued about his task.
“We all have a set of outfits to wear while we’re working,” Gardenia elaborated. He dropped unceremoniously onto one of the chaise lounges and swung his foot so his heel bumped against the edge. “You won’t have much use for your old clothes while you’re here. These,” he added, plucking at his mundane shirt, “are to be worn only when we are not entertaining guests. Our professional garments, as Hibiscus likes to call them, really are quite pretty.” He winked at the raven-haired lad, who smirked in amused agreement.
“Though it will be like trying to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, if you ask me,” Amaryllis mumbled as he stretched the ribbon from the spot midway between Holden’s shoulder blades down to his waist.
Hibiscus narrowed his gaze and glared at Amaryllis through a thick hedge of sooty lashes. “It’s fortunate you look so stunning in green, Amaryllis. You do so love to wear it.” He arranged himself on the chaise next to Gardenia and propped one arm atop the furniture’s back.
Gardenia giggled at the peevish scowl Amaryllis directed toward Hibiscus. “He’s right, Amy. You’re simply jealous because you’re not the prettiest flower in the pot anymore.”
Peony smiled nervously at Holden. “I’m sure Amaryllis was just ragging you,” he said hastily, demonstrating his position as the peacemaker of the eclectic group. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Besides, you know you’re Mr. Leslie’s favorite.” Hibiscus favored Amaryllis with a saccharine grin. “After all, he does fuck you more often than anyone else.”
Holden was shocked when Amaryllis met this slander with nothing more than a conceited sneer. Being the recipient of the owner’s attentions was a most unenviable notion in Holden’s mind, though Amaryllis seemed not at all averse to the concept. There was obviously a story there to which he was not privy. He found himself suddenly intrigued by whatever secrets the unfriendly lad was hiding. Not that he’d ever demean himself enough to ask when he was assured to receive nothing for his trouble but a snippy warning to mind his own affairs. Instead he resorted to posing another question that had been occupying his thoughts as Amaryllis bade him lift his arms until they stuck straight out to either side. Being an inch or so taller than Holden, Amaryllis had no difficulty stretching the measuring device the full length between the opposite ends of Holden’s fingertips.
“When do you generally receive, er, guests?” Holden used Gardenia’s euphemism for lack of a better one.
“They only come in the evenings,” Peony replied. “The first usually arrive no earlier than ten o’clock.”
Hibiscus nodded in concurrence. “When they are most likely to be hidden by the dark of night, even at the height of summer.”
