George felt embarrassed by the praise. He did have a distant fondness for the book, but it was the memory, really, that he cherished. Knowing that Clara and Peter would share what he and his mother had shared was far more pleasing to him than hoarding the book in his library. “It’s nothing,” he said lightly. “We’re fortunate to have so many books. You must let Mrs. Atkins browse and borrow some whenever she is here.”
Kit’s warm, approving gaze made George feel oddly shy. Clearing his throat, he got to his feet. “Well,” he said. “I think I’ll go and find a book for myself now.”
“Before you go,” Kit said, “there was something I wanted to mention to you.”
George stilled. “Oh yes?”
“Yes,” Kit replied. He hesitated, then said, almost diffidently, “You’re off to London tomorrow, aren’t you? For your friend’s wedding.”
“Yes.”
Kit bit his lip. He looked undecided, as though unsure how to proceed. At length, he said, “I gather it’s been some time since you were in town?”
“Over two years,” George admitted, adding with a rueful smile, “I’m not terribly interested in society events. I prefer life in the country.”
“I can understand that,” Kit said. “I have no particular desire to return either. The thought of all that noise and stench isn’t very appealing. Still, it will be nice to see your old friends, I expect?”
George didn’t know what to say. His friendship with Ollie had been so close, that there hadn’t been much room for anyone else. When the silence stretched, Kit cleared his throat and said, “Or perhaps you could make some new friends when you’re there. You know, likeminded fellows. In fact, that was… well, it was what I wanted to mention to you.”
George stared at him, confused. “Likeminded fellows?” he repeated slowly. It was only as the words left his mouth that it occurred to him what Kit probably meant. Men who preferred men. Like him. Like Kit. “Oh,” he said faintly, his face heating. “I see.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. It probably only lasted a few moments, but it felt like forever, and all the time, George could feel his face getting steadily hotter.
Kit’s gaze was unbearably sympathetic. Tentatively, he said, “I think it might do you good to meet a few gentlemen like yourself. Other than Oliver Fletcher I mean.”
“I wouldn’t say that Ollie and I are likeminded,” George said, acutely aware of how offended Ollie would be by such an implication.
“No?” Kit looked doubtful. “Well, let’s not worry about that—he’s getting married after all. My real question is, would you like to meet some other fellows? Because I happen to know of a club you could visit in town where all the gentleman are… likeminded. It’s very discreet too.” After a brief pause, he added nonchalantly, “I could furnish you with an introduction, if you wanted.”
George hesitated, intrigued despite himself. “Could you?”
“Yes. I know the owner.” Kit darted a mischievous look at George then. “Actually, I used to be the owner. I sold up before I came to live here. It’s hellishly difficult to get in, but I do enjoy certain benefits as the founder. If I send you with an introduction, Jake will see you right.”
“Jake?”
“Jake Sharp,” Kit said. “The new owner.” After another long, uncomfortable pause, he added hesitantly, “It’s somewhere you could meet some other men like yourself and just, well, see what they get up to.” He smiled at what was probably an expression of utter mortification on George's face, adding, “You wouldn't have to do anything. Lots of men go just to watch.”
George stared at Kit, trying to scramble together some kind of reply, but he didn’t know what to say.
“Tell you what,” Kit said gently in the face of George’s obvious indecision. “I’ll arrange the introduction. You can decide whether you want to go there or not once you get to town. What do you think?”
He thought it sounded absolutely terrifying, but somehow he heard himself say faintly, “All right.”
Even though he couldn’t imagine ever being able to summon up the nerve to go.
3
GEORGE
Curzon Street, London
George checked his reflection in the looking glass. His black-and-white evening clothes were severely elegant, and his snowy cravat was secured with a sapphire pin, the jewel so dark it was almost black. Though his stomach was churning, the man in the looking glass appeared collected, his expression cool, perhaps even a little superior.
It was time to leave for the formal dinner Mr. Hewitt was hosting in honour of his daughter’s wedding the next day. It would be the first time George had seen Ollie in over a year, and he hated how nervous he felt. It wasn’t the anticipatory nervousness of seeing someone dear to him after a long time apart, with every expectation of joy. No, it was a sour, jagged nervousness, born of knowing he would be spending the whole evening guarding his expression and watching his tongue and worrying about what he might give away with every gesture and word and look.
As George turned away from the glass to extinguish the lamp on the dressing room table, his eye caught on the calling card sitting on his correspondence tray. He picked it up, tracing the sharp edges of it with his fingertips. The front of the card bore the name C. M. Redford Esquire, and on the rear was a six-digit number.
This unprepossessing item was his introduction to Redford’s. Kit had sent a letter to the new owner in advance, providing the same number the card bore. The card was thus his key. He probably wouldn’t bother using it, but even so, he found himself slipping it into the inside pocket of his coat before he left the bedchamber.
