Anthony’s Plan

The carriage lurched and threw Shelley back against the squabs. He barely felt it. The compartment was lush, of course, and he was bundled into evening clothes and a cape. The mute Calfiglio sat across from him, cradling his violin in his arms like a baby.

“Anthony tonight,” Shelley informed him. “Kenmare.”

Calfiglio’s brows lifted and he grinned his silly grin.

“Yes. He will probably bring you a treat. He usually does, you shameless cabbage.”

Calfiglio huffed a voiceless laugh as the carriage lurched to a stop in front of the club. They waited while the footman prepared the steps and opened the door. Once he did, Shelley whispered, “Showtime.”

Calfiglio descended first, and once  on the ground, he set his bow and started to play. When Shelley emerged, Fig was already skipping ahead, making obeisance to passers-by, and scrubbing out a romantic Gypsy ballad, something dramatic, but a little heavy handed just to remind Shelley he was privy to the real man and not merely the public persona. Cheeky urchin.

The doorman opened the club’s huge, heavy portal with a flourish, bowing low, allowing Shelley to enter the establishment with all the ceremony of a Mogul prince.

At one point he’d considered employing little girls to dress as fairies and toss blossoms in his path. Little fairy girls would be perfectly safe with this lot — but there were clients with whom they might not be. Not that Shelley would see them twice.

He squinted through his lace mask and found his way past the foyer, past the library and the card room. His little procession caused only a small flutter of excitement. He was, after all, a known quantity here and these men weren’t bumpkins, to be awed by his rich evening clothes or for that matter, his purpose. The newest members of the club might risk a curious glance, but most would studiously ignore Shelley Jefferson striding through the hallways — even masked in lace and attended by a Gypsy violinist.

Everyone knew what he was there for — the sexual gratification of one of the members — but no one would bat an eye at a tryst between men.

A graceful glide up the stairs and a discreet knock on the door of one of the private rooms would be all they’d see anyway, as Shelley’s patron was particularly private, unwilling to advertise his good fortune in having Europe’s most celebrated, most notorious courtesan in his bed for the evening.

This was an oddity considering an appointment with Shelley could be considered a tremendous coup — the ultimate sign one had achieved some pinnacle of good fortune. However, Shelley required discretion from his clients.

Occasionally that didn’t stop some brash young fool or thoughtless continental from dropping the thinly veiled hint. Since Shelley’s cachet thrived on a delicate balance of discretion and notoriety, those who were indiscreet might find themselves the recipient of a quiet word from Beare, and if that didn’t suffice, perhaps they’d receive a more strongly worded missive along with a box of poisonous spiders.

Or they’d experience a near miss with a speeding carriage and catch a glimpse of the mute Calfiglio next to the driver.

If one crossed the line with Shelley himself, if one abused the privilege, or god forbid, the person, one would find himself attended by his seconds and then his surgeons.

Or facing his Maker.

“Ah, Shel. You are a marvel of the grand entrance. Only the royals do it better.” Anthony’s voice was rich and warm, laced with familiarity and humor.

Shelley’s full lips lifted into a grin.

“And Fig.” The ninth Earl of Kenmare held out a small sack. “I’ve brought you a treat.”

Calfiglio glanced around and found a place to put his instrument. He took the proffered gift and shook the contents out into the palm of his hand. Sugared nuts and sultanas.

“Riches indeed,” Shelley remarked. “Thank Lord Kenmare.” Fig bowed, grinning madly.

“Pssst.” Anthony hissed as he produced an orange. “One more thing.”

Calfiglio’s eyes widened comically. This, Shelley knew, was entirely genuine. No one loved an orange more than Fig, especially the sweet Italian blood oranges Anthony sometimes brought for him.

“Now,” Anthony turned to Shelley and produced a velvet bag with a drawstring. “As for you…”

Fig took his customary place behind a painted silk folding screen and tuned up softly while Shelley opened his gift.

“Anthony,” he whispered, when a hoop earring with gemstones and a creamy white pearl as large as his thumbnail dropped into his hand. “It’s magnificent.”

“It will look very fetching on you.” Anthony took it from him and moved him toward the mirror above the washstand. Without removing Shelley’s lace mask, Anthony held it to his ear. “But alas, your ear isn’t pierced.”

“You may pierce it if you like.”

“May I?” Anthony’s lips curved into his most wicked grin. “What an enticing notion.”

“Of course. Shall I ring for someone to bring…?” Shelley frowned. “What should we use?”

“At least a crossbow arrow, don’t you think?” Anthony’s laughter rumbled at Shelley’s back.

“You may pierce me with anything you like,” Shelley tilted his head to bare his neck for the earl’s kisses. “And well you know it.”

“All right.”

“Beare will send up a cold supper at midnight, and we can ask for something sharp. I have every blade imaginable, but nothing resembling a pick. Now that I think of it, a tiny pick might be useful for slipping right into the base of someone’s skull while they’re sleeping.”

“My god, how bloodthirsty you are.”

“In my line it pays to be prepared for emergencies.” Shelley’s bland expression belied how serious he was.

More than once Shelley had been subject to someone’s darker, more brutal appetites and he’d vowed never again. One such man had met his end with a knife in his ribs on the Pont Neuf in Paris, but it was a messy affair that required much hand wringing and a great deal of bribery. How much easier to dispatch–

“Come back to me, Shel.” Anthony caught Shelley’s hand and pulled him from his thoughts. Fig played the first strains of a plaintive gypsy love song. “Call for one of the kitchen lads, I’d have you shave me.”

“Shave you?”

Anthony pressed Shelley’s fingers to his bristly face. “Unless you want to be rubbed raw by my thoughtlessness. At any rate, I have a problem and you might be the only one who can help me.”

“All right.” Shelley’s hand trembled when he rang for a servant, wondering what Anthony could want. He seemed somewhat out of sorts; his words fell on Shelley like a heavy cloak. Of course Shelley would do whatever he could. Whatever Anthony needed.

Shelley opened the door and told the boy who answered his summons what they needed. He sent him off for shaving supplies and an awl, much to both Anthony’s and the boy’s surprise.

“Are you really going to let me pierce your ear?” Anthony reached up and fingered the lace of Shelley’s mask, pulling the silken strip of fabric off and then unknotting it, letting it glide through his fingers and whisper against Shelley’s skin.

“Of course.” Shelley murmured, “If the act will please you.”

“It’s ingenious, making your patrons unwrap you like a gift. You keep your face a mystery to the world at large while we few who have the privilege are forbidden to discuss our arrangements.”

“It’s merely good business.” Shelley kept his arms to his sides while Anthony unbuttoned his waistcoat and slid it along with his coat, from his shoulders.

“It’s bloody brilliant.”

“I have to do something to remain desirable if I wish to be prized by the world’s most jaded men.”

A flicker of hurt crossed the earl’s face — solidifying Shelley’s fear that something about Anthony’s behavior was off. “Do you truly see me as one of the world’s most jaded men, Shel?”

“I see you as a man who enjoys pleasure.”

Anthony cocked his dark head to one side. “I shall let you in on a secret. I am far less jaded than most men believe and yet more than those close to me know.” Anthony followed his enigmatic statement with a smile of seduction that seemed too bright juxtaposed with his dark mood. “I hope you know that while I go along with these silly”  –he tossed Shelley’s scarf and coat aside — “affectations of yours, I would be just as happy to dispense with them and get right to the good bits.”

Anthony took Shelley’s mouth in a passionate kiss that stole his breath. He wrapped his arms around Anthony’s neck and held on tightly, opening like a flower under Kenmare’s tender assault.

At times like this, Shelley could think of nowhere he’d rather be. Anthony’s seductions were always thorough and skillful. He was intelligent, articulate, entertaining in the extreme and — Shelley sighed — currently completely infatuated, with the young doctor, Peregrine Spencer.

Anthony broke off the kiss and looked Shelley over, no doubt enjoying the effect he had — which was total devastation. Shelley shivered all over, weak with desire.

Shelley lowered his gaze. “What’s your pleasure, my lord?”

“On your knees,” Anthony whispered.

Shelley sank to the floor. God’s truth, that was his favorite place to be, on his knees before Anthony.

If Shelley put just a little more of his heart into the act in Kenmare’s case, what did it matter? He’d only be accused of executing his job with all the dedication to his craft for which he was famous.  But as he reached for the fastenings on Anthony’s breeches he was already drowning in anticipation. Nothing aroused Shelley like Anthony did.

Shelley leaned toward Anthony’s straining flesh and breathed in the scent of him. Anthony was made for him, for his pleasure, Shelley was prepared to swear to it. To the casual observer, Anthony smelled like his favorite things: books and leather and brandy and cigars. But when Shelley had intimate access — his nose to Anthony’s groin — the scent, the secret fragrance that was Anthony’s alone was all male, clean sweat and tangy musk, sharp and peppery with earthier undertones — rich and complex and slightly metallic.

Anthony’s scent called to Shelley like no man’s ever had. It made Shelley’s head swim and his jaw go slack. Dizzy with desire, Shelley lifted his chin and opened his mouth, allowing Anthony to press the head of his cock between his lips, allowing the earl to tangle his fingers in Shelley’s hair, to squeeze his scalp and grip the skull beneath it.

Shelley let himself be used for Kenmare’s pleasure, playing at seduction and sex, accepting anything…everything, all the while resisting the siren’s song of hope that this time Anthony would see his devotion and return it.

Shelley opened to him. Shelley worshipped him. He sucked Anthony’s cock like he’d been given a sacred trust. With every thrust and push and pull, Shelley’s resistance drained away. With every sound, he gave more of himself than he planned.

Servicing Anthony was heaven and hell — each sip of the cup between them hinted at the bliss they could find together as true lovers and each draught held the bitter aftertaste of despair because Anthony wouldn’t ask for more and Shelley could not.

Yet…at his core, Shelley was a pragmatic man; he would take what he could get and be grateful, even when Anthony left a purse on his pillow and departed to pursue his other — possibly romantic — interests with men who stood far above Shelley Jefferson in station. Men he deemed worthy of more.

It was a cruel lesson for Shelley to relearn with every parting: Be content with what life offers. What he had with Anthony was better than nothing.

Nothing was…nothing.

Shelley redoubled his efforts, pressing forward with such an advance of lips, tongue and fingers — with nips and caresses and suction — that soon Anthony’s thighs trembled under the onslaught. Shelley felt sharp quakes of passion beneath Anthony’s skin as he took Anthony’s cock to the back of his throat and caressed it there, halting his breath — suspending his very life — for his lover’s pleasure while he milked the last drop of passion from Anthony’s body. Shelley wrapped his arms around Anthony’s hips when the man’s knees threatened to buckle.

“Christ, Shel.” Shelley held him through his extremity. “Christ.”

Anthony reached between them to reposition his softening cock behind the fabric of his small clothes and fastened up his trousers. Shelley knelt there, cheek pressed against Anthony’s groin, content to be petted like a cat.

While they remained like that for a brief interlude, getting their equilibrium back, a timid knock sounded on the door.

Shelley regained his feet and went to answer it, aware that Anthony’s eyes followed his progress closely and Fig had stopped playing at some point. He opened the door for the servant, a boy of about fifteen, who placed his burden — a large tray containing a kettle of water, a bowl, shaving soap and a strop and razor — on a wooden folding table.

“Mr. Beare says to bring your supper around midnight, sir, unless you’ve changed your plans?”

“Thank you, midnight is fine,” Shelly dismissed the boy, who melted back through the door without speaking further.

Shelley splashed hot water from the kettle into the bowl and soaked a towel in it. He eschewed the razor on the tray, rummaging through his satchel to find his own.

Anthony shrugged off his coat, his tie, and his collar. He opened his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. The bed springs creaked under his august person as he sat, holding his booted foot out to Shelley, asking for assistance as only the true aristocracy could — under the assumption he’d receive it.

“Do you mind?”

Shelley stopped what he was doing to help him. “Not at all.”

After Shelley removed one boot at the cost of no small effort, Anthony immediately held up the other. “And this one.”

“Never satisfied, are we?”

Shelley tossed the boots aside and went back to stropping his blade until it gleamed wickedly, bright and sharp in the firelight. He then took up the shaving mug and brush to make a thick foam.

Before he addressed Anthony’s facial hair, he called to the boy behind the screen. “Fig, when you’ve finished your orange I’d like you to resume playing something for me. Perhaps some Mozart?”

A clatter sounded and Fig’s face poked out from behind the screen to reveal a blood orange smile. He nodded and slipped back to his place.

An odd silence continued until Anthony broke it. “I’m rarely satisfied, Shel.”

While Anthony’s mood alarmed him, Shelley chose to ignore it. Instead, he hoped to lighten it with humor. “You’ll be satisified with this. You’re lucky this is one of the services I provide, although to be honest, those who wish me to shave them get more out of having their nether regions shaved than their faces.”

“You jest.”

“I do not. For many men, having my blade at their balls is an unparalleled thrill — particularly if I follow up with my mouth.” He waved the towel about until the temperature was exactly right, and wrapped it around Anthony’s entire face, excluding his mouth and nose.

“Yo’ ver’ skilled,” Anthony said from beneath the towel.

“I’m utterly deadly with throwing knives but I’m handy with a razor too, never fear.” Shelley placed what he needed on the nightstand and climbed up behind Anthony against the headboard, cradling him between his legs and pulling Anthony’s head to rest against his chest. He pulled the towel free and lathered Anthony’s face, hesitating before he laid the blade against’ the man’s skin. “You trust me with this, my darling Lord Kenmare?”

“There is no other man I’d allow so near me with a blade.” Something indefinable passed between them. Kenmare’s eyes glittered, causing Shelley to exhale a shuddering breath. It wasn’t Shelley’s imagination — something was wrong and it had shaken Anthony badly.

Shelley’s heart quickened. “Whatever it is you need, it’s yours. You have only to ask.”

Anthony tilted his head back. “I trust you with my life.”

Shelley swallowed hard. He trusts me with his life. Ah, God. If he would only entrust me with his heart.

“You should,” was all Shelley said.

I’d sooner cut my own throat than harm you. God’s bollocks, you know that, or you wouldn’t be here like this, baring your throat to my blade.

Shelley’s stomach fluttered as he began skillfully removing the hair from Anthony’s cheeks and chin, scraping along the familiar well-loved features, going carefully around nose and lips, near delicate ears. His mouth was dry, the act a chance for him to prove his devotion. One small slip…

“I–”

Shelley froze. “Hold still, my Lord.”

“I need your help.” Shelley lifted the razor half a second before Anthony’s adam’s apple bobbed. “Your brother is missing.”

“What?” As quick as that, Shelley wiped the blade and closed it for safe-keeping while he listened.

“Jack has asked me to help find Nash Sutherland. He’s worried Nash has been kidnapped, or met with some sort of foul play.”

“Jack Starrington?” Shelley’s brows lifted. “The man who broke your heart? Jack Starr is worried about my brother?”

Anthony shrugged. “The games Jack plays are deep. Who knows what he’s worried about?”

“I haven’t seen Nash in years.” Shelley searched his memory for the last time he’d seen his half brother. “Mind, we don’t exactly travel in the same circles. He’s a great bloody hero and I’m–”

“You bear him a startling resemblance” — Anthony pointed out — “and I’ve thought of a way you could help flush out anyone who knows more than they should about where he might have gone and give Jack Starr a bit of a shock in the process.”

Shelley was silent for a minute. Of course he’d do it. It was way too late to imagine his heart would give him a choice in the matter.

“In that case, unless Nash has developed a penchant for earrings, I think you should postpone giving me this.” Shelley glanced at the pretty bauble sadly.

Anthony cupped his face and drew him in for a kiss. “Thank you, my dear. I will make this up to you, I’ll buy you a hundred pretty earrings.”

Shelley’s face remained impassive while his heart sank. A thousand pretty earrings wouldn’t make up the difference between what he had and what he really wanted.

But by all that was holy, to have Anthony say he trusted him with his life in one breath and my dear him in the next stung. Did Anthony truly believe his loyalty, his friendship could be purchased by pretty words and earrings? Surely not.

“I’m sorry.” Anthony suddenly turned his head. His gaze met Shelley’s without flinching at the pain he must have read there. “That was poorly done. I–”

“You would never speak thus to a friend.”

Anthony’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry Shel.”

“I am your friend, Anthony. Even though I’m merely a whore.”

 

 

ZA Maxfield Anthony Banning, Calfiglio, Shelley Jefferson