Henry swallowed and nodded. “Yes. I just—I didn’t know any of this. And the thing with Christopher being turned off by me? He never did anything wrong, Corbett. That was all my fault.” Henry took a deep, shuddering breath. “He suffered because of me.”
Corbett’s frown deepened. “Come with me. You need a drink.”
He was only vaguely aware of Corbett steering him towards a couple of armchairs and urging him to sit down. He sank into the comfortable leather, his mind racing, while Corbett summoned a servant and ordered brandy for them both.
“I shouldn’t have told you like that,” Corbett muttered when the servant had gone. “It must have been a shock.”
“It’s my fault,” Henry said. “I had no idea.”
“It was a long time ago,” Corbett said gently. “And look at Kit now. He must be worth a pretty penny. He owns this place and dresses as elegant as the finest dandy you ever did see. Whatever bad things might have happened, he overcame them.”
When the servant arrived with their brandy, Corbett fell silent, leaning back while the man set the glasses down on the table.
Henry lifted his as soon it was poured and threw back the contents in one go. The spirit burned his throat and a fresh wave of nausea rose in him, threatening to bring up his dinner. He swallowed hard and thankfully the feeling subsided.
“Do you remember Phineas Warren?” Corbett asked.
Puzzled, Henry looked up, meeting his friend’s serious gaze. “The name is familiar… wait, was he that old banker who used to go to the Lily with his own boy so he could watch him with other men?”
Corbett nodded. “That’s him. Well, that’s who Kit took up with after Skelton.”
Henry blinked, remembering the elderly banker and his pretty companion very well. It was all too easy to imagine Christopher as he had been then—pliable and lovely—sitting quietly at Warren’s feet with a collar around his neck.
Though not so much the Kit of today, Henry thought, with his cutting comments and angry green gaze.
“They were together a good few years,” Corbett continued. “And Warren left Kit nicely set up, I heard. Nothing in the will—Warren was too smart for that, he made all the arrangements before he died. Wanted Kit to be looked after, he said. Course, he was so rich that what he gave Kit was a drop in the ocean compared to what his nephews and nieces got, but it must have been enough to start Redford's. And Kit’s made a great success of the place, I must say.”
“So I’ve heard,” Henry said faintly. And looking around he could see it was true—the furnishings were tasteful and expensive. Beyond this room, he could see a glimpse into the dining room next door, which was also bustling with well-dressed patrons. It all looked so respectable—it was difficult to believe there was anything debauched going on anywhere in the building.
It wasn’t a bit like the Golden Lily. Christ, the second you walked in that place, you knew you were in a brothel. All those scantily clad young beauties… But Henry could already see that Redford’s catered to an entirely different sort of customer.
Yes, Kit had made a success of his life—no thanks to Henry.
“So you see,” Corbett said gently, “you don’t need to feel so terrible. Kit’s done all right. Better than most that come from where he did.” He smiled. “And he can’t be holding a grudge, or you wouldn’t be here, would you? He’s very particular about who he lets over the door. You need at least two personal recommendations from existing members, and Kit’s own approval to even be considered.”
Henry couldn’t hold back a laugh at Corbett’s assumption that Kit had approved him, though he feared he might sound somewhat deranged. Corbett wasn’t to know why Kit had really invited Henry here.
It was as that thought crossed his mind that he quite suddenly, and viscerally, realised the full import of what he had agreed to do tonight. To get down on his knees in this place and let the man who had once been his kept boy fuck his face in front of anyone who cared to watch.
Oh God.
Henry groaned and covered his face with his hands. His stomach churned, and his blood ran cold. What had he been thinking to agree to such a thing?
But he had agreed. He had.
“Avesbury?”
Abruptly, Henry stood. “I have to find Christopher,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
“Kit, you mean?” Corbett said. “He was in here earlier. He may be in the dining room or one of the card rooms now.”
Henry nodded. “Thank you. Excuse me, Corbett.”
“Of course,” Corbett said, but his expression was curious.
Henry found Christopher in the third room he tried, a card room. Not that Christopher was playing cards, or even watching someone else play. He was standing with two gentlemen at the side of the room, talking and laughing, a glass of champagne in hand.
Christopher was turned very slightly away, giving Henry an oblique view of his perfect profile. He was dressed with a sober elegance that Henry did not associate with the young man he had once known. His black coat was perfectly tailored, his black breeches very correct, and his high shirt points and cravat were pristine white.
But when Henry stepped forward and said his name—“Christopher”—he turned to reveal a less sedate picture. His gold silk waistcoat was embroidered with an outrageous snarling sapphire dragon, and his beautifully carved lips were touched with vermillion, while the elegant fingers that cradled his champagne glass bore an array of gleaming and glittering rings.
He was breathtaking.
Christopher raised his eyebrows, his tone disbelieving as he echoed Henry’s greeting. “Christopher?”
It was only then Henry remembered his words of earlier.
“My friends call me Kit… you may address me as Mr. Redford.”
Henry’s gaze flitted, unwillingly and uneasily, to the two elegant gentlemen standing on either side of Kit, both of whom were at least a decade younger than Henry, and who were now staring at him with unabashed curiosity.
Clearing his throat, his neck burning with mortification, Henry said, “Sorry, Mr. Redford, I meant.”
One of Christopher’s companions tittered at that, lifting a lace handkerchief to his mouth, though Henry thought not so much to hide his laughter as to draw attention to it.
Christopher glanced sharply at the man, then back at Henry, and Henry feared he was about to be rather humiliatingly dismissed. Or perhaps ordered to his knees.
But in the end, Christopher—Kit—cast a careless smile at his two companions and said silkily, “Do excuse me, gentlemen.”
Stepping towards Henry, he took possession of Henry’s right arm with his free hand and expertly steered him away.
Henry could not suppress the smile that tugged at his mouth, though he tried to bite it away.
“Thank you,” he said in a low voice.
“Don’t thank me too soon,” Christopher said lightly, offering a teasing smile to an elderly gentleman walking past them in the corridor. “You’ve only just arrived.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry about that.”
“About what?”
“Being so late,” Henry said. “I had something I had to attend to before I came.”