A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (31 page)

Martin frowned. “Well, Captain Theo
is
very impressive…” It was clear, though, that he agreed the situation lacked verisimilitude.

The constables asked about the meeting Theo and crew had interrupted, and Theo related what little they knew about the Order of the Red Eye. “The ringleader is in the boat just outside the harbor,” Theo said. “If we hurry, there might still be time—”

“That boat set sail,” Theo was informed. “Not minutes after the signal.”

Theo and his crew left George resting in the doctor’s surgery and returned to the warehouse to examine the scene. The world map was liberally marked with red-ink eyes, presumably noting the locations of Order strongholds. The knife that had been used to cut George lay near the dead man’s hand, a fancy dagger with an ornate handle set with a red stone shaped like an eye. The constables didn’t recognize the dead man, which led all to believe that he had come from the
Ruthless
. Theo was allowed to take the map and dagger, and Elmer and Leon stripped the robe from the corpse and took that, as well.

They returned to the surgery to find George awake and cheerful, drinking soup brought for him by the doctor’s wife.

“You’ll have another scar,” Theo said fondly.

“Another reminder of an adventure we’ve shared, Sir,” said George.

“Really,” Martin said, “they should just kiss already, don’t you think?”

By the time they made it back to the
Dauntless
, it was well past dawn, and the
Ruthless
was nowhere in sight. Spreading the purloined map on the table in Theo’s quarters, they ascertained that the nearest Order location was four days’ sail away. Theo commanded his crew to set a course for the port and put himself to bed.

“Oh, Henry!” Martin said. “Listen to this! ‘Captain Drake lay down for a well-deserved rest, being careful not to jostle George, who slept peacefully beside him.’ So they do share a bed!”

“I knew it,” Henry said happily. “And I’ll bet he doesn’t just lay there next to him like a corpse. I’ll bet he curls up around him, all protective.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Is that all, then, for this month?”

“To be continued…” Martin read. “So, yes, that’s it.”

“Come here,” Henry said, beckoning. “Put down the magazine and come here.”

Martin folded his glasses and placed them on the nightstand before coming into Henry’s arms. He nuzzled Henry’s neck and said, “We have time before my dinner…”

They undressed quickly, and Henry imagined Theo undressing and getting into bed with George, spooning him and kissing the back of his neck. If George was anything like Martin (and Henry liked to think he was), he would want sex in spite of his injury, and it would be up to Theo to show restraint, to be mindful of George’s wound. Accordingly, Henry was careful with Martin, gentle, furtively accommodating an imaginary injury to his left arm and deeply relieved when Martin didn’t seem to realize what he was doing.

The day before Thanksgiving, which was also the last day of the term, all of the upper school boys and their slaves were to be taken uptown to the museum for cultural edification and enrichment. It was quite a production, with rented omnibuses to transport them and the upper school teachers serving as chaperones. Museum Day was a highly-anticipated event. The boys would be in high spirits, and their attention to the art would be erratic, at best.

Henry’s arts education had been quite limited. He’d enjoyed making a mess with paints when he was little, but that had ended once he’d left the nursery. The school had a drawing and painting teacher, Mr. Fletcher, but in order to take his class boys had to submit a portfolio and, besides that, the class was held after regular school hours, so Henry had never been interested. When Henry was little, Nurse had enjoyed taking him to the museum, but Henry had never gotten much out of it. He quickly grew bored looking at paintings, all the scenes blurring together in his mind.

Martin was excited, not just for the novelty of Museum Day, but for the art, as well. As he dressed Henry in his school uniform, Martin said, “I understand there are all manner of artifacts besides the paintings; all sorts of ancient things. It’s very interesting, I think.”

Henry thought that Martin would be one of the few attending who cared about the art and objects but did not say so. Instead, he determined to be more attentive to the exhibits, to display maturity, to impress Martin with his perceptiveness.

It made no sense that they had to go all the way downtown to school only to ride back uptown with the whole class in the rented omnibuses, but it was what they did all the same. There was a lot of standing around waiting for the adults to sort things out before they could board the omnibuses, and pretty soon everyone was pushing and shoving in good-natured fashion, restless to get underway. When at last they were allowed to board, the slaves went in one omnibus, Henry and his classmates in another, along with the stuck-up twelfth-year boys, which disappointed Henry a little, as of course he’d wanted to ride with Martin. As luck would have it, Dr. Foster was one of the chaperones in Henry’s omnibus and he was seeming especially strict this morning, his ill-temper truly unnerving, and the boys were accordingly subdued.

Louis and Henry sat together and Louis related his most recent encounter with Miss O’Malley in a hushed tone, but not so quietly that Freddie and Wendell, sitting in the seat in front of them, didn’t hear. Freddie turned around and blatantly listened in.

“I asked her if she’d suck me,” Louis said in his hoarse whisper, “but she said she’d only do it to me if I’d do it to her.”

“Really?” asked Freddie, intrigued. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not even talking to you,” Louis pointed out.

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admitted. “It seems
fair
. What do you think, Henry?”

“It seems fair,” Henry parroted. The idea was repulsive to him, though he was at pains not to show it. By now, he’d seen enough pictures to have a good idea of what a woman looked like down there, and it seemed fussy and complicated, with too many layers. He’d much rather be faced with a straightforward cock; he was
good
with a cock.

“I already know what she tastes like,” Louis admitted, and now Wendell turned around to blatantly listen, as well. “I licked my fingers,” he explained, “because I was curious, you know? I guess I liked it, actually.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Wendell asked. “You want to do it to each other, after all.”

Louis screwed up his face. “Well…I just don’t know if it’s something I should do, in general. James won’t do it. He says he’s not in the business of catering to women and I wonder if he’s right.”

Despite not wanting to put his face anywhere near a wet cunt, Henry did believe that nothing but good could come of mutuality and sexual generosity whether with a man or a woman, and he opened his mouth to say this, but then worried whether it might make his friends wonder where he got such egalitarian ideas and how they played out in his own life, and shut his mouth again.

“What are you guys talking about?” Gordon leaned forward from the seat behind and stuck his head between Henry’s and Louis’. “Is this about that homely girl of yours, Louis?”

“At least I have a girl,” Louis pointed out. “A girl I have
sex
with.”

“I have a girl, too,” Gordon insisted. “A pretty one. And Anna jerked me off last time I saw her.”

“That was two weekends ago,” Louis said. “She was with a new fellow this past Saturday. Of course, I don’t know if she jerked him off or not…”

Gordon frowned, pressing his lips together until they were bloodless. He clearly had not realized Miss Brody might have other suitors. “Well, hell,” he said, sitting back hard in his seat.

Louis turned to face Henry and put a hand on his arm. “So you think I should do it, Henry? That it would be fair?”

“If you like her,” Henry told him, “why not be nice to her? That’s what I think.”

Louis thought on this a moment, biting his lip. “Maybe I should talk to James first.”

All of this talk about oral sex made Henry wish he had Martin’s cock in his mouth. He could practically feel the weight of it on his tongue, sliding between his lips, and these imaginings made his own cock start to stiffen. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pulled his coat tighter around his body. He made himself imagine that he was required to lick a cunt and these thoughts went a good way toward deflating his erection.

“Why are you making that face?” Louis asked.

Henry’s cheeks grew hot and his ears burned as Louis laughed and gave him a good-natured punch in the shoulder.

They pulled up in view of the muddy construction site for the new wing of the museum that would create a grand Beaux Arts entrance on 5th, and the boys were overwhelmingly more interested in the building site than the prospect of viewing fine art. The omnibuses came to a halt before the museum and the boys spilled out onto the drive and were soon joined by their slaves.

“I’m a bit excited, Sir,” Martin murmured. “I’ve always wanted to come.”

“You should have said something,” Henry told him. “I would have brought you before.”

Louis appeared at Henry’s side, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on, you two. Dr. Foster’s doing a head count.”

The boys and their slaves filed into the museum building and the slaves all checked their masters’ hats and coats along with their own in the cloakroom. Upon his return with the claim tickets, Martin asked, “May I, Sir?” and quickly put Henry’s hair in order with a few deft touches. Henry was grateful for this little intimacy and, in looking around, saw several of his friends also being groomed by their slaves; it was a normal thing to do, after all.

Dr. Foster and one of the slaves’ teachers, Mr. Pitkin, were in charge of their group. Their group would see the picture galleries first, then eat a box lunch, then visit the sculpture galleries and view some antiquities. Over the course of the prior week, Dr. Foster had made it clear that he felt the boys were undeserving of the privilege of Museum Day, but his strong feelings did not exempt him from serving as a chaperone.

Mr. Fletcher, the art teacher, came around to their group and gave them a speech about art and its appreciation. He was a nervous young man with flighty hands and a poorly-modulated voice, his tone veering between inaudible and stentorian, and so the specifics of his instruction to them were mostly lost. However, he seemed to want them to view the artworks with aesthetics and history in mind.

Mr. Fletcher had prepared several mimeographs for the teachers to read aloud to the boys as they viewed some specific pieces of art and he left these in Dr. Foster’s reluctant hands. Henry thought the odds were good that Dr. Foster would not read these at all, and did not think he would give them to Mr. Pitkin to read, either. Young Mr. Pitkin seemed nearly as wary of Dr. Foster as were the boys.

Dr. Foster began telling them how he expected them to behave in the galleries and everyone tried to at least give the impression of listening.

“What does Pitkin teach you?” Henry murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

“Practicals, Sir. Stain removal and table settings. Things like that.”

“Do you like him?”

Martin shrugged. “He knows a lot, Sir.”

“Do you like any of your teachers?” How had he not asked Martin this before now? Henry cringed a little realizing how thoughtless and self-centered he was.

Martin gave a little smile. “I like Mr. Vance, Sir.”

“Which one is he?”

“Over there, Sir,” Martin gestured with his chin. “The tall fellow with dark hair.”

Mr. Vance was young, tall, dark and quite handsome, with an impressive mustache. Henry frowned.

“He teaches English, Sir,” Martin continued. “He’s very smart and tells good stories.”

“What kind of stories?” Henry asked suspiciously, not liking this idea at all.

Dr. Foster said, “
Mr. Blackwell
. Do you have something to share with the group?”

Henry froze. “N-no, sir.” An embarrassed heat swept over him as all eyes turned toward him and Martin.

Dr. Foster kept his steely gaze on Henry a few long moments more before rejecting him completely. It wasn’t until Dr. Foster had turned his attentions elsewhere that Henry could breathe again.

“All right then,” Dr. Foster said, sounding resigned. “We may as well go upstairs and begin.”

The paintings were hung in long galleries with skylights and were stacked three and four high in some places, every inch of wall space being used. Henry was quickly overwhelmed. There were so many paintings, and they competed for attention, and in looking at one the eye was invariably caught by another to one side or the other. They were all competently done, at the very least, and some of them were spectacular indeed, but they all jumbled together in Henry’s head to make one vast and terrifying painting that was entirely beyond comprehension. There was such a tumult in his mind, and all he wanted to do was get away, but he didn’t want to look weak or foolish in front of his friends, and he didn’t want Martin to realize how unsophisticated and unappreciative he was.