A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (8 page)

Gordon smirked knowingly. “He says it was worth it, though.” There was general agreement that this was probably the actual truth—at least for Joshua.

Patrick knocked at Louis’ bedroom door. “Sir, you and your guests are welcome to come downstairs now. Everything is in readiness.”

The boys who had masks put them on. Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs were dressed as a devil and Lady Liberty and were greeting guests in the hall. James stood at the reception room door, punch cup in hand and a pair of goatish horns on his head, surrounded by a group of his college friends. He looked up as the boys stepped off the staircase.

“Oh, good, Louis,” he said, beckoning. Louis went to him with a sullen expression and James put an arm around his shoulders. To his friends, he said, “My brother and his little friends with a fresh bunch of slaves,” and made an expansive gesture that took the lot of them in. The older boys smirked and leered.

Henry did not like this at all. Again, he whispered urgently in Martin's ear. “Stick by me tonight.”

“Henry!” James called. “You come here, too.”

Henry went reluctantly, gesturing at Martin to stay put. “Hello, James.”

“I think you've gotten even taller,” James remarked, clapping him on the back. “So, Henry, I want to talk to you about that slave of yours.”

“I'm not going to share him,” Henry blurted. “Don't ask me, because the answer is no.”

James’ friends all laughed.

James pulled a sad face. “Aw, Henry. Don't be stingy. I promise I'll treat him nicely.”

Henry shook his head. “No. Don't touch him, James.” Henry was surprised at himself for daring to talk back, but he absolutely did not want James molesting Martin. James wasn't going to take this seriously unless Henry was very adamant and made his point very clearly. “You can ask Louis. The last person who touched him got a broken nose for his trouble.”

“Oh ho!” James reared back. “Are
you
actually threatening
me
, Henry?
My
little Henry?”

“Yes,” Henry said simply. There had been a time when hearing James call him “my little Henry” would have thrilled him, but no more.

James peered at him quizzically, and whatever he saw in Henry's face seemed to convince him. “You're serious, aren't you? Fine. I hear you. Hands off.”

“Same goes for all your friends,” Henry said, looking around the circle. “He's off limits.” There were some snickers and sneers but no one challenged him. He decided he was done talking to James and went to collect Martin, who stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as all of the other boys and their slaves quickly dispersed into either the reception room or the ballroom where the orchestra was playing a waltz.

“Thank you for protecting me, Sir,” Martin said in a low voice. “Peter has told me all about how those college boys treat their slaves, Sir, and I really don't want to find out first-hand.”

“It's not only because I get jealous, you know. I just think it's awful, treating slaves the way they do. You're people, too.”

“I know, Sir. You're a good person, Sir, you really are.” He patted Henry's arm, then took a step back. “They're looking at us, Sir. We're being a little suspect, I think, talking like this.”

“Come on.” Henry headed for the punch bowl, Martin on his heels. They caught up with Louis, who was holding out a cup to be filled by the slave handling the ladle.

“I'm surprised, Henry. I never imagined you'd stand up to my brother like that.” Louis actually sounded impressed.

Henry shrugged, a little embarrassed now, and feeling unaccountably angry. “I'm serious. I think it's cruel and gross and I'm not sharing him.”

“I know, I know,” Louis said soothingly. “You've always been like this. You're nicer than the rest of us.” He held up his cup. “This punch is really strong. You should try it. I think James must have doctored it up.”

The punch was very strong. Henry choked on his first searing, oversized gulp and coughed so that Martin had to thump him on the back.

“Sir, maybe you’d like cider instead…?” Martin suggested, head tilted, looking concerned.

Henry did not want to seem like a baby who couldn’t handle liquor. “I’ll be fine,” he said with unwarranted confidence. “It just went down the wrong way.” He took a small, measured sip to prove he was up to the challenge. “See? You have some, too. It’s a party, after all.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin obediently got a cup of punch and sipped it.

“There are games in some of the other rooms,” Louis remarked. “I should probably circulate, since I'm sort of the host.”

“We'll all go.”

The dining room was decorated with papier-mâché skeletons hanging from the chandelier and dozens of jack-o-lanterns glowing with candlelight. A group of college boys and a few of Henry's friends were gathered around as their slaves bobbed for apples in a tin tub. The oilcloth under their knees was slick with pooled water and their masters egged them on in loud, excited voices. Stuart stood next to Albert with dripping hair and the lapels of his jacket dark with water, but he looked proud, and Albert informed them that he'd won five dollars apiece from the college boys whose slaves Stuart had bested.

“Stuart's got a good mouth,” Charles said, sounding a little drunk already, and the others laughed.

“Do you want me to try, Sir?” Martin asked brightly, and even though he sounded as though he actually wished to do it, Henry did not want this at all. He didn't want to see Martin on his knees in front of these men for any reason.

“No, that's okay.” He pretended he did not see the look of disappointment that briefly shaped Martin's features. He turned to Louis. “Are the games just for the slaves? Aren't any of us playing?”

“You can if you want,” Louis said. “Go ahead, get all wet and clammy.” He sent Peter back to the reception room for more punch.

As they stood watching, Julian arced up out of the water with an apple in his jaws just a fraction of a second behind a brunet slave with a Ganymede tattoo belonging to one of the college boys. Seeing the tattoo, Henry elbowed Martin. “Hey. Do you know him?”

Martin squinted at the older boy. “Oh! Yes, Sir, I do! That's Michael! He was a Superior boy when I first started my training, Sir.”

“Do you want to say hello?”

“Yes, Sir, I’d love to!”

Henry handed Martin his empty punch cup. “Get me some punch first and then you can go talk to him.”

Martin hurried off and slowly Henry began to relax a little. He stood with his friends watching the slaves flounder after apples, sloshing water across the floor. All of Henry's friends were aware of his stance on sharing slaves, and in conversation most seemed to think he'd been admirably brave to stand up for what he believed in, even if they thought he was foolish not to indulge in swaps.

Martin returned with the punch and gave Henry a brilliant smile before crossing the room to approach Michael, removing his mask as he went. Henry watched as the slaves greeted one another. Michael embraced Martin briefly and kissed his cheek. They talked a few moments, their faces bright and animated, and then Martin was nodding in his direction and Michael was looking at him, and Henry turned away, feeling conspicuous.

Henry felt a niggling jealousy, and tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. Martin would have been just a boy with a fresh tattoo when Michael was being groomed for sale—there could have been nothing between them. Michael was handsome of course, but perhaps he wasn't Martin's type.
Henry
was Martin's type, he reminded himself. He took a nervous sip of his punch.

One of the Briggs slaves was handing out towels to the wet slaves and Martin took one from the stack and offered it to Michael with especial grace, something in the movement of his wrists and his shy smile so very charming, and Henry wished he had not encouraged him to speak with Michael, who he might not even have recognized without his glasses had Henry not stupidly pointed him out.

Martin said something to Michael, then gave him a little wave goodbye and came back across the room toward Henry, smiling broadly.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Henry struggled to smooth out his scowl. “Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking. Was it good to talk with your friend?”

“Oh, we weren't friends, Sir. When I knew of him, he was a full-fledged companion and I was just a silly child. I idolized him a bit, I suppose.”

“Did he find a good situation, then? With…whichever one?” Henry waved a hand at the whole group of college men.

“Not as good as mine, Sir,” Martin said with conviction. “None other has it as good as I do.”

Henry loved hearing this, loved how convincing Martin was saying it. It was possible, he supposed, that everything Martin said was a lie, but if that were the case, he lied so well! If Martin was only pretending to enjoy their intimacy, he was a far better actor than Henry could have credited. Besides, his voracious appetite for Henry's body didn't seem like something anyone would bother to fake.

Louis appeared from out of the crowd and nudged Henry with his elbow. “Let's go see the fortune teller.”

Henry handed his empty cup to Martin. “More punch, please.”

“If you're sure, Sir,” Martin said, a hint of concern in his tone. No doubt he was worried Henry would get sick again, as he had at the last Briggs party, but Henry felt confident he could handle his liquor this time.

“I'm fine, Martin,” Henry assured him. “I'm barely feeling it.” He felt pleasantly abuzz, nowhere near the level of reeling sickness that had claimed him last time.

Martin seemed somewhat unbelieving, but he took the cup and headed toward the reception room, Peter close behind him with Louis' cup.

The fortune teller was set up in the Briggs library in an atmospheric tasseled tent lit by candles. She was an enigmatic creature dressed in colorful gypsy finery, a scarf on her head and hoops in her ears, sitting at a table laid out with tarot cards and a crystal ball. She was bent over the palm of some august lady in a silver gown and a half-mask decorated with ostrich plumes, speaking to her intently. There were a few other adults in line ahead of the boys, so they settled in to wait, slouched on the library sofa, slightly drunk.

The slaves returned with their drinks while they waited their turns. Henry sipped his punch and listened while Louis complained anew about James commandeering Peter. He felt very fortunate that he did not have an older brother forcing his way into every corner of his life and taking whatever he wanted. He’d always envied Louis his big family, but really it was better to do without brothers and have Martin safely to himself. He felt pleasantly muddled and the punch burned going down.

A tall, fat, sandy-haired man in a simple black half-mask and evening dress sat down in the fortune teller's chair and for a moment Henry thought it was his father. It was not, but Henry realized that it could have been, that surely Father would have been invited. Would he make an appearance? Would he have Mrs. Murdock with him? Henry did not know how he felt about that. On the one hand, he didn't imagine it was pleasant being married to Mother, and no doubt Phoebe Murdock was a great deal more fun. But on the other hand, he felt so rejected by his father. Father's dislike of Mother seemed to extend to Henry, as well. He was not the son Father wanted, clearly, and he worried that his father’s bastard, Calvin, would be more to his liking. He’d be better in school, perhaps. He likely wouldn’t be queer—did Father suspect? But surely Henry had some redeeming qualities? The part of him that cared for Martin, for instance—that seemed valuable and good. If only Father could see that part of him without condemnation!

Henry’s eyes teared up and he brushed at them hurriedly with the back of his hand. It wouldn't do to get maudlin here.

“Did you get something in your eye, Sir?” Martin was perched on the arm of the sofa beside him, peering down at his face with concern. He pulled out his handkerchief. “Here, Sir. See if you can get it out.”

Henry took off his mask and made a show of dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief. “Yes, I think I got it,” he said, handing the handkerchief back to Martin, who tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you.” He turned his back to Martin and let him tie his mask on again.

“Is that tight enough, Sir?” Martin's fingertips rested lightly on Henry's head, points of warmth.

Henry nodded. “It's fine. Thank you.” Martin was so sweet to him. Henry felt an overwhelming urge to touch him, and even lifted his hand to do so, before realizing what a bad idea it was. He couldn't be seen showing too much affection toward Martin, and because he had such a poor sense of where the line of tolerance was, he thought it best to show no affection at all.

Louis nudged him with an elbow. “Your turn.”

Henry stood, swaying a little, feeling the punch. He turned to Martin. “You, too. You go first.”

“Sir?”

“Get your fortune told,” Henry said, waving him into the tent and toward the chair.

“But my fortune is
yours
, Sir,” Martin insisted, though he did as Henry asked and went to sit in the chair opposite the gypsy. Henry leaned heavily on the back of the chair to observe the process. “I don't have a fortune separate from you, Sir,” Martin said, turning to look up at him very sincerely.

“Let her decide,” Henry suggested.

“Good evening, boys.” The gypsy shuffled her cards with practiced skill, red-tinted nails flashing in the candlelight. Up close, she was younger than Henry expected, perhaps of his mother's generation rather than an old crone. “I am Madame Ersebet, telling your fortunes in ze Hungarian tradition.” She had a very thick, exaggerated accent, which Henry supposed might be Hungarian, or might just as easily be entirely put on. “Vat is your name, child?”

“Martin, Ma'am.”

“Is zis your young master, Martin?” She nodded at Henry.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“I tink you are right zat your fortunes are entwined,” she said, “but your actions have consequences of zeir own.” She put the cards face down on the table in a neat stack. “Let me see your hands, Martin.” Martin obediently put his hands on the tabletop. She picked up his left hand in both of her own, felt it with a thoughtful expression, and turned it over, palm up. “You are musician,” she pronounced.