Page 1 of Molly Boys

1

The clatter of the cobblestones beneath the wheels of the clarence cab was uncharacteristically soothing, a numbing distraction from the maelstrom of Everett’s resentful thoughts. Even now, his stomach burned and his cheeks heated as he recalled the weight of his father’s words. The letter had arrived just as he was leaving for the evening’s entertainments, and he shouldn’t have taken the time to read it. He knew better.

His body jerked roughly as the cab rolled along the uneven streets, causing him to reach out and brace himself against the stark interior. He glanced out of the small side window, but the heavy shroud of darkness and the late hour only succeeded in making him feel even more alone in the relative anonymity of the small enclosed vehicle. Not that he minded being alone; in fact, most of the time he preferred it.

He’d spent all his life held up to the unattainable example that was the perfection of his elder brother. Sometimes he wondered why his father had even bothered with another child. Hugh was the apple of his eye and Everett… well, he was the useless spare.

Unfortunately for him, even being the spare came with heavy expectations. Being the second-born son of a marquess may have afforded him wealth and education, but it came with its own set of shackles. Shackles of which his father had been only too quick to remind him.

Letting out a slow exhale, he closed his eyes, his fist tightening on the silver pommel of his polished black cane. He was running out of time and he knew it. Even now he could feel the weight of his father’s demands suffocating him. His future was laid out before him—a future not of his choosing, but rather one forced upon him, filled with nothing more than duty and endless rules.

He opened his eyes when he felt the cab jostle to a stop and shook the morose thoughts from his mind. His future may be stalking him, lurking in the shadows like a predator, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep running from it as fast and as far as he could.

Reaching for the handle of the door, he unlatched it easily and stepped down onto the street, his heavy overcoat swinging around his legs. Closing the door, he reached into his pocket to retrieve a couple of coins which he handed to the driver. The man’s brutish face was impassive as he clucked his tongue loudly and shook the reins, urging the horses into a walk.

Everett stepped back and watched the cab disappear into the smog beyond the dim glow of the lamps. The cold air nipped at his nose and cheeks, and he pulled the collar of his coat higher, as much to conceal his identity as to ward off the chill.

He glanced down the quiet street. The chances of him being noticed were slim. Not only was it too dark, but the coin he’d given the driver would be enough for the man’s discretion. After all, it was not the first time he’d visited this particular establishment and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Turning away from the deserted street, he eyed the tall building surrounded by black iron railings. It wasn’t situated in the worst part of Islington but it certainly was not considered fitting for someone of his station, an irony when he considered who owned the establishment.

He climbed the steps to the large black door, grasped the brass knocker, and gave it three sharp raps. After a moment, the door creaked open and a familiar face appeared.

“Good evening, Haywood,” Everett said as he stepped through the door and into the small foyer.

“My lord.” The man inclined his head as he closed and locked the door behind him. Reaching out, he first took Everett’s hat, cane, and pale yellow kid gloves, followed by his heavy coat, leaving him in his dinner jacket and waistcoat.

Along the darkened corridor drifted the sound of raucous laughter and chatter, underlaid by faint strains of music.

“Need I inquire where he is?” Everett asked solicitously.

“I believe you will find his lordship in the main parlour… entertaining his guests.”

“Indeed.” Everett’s mouth curved. “Thank you, Haywood.”

“My lord.” He inclined his head again as Everett turned and strolled down the corridor, past dark wood panelling and walls decorated with pale green silk wallpaper adorned with delicate songbirds.

Glass-covered oil sconces mounted at intervals along the wall lit his way with a dim glow as he approached the parlour. The voices rose in cadence the nearer he drew, a bawdy combination of laughter and the scratchy sound of the wax cylinder on the Graphophone.

Cigar smoke scented the air, giving it a slight haze as he approached the door, which was open a crack, spilling brighter light onto the floor in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, he grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open fully, his assessing gaze sweeping the room.

The sight which greeted him would have had any respectable lady fainting in horror. Fortunately, Everett was not a lady and very rarely respectable, and the sight was not only familiar but quite comforting.

His shoulders relaxed and the tension he’d been carrying for hours began to drain away. The room was filled with men of varying sizes, shapes, ages, and ranks. There was not a single young lady to be seen, and that was the way they all preferred it.

“Stanley,” a gruff voice greeted from a nearby chaise.

Everett turned his head and nodded in greeting. “Good evening, Colonel Greenbridge.”

“Didn’t think we’d see you this evening,” he rumbled, his gaze trailing over Everett’s formal evening dress.

“I had another engagement I was pressed to attend,” he answered politely.

The Colonel huffed lightly and turned his attention back to his companion, a delicate-looking and awfully pretty young man with hair like a living flame, the colour of a pre-Raphaelite heroine. His eyes were as green as emeralds, and a swath of golden freckles dusted his pale skin. The Colonel reclined comfortably on a chaise, his military coat and shirt open to reveal wild tufts of grey hair covering his chest. His jaw was clean-shaven but his oiled handlebar moustache was the same iron grey as his chest hair. His crown was so sparse it was almost bald, only a halo of neatly combed hair encircling his head and ending in muttonchop whiskers covering his grizzled cheeks.

His sweet companion was as day to night. Slight and beautiful in an indecently sheer chemise, he sat quite demurely on the old Colonel’s lap. An impish smile tugged at his lips as he fed the old man grapes. The material of the chemise clung to his waifish build like a second skin, skimming his thighs and moulding itself to the shape of his small slim cock.