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London reeked of piss, shit, and freedom. Lucien could see the man his father had sent to ensure he got on the ship lurking in full view; a bruiser with more muscles than sense. He wasn’t necessary. Lucien would sooner die than stay in England a second longer, and he intended to live long enough to hear his bastard father and brother were dead.
Spite was a powerful motivator.
Plus, he’d heard the stories of China. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—hope for a better life. He wouldn’t have it either. His father had paid for his passage and nothing else. Lucien would have to make his own way in China as an Englishman. The future held many unknowns. But he’d heard the talk. China permitted men to lie with men. He wouldn’t have to hide who he wanted. No one would look at him with disgust. All he had to do was survive.
Lucien boarded the ship with the remainder of his aristocratic pride, carrying himself tall, shoulders square. Crewmates ushered patrons on to their rooms, and a blond with sharp cheekbones, a pretty mouth, and an awful accent tried to lead him off deck.
Lucien dismissed him with a wave of his hand. When the man wouldn’t leave, he summoned his most intimidating smile. “I want to wave off my family. The Earl Crane.”
He hated his family, but the name had power, and he wasn’t afraid to leverage it when needed. The boy backed off, and Lucien turned his attention back to the street. His father’s bruiser stood still in the throngs of tearful and excited family members.
The bruiser remained there even as the crew called last boarders, and the ramp to the ship was withdrawn. He didn’t move a muscle as he faded into the haze of London.
No way his father let him get away so easily. He’d sooner his youngest son died than lived to sully their name, and a boat was an awfully convenient way to kill someone.
Lucien swallowed, uneasiness gnawing at his stomach.
Lucien spent the first two months laying low. He remained as inconspicuous as possible—difficult as a towering blond with aristocratic breeding that proved hard to unlearn. On this ship he was a nobody, and he’d tried hard to remember that. The more everyone around him believed that, the safer he was. Over time, the nagging sensation that his father had arranged for his death on the boat slowly eased, the knot in his stomach slowly untangling.
He’d even come to like the sea. Salt on the air, wind on his skin, and water all around as far as the eye could see. Opportunity in every direction, with no laws, no limits. The sea didn’t care who you were as long as you worked hard. Giddiness thrummed through his veins from it, or maybe from the movement of the ship in the sea swell.
By month three, Lucien barely looked over his shoulder, so convinced by the sea’s promise of freedom, a new life, that long honed survival skills began to wane. And the blue blooded edges of him waned too. With greater exposure to more common folk he learned how to carry himself like them, how to talk like them, how to act like them.
He even won an invite to a night of gambling. While he had no money, his hat was valuable, as were his cufflinks, and the quality of his clothes spoke volumes. The table was small, five of them in total betting over cards. Lucien didn’t recognise the game, but he could read people, and that was all he needed. The Chinese man opposite him screamed wealth, draped in fine silks and expensive rings. Two upper class English gentlemen joined them. The self absorbed type, Lucien could tell. Not a threat to his ability to win. The final participant was another Englishman. A little rough around the edges, with a scrappy look to him, and a sizeable amount of money for someone in his position.
Icy dread ran down Lucien’s spine. One of his father’s goons?
He drew himself up, took his hand of cards, and prepared for a long night.
Lucien staggered out of the room making his excuses with a too-wide smile on his face. The door thunked shut behind him. Tension bled out of his shoulders as he walked onto the deck, face schooled to neutral and striding confidently.
Salt filled his nose as he reached the deck. Had he been intoxicated, it would have sobered him up, but the drunkenness was an act to line his pockets. He’d only taken a moderate sum—too much would have attracted the wrong attention, and he needed to be seen as sporting to be invited back.
More of this, and he’d be fine when he arrived in Shanghai.
Footsteps rang behind him, growing closer. Lucien ducked into the shadows to watch, every nerve on high alert. The grizzled brute appeared on deck, looking around.
For me. Lucien swallowed. He was going to take a man’s life. He could do this. He could do anything for his survival.
More footsteps caught his attention, but not his assailants. Within seconds, all three Englishmen from the card game were on deck. The two gentlemen—though he used that word loosely—stood over the other man. Lucien couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he didn’t need to.
This was about the money.
More words were said. Voices raised. The two gentlemen’s confidence came from wealth rather than strength. The man on the left was wiry, of medium build. Disgust curled his lip and he carried himself with an overbearing aura that was all bark, no bite. The man on the right was rakish, so thin a strong breeze might blow him over.
Lucien weighed the odds. Why should he get involved? The brute would likely kill him after. Still, this wasn’t right. He’d won the money fair and square. If the men didn’t like it, they shouldn’t have been at the table.
Rake stepped forwards into Brute, and Lucien’s forced into action.
“Gentlemen. What seems to be the problem?”
Brute frowned at him. The gentlemen laughed.
“This has nothing to do with you, boy. Go back to your cabin,” the man on the right said.
“A simple disagreement, be on your way,” the other said.
“It is rather simple, isn’t it?” Lucien replied. “You played badly. He won your money. As gentlemen of England, men of your word, I have to assume you’re not accosting him for your money back?”
“Leave, now. This doesn’t concern you."
Lucien exhaled. “Let him leave with me and we can all pretend this never happened.”
The men paused, looking at each other. Lucien took enough beatings from Hector to recognise their intent.
He swung first, fist connecting with Rake’s jaw hard enough he crumpled to the ground. The wiry man wheeled on him, fists in front of his body in an attempt at a fighting pose. His body was too stiff—an unpractised fighter, then—and Lucien easily weaved to avoid his first strike. He followed with a jab to the ribs, barely touching, and brought his other fist up to connect with nothing.
The wiry man had fallen to the deck with a thud.
Anticipation thrummed through Lucien’s veins, but he wasn’t looking for a fight if he could avoid it. He offered his hand and said, “Lucien. Lucien Vaudrey.”
“I know who you are,” the brute said.
Lucien sighed. “What did Earl Crane give you to ensure I never reached China?”
“Nothing. He gave me money to see you boarded the ship, and made it clear he only cared that you got on the ship, not off it. Said if you found yourself overboard, that was no real hardship, and I could keep my manservant’s wage for the journey anyway. Start new in China.”
“If you’re my manservant, why haven’t you been serving me?” Lucien quipped.
The man snorted, then kicked one of the men on the floor as he started to stir. “Why’d you fight ‘em? They had no issue with you.”
“They shouldn’t have had issue with you. If they didn’t want to lose they should have played better. You beat them, it’s your money now.”
That earnt him a chuckle. “Didn’t have you pegged as one for morals with your name.”
“I’m not a Crane. Not anymore. And I’ve engaged in many morally depraved acts, but a man’s word is important. Almost as important as—”
The man frowned. “I’ve heard of your family. Moral depravity’s standard. Why did your father send you away?”
Lucien laughed. “Rape’s fine. Kissing boys isn’t.”
“Hm.” The grizzled man jabbed a finger at him. “You talk too much, boy.”
“Lucien.”
“Merrick,” the brute replied. A beat, and then: “you talk too much, Lucien. Learn to shut up so you don’t get us both killed.”
“Both?”
Merrick stared at him like he was simple.
“Noted,” Lucien said.
Merrick muttered something that sounded a lot like “upstart bastard” and Lucien laughed. He had money, a comrade, and freedom.
The next two months couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Minus the incident where he’d met Merrick, the journey to China was uneventful except for a storm that ruined all romantic notions Lucien had of becoming a sailor. China itself was a marvel of new colours and smells—most strongly of fish, something indescribably bad, and a mix of metal and unknown spices. Far too hot, though it grew more bearable by the day.
Their only real problem was work. No one wanted to hire two Englishmen. They couldn’t speak the language well, despite Lucien’s attempts to learn on the voyage. The harbourmaster had taken one look at Lucien’s uncalloused hands and laughed them away.
Without work they had nowhere to live, nothing to eat but leftovers from the ship that had began to rot. Freedom tightened around his neck like a noose. Lucien was safe from death at his family’s hands while his empty stomach hurt worse than any beatings he’d received at his brother’s hands.
Lucien’s stomach growled. It was over a week since they’d had a proper meal.
Merrick gripped his shoulder. “We’ll find something.”
No matter how tight Merrick squeezed, he couldn’t undo the knot in Lucien’s stomach.
“Stop looking so bloody miserable. We’ll find something.”
Lucien nodded, refusing to meet Merrick’s eyes. Guilt ate at him. If he’d tried harder to learn the language on the ship, if he’d attended more gambling, if he hadn’t pissed off so many potential contacts—
Ifs couldn’t feed them.
The xiǎolóngbāo dropped by a passing stranger could.
Learning Chinese was hard, but they’d both picked up enough words that Merrick could get work. Lucien’s high breeding shone through the muck on his face, and work still eluded him. Merrick’s money kept a leaky roof over their heads, gave them a place to clean off all the grime, but it wasn’t enough to feed them regularly.
Necessity drove Lucien to get food however he could. He was pretty sure he knew the chinese word for thief now, at least. Whatever good that would do. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and prepared to rummage through the rubbish for food. It beat starving. God, what would his father think if he knew?
“What do you think of China?”
Lucien’s neck snapped towards the voice: refined, pleasant, and unmistakably english. It came from the end of the alley he was in, but he couldn’t see anyone. The question wasn’t directed at him.
He’d turned his back on England. Was it right to chase someone from there for help?
The voice moved away from the end of the alley, and Lucien let instinct guide him. He ran, heart thudding in his ears. Out of the alley, sunlight poured down, almost blinding him. Tsaena. Lucien scanned the street, looking for—there! A black top hat stood out conspicuously against the backdrop of Shanghai. He pushed through the throngs of people to catch up, gaining quickly with local knowledge of how to navigate the streets. The man took a left, then another, and a right, moving away from the busy hubbub of the city. They turned again, Lucien hot on his heels to—
To what, exactly? He hadn’t thought this through. What was he going to do when he caught up? Ask for help? This man would laugh at him or worse. This was so fucking stupid. Merrick’ll be mad, he thought, wincing already from the imagined tonguelashing he’ll receive.
“Oh look at you,” the voice croons.
Lucien started. He hadn’t noticed the man approach. He was a little taller than Lucien, a little broader, handsome face with a wicked smile.
He reminded Lucien of Hector. Lucien swallowed, resisting the urge to run.
The man’s eyes lingered overlong on Lucien’s figure, and Lucien realised where they are, what this man wants.
“I bet you were a pretty one once. Shame, I don’t like them so gaunt.” The man pressed two silver coins into Lucien’s palm. “Eat, and next time I’ll put that mouth to good use.”
He disappeared into what Lucien recognised as a brothel, and Lucien stared at the coins in his hand.
Lucien arrived home before Merrick, mercifully avoiding the earful he was expecting. Instead, the man’s words echo in his head.
I’ll put that mouth to good use.
He got two silver just for existing. They need money. It’s an easy choice.
Merrick didn’t agree. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“You said yourself you’d have paid to take my brother down a peg or two. People here will do the same. Defile the Englishman.” Lucien met Merrick’s eye, refusing to break. He’d found the will to try this, it was their only choice.
“Your brother was a brute.”
Lucien shrugged. “That’s what they see when they look at me. They’ll pay well.”
Merrick’s jaw tightened. “Bloodyminded oaf. You’re set on doing this? Why the fuck you telling me then?”
“Watch my back?” Lucien asked.
“Do they breed all you posh types with no brains?”
A laugh bubbled up Lucien’s throat. Once it escaped, he couldn’t stop, the sound gradually easing the tension in the room until a smile tugged at the corner of Merrick’s mouth.
“Alright. We’ll do this proper. I’ll find somewhere for you to be, and we can find you some clients.” Merrick nodded. “Can’t have his lordship whoring himself in the slums, can we?” he mocked.
Lucien first was forceddropped to his knees in the alley where he spotted the Englishman who gave him the idea. He focused on the ache in his knees rather than the wetness seeping into them. Opened his mouth dutifully when the man in front of him pulled his cock out, licked and sucked and gagged dutifully until the man came over his face and threw copper coins on the floor, laughing as he walked away.
Something hot burned in Lucien’s stomach.
“Here, clean yourself up.” Merrick appeared by his side with a handkerchief, and spares Lucien the indignity of collecting the coins himself.
“You okay?” Merrick asked, concern lining his face.
“Yes,” Lucien lied.
The copper wasn’t enough. They needed more.
I’ll put that mouth to good use.
“I can do another.”
“No you bloody can’t!” Merrick spat. “You’re shaking worse’n my old man after too many whiskeys. We can find something else. I’m not putting you through that again.”
The heat flared worse, burning Lucien from the inside out. “We need the money.”
“Not at your expense. You swore to me on that ship we’d make this work, but I don’t need you to break yourself for it.”
“As if you care,” Lucien snapped, snatching his arm away as Merrick tried to help him to his feet.
“You’re not a stupid rich boy, Lucien. You’re better than them. If you weren’t, I’d be dead at the bottom of the ocean. You saved me that night. And I’ll be damned if I repay that by letting you kill yourself on these damn streets. We came here to survive. Start acting like it.”
Merrick’s words extinguished the flames as quickly as they’d appeared. Lucien deflated, blinking around him as the world came back into view.
“C’mere.” Merrick extended his hand, and this time Lucien accepted. He was pulled to his feet, and then into a hug.
He stood still, unable to process the fact that Merrick was hugging him. Merrick. Hugging him.
Merrick.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Merrick grumbled when he pushed Lucien back. “Just looked like you needed one, is all. And I meant it, you never need to do this again. We’ll make it work.”