Page 1 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Chapter One
1817
Hartley wrinkled his nose. “Why are you wearing that?” he asked his brother. Will’s coat had quite plainly been tailored for a different person, if it had been tailored at all, which was an open question. Loose threads and threadbare patches renounced any claim the wearer might have to gentility. It had likely been a depressing garment from the start, but now it was the stuff of tragedy.
“This?” Will asked, looking down at his chest. “It’s a coat. I know we’re a bit carefree at the moment,” he said, gesturing to the empty bottle of wine that stood on the table between them. “But you do know what a coat is.”
“That’s not a coat,” Hartley sniffed. “It’s melancholy, in sartorial form.”
“It’s really very comfortable,” Will spoke earnestly, as if this quality could possibly matter in a garment.
“I’ll give you five shillings if you let me burn it.”
Will clutched the coat close to his body as if Hartley might try to pull it off his shoulders. “The real question is whyyouare wearingthat,” he said.
Hartley examined his own attire. Slate gray waistcoat with mother of pearl buttons; shirt and cravat of snowy white linen, well starched; dove gray kerseymere pantaloons; black coat of Italian wool. He let his gaze linger with satisfaction on his top boots, snug to the point of impracticality and buffed to a highly satisfactory shine by his valet. The overall effect was flawless, utterly correct, and à la mode while still being understated. “I’m dressed impeccably,” he pronounced. Not a boast, just the unvarnished truth.
“Exactly. To sit at home with me.”
“Was there someplace you wanted to go?” Hartley spoke with as much dignity as he could muster after half a bottle of claret. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Will shook his head and leaned back against the sofa. “That wasn’t my point. You’ve been holed up in this house for two months.”
“Untrue. I walk every day in the park,” he said. It was neither here nor there that he timed these walks to occur when the park would be deserted, sparing himself the embarrassment of sharing space with those who had cast him out. “Besides, I’ve suggested that we travel. We could go to Paris and then be in Italy before winter.” He could picture a well-keptpensionne, an unlimited supply of heady Italian wine, and something like the promise of a blank slate, or at least oblivion.
Will examined the remnants of wine in his glass as if they were particularly interesting. “I’ve seen enough of the world. And I have obligations keeping me in England for the time being.” He addressed these words to the glass, not looking at his brother.
Hartley hadn’t been anywhere or seen anything, nor had he any real urge to do so, but it would be better than staring at these same four walls day in and day out. Unlike his brother, he hadn’t even the faintest shadow of an obligation to any living creature, which surely ought to bring him some satisfaction. “The less said about your obligations, the better,” he said coldly. Will only gave him a disappointed frown. Hartley cleared his throat. “If not five shillings, then perhaps a guinea? You could buy two ugly coats for that much.”
That got him a laugh, and Hartley let his mouth twitch slightly in return.
“Why don’t you travel on your own?” Will asked. “Or with a friend?” His voice hit an odd register onfriendand Hartley shot his brother a quelling look. “Or maybe you could move to a different part of the country? Somewhere you could have a fresh start.”
“I don’t want a fresh start,” Hartley snapped.
Will was kind enough not to mention that a moment ago, Hartley had been willing to get on the next packet sailing for Calais. But that would have been for Will; Hartley might loosen the stranglehold he had on the tattered remains of his life if only he could tell himself it was necessary for one of his brothers. But to leave of his own accord felt like defeat. He was still here—still alive, still in this house, still where people had to reckon with his existence. He wasn’t going to let himself get erased on top of everything else.
“If I ever take up crime,” Will said after a few moments of almost companionable silence, “it’ll be arson. And I’ll start with this house.”
Hartley pretended not to understand. “Please take up something more profitable than arson.”
“As if you don’t have insurance. Sell it. Let it. Stay at a hotel. Stay with me. Pitch a tent among the cows in Green Park for all I care. But you can’t carry on living here.” He looked around the room, as if taking in for the first time the crimson velvet drapes and deep mahogany bookcases. His gaze lingered on a few blank spots on the wall, where the paper hadn’t faded to the mellow green of the rest of the room. The staff at this house had always been vigilant about drawing the curtains when the sun shone through the tall windows, but even so, some light had leaked into this room over the years, and Hartley knew why it hadn’t reached those few rectangles. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but this place is haunted. You must see ghosts everywhere. And, Hartley, it’s ruining you. You’re twenty-three and you’re living in a mausoleum.”
“You say that as if you’re eighty. Perhaps we ought to talk about how you aren’t living life to its fullest either, dear brother.” Will lived in a hovel and spent his days writing dismal little things for magazines that forgot to pay him. It was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to keep body and soul together. When Hartley thought of the things he had done and the dubious choices he had made, all to give his brothers a chance at having the safe, secure life of gentlemen, and what a mess they had all made of it, he could scream.
Will shook his head. “But I’m content, and you aren’t.” He finished the wine in his glass. “You can’t go on living here,” he repeated.
“Of course I can. It’s well situated and lavishly furnished. I couldn’t ask for a more suitable home. I’m grateful that it was left to me by my doting godfather.” He was rather proud that he kept his voice entirely free of irony.
“Hartley.”
“I have Lady Mary Carstairs to the right and Mr. Justice Burke to the left. It’s a very good street.”
“Hartley,” Will repeated.
The house was utterly silent around them except for the swinging pendulum of the longcase clock in the corner. The servants had gone to bed, Hartley having given instructions that they needn’t wait up for him.
“Perhaps next time you’ll join me at my lodgings for a drink,” Will said, rising to his feet and taking his hat off the table. “Or we can meet for a pint at your local.”Anywhere but herewas Will’s unspoken meaning.
