Page 15 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Compounding this failure was the fact that Sam had provided the only even minimally satisfying sexual encounter in Hartley’s recent life, even though Hartley’s own climax didn’t happen until late that night, alone in his room, thinking of hands twisted in velvet curtains, a body taut with the effort of not touching him. Sometimes he thought his mind might have gotten a bit warped. Most people liked being touched. And they liked going places and having friends and doing things that weren’t sitting alone in a library and staring at the rectangles that marked where paintings used to hang.
The autumn sun had already set, and rain beat down on the windowpanes. The fire had burnt low, but the coal scuttle hadn’t been refilled today and Hartley hadn’t sunk so low that he was about to fill it himself. Instead, he let the chill of the room seep into his bones. If it was possible to be cheerful under these conditions, Hartley didn’t know how.
Instead he thought of Friars’ Gate and revenge. He could almost smell the mineral spirits, feel the blade in his hand, see the destroyed remains of those paintings. With every ruined canvas, he’d take away some of the power that Easterbrook had stolen from him.
He thought of how for years his only sexual release had been while barely enduring anonymous back alley cock sucking, and how eventually even that was out of his reach. He thought of these past months since his disgrace. Now that everyone knew what he was and what he had done, he couldn’t tear his mind from those facts; it was as if other people’s worst thoughts about him had wormed their way into his own thoughts about himself.
It had all been the Easterbrooks’ doing, father and then son.
Sometimes he wondered what he’d have done if his godfather hadn’t left him the house. He hadn’t really had a chance to figure out what he wanted in a world where he had to make his own way, and he feared he was too broken to think in terms of the future.
It was now cold in the library, and Hartley realized he’d let the fire burn out entirely. He considered building it up again, but instead he sat in the cold and the dark.
The knock startled him. His first thought was that Alf had lost his latchkey. Then he remembered it was Sunday and Sam had said he would come. He glanced down at his clothes. Not his best, but adequate. The looking glass on the landing confirmed that his hair was acceptable but his cravat askew. Well, there was no time to retie it, not unless he wanted to risk Sam leaving. For reasons he chose not to fully examine, this was not a risk he wished to take.
He ran down the stairs and flung open the door. Sam stood in the shadowy passage, holding what looked to be a fox stole that had been dredged out of the Thames.
“What in Christendom is that?” Hartley asked by way of greeting.
“It’s a dog.”
“Are you quite certain? Have you checked?” It could be a large, furry rat. Or a ragbag. Anything was possible.
“Definitely a dog.”
Hartley didn’t ask why this alleged dog was being brought to his house, figuring that any answer he got would be beside the point. “Come in before you get drenched.”
“Too late for that.” Sam indicated his dripping hat.
“Sit here. Both of you. The fire’s banked but it won’t take long to build it up. If you like, take off your coat and your boots so they dry faster.” He fussed with the fire, adding some coal and using the bellows until the hearth had taken the chill out of the room and filled it with a warm glow. Turning around, he saw Sam, still wearing his soaked coat and boots, holding the shivering dog.
Hartley cast his gaze searchingly around the room before settling on a large apron one of the girls must have left behind. “Here, give it to me.”
“Give what to you?”
“The dog. It’s shivering.” When Sam didn’t hand the dog over, Hartley sighed and scooped the dog up himself. “Poor creature. Only has three legs. It’s no wonder you had to carry him.”
“He’s dirty,” Sam cautioned.
“I should say so. Filthy. Not to mention a bit ripe.” He wrapped the dog in the apron and cradled it in his arms. “Where did you find him?”
“Uh. He’s my friend’s dog.”
Hartley tilted his head in confusion. “Then why is he in my kitchen, frozen stiff?”
“Because I’m an idiot? He’s going to ruin your coat.”
“I have others.” The dog was trying his best to wedge himself into Hartley’s armpit, presumably for warmth. Hartley gave it a vigorous rub with the apron and poked the fire to help it blaze back into life.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you liked dogs.” Sam’s teeth were chattering.
“Take off that coat. Shirt too. Put them on the back of that chair to dry by the fire.”
Hartley carefully didn’t watch Sam peel off his coat, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the other man hesitate over his shirt. “The house is empty, so you can strip as much as you please.” He blushed, not having meant the words as a come-on. Hartley averted his gaze as Sam pulled the shirt over his head. “My only servant has taken to sleeping in the loft over the carriage house. Presumably so he can freely debauch himself without my interference.” He was blathering nervously, which was so lamentably unattractive. Extracting the dog from his armpit, he peered at the mongrel’s face. “Good lord, what happened to you?” The little fellow had a bite out of one ear.
“He spent some years in the rat pit.”
Hartley wrinkled his nose at the mention of rat baiting. He had never seen it, but he knew the general thrust was that a dog was put into a pit with a pack of vicious rats, while spectators bet on how many rats the dog could kill in a given time. “You poor sod,” he told the dog. “I hope your days are filled with bacon and cuddles.” The dog licked his nose, and Hartley wriggled away. “That’s a step too far, my friend.”
