Page 19 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“Ha! No. This imbecilic mongrel has led me on an impromptu walking tour of what must be half of London. I’ve brought him to a dozen taverns in this neighborhood alone. It’s been quite the adventure.” He didn’t sound too put out, though. Even in the moonlight, Sam could see that Hartley was smiling despite his wet hair and muddy clothes.
“I can take him from here,” Sam offered. Hartley didn’t quite flinch, but the smile momentarily dropped from his face. “I didn’t—”
Hartley waved his hand imperiously, cutting Sam off. “Quite.”
Sam wasn’t in the habit of turning away people who needed warmth and rest, certainly not people he was growing rather troublingly fond of. But Hartley seemed to accept as his due that he would be cast out, alone, into the cold. Sam knew he’d have to turn that over in his mind, but for now he only gestured at the small gap between buildings that would bring them to the Bell. “Follow me,” he said. “If you think I’m sending you home without a pint of something to warm your way, you can guess again.
To get to the Bell, you had to turn down a small street that ran somewhat perpendicular to Fleet Street, and from there you had to know where to look for the lane that led to the courtyard that fronted the Bell. Leading Hartley along this path, Sam wondered that they did any business at all. But the regulars knew the way, and that was good enough.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sound of Kate’s laughter and the scent of hops, wood polish, and a bit of sawdust. These scents belonged to the Bell and it was disconcerting to have them mixed with Hartley’s cologne, or hair soap, or whatever it was he used that smelled like spring woods. He hesitated on the threshold, but he couldn’t keep Hartley standing in the cold and rain, so he stepped inside.
Hartley looked around the way anyone did when entering a new place. Not disapproving, not inspecting, just getting the lay of the land. Sam feared that he was being measured and coming up short. Then Kate looked up from the table she was wiping—he would have to remind her that nobody was paying her to do that sort of work anymore—her face stern as if she were about to turn out a late-arriving patron. When she saw that it was only Sam, her face relaxed.
When she caught sight of Hartley, she dropped the rag and ran to him.
“Oh my God,” she said, staring. “Hart?”
Hartley stared at her in return, his pale eyes wide and his hand clapped over his mouth. Then they sort of fell into one another’s arms. Sam started to warn Kate that Hartley didn’t care for being touched, but Hartley was hugging her back while they both laughed and cried. It seemed Sam didn’t need to perform an introduction.
Sam could make out only a few of the jumbled exclamations and half-interrupted questions they peppered one another with.
“That week—”
“Mydear—”
“I looked for you!”
“His servants wouldn’t give me your name.”
“And you were using a false surname, I think.”
“Was I?”
Sam turned away to finish wiping the tables and putting the chairs up, wanting to give them some privacy. But after a moment, Hartley called him.
“You didn’t tell me your friend was Kate Bradley,” Hartley said, his hands on his hips. “We, ah, traveled in the same circles.”
“What he means is his godfather wanted to shag me,” Kate chimed in. “He’d invite me round, offer me sweets and ribbons. Gave me a sodding fortune for that painting. Proper old pervert. But Hart and I made friends.”
“We had such fun,” Hartley said. “I had almost forgotten. Until one day you didn’t come back. I thought you’d been killed.”
“Nah, I went with my father to watch one of Sam’s fights up north. That was about when I took up with Nick—Sam’s brother—and I didn’t think he’d like the idea of me stringing old men along for presents.”
Hartley nodded comprehendingly, but he crossed his arms across his chest in a way that made Sam wonder again exactly why Hartley wanted this revenge, or whatever it was, against his godfather. Easterbrook had taken advantage of Kate, and Sam’s fists clenched at the idea that he might have done the same to Hartley.
Kate yawned. “I’m run off my feet. Come by tomorrow, Hart, will you? I want to know how you came to be friends with my dog. And with Sam,” she added with a sidelong glance in Sam’s direction. “The till is empty and the mugs are clean,” she told Sam. “I’ll lock the door on my way out. I banked the fire here, but Nick came down to say that he has yours roaring, so you ought to take Hart upstairs and get him warm. Night!” she called before heading for the door, the dog trotting behind her.
Sam watched as Hartley walked around the circumference of the taproom, peering at the sketches on the wall and warming his hands over a brazier that still held some heat. He paused at the print of Sam’s father in the ring that somebody had clipped from one of the boxing rags, and then again at the sign behind the bar that proclaimed that the Bell, Samuel Fox, proprietor, was licensed to sell beer and spirits. He peered into the darkened back room, then ran his fingers along the smooth wood of the bar.
“Not your sort of place,” Sam ventured.
Hartley looked over at him. “What do you know about my sort of place?” His voice was sharp. “You just heard Kate say that she and I are old friends. You and I shared a meal in my kitchen and much more in my library.” There was enough light coming from the single lamp for Sam to see Hartley’s cheeks flush slightly. “Any claim to gentility I might have had was taken away when—” He shook his head and turned half away. “You didn’t tell me you had been a boxer. But Kate said something about one of your fights.”
“For a bit. That’s my da.” He gestured at the prints on the wall.
Hartley squinted at the prints. They were decades old, faded, the type almost unreadable. “I remember my father and his friends talking about Hiram Fox. He was undefeated for a while, wasn’t he?”
Sam nodded. “He was the best.” Hartley looked like he was about to ask another question, but Sam didn’t want to talk about his own time in the ring. “You want a drink?” he asked.
