Page 20 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Hartley shook his head. “No, and you don’t have to bring me upstairs. I’m only a bit wet.”
Like hell he was a bit wet. There was a puddle at his feet. “It’s late,” Sam said.
“So it is.” Hartley took a step closer.
“Not sure how I feel about you going home alone.”
A corner of Hartley’s mouth twitched. “I got here alone.”
“Right, but you had the dog to protect you.” He was proud that he managed to say that without even the hint of a smile. “Now the pubs will all be closed and the streets will be emptying out. It’s not safe.”
Hartley made a halting movement, as if he were trying to step forward but found his feet rooted to the spot.
“You heard Kate say I have a warm fire upstairs.” He kept his voice low and soothing, and was reminded of how Hartley had coaxed the dog to him on his kitchen floor. “Doesn’t that sound good?”
“It sounds so good.” There was a note of wistfulness in his voice.
“Same rules as last time, Hartley. Nothing you don’t want.”
“Rules,” Hartley repeated. “You didn’t mind my... rules last time.”
“I can’t get enough of your rules,” Sam said hoarsely.
A flicker of mischief lit Harley’s face. “Lead the way, then.”
Chapter Nine
Even the stairwell was clean, not so much as a cobweb in the corner or a speck of dust on the banister, at least none Hartley could see by the light of Sam’s lantern. The building smelled of lemon and beeswax, with an undercurrent of ale and maybe somebody’s Sunday roast.
“I’m at the top,” Sam said, his voice low. They climbed another set of stairs that opened onto a small landing with two doors. Sam pushed open one of them and Hartley was met with a wall of heat.
“That’s a proper fire,” Hartley said.
“Nick knew I’d be wet after chasing after the dog so he might have gone a bit overboard.” Sam had his hands in his pockets and looked a bit embarrassed at his brother’s solicitude. It figured that Sam had a houseful of people who cared to keep him warm.
Hartley had lied earlier about not being cold. His coat—now ruined, to be sure—had been designed for style, not warmth, and now had neither virtue. He peeled it off and laid it across a spindle-backed chair. In only his shirtsleeves, he felt bare, so he crossed his arms against his chest.
“When you said the painting you were after was of a woman named Kate, I thought it might be her,” he said. But he hadn’t dared hope that he might once again see the person who had been a true friend to him despite knowing him for who he was. “Kate was lovely to me,” he added. “She was a bit older and much wiser.”
“She’s probably going to marry my brother, but she doesn’t like the idea of Nick being ashamed to have a wife whose naked picture is hanging on somebody’s wall.”
Hartley could well imagine. “Would he be? Ashamed, that is.”
Sam shook his head. “He’s thinks your godfather was a bastard—”
“He’s right.”
“—but he doesn’t hold it against Kate. Besides, she was young, her father was unreliable, and five guineas meant a lot.”
Hartley had been toying with the top button of his waistcoat, debating whether to undo it, but now he let his hands drop to his sides. “You think it matters that she was young and in need of the money? You don’t think it’s a sign of bad character?”
Sam was silent for a long moment while he put a kettle on the fire. “Even if she had been thirty and rich, I wouldn’t think it meant she had a bad character. There’s nothing wrong with sitting for that kind of painting, if it’s what you want to do. But the fact that she was poor and young means the old man took advantage of her. She had a choice, but it wasn’t much of a choice. Not really.”
Hartley reflexively smoothed the fabric of his waistcoat, counting the row of buttons. It was relatively dry. Perhaps he didn’t need to take it off. The cuffs of his shirt, however, were cold and stiff with wetness, so he rolled them up only far enough to keep the damp fabric from touching his skin. His boots had kept his feet dry, at least.
While Hartley was deliberating over how little clothing he could get away with removing, Sam placed two cups of tea on the table. It looked like there were two small rooms: the sparsely furnished parlor they stood in now and what must be a bedroom through that open door beyond. Hartley sat in a chair facing away from the bedroom door and wrapped his hands around the warm teacup.
Sam straddled the other chair, facing him. “You like dogs,” he said, not making it a question.
