Page 3 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“He was a kid when he said those things.” And if Sam knew his brother, he’d apologized a thousand times over for having said them in the first place. “Besides, wasn’t it a lord who wanted the painting? What are the odds of someone who knows you and Nick happening on a painting in a lord’s house?”
“Could be someone who comes in to clean his windows or empty his chamber pots. And anyone who knows me would recognize it straight away.”
That was true enough. Kate had a mass of black curls and a welter of dark brown freckles on her light brown skin. Sam frowned. “Still, I don’t know there’s much to do about it.” He brought his tankard to his mouth.
Kate looked up at him, her dark eyes dead serious. “I want to get it back.”
Sam nearly choked on his ale. But he knew better than to try to persuade Kate away from a bad idea. “Do you even know where it is?”
“The old pervert probably still has it. Like as not in a room with a pile of other dirty paintings for gents to gawk at.”
The thought made his stomach clench in anger. “But you aren’t sure.”
“One way to find out.” She shrugged.
He had a sinking feeling that she didn’t mean writing a polite letter inquiring as to whether the man still had the painting and offering to purchase it for a fair price.
“Tell me you don’t mean to shimmy up drain pipes.” When she didn’t answer, he pulled a chair off the table and straddled it, resting his chin on his forearms. “Because I can tell you my brother wouldn’t fancy having to visit you at Bow Street. And neither would I.”
Her brow furrowed, so he thought he might be getting through to her. “I suppose I could pay someone. Mrs. Newton’s son, maybe.”
“Telling Johnny Newton there’s a dirty picture of yourself might not be your most discreet option.”
“There has to be something I can do.” She had a desperate look in her eye that made him worry she might do something foolish to get this painting back. He wanted to remonstrate, to tell her that she ought to stay safe, to mind all the written and unwritten rules about what a black person could do in this country. These days Sam himself followed every rule, no matter how trifling, and stayed well clear of anything that even looked like it might carry a hint of a problem. His license was paid, his pints were poured generously, and he made sure there was nothing for the building’s owner to complain about. He never let himself lose sight of the fact that if anything ever went wrong, someone would be only too happy to pin it onto a black man. That had been a lesson he’d learned too well and too often, God help him.
That didn’t make it fair, though. Nick and Kate ought to have a future, a life, all the good things they deserved, without it being ruined by rich men. The idea of a dirty old man having a painting of Kate when she had been too poor to turn down honest money—it didn’t sit right with him. Kate shouldn’t have that hanging over her for the rest of her life. Sam worked so hard to make sure the people in this community were safe and fed and had the best chance even though the deck was stacked against them; it was grossly unfair that Kate and Nick might have that taken from them. He knew exactly what kind of things people did with themselves when they were desperate. That was another lesson he had learned the hard way.
“What if I took care of it for you?” he heard himself asking.
Kate opened her eyes wide.
“I’d just find out about it,” he said hastily. “See if maybe there’s a kid in the kitchens who knows anything about naked paintings.” He’d slip them a couple pennies to do a bit of poking around. Nothing wrong with that. “It’s at least worth a try. What was the man’s name? Sir Bastard somebody?”
“Were you sampling the new ale tonight?” she asked. “I want to tell you to be careful, and that you don’t need to do this, but you know that already.” She slid off the bar. “His name is Easterbrook, and he lives in a grand house on Brook Street.”
Maybe if he could tell Kate that her painting wasn’t hanging up for all the world to see, she wouldn’t go about getting herself arrested. He could breathe easy for another day, knowing that he had kept his family safe.
Chapter Two
Will had been completely off the mark when he accused Hartley of never leaving his house. Here he was, strolling through Hyde Park just as he had always done, even if it was an hour past sunset and he wasn’t likely to run into anyone he knew except a park warden telling him the park was closed. He was very nearly getting used to spending entire days not seeing anyone other than members of his dwindling staff.
It was the servants’ day off, and while in most households that usually meant a girl stayed in the kitchen to make sure the fire didn’t burn the house down, and a footman stayed upstairs to answer the door, Hartley had decided the footman and kitchen maid might as well enjoy whatever frolics the rest of the staff got up to. The fire could be safely banked and the front door could be bolted. It wasn’t as if Hartley was expecting callers who would be put out if the door wasn’t properly answered.
Other than Will, who could hardly be considered a proper guest, Hartley hadn’t had any visitors at all in the two months since Martin Easterbrook, his godfather’s only son, came of age, inherited his father’s papers, and learned the truth about Hartley’s relationship with Martin’s father. Martin mustn’t have wasted any time spreading the tale about town, because one day Hartley was a darling of society and the next he was a pariah. He had heard a single whisper: “there are letters,” and knew his fate was sealed.
Even at sixteen, Hartley had known enough not to put anything on paper that would incriminate him. But he had sadly underestimated the ability of jaded London aristocrats to put the tawdriest possible spin on a set of facts. Hartley couldn’t remember exactly what he had written, but he knew he had discussed spending time at Sir Humphrey Easterbrook’s country house, knew he had asked for presents and advancement for his brothers. But those ill-advised letters might not have been enough to ruin him if Easterbrook hadn’t left Hartley the townhouse.
Before Martin Easterbrook had opened his mouth, society had been content to assume that Sir Humphrey left his beloved godson the house on Brook Street out of affection, a gesture to smooth Hartley’s way into the best society. But now they knew that it had been quid pro quo, knew, moreover, that in leaving the house and a legacy to Hartley he had impoverished his own son and heir. Impoverishing one’s title was likely quite as bad as sodomy as far as thetonwas concerned.
Since then, there hadn’t been a single invitation, not even to the sort of dull dinner or musicale he never would have bothered attending a year ago. Acquaintances cut him dead or crossed to the opposite side of the street when they saw him. Hartley supposed he ought to be grateful that this comprehensive shunning was his only punishment, because if Martin had produced evidence, or if any witnesses had come forward, Hartley could easily have been pilloried or hanged. Being utterly alone in the world was a seaside holiday by comparison.
It was all for show, of course. Hartley understood that. Some of the people who had formerly welcomed him into their homes must have known all along that he wasn’t precisely a ladies’ man. Some men of his inclinations looked and acted like everybody else, but Hartley never quite managed it, and had long since stopped trying. Whatever it was that gave him away, whether it was a habit of speech or a set of mannerisms that identified him as a man who preferred men, it was so intrinsic to who he was and how he lived that he couldn’t get rid of it.
It was dark now, and a chill was settling in that felt more like November than September. Hartley turned up the collar of his topcoat and tucked his hands into his pockets. His thin kid gloves did nothing to keep his hands warm but the change of seasons came as a relief. Autumn meant an excuse to put another layer of clothes between his body and the world. It meant a reprieve from the tyranny of merrymaking that a run of decent weather seemed to inspire in his countrymen. Autumn meant a glorious few months spent indoors, complaining about fog and drinking warm beverages.
The recollection that he’d be experiencing these pleasures alone had a significant dampening effect. He had never had close friends in the highest echelons of London society; he wasn’t any good at confidences or warmth or whatever it was people expected of friends. He was an entirely passable acquaintance: he made amusing conversation, wore the right clothes, and blended into good company in a way that made people forget he hadn’t been born to it. With the faith of a child and the ignorance of a tourist, he had assumed that once being accepted into their company, he wouldn’t be cast out.
He turned into the mews behind his house. The kitchen door was left unlocked so that when the servants returned later that night they’d be able to let themselves in. This might have been imprudent but for the fact that Hartley had sold off everything worth stealing years ago. His godfather had left him the house and its contents but nothing to live on. In order to scrape together enough capital to invest for a modest income, Hartley had needed to auction off nearly all the furnishings. Any housebreakers would be sadly out of luck.
