Page 30 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
He smiled to think that he had met Hartley in an alley of sorts, then had to stamp on the idea that what existed between them could ever amount to anything.
“The gate is on the other side of the village, but if we take this lane we can approach the house from the stables,” Hartley said. They had met that morning as arranged after spending the night apart, Hartley in his fine bedchamber and Sam in a room he shared with three other men, one of whom snored like a bellows. Hartley had brought a small hamper of sandwiches, insisting that the innkeeper’s wife wouldn’t let him leave on a long country walk without provisions.
Lit by morning sun rather than flickering lamplight, Hartley looked young and a bit frail. He looked exactly like someone a country innkeeper’s wife might fret over. He wasn’t skinny, not exactly, but there wasn’t much of him. His nose turned up pertly and was sprinkled with a smattering of freckles that had been invisible in weaker light. His eyes, which had seemed pale and shrewd in London, now reflected the dusty greens and browns of the autumn countryside.
“If you know this place so well, why did you take the trouble to draw out a map?” Sam asked after they had taken a few turns at Hartley’s direction. He remembered that map, all straight lines and precise penmanship, tidy and orderly to a fault while still being decorative. Much like Hartley.
“Until I put it on paper, I wasn’t sure I did remember it properly. There was always a chance my memories weren’t reliable.”
Sam looked over and saw the familiar set of Hartley’s jaw. “I think your memories are pretty reliable, Hartley.”
Hartley’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “I’m afraid so.”
When the house came into view, Hartley went still.
“We don’t have to do this,” Sam said.
“You spend a lot of time reminding me that we don’t have to do things.” They were beneath an oak tree that had lost half its leaves, casting Hartley in a dappled light, shadow and sun playing across his face.
“I think you need the reminder,” Sam countered.
Hartley glanced away. “He didn’t make me do anything I didn’t agree to, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Sam made a scoffing sound. “Do you think you owe him a fair hearing or something?”
“No, I just—”
“How does a kid agree to anything like that, Hart? Especially when the man was making you promises.”
Hartley crossed his arms and scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt and leaves before him. “I don’t know what you’re imagining, but I chose to sell my body—”
“Stop,” Sam growled. “I hate that expression. If you fucked for money, that isn’t selling your body any more than a bricklayer sells his body by building a wall for money.”
“I fucked for money, then.” His chin was up, as if daring Sam to take issue with that bald statement.
“So? I let men blacken my eyes for money.” Sam leaned against the broad trunk of the tree. “My father used to tell Nick and me the story of what he did when he was in the colonies.”
Hartley shot him a startled glance. “I hadn’t realized.”
“He was a blacksmith’s assistant in Virginia. Decent work, he’d always say. Safe work. Sometimes he’d get an extra chicken to put in the pot if he had done someone a favor. Usually people were civil to him. But after the war started, he ran off to join the British army. He knew that if he even survived the war and made it to England, the only work he’d get would be dangerous. He was lucky to get work at all. He worked on the wharves, sometimes fighting for wagers until Kate’s father took him on to train. But he said every punch he took, every drop of blood he shed, every time he broke a bone—all of that was his choice, because he was free.”
Hartley remained silent for a long moment. “I think if your father knew you were comparing his tribulations as an enslaved person to my bedding a man for the promise of advantage to my brothers, he’d be a bit put out.”
“It’s not the same, and I’m not saying it is,” Sam said, exasperated. “But my point is that sometimes what seems like a choice really isn’t.”
“Maybe so. But what good does that do me now?”
“I think that because you blame yourself for what happened, you think you deserve to feel the way you do about being touched.” Hartley drew in a sharp breath, and Sam knew he was on dangerous ground. “And that you deserve the shunning you’ve been getting. You don’t deserve either of those things, Hart.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not. I’m not trying to tell you how to feel. Whatever you feel, I like you just the same. You know that, don’t you?”
Hartley looked away, but not before Sam saw his eyes grow bright. “Oh, damn you. I don’t like you at all, just so you know. I think you’re terrible.” But he stuck his hand out, reaching blindly for Sam’s. Sam grabbed it and squeezed, his larger hand almost completely enveloping Hartley’s.
In the end, they hardly had to break in at all. The French doors leading to the garden were latched, but creaked open when Sam gave them a shove with his shoulder.
The drawing room smelled of dust and damp and all the fine furniture was gone, but it was unmistakable. Hartley clenched his fists and realized he was gripping Sam’s coat sleeve like a frightened child. Absurd. It was only a house, a collection of bricks and wood and plaster. He had come here only a few times with Sir Humphrey, when the baronet had hosted house parties of the disreputable sort.
