Page 4 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
The mews was quiet at this hour, and Hartley was able to make his way to his house without being seen. But as he approached the door, he saw a figure standing in the shadows. Hartley went still and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was a man, broad and tall, even though he looked like he was making an effort to disappear into the gloom. Beneath the brim of his hat, his skin was dark brown, nearly as dark as the wool of his coat. Hartley recognized him as the same man he had seen across the street the previous week. Evidently, he had been watching Hartley’s house then, as he was now.
Hartley could not think of any good reasons why a man would be lurking outside his kitchen door. But he couldn’t think of any bad reasons either. Surely a housebreaker wouldn’t simply stand there. In all likelihood he was walking out with Hartley’s parlor maid and was waiting for a chance to steal a moment with her. Hartley wished them well. Godspeed, young lovers.
Surely, though, if he was walking out with the maid, he’d already know that this was her day out. Perhaps he was a spurned lover, and if so, Hartley did not want him making trouble for any of his maids. He stepped out of the shadows toward the stranger.
“Come into the light so I can see you,” he said, his voice rusty from disuse. That was the worst part of being an outcast—London teemed with people but there was nobody to talk to. The stranger startled, and Hartley congratulated himself on his superior skulking abilities. “I’m unarmed,” he added, holding up his empty hands. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to suggest that if you’re walking out with Janet, you ought to know that her favorite sweets are peppermint creams. And also that if you hurt her I’ll have you murdered.”
“I never heard of Janet,” the man said.
“It had better not be Polly,” said Hartley, bristling. “She’s hardly grown.”
“I have no idea—”
“Cook, then?” He would have thought Cook a good deal too old for that sort of thing, but one never knew. “Good for her,” he said. “I reckon she’ll murder you herself if you put a foot wrong.”
“Are you drunk? Do you need help getting home?” There was a touch of—could it be concern?—in the stranger’s voice.
Hartley stepped even closer. “If you’re not here for one of the maids, does that mean you’re here for me? How flattering,” he drawled. “One usually has to go to such trouble to arrange this sort of thing, and here you are, delivered to my doorstep.” That ought to scare the fellow off right enough.
But instead of turning on his heel and running away, the stranger sighed. “All right mate, let’s get you home where you can sober up someplace safe. Can’t have you making advances to people in dark corners. You’ll get yourself killed.”
“I—I beg your pardon,” Hartley stammered.
The stranger paid him no heed. “This where you live? Let’s go.”
A strong arm came around Hartley’s shoulders, steering him toward the kitchen door. His customary fear stole his words and made him powerless to protest, but it was accompanied by a bittersweet awareness that in another lifetime, he might have wanted this strong arm around him, bringing him to a safe place.
Hartley let himself be shepherded inside.
For several evenings now, Sam had watched servants come and go from the grand house, but they kept to themselves. None seemed to be the type who would spare a few kind words to a stranger, let alone negotiate a bit of friendly espionage. Now that he was inside the house, he’d see what he could find out, but first he was going to get this poor sod someplace safe. It was no more than he’d do for a slightly deluded patron of the Bell. Really, you couldn’t go around making approaches to people like that. It was tricky, finding your way as a man who preferred men, unless you had somebody to help you out. There were places where men could meet one another, but maybe this fellow was too young or inexperienced to know about them. Sam might mention it before leaving, maybe:go to the King’s Arms at the docks, try not to get yourself killed.Just a helpful word to the wise. With any luck, the lad would tell him about the paintings out of gratitude.
The kitchen was dark, and Sam had to fumble around a bit before finding a lamp. Now he could see the lad. Pale hair, neatly combed close to his head; dark clothes that, to Sam’s eye, looked very fine, and probably meant he was a valet rather than a footman; almost delicate features arranged in an expression that gave nothing away. Not drunk, then.
“What time does his lordship get home?” Sam asked.
The lad blinked, pale eyes flashing in confusion. “Pardon?”
“Your gentleman.” Sam wanted to know how long he had to get out of there.
“My gentleman,” the lad repeated.
Sam wasn’t going to saymaster. “The person who pays your wages.”
The lad looked at Sam long enough and with such perplexity that Sam started to wonder if he might be a bit tipsy after all. “In about an hour,” he said finally.
“If I leave you here, can I be sure you aren’t going to wander back outside and start propositioning strangers? Look here. What you want is a tavern called the Cross Keys near Limeburner Street.” No way was he sending this wisp of a lad to look for trouble at the docks. He assumed the Cross Keys was still a going concern; the place was pretty much an institution among men of his sort. Sam hadn’t set foot in any of those places in years, though. It wasn’t worth the risk. Avoiding establishments like the Cross Keys was another rule that he always followed.
“Ah. Thank you for the advice.” The lad’s voice was faint. It was also a bit too polished. Too fine, just like that coat of his. But Sam didn’t really know what valets looked or sounded like. Maybe they all wore waistcoats with approximately eleven golden buttons. Maybe they all had watch fobs laden with sparkling rainbows of jewels.
“Ah, shit,” Sam muttered, running a hand over his jaw. He had just accused a lord, or a lord’s son, if there was even any bloody difference, of attempting to proposition him. “You’re Easterbrook, then? I thought he was an old man.” He tried to remember what else Kate had told him. “Unless you’re the son. I won’t tell anyone what happened.” He stepped toward the door. “I ought to be—”
“I’m definitely not any Easterbrook whatsoever.” His voice was crisp and clear now. No trace of confusion. “And if you thought the Easterbrooks were in residence then your information is so sadly out of date that you plainly have nothing to do with any of the servants in this house. This leaves me to wonder what business you could possibly have standing in the mews.”
Sam froze. Outside, the lad—although he was plainly not a lad, but a gentleman, sod him—had sounded amused, as if he were getting a thrill out of chatting with strangers and threatening to murder them if they mistreated a housemaid. Now, he sounded dead serious. The lamplight fell on the man, revealing a face that was some years older than Sam had guessed from his slight form.
“We’re going to the library and having a drink,” the man said. “And if my servants come home while we’re talking, we’ll say you’ve come to collect for some worthy charity.”
Hisservants. Any hope Sam had that this wasn’t the master of the house evaporated. Oh God. Sam had known all along this was a terrible idea. He cleared his throat. “I’d best be leaving.”
