Page 46 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Hartley nearly told him, but he didn’t want to risk the boy deciding to come along. Sadie was nearing the point where Hartley didn’t like to leave her alone, even though Kate had assured him that babies didn’t arrive on the scene without ample warning. He unwound the neckcloth and rolled it neatly before putting it back in the drawer. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “I need to run an errand to retrieve something that’s mine.”
“Sounds like breaking and entering.”
Hartley waved a dismissive hand. He had given Philpott a week and still had not heard a word from the solicitor. Hartley decided he had been more than generous, and would now search the solicitor’s chambers. He hadn’t quite worked through the details of how this might work, but he was willing to learn as he went.
“Do you have a pistol?” Alf asked. “A knife?” Hartley shook his head. “A stocking filled with rocks? Anything?”
“I’m breaking into an empty building, not holding up carriages on the Ratcliffe Highway,” Hartley said quellingly. “I don’t need to be armed.”
“Right, because people take kindly to their homes being broken into. They’ll step aside and let you have your way. Robbing people is famously easy.”
“I said empty. And it’s not a home. Rather a place of business. And I’m not robbing it, so much as restoring objects to my possession.” He needed his painting in the same way he had needed to give Sadie that silver cup. It was a matter of justice. Not revenge, not petty spite. It was his, and he meant to have it. When he thought of that painting, even the fact of its existence, he thought of himself as a vulnerable idiot of a boy. “Look, I mean to do this, so leave off.”
Alf was silent for a moment. “I think this may not be an area of your expertise, mate.”
“Be that as it may, it’s none of your concern.”
“Leave me some money so I can bring you supper at Newgate.”
“Piss off.”
Alf did piss off, leaving Hartley to fuss over his cuffs and find a hat that covered his hair as thoroughly as possible. Having yellow hair was a powerful detriment to a life of crime, he was realizing.
He pulled his hat low on his forehead and went out into the mews behind his house.
Sam cleared his throat and knew a small satisfaction when Hartley startled and then spun to face him. He had been waiting in the shadows since Alf fetched him, hoping the boy had been wrong about Hartley’s intentions.
It had been a long day of dealing with shiftless chimney sweeps, that sodding bastard of a constable, an entire delivery of porter that had gone sour, and a surprise visit from the landlord, who had cheerfully mentioned that with all the work Sam had done, he could probably let the premises to a new tenant for a tidy sum. By the time Sam closed the Bell for the night, he felt the weight of every burden he had taken on. But when he heard pounding on the door, he opened it anyway. There he found Alf sweating and out of breath, saying that Hartley was about to do something foolish. Sam hadn’t even paused to deliberate; he simply turned the key in the lock and followed Alf to Mayfair.
“What are you doing here?” Hartley asked.
“Alf told me you were up to no good.”
“And you came to stop me?”
Any hope Sam had that Alf might have been wrong vanished with Hartley’s words. “Depends on what you’re planning to do.”
“I’m going to Easterbrook’s solicitor’s office to search for those paintings.” His chin was tilted up, as if he really thought his plan was above reproach.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were in this together.”
“No, I told you I’d send word if I found Kate’s painting, not that I’d bring you along on every felony I commit.” He pulled the cap off his head and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m not putting you in harm’s way again, and that’s final.”
The brisk certainty in his voice touched Sam—he suspected Hartley cared about him, but he hadn’t ever said so. Hearing the man say he didn’t want to expose Sam to danger was the closest they had gotten to overt declarations. It struck Sam that this wasn’t enough, and that he was selling himself short to settle for something so paltry. “But you’ll put yourself in harm’s way, will you? With no regard at all for the feelings of people who don’t want to see you arrested or clubbed on the head as a trespasser?” he demanded. “Why?”
“Why?” Hartley repeated, incredulous. “Is that really something you need to ask? I thought you understood. You were the one who came to me looking for Kate’s portrait in the first place.”
The faint moonlight slanted across Hartley’s face. He looked young and vulnerable. Sam could have gone to him, gathered him close, and confessed that he understood futile anger as well as anyone on earth. But that wouldn’t do either of them any good, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed where he was. “You could get those paintings. Hell, you could burn the solicitor’s building to the ground, and it still wouldn’t undo what happened to you. The old man is dead, and you can’t—”
“I know that,” Hartley spat. “I’m not stupid. I know I can’t have a proper revenge, I know I can’t undo what was done, but this is all I can have, so it’s what I’m going after.”
Sam felt a desperate helplessness pooling in his gut. He didn’t know if he had the words to explain himself to Hartley, and doubted that it would do any good anyway, but he had to try. “I care about your safety. I care about you. Doesn’t that count for anything? I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I’m imagining you shot dead or in a prison cell.”
“People face dangerous situations every day,” Hartley had the nerve to say.
“Some people have no choice, Hartley.” He thought of how he had encouraged Davey to take part in a game he knew could be his death. He couldn’t let someone else walk right into danger. “But you’re choosing this. Life is hard enough, and here you are borrowing trouble.”
Hartley fell silent. “The fact that you don’t see my reason is... disappointing.” His voice was small, his arms crossed over his chest.
