Page 11 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Swearing under his breath, he crossed the street. “Mr. Sedgwick,” he called. Sedgwick froze with his back to Sam. Sam didn’t take another step, not wanting to startle him. “It’s Sam Fox.” He could almost hear the other man’s sigh of relief as his shoulders dropped and he turned to look at Sam. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing in a neighborhood like this?” Sam demanded.
“I’d like to know what business it is of yours.” Sedgwick’s voice was utterly frigid, which Sam supposed was no more than he deserved. They had parted awkwardly last week, and Sam winced whenever he thought of it.
“If you want to get yourself killed, that’s your concern, but you could maybe do it in another part of town. My pub is nearby, and it won’t do business any good if word gets about that people are getting murdered on my doorstep.” In truth, the Bell wasn’t so close, and Sam doubted whether any of the regulars would be bothered if half a dozen toffs were killed directly on the premises as nightly entertainment. But Sedgwick didn’t need to know that.
“I’m not going to get myself killed.” The moonlight shifted, throwing a play of light and shadow over Sedgwick’s face. He looked tired. Bored. As if the prospect of getting killed wasn’t so very upsetting.
A cold fear gripped Sam’s gut. It wasn’t a good sign when a person acted like staying alive was a chore. “I’m walking you home,” he said.
“That’s entirely unnecessary. I often walk this way.”
“And do you often do it with a gold chain hanging out of your pocket in plain view of God and everyone?”
He heard the man sigh. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Sedgwick resumed walking, leaving Sam to trail in his wake. But Sam was much taller and he soon had to adjust his stride so as not to outpace the smaller man.
“What were you doing in that neighborhood, anyway?” Sam asked, after they had walked in awkward silence a few minutes.
Sedgwick was silent for long enough that Sam thought he was going to get ignored the rest of the way to Mayfair. But then Hartley held up a parcel he had been carrying under his arm. “Getting my supper,” he said.
“What is it?” Sam asked with professional curiosity.
“Pork pie,” Sedgwick said, and Sam would have bet that he was rolling his eyes. “Why, did you want a bite?”
“Not really.” Now that Sedgwick was holding the parcel up, Sam could catch the aroma of slightly burnt pastry and a muddle of different kinds of meat. No kind of herb had even been waved over the dish. “Where’d you get it?”
“The pie man at Moorfields.”
“You walked all the way to Moorfields for a slice of dodgy pie?” Sam’s sensibilities were outraged.
Sedgwick sniffed. “If you must know, I happened to be in the neighborhood, calling on my brother, and I bought the pie because all my servants but one have quit and I don’t fancy starving.”
It was frustrating when someone told you only half a story. It happened at the Bell when people wanted to make themselves sound more interesting, or when they wanted Sam to ask questions that would give them an excuse to talk about themselves. He didn’t much care for that tactic. But he didn’t think that was what Sedgwick was doing by casually mentioning that his servants had quit. It was more as if he assumed Sam knew more than he did, and was airing a source of potential awkwardness to get it out of the way.
“Not starving is good,” Sam said, which for some reason made Sedgwick laugh, a surprisingly low and throaty sound that was at odds with his usual mannered accents. Sam smiled down at him helplessly. When they squeezed closer together to pass beneath an archway that spanned between two buildings, Sedgwick didn’t pull away, and Sam found himself looking forward to the times their sleeves would brush against one another’s.
They wound their way through side streets and narrow alleys, and Sam couldn’t have said whether it was his doing or Sedgwick’s, but it gave him an odd feeling to think that they both knew the streets well enough to choose the route that cut across London in the path most nearly approaching a straight line. Maybe that was why Sam kept walking even after they had crossed into a perfectly safe part of town, the streets wide and clean and lit with gas lamps. Sedgwick didn’t complain, didn’t tell Sam to turn around and go home. When they got to the Davies Street crossing where Sedgwick ought to turn off to go to his front door on Brook Street, they paused, as if by common consent.
The street light reflected off a strand of Sedgwick’s hair that fell onto his forehead beneath the brim of his hat. He must have noticed Sam’s gaze, because he hastily smoothed his hair before slapping the hat back onto his head. It was such a self-conscious gesture, so unrefined and inelegant that Sam was almost touched. The man was young, somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. And while Sam, at twenty-eight, wasn’t much older, he was certain he had done a lot more living than this fair-haired gentleman who didn’t seem to know the value of his own life.
“I’m sorry about what I said last week,” Sam said, wanting to do at least this one small thing right by the fellow.
Sedgwick’s eyes widened, then he looked down at his boots. “It’s quite all right.”
“No, it isn’t. I only meant that I didn’t want you toletme do things to you. I hadn’t meant to make you feel like what you were offering wasn’t good enough.”
“It isn’t good enough, though, and it’s fine for you to say as much.” He performed another nervous adjustment of his hat brim. “This isn’t a dinner party where you’re obliged to sample every dish that’s set before you.”
Sam laughed from deep in his belly, the sound surprising himself and causing a gentleman in a many-caped great coat to look at him twice.
“Come this way,” Sedgwick said, indicating the mews behind his house.
Sam didn’t speak until they were in the safety of darkness. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been kicking myself all week for not having taken you up on your offer.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. Sedgwick leaned in to hear, and Sam wondered if the man even knew he was doing it. “More than that. I think I would have liked whatever you had in mind.”
Chapter Six
Hartley’s mouth went dry. “I see,” he said slowly, frozen still. He could feel his watch ticking in his pocket, counting down the time he had left before Fox walked away. Much to his surprise, he found that he didn’t want Fox to walk away. He had gotten so used to avoiding people that it took him a moment to realize that he was actually pleased to see Fox. It had been presumptuous and preposterous for Fox to insist on walking him home, but Hartley’s first reaction upon seeing him had been unalloyed relief. Not only relief that it wasn’t some former acquaintance come to make trouble for him, but relief that he was seeing Fox again. After that debacle last week—which Hartley was quite certain was his own fault more than Fox’s—Hartley had wondered if Fox would ever turn up again. Perhaps he had come to his senses and decided that neither the painting nor Hartley were worth the risk.
“It’s Sunday again,” Hartley said, about twice as loud and twice as fast as any normal person would have. But Fox only nodded as if this were a perfectly reasonable observation. “What I mean is that the house is empty.” Alf was out on the lash, so they’d have the house to themselves for an hour at least. “You could come in and share some dodgy pie with me,” he suggested, holding up his parcel, and then winced at his own attempt at comedy.
