Page 26 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Hartley shook his head, ready to object that he hadn’t been a child, but when he thought of how stupidly trusting and naive he had been, he knew he hadn’t been an adult either. “I know that he took advantage of me,” he snapped. “That doesn’t make me feel better. I already feel like a fool. But the fact is that I’d do it again if it was what I needed to help—” He stopped short. He didn’t want to talk about his brothers. He didn’t want to sound like he was blaming his brothers or even his father for the predicament he was in. “I was compensated very well and I can’t complain,” he said instead, and watched Sam almost flinch at the sharpness in his voice. He took a long drink of ale and continued more calmly. “I came here today to let you know that I’m planning on going to Friars’ Gate next week.” He had delayed this trip long enough, and now he realized it was because he didn’t want his association with Sam to end. But it had to end.
Sam frowned and swirled the ale in his mug. “I still don’t like the idea of your breaking into houses. But if you insist, then I’m going with you. I’m afraid that otherwise you’ll get yourself arrested or killed and nobody will—” He stopped abruptly.
“You’re afraid nobody would know I was in trouble. Quite right. I don’t get about much these days.” He glanced wistfully around the Bell, at the groups of people who seemed to know one another, to belong to one another. “No. We’ve already been through this. It’s too risky for you.”
“Not your call, mate. I can worry about whoever I please and take whatever steps I like to keep them safe.” Sam’s voice was a near growl, far from his usual mellow tones. “I am not standing by while you get hurt.”
Bewildered by the raw feeling behind Sam’s words, Hartley decided on a different tack. “Traveling with me won’t do your name any favors.”
“I’ll meet you there, then,” Sam said.
Hartley threw his hands up. It would be easier to go along with Sam than to spend another moment in the presence of this fierce protectiveness. “Very well, then. Shall we say Thursday next at the Red Boar in East Grinstead?”
Neither of them mentioned this coming Sunday, which was for the best, Hartley told himself. Those Sundays had been rash for both of them, and it was best to stop before he got in over his head.
Chapter Eleven
“It’s a bad idea. No, it’s several bad ideas wrapped together into a terrible idea.” Nick leaned in the doorway to Sam’s room, his arms folded across his chest as he watched Sam stuff clean linen and a razor into a satchel.
Sam couldn’t argue there. It was a bad idea for reasons Nick didn’t even know. As the reason for his absence, Sam explained that he was visiting a brewery in Sussex to sample their light ale and decide whether he wanted it for the Bell. He had no talent for fabrication, and this excuse was just this side of preposterous. Kate had responded with narrowed eyes, but if she suspected he was up to anything, she didn’t say so. Since they had first talked about the painting a month ago, neither of them had brought up the topic, so he doubted whether she’d think his trip had any connection with her portrait.
“The brewery that supplies us now is perfectly good,” Nick said for perhaps the tenth time. “There’s no need to go jackassing around England. It’s not safe. The farther you get from London, the less likely you are to see anyone darker than a pail of old milk.”
“I know that, Nick. I fought all over the country, and I know what it’s like.” Leaving London meant people staring at Sam as if he were on exhibition, and that was the least of it. “Anyway, it’s not that far. Three hours by the stage, I think.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest and for a moment he looked so much like their father that Sam had to look away. “Do you even have someplace to stay?”
“I’ll stay at the inn.”
“And they’ll give you a room? I doubt it.”
“They’ll give me somewhere to sleep.”
“Out by the bogs, maybe.”
Wincing, Sam hoisted his satchel onto his shoulder. The day before, he had pulled something when lifting a cask of porter. He had injured that shoulder in the ring and from time to time it acted up as a reminder of bad times.
“Christ,” Nick muttered. “You’re more stubborn than Kate. At least take the liniment.” Nick rummaged around in Sam’s chest of drawers until he produced the jar of comfrey salve that he got from the apothecary the last time he strained that muscle.
Six hours later as the stagecoach pulled into the Red Boar in East Grinstead, Sam was biting his lip to keep from swearing with pain. The last stretch of road had been a misery, pitted with holes and strewn with stones. On the top of the coach, Sam had felt every bump, and by the time he climbed off, he was afraid he had injured himself in some new and interesting way.
The innkeeper did the usual bit of staring but took Sam’s money and promised him a bed in a shared room. Sam ordered a pint and scanned the taproom. When he found Hartley sitting at the bar, reading a newspaper in such a way as to occupy two seats, Sam knew a surge of relief at the sight of a familiar face. A voice within him whispered that what he felt was more than relief, and Hartley’s face was more than familiar, but he was paying no attention to that voice. He was here to keep Hartley safe, and that was all.
Hartley looked up when Sam approached. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, moving the paper aside and twisting on his stool to make room. “Do sit.” His voice was sniffy and formal, and Sam guessed that they were going to pretend to be strangers.
“Thank you, kindly,” Sam said with equal courtesy. He didn’t know where to go from there. He wasn’t used to being on this side of the bar, he wasn’t interested in playacting, and he wasn’t in the habit of striking up conversations with strangers anyway. But he had an inkling that all he had to do was wait, and Hartley would carry on with whatever scheme he was cooking up. Sam was almost eager to see what happened next.
What happened was that Hartley turned the page of his newspaper, took a sip of his beer, and proceeded to ignore Sam for the next quarter of an hour. Then, moving to turn the page, he knocked over Sam’s still-full pint. It landed in Sam’s lap, dripping down his legs, into his boots. Sam sprang to his feet, trying to mitigate the damage.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. A thousand pardons. I’m so terribly clumsy. Innkeeper, please get this man a towel. Oh, the state of your clothing, whatever shall we do?” Bemused, Sam watched him go on in that manner until the innkeeper’s wife appeared and Hartley had begged her to launder the unfortunate man’s clothes. Coins changed hands, then the innkeeper arrived and more coins were produced, until Sam and his satchel were being escorted up the stairs to a room.
“I don’t know what the devil you’re about,” Sam said when the door had shut on them.
“Yes, well, now we have an excuse to be together in private, and we’ve effected an introduction. This enterprise requires privacy and discretion.” His pale eyes were bright and Sam realized he had been enjoying this farce.
“How long were you waiting for me?”
“Hours. Your coach was appallingly late.” He glared at Sam as if it had been Sam’s doing. “You have no idea how rude people think Mr. Sullivan from Tunbridge Wells. I sat at the bar for three hours, drinking a single pint, and taking up two seats.”
