Page 41 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“Should we leave the door open, then?” Hartley kept his eyes wide and his expression innocent. Philpott called for his clerk to shut the door, and Hartley knew he had the whip hand in this conversation.
“What’s this about, Sedgwick? Whatever filthy business you’ve gotten up to is no concern of mine.”
“Oh, dear me, no. It’s not my filthy business at all. Only, it’s occurred to me that you must know where the paintings are.”
“I don’t know what you could possibly mean.” But his eyes darted to a small lacquered cabinet by the door. Hartley pretended not to notice.
Hartley made a disapproving sound. “Come, now. Of course you do. I’d really have expected a better caliber of lies from the man who served as Sir Humphrey’s solicitor. Either you have the paintings or Martin does. If Martin is on the Continent, then I find it hard to believe he’s traveling with a trunk filled with paintings. I’m certain he didn’t leave them at the Priory because it’s been let to tenants.” The tenants were Ben and his captain, and there was no possibility that the captain’s hellion children hadn’t run amok over every nook and cranny in the house. “And I also know they aren’t at Friars’ Gate because that place has been stripped to the floorboards. That leaves you.”
“Why would Sir Martin leave these paintings in my care?”
“Because they’re his principal asset.” It had taken days for Hartley to realize it, but the paintings were worth a tidy sum. They were the best kind of blackmail fodder: respectable people painted in the nude. “If you don’t have them—” he let his voice indicate how dubious a likelihood that was “—then we ought to ask Martin what became of them.”
“Sir Martin is traveling,” Philpott sniffed.
“Surely you have some mode of communicating with him. Where are you directing correspondence? A poste restante?”
A flicker of unease passed across the lawyer’s face. “Sir Martin left no address.” Philpott’s face was scarlet. The redder the solicitor’s face, the more certain Hartley became that the man knew exactly what had happened to those paintings. “This is highly inappropriate.”
“It was highly inappropriate for your late client to use me as he did,” Hartley said evenly. “And it was highly inappropriate for you to condone his behavior during his lifetime.”
“I never did any such thing,” the older man sputtered.
“Please, Mr. Philpott. You knew perfectly well what kind of man my godfather was, and you still took his money. You had visited his library and you had seen his paintings.”
“Sir Humphrey didn’t leave half his estate to those whores.”
“Yes, well, he did leave half his estate tothiswhore, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. It’s mine.” Philpott’s face was now purple with either anger or embarrassment; Hartley did not much care which. It had felt good to condemn Easterbrook; speaking the words aloud to someone who had known the man felt almost like retribution. “I’m giving you one more chance to tell me where the paintings are.”
“And then what?” the solicitor scoffed. Philpott’s implication that Hartley was, once again, helpless in the hands of a man with more power and influence made him want blood.
“Do you really want to find out? I have no reputation left to lose and I have a certain amount of money burning a hole in my pocket. I could bring an action against you for slander. Or, I could get Easterbrook’s will sent to Chancery. That ought to keep us both busy for the next few decades.” He was delighted to see Philpott’s face drain of color. He had come here to inspect the lawyer’s office for any likely hiding places, but wielding a little bit of power had been unexpectedly satisfying.
He stood up and put his hat on his head. “Good day, Mr. Philpott.” By the time he reached the street, he was more sanguine than he had been in weeks.
The door to Hartley’s house was opened by a tall girl in an enormous, starchy cap. Sam clutched the paper parcel under his arm. It was Sunday evening, and Sam had expected Hartley to be alone.
“How can I help you, sir?” the girl asked, as if Sam were the lord mayor coming to pay a visit.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Hartley Sedgwick,” Sam said, startled to realize that this capped and aproned servant was the same disordered girl he had seen in Hartley’s kitchen that night he had arrived with Daisy.
“I’ll see that he gets it,” she answered, holding out a floury hand.
“Ah, no, this has to go into his own hands.”
“You should have come to the front door, then, sir,” she said with the air of someone who knew exactly which doors people ought to be using and wasn’t afraid to say so. “But perhaps Mr. Sedgwick does things differently,” she conceded. “You sit by the fire and warm your feet while I let him know he has a caller. What did you say your name was?”
“Sam,” he said. When she continued to watch him, plainly waiting for the rest, he said, “Sam Fox.”
“Well, there’s hot cider in the pot if you care for some, Mr. Fox,” she said before disappearing up the stairs. As she turned he saw that she wasn’t merely plump, but increasing. Nearly done increasing, by the looks of her.
Sam ladled out some cider for himself, then sat in the chair he had occupied that afternoon he had watched Hartley play with the dog. Every time Sam had been in this room, it had been quiet and empty, with only the smell of old cooking. Now it was hot and bright, with three pots bubbling on the fire and the aroma of baking bread permeating the air. The cider was sweet and spicy and filled him with warmth.
There were footsteps on the stairs. “He says will you please join him in the library and, if you please, stay for dinner. It’s roast squab and carrots, nothing grand.” The girl said this not with the air of a cook apologizing for a humble supper, but with the intimation that Sam might run if he thought he was being invited for a three-course meal. And she was right.
“I reckon I’ll stay. Thank you, ma’am...” She had called him Mr. Fox, and he didn’t know what to call her.
She opened her eyes wide and stared at him. “I don’t. I mean.” She was stammering as if she had been asked to do a tricky sum rather than her surname. “Sadie Russell. Miss.”
