Page 44 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Sam was hardly capable of speech, let alone humor. The soft brush of Hartley’s lips against the stubble of his cheek was somehow more intimate, more precious, than anything they had shared before.
Chapter Eighteen
It had been months since there was a proper fight at the Bell, but Sam supposed all good things came to an end. Right when he thought the place was on the edge of becoming decently respectable, Alf had gotten into it with some drunk. Sam had stepped between the two bloody oafs to break them up, but not before a chair was broken and a good deal of ale spilt. Some idiot threw open the door and shouted into the street that a rare good fight was on at the Bell, and the constable appeared moments later. Sam spent the next hour repeatedly explaining that it had been a regular taproom brawl, not a prizefight. Merton had demanded to see the Bell’s license and insisted on inspecting the tankards to make sure they were the regulation volume. Sam’s heart raced and his palms grew damp despite knowing that everything was in order.
“The second time in a month,” the constable said, a smirk of satisfaction on his meaty red face. Ever since that dustup with Johnny Newton, Constable Merton had been prowling about the Bell every day, waiting for someone to put a foot out of line. This put a damper on the mood of easy comfort Sam had tried to cultivate at the Bell. “But I know there’s prizefighting and gambling on the premises, and I mean to shut you down.”
The man was a fool as well as a bastard. To anyone who knew the first thing about prizefighting, it would have been immediately clear that there was no boxing at the Bell. There were no bookmakers prowling about the edges of the crowd. The air smelled of meat pie, hops, and smoke from the bad chimney, not the blood and sweat of men fighting for their lives. And, frankly, if Sam had taken to organizing fights, he was pretty sure he’d have a bigger crowd than what he could fit inside the Bell.
“I saw one of your customers—” the constable put a nasty inflection on that last word that made Sam suspect he was referring to one of the black patrons “—collecting penny bets.”
Sam suppressed a groan. That was Mrs. McCaffrey, not a bookmaker. She also collected bets on things like whether Nick would make pork pie or kidney pie. It was all innocent. And they weren’t penny bets so much as farthing bets. “I don’t allow bookmakers at the Bell,” he said.
Most of the customers weren’t bothered by either the fight or the constable’s questions. Two men had picked up their mugs and moved to a table far away from the brawlers. While Sam dealt with the constable, Nick poured fresh pints for the people whose drinks had gone flying during the mayhem. All told, it hadn’t been as bad as it could have been, but it reminded him of how little he liked having anything to do with the police.
The constable left with vague threats of returning the next day. Sam suspected nothing would happen; the man had only wanted to throw his weight around and frighten Sam. And he’d succeeded—Sam knew he’d worry about it for days. He closed the door behind the last of the patrons, reached for his broom, and started sweeping up the splinters of wood from the broken chair. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
It was Alf. He had wiped the blood off his face, but he’d wake up tomorrow with a proper black eye. “You. Go home,” Sam said sternly. “You’ve done enough for one night.”
“I came to apologize.” Alf scuffed his toe along the stone floor.
Sam grunted an acknowledgment and handed the broom to Alf so he could sweep up. While the lad swept, Sam grabbed two clean tankards, poured a couple of pints, and handed one to Alf.
“You get into a lot of fights?” Sam asked.
“Long story,” the lad said, averting his eyes from Sam.
“How long?”
“The bastard was talking about Sadie.”
“Ah.” Sam figured as much.
“Don’t suppose you have any pie left?”
Sam laughed despite himself. Trust a boy that age to never have thoughts of food far from his mind. “No, we ran out hours ago.”
“Rats. Sadie and his nibs like the pork pie your brother does. And I thought to bring them some to distract them from the, ah...” He gestured to the bruise on his face.
Sam pressed the cool pewter against his aching head. “My brother’s been manning the kitchen on his own since my mum died. He can’t keep up.”
Alf nodded, as if considering the problem. “So you’re looking to hire help.”
Sam snorted. “That’s well down the list of things I need to get done around here.”
Alf took a long drink of his ale and studied Sam over the rim of the cup. “I’d do it, you know. Help out around here, I mean.”
Sam shot the lad a sharp glance. “I thought you were happy in your position.” Working in a pub would be a step down in the world for a gentleman’s manservant: longer hours and harder work for what he guessed was about half the pay.
“I don’t want to be a bloody valet.”
“But you do want to be a barman?” Sam asked skeptically.
“It would suit me better than ironing cravats and polishing boots. And I bet he’d agree.”
“He? You mean Mr. Sedgwick?” It felt strange to refer to Hartley in this way. It made Sam feel as if he ought to have been doing so all along, and all the whispered “Hartleys” had been somehow fraudulent. The man had servants, a fine house, a pile of money. Sam was the owner of a barely respectable pub.
“There’s no way he’ll keep on a servant who gets into scrapes. You should have seen the way he looked at me the last time I came home with a black eye. He and Sadie both. You’d have thought I was something that crawled out of the bogs.”
