Page 7 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
For God’s sake, he paid Philpott, not the other way around. If it were so important that Hartley’s shocking presence be kept away from the sensitive eyes of his other clients, Philpott ought to have suggested a time to meet when Hartley could have been discreetly brought up through the back stairs. Hartley considered barging into Philpott’s office; there would be something satisfyingly theatrical about that, but it was so ill bred. For a moment Hartley wondered what it would be like to throw out his notions of manners; they weren’t doing him any good at the moment, etiquette being rather beside the point when one is all but marooned on an island. But his standards, like his house, were his. He had earned them, and they couldn’t be taken away. He was a gentleman, and so he’d quietly wait.
After another half hour the clerk ushered him into the solicitor’s office with obvious reluctance.
“How can I help you, Mr. Sedgwick?” Philpott’s expression was pained. He was about forty, with thinning gray hair, a somber coat, and a belly that suggested a lifetime of good living. He looked exactly as a solicitor ought to look, which his clients no doubt found reassuring. His firm had been the Easterbrooks’ solicitors for generations and had executed Sir Humphrey Easterbrook’s will. Hartley had always been dimly aware that Philpott wasn’t overly fond of him, but now the man regarded him as if expecting him to do something felonious or lewd at any moment. He didn’t offer Hartley a seat.
“I’m inquiring about the status of the Easterbrook art collection.” Hartley suppressed a cringe at the formality of his speech, knowing it was a primitive defense.
“Art collection?” Philpott’s brows furrowed. “I heard you sold the landscapes that used to be in the grand salon.” He said this with probably the same tone he’d use to accuse a man of whipping a dog.
“I refer to the paintings that hung in the library. I saw them when I was last a guest in the house, but that was some years before Sir Humphrey’s death.”
Realization dawned slowly, the solicitor’s face reddening and his expression turning nauseated.“Those,”he nearly spat. “Sir Humphrey’s will granted you ownership of the house on Brook Street and everything in it at the time of his death.”
“Quite.” Hartley was intimately familiar with the terms of his godfather’s will. “The library walls were most certainly bare when I took possession. I assure you that paintings of naked women are not to my taste.” Hartley knew he shouldn’t be trying to antagonize the man, but it was most satisfying to watch him turn scarlet. “I suppose what I’m asking is whether he disposed of the paintings in a separate bequest.” They certainly hadn’t been mentioned in the body of the will; Hartley could not have failed to notice that. “Or perhaps he sold them prior to his death?” In the event that he had transferred the collection to another of his properties, possibly one that was entailed to his son, Hartley wanted to know about it.
“Mr. Sedgwick,” the solicitor said, as if Hartley were a lax student and he a frustrated schoolmaster. “I was appointed to execute Sir Humphrey’s will and administer the Easterbrook estate during his only son’s minority. I cannot approve of how he disposed of his property. It goes against prudence and responsibility and... and... decency.” He slapped his hand on his desk, causing a cloud of sand to rise off his blotter. “And for you to come to this office to speak of that filth, I simply will not stand it. No, sir. I will not. I have done what was required of me by Sir Humphrey’s will, and now, if you have any other legal matters, I suggest you engage another solicitor. One who has different standards for his clientele.”
Hartley wasn’t exactly shocked. He had known all along that Philpott would have preferred Sir Humphrey’s son and heir to the baronetcy to inherit the entirety of the Easterbrook estate. Instead, Sir Humphrey had overspent and gambled, leaving his son only an overmortgaged and entailed property, while granting Hartley his only valuable asset, the house on Brook Street.
What surprised him was the venom in the solicitor’s voice. He expected grudging tolerance from Philpott, not outright contempt. After all, Hartley paid him an outrageous sum for his services.
“I see you’ve heard the gossip,” Hartley said, picking a bit of lint off his sleeve.
Philpott’s face went red. “I don’t wish to discuss this.”
“Neither do I, but Sir Humphrey’s conduct and Martin’s nasty tale-telling have made it so I have no choice.” He wanted the solicitor to have no illusions about the characters of the men he apparently still esteemed higher than Hartley. “I’ll leave presently. But first please tell me whether you know where Sir Humphrey’s art collection is. If the paintings were indeed in the London townhouse at the time of Sir Humphrey’s death, that affects my legacy.”
“They were not present in the house when my clerk did an inventory a week after Sir Humphrey’s death,” the solicitor said grudgingly. “I know nothing more.”
“Thank you kindly,” Hartley said, rising to his feet and executing a perfectly proper bow.
He hailed a hackney. At least hackney drivers weren’t above taking his money, and that had to be worth something. He thought about directing the driver to Will’s lodgings, because it would be good to see someone who didn’t despise him. But his brother’s lodgings—God, his entire life—were dismal. Hartley didn’t think he could stomach dreariness today.
Instead he went home, heard that the footman had given notice, and proceeded to make a list of places Sir Humphrey’s paintings could be. Now with even the sorry remains of his old life crumbling around him, exacting this small bit of justice for himself seemed even more necessary.
Chapter Four
It was an hour past sunset, but there was no light in any of Sedgwick’s windows when Sam approached. This was the servants’ day out, he recalled, but surely that didn’t mean gentlemen sat around in the dark. He could have spent the rest of the evening deciding between going to the front door (which, he reasoned, would be convenient for a gentleman without any servants to answer himself) or the kitchen door (which was where everybody who wasn’t a toff went on a street like this one). In the end he flipped a coin and went to the mews behind the house.
He had to knock several times before he heard footsteps. Sedgwick opened the door, his slim figure a mere silhouette against the background of an even darker room. Sam caught a scent that had to be the man’s perfume—perfume, indeed. It ought to have reminded him of how very irrelevant and out of place Mr. Hartley Sedgwick was to him, but instead he found himself taking a deep breath to fill his nostrils with the scent of... green woods. And fine candles. He liked it, more’s the pity.
He realized he had been standing there in the doorway without saying anything for a full half minute. He cleared his throat. “It’s Samuel Fox.”
Mr. Hartley Sedgwick gave a laugh that sounded strained and nervous. “I know who you are. Come in.”
They passed through the dark and chilly kitchens and up a set of stairs to the same room they had sat in the last time. It was the library, he supposed, although there weren’t so many books. Sam had thought libraries were supposed to have thousands of volumes, piled right up to the rafters. And even though he couldn’t fathom what any right-thinking person was supposed to do with so many books, he still felt this room to be a bit of a disappointment with its bare shelves. There was also a small table, a pair of hard chairs, and a sofa that had every sign of never having been sat on. Before the hearth lay a rug he supposed had cost a pretty penny even though it was ugly as sin, and in front of the windows hung dark red drapes that probably blocked out all the light during the day. It was not Sam’s idea of a comfortable room, certainly not what he’d want for himself in the imaginary world where he had money for extra rooms. For all he knew, this house had an endless succession of far better and more comfortable chambers, and he was only allowed in the worst of the lot.
He sat in one of the chairs while Sedgwick prodded the fire with a brass-handled poker. He was in a getup every bit as fussy as the last time. Close-fitting coat, waistcoat glinting with silk thread, pantaloons clinging to his slight form. Sam could have spent a happy hour contemplating the sight of his pantaloons. Virtuously, he dragged his gaze back up to safer ground, landing at that waistcoat. Twelve buttons, six on each side. Not gold this time, but ivory or maybe bone. Whatever it was caught the firelight and made the lad look like he had twelve moons marching up and down the length of his chest. Except—Sam squinted—the waistcoat was buttoned wrong. One of the buttons had gotten into the wrong hole. The rest of the man’s dress was flawless, and it was odd nobody had mentioned the button. Didn’t gentlemen have people to sort out their buttons? Surely they had looking glasses. Hell, Sam had neither and still managed to get his buttons where they belonged, and if he had so much as a spot of soup on his shirt he heard about it from six people before noon. Something about the imperfection, juxtaposed with the plain finickiness of the fellow’s grooming and attire, endeared him to Sam. His mouth quirked into an involuntary smile.
“So.” Mr. Sedgwick finally ceased prodding the fire, which had been blazing quite sufficiently even before his efforts, and sat in the chair across from Sam. “I’m fairly certain the paintings are at Friars’ Gate, which was Sir Humphrey Easterbrook’s shooting box in Sussex. He used that house to host some of his more, ah, specialized house parties, and if he were to have sent the paintings anywhere, it may well have been there.” He straightened his cuffs and smoothed the front of his waistcoat, as if accounting for all his buttons. When he reached for a stack of papers that rested on a nearby table, something went wrong and the papers fell to the ground. Sam moved quickly to catch them before they landed in the fire, taking care not to get too close to Sedgwick lest he frighten the man as he had the last time. He collected the pages nearest to him and let Sedgwick manage those closer to his own feet.
“Ah. Yes. Thank you,” Sedgwick said when he once again had all the papers in his hand. With one hand he gripped the papers so tightly they wrinkled under his fingers, and with the other he fidgeted with the hem of his coat.
Sedgwick had suggested that Easterbrook used the place for rude parties, and Sam wondered whether Sedgwick had been there as a guest or something more complicated, but he held his tongue. Instead he asked, “Do you know the people who live there now?” If Sedgwick knew whoever occupied this house, then maybe they could resolve this with some plain speech and a bit of money. Sam had a bit laid by and figured getting rid of this painting would be a fine wedding present for Kate.
“It’s likely unoccupied. The house is part of the entailed estate, so it can’t have been sold. The owner—my godfather’s son—is on the Continent. I suppose there may be a tenant, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Sam frowned. “Do you plan to break into the house and see for yourself whether the painting is there?”
