A Gentleman Never Keeps Score Read online

  “What if I took care of it for you?” he heard himself asking.

  Kate opened her eyes wide.

  “I’d just find out about it,” he said hastily. “See if maybe there’s a kid in the kitchens who knows anything about naked paintings.” He’d slip them a couple pennies to do a bit of poking around. Nothing wrong with that. “It’s at least worth a try. What was the man’s name? Sir Bastard somebody?”

  “Were you sampling the new ale tonight?” she asked. “I want to tell you to be careful, and that you don’t need to do this, but you know that already.” She slid off the bar. “His name is Easterbrook, and he lives in a grand house on Brook Street.”

  Maybe if he could tell Kate that her painting wasn’t hanging up for all the world to see, she wouldn’t go about getting herself arrested. He could breathe easy for another day, knowing that he had kept his family safe.

  Chapter Two

  Will had been completely off the mark when he accused Hartley of never leaving his house. Here he was, strolling through Hyde Park just as he had always done, even if it was an hour past sunset and he wasn’t likely to run into anyone he knew except a park warden telling him the park was closed. He was very nearly getting used to spending entire days not seeing anyone other than members of his dwindling staff.

  It was the servants’ day off, and while in most households that usually meant a girl stayed in the kitchen to make sure the fire didn’t burn the house down, and a footman stayed upstairs to answer the door, Hartley had decided the footman and kitchen maid might as well enjoy whatever frolics the rest of the staff got up to. The fire could be safely banked and the front door could be bolted. It wasn’t as if Hartley was expecting callers who would be put out if the door wasn’t properly answered.

  Other than Will, who could hardly be considered a proper guest, Hartley hadn’t had any visitors at all in the two months since Martin Easterbrook, his godfather’s only son, came of age, inherited his father’s papers, and learned the truth about Hartley’s relationship with Martin’s father. Martin mustn’t have wasted any time spreading the tale about town, because one day Hartley was a darling of society and the next he was a pariah. He had heard a single whisper: “there are letters,” and knew his fate was sealed.

  Even at sixteen, Hartley had known enough not to put anything on paper that would incriminate him. But he had sadly underestimated the ability of jaded London aristocrats to put the tawdriest possible spin on a set of facts. Hartley couldn’t remember exactly what he had written, but he knew he had discussed spending time at Sir Humphrey Easterbrook’s country house, knew he had asked for presents and advancement for his brothers. But those ill-advised letters might not have been enough to ruin him if Easterbrook hadn’t left Hartley the townhouse.

  Before Martin Easterbrook had opened his mouth, society had been content to assume that Sir Humphrey left his beloved godson the house on Brook Street out of affection, a gesture to smooth Hartley’s way into the best society. But now they knew that it had been quid pro quo, knew, moreover, that in leaving the house and a legacy to Hartley he had impoverished his own son and heir. Impoverishing one’s title was likely quite as bad as sodomy as far as the ton was concerned.

  Since then, there hadn’t been a single invitation, not even to the sort of dull dinner or musicale he never would have bothered attending a year ago. Acquaintances cut him dead or crossed to the opposite side of the street when they saw him. Hartley supposed he ought to be grateful that this comprehensive shunning was his only punishment, because if Martin had produced evidence, or if any witnesses had come forward, Hartley could easily have been pilloried or hanged. Being utterly alone in the world was a seaside holiday by comparison.

  It was all for show, of course. Hartley understood that. Some of the people who had formerly welcomed him into their homes must have known all along that he wasn’t precisely a ladies’ man. Some men of his inclinations looked and acted like everybody else, but Hartley never quite managed it, and had long since stopped trying. Whatever it was that gave him away, whether it was a habit of speech or a set of mannerisms that identified him as a man who preferred men, it was so intrinsic to who he was and how he lived that he couldn’t get rid of it.

  It was dark now, and a chill was settling in that felt more like November than September. Hartley turned up the collar of his topcoat and tucked his hands into his pockets. His thin kid gloves did nothing to keep his hands warm but the change of seasons came as a relief. Autumn meant an excuse to put another layer of clothes between his body and the world. It meant a reprieve from the tyranny of merrymaking that a run of decent weather seemed to inspire in his countrymen. Autumn meant a glorious few months spent indoors, complaining about fog and drinking warm beverages.

  The recollection that he’d be experiencing these pleasures alone had a significant dampening effect. He had never had close friends in the highest echelons of London society; he wasn’t any good at confidences or warmth or whatever it was people expected of friends. He was an entirely passable acquaintance: he made amusing conversation, wore the right clothes, and blended into good company in a way that made people forget he hadn’t been born to it. With the faith of a child and the ignorance of a tourist, he had assumed that once being accepted into their company, he wouldn’t be cast out.

  He turned into the mews behind his house. The kitchen door was left unlocked so that when the servants returned later that night they’d be able to let themselves in. This might have been imprudent but for the fact that Hartley had sold off everything worth stealing years ago. His godfather had left him the house and its contents but nothing to live on. In order to scrape together enough capital to invest for a modest income, Hartley had needed to auction off nearly all the furnishings. Any housebreakers would be sadly out of luck.

  The mews was quiet at this hour, and Hartley was able to make his way to his house without being seen. But as he approached the door, he saw a figure standing in the shadows. Hartley went still and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was a man, broad and tall, even though he looked like he was making an effort to disappear into the gloom. Beneath the brim of his hat, his skin was dark brown, nearly as dark as the wool of his coat. Hartley recognized him as the same man he had seen across the street the previous week. Evidently, he had been watching Hartley’s house then, as he was now.

  Hartley could not think of any good reasons why a man would be lurking outside his kitchen door. But he couldn’t think of any bad reasons either. Surely a housebreaker wouldn’t simply stand there. In all likelihood he was walking out with Hartley’s parlor maid and was waiting for a chance to steal a moment with her. Hartley wished them well. Godspeed, young lovers.

  Surely, though, if he was walking out with the maid, he’d already know that this was her day out. Perhaps he was a spurned lover, and if so, Hartley did not want him making trouble for any of his maids. He stepped out of the shadows toward the stranger.

  “Come into the light so I can see you,” he said, his voice rusty from disuse. That was the worst part of being an outcast—London teemed with people but there was nobody to talk to. The stranger startled, and Hartley congratulated himself on his superior skulking abilities. “I’m unarmed,” he added, holding up his empty hands. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to suggest that if you’re walking out with Janet, you ought to know that her favorite sweets are peppermint creams. And also that if you hurt her I’ll have you murdered.”

  “I never heard of Janet,” the man said.

  “It had better not be Polly,” said Hartley, bristling. “She’s hardly grown.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “Cook, then?” He would have thought Cook a good deal too old for that sort of thing, but one never knew. “Good for her,” he said. “I reckon she’ll murder you herself if you put a foot wrong.”

  “Are you drunk? Do you need help getting home?” There was a touch of—could it be concern?—in the stranger’s voice.

  Hartley stepp
ed even closer. “If you’re not here for one of the maids, does that mean you’re here for me? How flattering,” he drawled. “One usually has to go to such trouble to arrange this sort of thing, and here you are, delivered to my doorstep.” That ought to scare the fellow off right enough.

  But instead of turning on his heel and running away, the stranger sighed. “All right mate, let’s get you home where you can sober up someplace safe. Can’t have you making advances to people in dark corners. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “I—I beg your pardon,” Hartley stammered.

  The stranger paid him no heed. “This where you live? Let’s go.”

  A strong arm came around Hartley’s shoulders, steering him toward the kitchen door. His customary fear stole his words and made him powerless to protest, but it was accompanied by a bittersweet awareness that in another lifetime, he might have wanted this strong arm around him, bringing him to a safe place.

  Hartley let himself be shepherded inside.

  For several evenings now, Sam had watched servants come and go from the grand house, but they kept to themselves. None seemed to be the type who would spare a few kind words to a stranger, let alone negotiate a bit of friendly espionage. Now that he was inside the house, he’d see what he could find out, but first he was going to get this poor sod someplace safe. It was no more than he’d do for a slightly deluded patron of the Bell. Really, you couldn’t go around making approaches to people like that. It was tricky, finding your way as a man who preferred men, unless you had somebody to help you out. There were places where men could meet one another, but maybe this fellow was too young or inexperienced to know about them. Sam might mention it before leaving, maybe: go to the King’s Arms at the docks, try not to get yourself killed. Just a helpful word to the wise. With any luck, the lad would tell him about the paintings out of gratitude.

  The kitchen was dark, and Sam had to fumble around a bit before finding a lamp. Now he could see the lad. Pale hair, neatly combed close to his head; dark clothes that, to Sam’s eye, looked very fine, and probably meant he was a valet rather than a footman; almost delicate features arranged in an expression that gave nothing away. Not drunk, then.

  “What time does his lordship get home?” Sam asked.

  The lad blinked, pale eyes flashing in confusion. “Pardon?”

  “Your gentleman.” Sam wanted to know how long he had to get out of there.

  “My gentleman,” the lad repeated.

  Sam wasn’t going to say master. “The person who pays your wages.”

  The lad looked at Sam long enough and with such perplexity that Sam started to wonder if he might be a bit tipsy after all. “In about an hour,” he said finally.

  “If I leave you here, can I be sure you aren’t going to wander back outside and start propositioning strangers? Look here. What you want is a tavern called the Cross Keys near Limeburner Street.” No way was he sending this wisp of a lad to look for trouble at the docks. He assumed the Cross Keys was still a going concern; the place was pretty much an institution among men of his sort. Sam hadn’t set foot in any of those places in years, though. It wasn’t worth the risk. Avoiding establishments like the Cross Keys was another rule that he always followed.

  “Ah. Thank you for the advice.” The lad’s voice was faint. It was also a bit too polished. Too fine, just like that coat of his. But Sam didn’t really know what valets looked or sounded like. Maybe they all wore waistcoats with approximately eleven golden buttons. Maybe they all had watch fobs laden with sparkling rainbows of jewels.

  “Ah, shit,” Sam muttered, running a hand over his jaw. He had just accused a lord, or a lord’s son, if there was even any bloody difference, of attempting to proposition him. “You’re Easterbrook, then? I thought he was an old man.” He tried to remember what else Kate had told him. “Unless you’re the son. I won’t tell anyone what happened.” He stepped toward the door. “I ought to be—”

  “I’m definitely not any Easterbrook whatsoever.” His voice was crisp and clear now. No trace of confusion. “And if you thought the Easterbrooks were in residence then your information is so sadly out of date that you plainly have nothing to do with any of the servants in this house. This leaves me to wonder what business you could possibly have standing in the mews.”

  Sam froze. Outside, the lad—although he was plainly not a lad, but a gentleman, sod him—had sounded amused, as if he were getting a thrill out of chatting with strangers and threatening to murder them if they mistreated a housemaid. Now, he sounded dead serious. The lamplight fell on the man, revealing a face that was some years older than Sam had guessed from his slight form.

  “We’re going to the library and having a drink,” the man said. “And if my servants come home while we’re talking, we’ll say you’ve come to collect for some worthy charity.”

  His servants. Any hope Sam had that this wasn’t the master of the house evaporated. Oh God. Sam had known all along this was a terrible idea. He cleared his throat. “I’d best be leaving.”

  “And so you shall. But first we have matters to discuss. You were lurking in the alley outside my house, which probably ought to bother me, but for how you thought it was the Easterbrooks’ house. People don’t usually lurk for terribly noble motives, which leads me to believe you intended some harm to the Easterbrooks. If so, we may have something in common. We might enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  He was standing under the light now, and Sam could see him quite clearly. His features were refined, Sam might even say pretty, but the set of his mouth was positively malevolent. His eyes were the color of boiled gooseberries, pale and a bit sinister. He did not look like a man anybody in their right mind ought to enter into any kind of arrangement with.

  But if he could perhaps bargain with this man for Kate’s painting, that might be worth it. “Fine,” he said, feeling like he had just made a deal with the devil at a crossroads.

  Now that he had this stranger in his library, Hartley was having misgivings about the soundness of his plan.

  First, this man was significantly larger than anyone needed to be. The Hepplewhite chair hardly contained him. Hartley had good reasons for not feeling particularly at ease around large men, but this man didn’t seem threatening. He sat in that chair as if it were a church pew, his hat politely on his lap. Hartley started to lower himself into the matching chair beside his guest, but then thought better of it and perched on the edge of a table, enjoying a false but comforting sense of height.

  Second, it was unwise to trust strangers with his secrets. But Hartley had no secrets anymore; he had nothing to lose. It occurred to him for the first time that he could perhaps take advantage of his situation. He might as well behave fearlessly, if it meant getting a bit of his own back.

  He was aware that Will would say he ought to put his grievances to rest, that making peace with the wrongs that had been done him was the only way forward. And he had to concede that Will knew something about that topic. But Will was also kind and decent, and Hartley was neither; he was petty and vindictive, because those qualities were all the sword or shield he had.

  He poured some brandy into two glasses and handed one to his guest. “The long and short of it is that I would like nothing more than to do a grand disservice to Martin Easterbrook. If you’d like to join forces with me, then I’m interested. If not, so be it. We can pretend tonight never happened.”

  “And if I don’t want anything to do with you? If it turns out this Martin fellow is my best mate and I tell him you’re set against him? What if I tell a gossip rag that you tried to approach me?” The man spoke with a rough London accent that was laced through with something else that Hartley couldn’t identify.

  “You’re welcome to,” Hartley said lightly. “My name is Hartley Sedgwick. Hartley with an E. Be sure to have the paper spell it correctly.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his card case with a flourish that was marred by the hinge being stiff from want of use. “Fo
r reference,” he said, holding out a card between two fingers.

  Something went wrong because the man palmed the card but then politely shook Hartley’s hand. Hartley froze. The man wasn’t wearing gloves and Hartley had removed his own—gentlemen didn’t eat or drink with gloves on, and Hartley couldn’t bring himself to abandon the rules he had worked so blasted hard to master. Hartley didn’t much care for being touched, least of all being touched skin to skin. He felt like he was being flayed alive. Were other people’s hands always so warm, or was this stranger about to succumb to the ague?

  “Samuel Fox,” the man said as he finally let go of Hartley’s hand.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Fox.” Hartley tried to sound like someone who wasn’t in danger of becoming unglued.

  Mr. Fox took a sip of the brandy, and Hartley realized belatedly he ought to have offered ale or cider. Fox wore trousers that were worn at the knees and a coat that strained badly across his broad shoulders; his hands were rough with work. He was plainly not of the brandy-drinking classes, and to have presented him with the drink now seemed farcically affected.

  “Who is Easterbrook to you?” Fox asked. “I thought this was his house.”

  “It was. It’s mine now. Sir Humphrey Easterbrook was my godfather.” Hartley’s voice only caught a little on that designation. “He died a few years ago and left this house to me. Your turn,” he said briskly. “What was Easterbrook to you?”

  “He has—had—something that belongs to a friend of mine.”

  Hartley raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going to ask whether you intended to walk in and help yourself to—to what, may I ask?”