A Gentleman Never Keeps Score

by Cat Sebastian

  “No, not a hint of crossness here. Everyone’s right cheerful,” Nick said, rolling his eyes.

  “It’s the moon,” Kate said, yawning again. “Puts everyone on edge. I’ve had three births in two days and I need to sleep.”

  “That doesn’t explain Sam,” Nick said.

  Kate looked at Sam with bleary eyes. “You’re right,” she said to Nick, as if Sam didn’t have ears. “For days now he’s looked like he needed a dose of Senna tea. Maybe some syrup of figs.” Nick evidently found this hilarious, because the two of them laughed and bumped imaginary mugs together in a mimed salute.

  “Oh hell, what’s going on with Johnny Newton now?” Nick asked, looking over Sam’s shoulder, toward the entry of the back room. Sam turned in time to see Newton toe to toe with a man he didn’t recognize as one of the Bell’s regulars. He caught a snippet of conversation that seemed to have something to do with Johnny’s mother.

  “You stay back,” Sam said to his brother and Kate. “I’ll deal with it.” Breaking up fights was one of his duties at the Bell. He managed to get to the two men just in time to grab Johnny’s wrist and prevent him from swinging at the stranger. But the stranger’s reflexes weren’t as fast. Sam felt the blow collide with his cheekbone.

  “Oi!” He brought his hand instinctively to his cheek. His fingers came away red with blood. He had probably been hit in the same place dozens upon dozens of times, but not lately, and the sharp pain of broken skin was familiar and surprising at once. “The hell is the matter with you? Get out of my pub.”

  The stranger didn’t step away. He was plainly furious and utterly soused, and looked ready to swing at Sam now. His pale skin was flushed with drink and rage.

  “None of that. Away you go.” Sam grabbed the man by his shoulders and steered him toward the door. But before they reached the door, a man Sam recognized as the constable entered.

  “Now, what do we have here?” the man asked. His name was Merton, Sam thought, but Sam had tried his damnedest to avoid having any reason to deal with the police. “Don’t tell me there’s fighting in this pub.” He spoke with the glee of a man about to make trouble.

  “There was a friendly altercation, sir,” Sam said kindly. He dabbed at the cut with his bar apron. There wasn’t much blood, at least.

  “Doesn’t seem too friendly to me,” said Marston. “Let’s have a look at that back room.”

  Sam was confused about what the constable wanted with the back room, but murmured his assent as he led the way.

  They used the back room to store casks of beer. It smelled of hops and the sawdust they kept on hand to dry up spills. In a slightly more elevated establishment, this room would be a snug or a private parlor for more genteel customers. In a slightly lower place, this would be the place for cock fights or, as in Sam’s youth, boxing matches.

  Boxing matches. He understood, then. Merton thought they were holding prizefights. He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut when he realized that a hasty denial would only confirm the constable’s suspicions.

  “I remember you,” Merton said, holding up his lamp to examine Sam’s blood-streaked face. “I saw you in Croydon. I thought it was you. Did that lad ever wake up?”

  Sam had fought several matches in Croydon, but he knew the one Merton meant. “He woke up,” was all Sam said. That had been Sam’s last match. After that, he had started training Davey, who was made of stronger stuff, he had thought.

  “What was it they called you?” Merton tapped his mouth with one finger as if he had trouble remembering the filthy nicknames people had given Sam. “You were a beast.” His lip curled in slight distaste. “I won’t have any of that on my watch,” he said. He glanced around the back room. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ll bring you down.”

  Sam wanted to protest that there was no evidence of fighting in the back room. There was a broken glass and drops of his own blood in the taproom, and a dozen witnesses who would say that he had been breaking up a common tavern brawl. But he thought of what Constable Merton had seen upon entering the Bell: a crowd of people on their feet, looking in the direction of the back room. A prizefighter with blood on his face. The same prizefighter who had only escaped a manslaughter trial because the man he had knocked out had finally woken up, three days later.

  When Merton left, Nick had already begun sweeping up the broken glass, and Kate had topped off everyone’s drinks. Sam let out a sigh. They weren’t doing anything wrong. The business was entirely aboveboard. But he felt dirty and small, he felt like he had when Hartley had maneuvered him away from the front door. He felt like all the nasty things he had ever been called.

  Sam was saved by any further ruminations by the entry of Kate’s dog, which had been banished to the outdoors during the busiest part of the evening and now came in with grievances to air and food to scrounge. Now he was perched in Nick’s arms with his tongue hanging out and his ears up as if he had done something remarkably clever. When he and Nick had been boys, their mother had never let an animal into the house, let alone onto anyone’s lap.

  Maybe sensing his gloominess, the dog scrambled out of Nick’s arms to dance around Sam’s feet, as if Sam’s mood would be improved by having untold foulness on his clean clothes. He had to wonder what neat, fussy Hartley would think about this dog. A man who kept his hands so clean and his hair so smooth would not be impressed with a dirty mongrel. He pictured the look of revulsion that would doubtless appear on the man’s face, how he would shudder and turn his nose up.

  Later he and Nick did the washing up while Kate dozed by the fire with the dog in her lap. “If you want to talk about it—and I’m not even saying there’s an it to talk about, even though there definitely is, but it’s fine if you want to pretend I haven’t noticed—I’m here. And I’m not talking about Merton. He’s an arsehole, but a bog standard one. I’m talking about whatever had you bothered earlier today. I’m here. For God’s sake. If you killed a man, all I’d ask was where you wanted me to help you bury the body. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know,” Sam lied. He wiped a dish and stacked it on a shelf. Sam hadn’t ever told Nick that he preferred men. He hadn’t ever told Kate, either, but she had guessed; he hadn’t corrected her when, a few years ago, she had tipsily whispered to him that she wished he’d find some nice bloke for himself. But it was different with his brother. After not mentioning it for his entire life, he felt that he couldn’t start now. And there was always the risk that Nick would react badly. Still, Nick had to have noticed that Sam was nearly thirty and had never so much as walked out with a girl.

  Even if he could speak freely to Nick, he couldn’t very well explain that he was feeling miserable because a near stranger had sucked him off and then told him not to use the front door. Not so many years ago, he had risked his life and his safety while crowds of people hurled insults at him. He might think it was silly for a former prizefighter to complain about being put in his place by a single unarmed gentleman. And Nick might ask what on earth Sam was doing with a rich man in the first place. Sam didn’t have an answer to that, not even one he could voice to himself.

  By the time they finished tidying up the kitchen, they could hear Kate snoring by the fire, and had to bite the insides of their cheeks to keep from laughing too loud and waking her. Tiptoeing as quietly as two large men could, they peered into the parlor. The dog was passed out on Kate’s soft lap.

  “I cannot believe she lets that dog sit on her lap,” Sam said.

  “She says it’s earned all the fine things life has to offer,” Nick whispered.

  “Not lately, it hasn’t. Sleeps, steals food, leaves fur on the floor of the Bell.”

  “I used to wash him under the pump when Kate wasn’t looking,” Nick admitted. “But she caught on and told me not to. Said he’s been through enough.”

  Inspiration struck Sam. “Tomorrow I’ll take the little fellow for a long walk.” Tomorrow would be Sunday.

  Nick looked at him suspiciously.
“He’s old and has three legs. He won’t get far.”

  “I’ll carry him then,” Sam said, and refused to answer any more of Nick’s questions. He told himself he’d bring the dog to Hartley to settle the score, but he knew that he just wanted an excuse to see the man. The fact that he couldn’t even convince himself of his own lie was a bad sign indeed.

  Chapter Seven

  It didn’t take long for Hartley to figure out what had gone wrong with Sam. He had time on his hands, endless empty hours to puzzle out what that blank expression on Sam’s face had meant when Hartley had showed him to the kitchen door. Sam must have thought Hartley was putting him in his place, or that Hartley didn’t want the world to see a black man in a worn coat leaving the front door of his house.

  He was mortified, embarrassed out of all proportion to the significance of the event. But when one didn’t have that much going on in one’s life, things didn’t stay in proportion. That hour with Sam Fox had been one hundred percent of Hartley’s social calendar. Bollocksing it up was therefore a signal failure. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter at all whether Sam was offended, but even though Hartley wasn’t one of nature’s most warmhearted creatures, he couldn’t quite convince himself of that.

  Compounding this failure was the fact that Sam had provided the only even minimally satisfying sexual encounter in Hartley’s recent life, even though Hartley’s own climax didn’t happen until late that night, alone in his room, thinking of hands twisted in velvet curtains, a body taut with the effort of not touching him. Sometimes he thought his mind might have gotten a bit warped. Most people liked being touched. And they liked going places and having friends and doing things that weren’t sitting alone in a library and staring at the rectangles that marked where paintings used to hang.

  The autumn sun had already set, and rain beat down on the windowpanes. The fire had burnt low, but the coal scuttle hadn’t been refilled today and Hartley hadn’t sunk so low that he was about to fill it himself. Instead, he let the chill of the room seep into his bones. If it was possible to be cheerful under these conditions, Hartley didn’t know how.

  Instead he thought of Friars’ Gate and revenge. He could almost smell the mineral spirits, feel the blade in his hand, see the destroyed remains of those paintings. With every ruined canvas, he’d take away some of the power that Easterbrook had stolen from him.

  He thought of how for years his only sexual release had been while barely enduring anonymous back alley cock sucking, and how eventually even that was out of his reach. He thought of these past months since his disgrace. Now that everyone knew what he was and what he had done, he couldn’t tear his mind from those facts; it was as if other people’s worst thoughts about him had wormed their way into his own thoughts about himself.

  It had all been the Easterbrooks’ doing, father and then son.

  Sometimes he wondered what he’d have done if his godfather hadn’t left him the house. He hadn’t really had a chance to figure out what he wanted in a world where he had to make his own way, and he feared he was too broken to think in terms of the future.

  It was now cold in the library, and Hartley realized he’d let the fire burn out entirely. He considered building it up again, but instead he sat in the cold and the dark.

  The knock startled him. His first thought was that Alf had lost his latchkey. Then he remembered it was Sunday and Sam had said he would come. He glanced down at his clothes. Not his best, but adequate. The looking glass on the landing confirmed that his hair was acceptable but his cravat askew. Well, there was no time to retie it, not unless he wanted to risk Sam leaving. For reasons he chose not to fully examine, this was not a risk he wished to take.

  He ran down the stairs and flung open the door. Sam stood in the shadowy passage, holding what looked to be a fox stole that had been dredged out of the Thames.

  “What in Christendom is that?” Hartley asked by way of greeting.

  “It’s a dog.”

  “Are you quite certain? Have you checked?” It could be a large, furry rat. Or a ragbag. Anything was possible.

  “Definitely a dog.”

  Hartley didn’t ask why this alleged dog was being brought to his house, figuring that any answer he got would be beside the point. “Come in before you get drenched.”

  “Too late for that.” Sam indicated his dripping hat.

  “Sit here. Both of you. The fire’s banked but it won’t take long to build it up. If you like, take off your coat and your boots so they dry faster.” He fussed with the fire, adding some coal and using the bellows until the hearth had taken the chill out of the room and filled it with a warm glow. Turning around, he saw Sam, still wearing his soaked coat and boots, holding the shivering dog.

  Hartley cast his gaze searchingly around the room before settling on a large apron one of the girls must have left behind. “Here, give it to me.”

  “Give what to you?”

  “The dog. It’s shivering.” When Sam didn’t hand the dog over, Hartley sighed and scooped the dog up himself. “Poor creature. Only has three legs. It’s no wonder you had to carry him.”

  “He’s dirty,” Sam cautioned.

  “I should say so. Filthy. Not to mention a bit ripe.” He wrapped the dog in the apron and cradled it in his arms. “Where did you find him?”

  “Uh. He’s my friend’s dog.”

  Hartley tilted his head in confusion. “Then why is he in my kitchen, frozen stiff?”

  “Because I’m an idiot? He’s going to ruin your coat.”

  “I have others.” The dog was trying his best to wedge himself into Hartley’s armpit, presumably for warmth. Hartley gave it a vigorous rub with the apron and poked the fire to help it blaze back into life.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you liked dogs.” Sam’s teeth were chattering.

  “Take off that coat. Shirt too. Put them on the back of that chair to dry by the fire.”

  Hartley carefully didn’t watch Sam peel off his coat, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the other man hesitate over his shirt. “The house is empty, so you can strip as much as you please.” He blushed, not having meant the words as a come-on. Hartley averted his gaze as Sam pulled the shirt over his head. “My only servant has taken to sleeping in the loft over the carriage house. Presumably so he can freely debauch himself without my interference.” He was blathering nervously, which was so lamentably unattractive. Extracting the dog from his armpit, he peered at the mongrel’s face. “Good lord, what happened to you?” The little fellow had a bite out of one ear.

  “He spent some years in the rat pit.”

  Hartley wrinkled his nose at the mention of rat baiting. He had never seen it, but he knew the general thrust was that a dog was put into a pit with a pack of vicious rats, while spectators bet on how many rats the dog could kill in a given time. “You poor sod,” he told the dog. “I hope your days are filled with bacon and cuddles.” The dog licked his nose, and Hartley wriggled away. “That’s a step too far, my friend.”

  A crack of laughter came from Sam, and Hartley looked over despite his efforts not to see the man bare-chested. Sam’s broad shoulders were shaking with laughter, firelight flickering off dark skin and outlining the heavy muscles of his arms and chest. Hartley had known that Sam was a large man, had felt that his body was strong and hard, but he hadn’t quite been prepared for this visual proof of power. His mouth went dry and he hastily looked away. But he was weak and Sam really looked a treat so he stole another glance. This time Sam caught him looking and stopped laughing. Hartley’s breath caught when he realized what was happening; they were both enjoying one another’s company—not planning a burglary, not dancing around the topic of sex, but simply taking pleasure in their time together. The air between them felt charged with the intimacy of the moment and the shared recognition of what it meant.

  “I’d like to know what’s so amusing,” Hartley said, even though Sam had long since stopped laughing.

  “Just wh
at a dolt I am,” Sam answered, because that was God’s own truth. “I brought him here to annoy you. I thought you wouldn’t like a dirty dog in your house.”

  “To annoy me? We’re talking about the front door, aren’t we? I owe you an apology about that, and an explanation too.”

  Sam was taken aback, not only by the fact that Hartley had brought up the door incident, but that he looked so conscience stricken. “Yes,” he managed.

  Hartley frowned. “I know how it sounded, and I’m sorry for that. You must have thought me a high-handed bastard who had treated you like a servant—”

  “Not quite,” Sam said, remembering the servants who had come in and out of the kitchen door when he had been spying on the house. They had been clean and tidy, and Sam had felt very aware of his rough coat and shoes.

  “As someone unfit to use the front door, then. And to get even with me, you decided to arrive with a filthy old mongrel who would most definitely not be granted access to the front door.”

  That was about the size of it. “Right.”

  Hartley turned his attention to the dog. “You poor dear, to have been used so poorly.” He spoke in the sort of singsong voice a fond mother might use to talk to a baby. The dog was looking at him with wide eyes, likely confused because nobody had ever spoken to him that way in his entire miserable life. “Dragged out into the cold and the rain, just so this rude man could make a point. And at your age.” And then, in a normal voice, “How old is he?”

  “It didn’t start raining until we were halfway here,” he protested. “Kate got him about eight years ago, and he wasn’t a puppy then.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “We call him Dog.”

  “You’ve called him Dog for eight years,” Hartley said, in obvious disbelief.

  “Well, the rat pit man called him Duke, but Kate said she has no use for any lords in her bed, so she wouldn’t call him that.” He realized too late that he shouldn’t have repeated Kate’s ribald joke. His face heated. “But he won’t answer to anything at all. I think he’s deaf. Watch.” He patted his leg. “Come here, Dog.” The dog didn’t even turn away from Hartley. Sam whistled, which at least got the dog’s attention. “Heel, Duke.” Nothing.