A Gentleman Never Keeps Score

by Cat Sebastian

  “Couldn’t go back anyway, not with those bastards talking about you that way,” Alf said, hands in his pockets. “Wouldn’t be safe. I’ll do the marketing for you, Sadie.”

  “No, you won’t, because now they’ll be looking out for you.” Sadie’s fists were clenched, and she appeared to have moved from sorrow to anger. “Or, worse still, they’ll follow you back and find me here. I told you to keep your mouth shut and your head down and you ruined it for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Sadie, I really am,” Alf said meekly. “I didn’t think about them coming here. I just couldn’t stand to hear them saying those things about you.”

  “What you can or can’t stand isn’t the point,” she spat.

  “I think we’d all do better with some hot food. Alf, will you go to the Bell to get one of Mr. Fox’s pies?” He looked at Sadie, who was still too thin except for her belly. “No, make that two.”

  “The Bell?” Alf asked.

  “It’s in one of those lanes behind Fetter Lane where it meets Fleet Street.” He hoped the vague directions would mean Alf took long enough on his errand that Sadie might be in a more forgiving frame of mind upon his return.

  When Alf left, Hartley sat on a stool beside Sadie’s at the large worktable. “I’m so sorry that happened,” he said. A sob wracked her slight frame and he watched helplessly before venturing to pat her tentatively on the back.

  “I already think everyone is watching me. Because they probably are, and I’m not even sure I can blame them. They know what I did at the docks, and I’m a bit conspicuous now.” She gestured at her belly.

  “Bollocks on anyone who can’t mind their own business.” But that was easy to say, and not the entire truth. “I feel like that too,” he admitted. “I feel like people are watching me, thinking about what they know about me.” She looked up at him with red eyes, waiting for his next words. He swallowed. It was grossly improper to be having this conversation with a servant, but she didn’t have anyone else and neither, really, did he. “When they see me, all they see is a whore and a sodomite. And after a while it’s all I think I am. It’s as if everyone else’s thoughts are so loud I lose track of who I really am. But we’re more than that, you hear?” She didn’t look at him. “I mean it, Sadie. We’re more than that.”

  “I’d like to hide in this kitchen forever.”

  “So would I, if I’m honest. You can stay here as long as you need, but you deserve more.” It was an easy platitude, and he was almost ashamed of himself for saying it.

  She let out a small unladylike sound of indignation. “I don’t know what more would look like for me.”

  Neither did Hartley. He didn’t know what an actual life could look like for either of them. But he knew he wanted Sadie to have that. “Is Alf giving you trouble? I thought you were mates, but if I have it wrong, say the word.”

  She reddened and twisted her hands in her apron. “We’re friends. And he doesn’t give me any trouble, not what you’re talking about. He’s a gentleman.”

  “Good,” Hartley said, although he was certain Alf would loudly protest being called a gentleman. “Glad to hear it. Now, why don’t you splash some water on your face and have a drink with me while we wait for our supper?”

  “You did what?” Kate put the tankard onto the bar with enough force that beer sloshed over the rim. It was early afternoon, and the Bell was only starting to fill up, but she pitched her voice into a low hiss that wouldn’t be overheard.

  “We talked about it,” Sam protested, regretting that he had decided to come clean to Kate about the real reason behind his travels. “You said you wanted to know what happened to that painting.”

  “I want any number of things! Two hundred pounds. The Hodges baby to get itself born so its mum will stop calling me around every day.” She sat heavily in a chair at an empty table. “I thought you were just going to ask some questions. Not break into houses!”

  “The doors were practically unlocked,” he said feebly.

  “Sam.” She shook her head.

  “You said you wanted to know!” he repeated.

  “I did! But even more, I want you safe. I’d rather stroll down the street stark naked than have you go to prison.”

  “And I’d rather burn down half of Mayfair than know you and Nick are spending one second worrying about that painting. It isn’t right, Kate.” He poured a beer for a customer and then sat beside Kate. “Look, I’m not going to do any more prowling about for that painting, so you don’t need to worry your head about it.” That moment of raw panic behind the curtains at Friars’ Gate had been enough to remind him of his priorities. If he were arrested, he wouldn’t be of any use to anyone. It would be as if nothing had changed after that day Davey died. “I know it wasn’t the wisest decision—”

  “Ha!”

  “But I wouldn’t have done it if it really were dangerous,” he said, knowing it was a lie. He would have walked into fire if it meant keeping Hartley safe, and that was a terrifying realization. “The house was empty,” he said, mainly to convince himself he hadn’t done anything truly mad. “Besides, I wasn’t alone.” He had meant that to be reassuring, but Kate’s dark eyes lit up with the brightness of a spark about to hit a powder keg.

  “Really, now? Who were you with?”

  Sam knew there was no escaping Kate’s interrogation. “Your friend Hartley.”

  Kate pressed her lips together and regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I have a mind to go tell Hartley what I think of him going along with this scheme of yours.” She pushed away from the table, rising unsteadily to her feet. Kate looked even more tired than usual these days and he wanted to suggest that she go to bed for a bit of a kip before the Hodges baby really did make an appearance. But nobody told Kate what to do unless they wanted their eyes clawed out.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Sam said quickly, thinking to spare Kate the trip across town and Hartley the tongue-lashing. “He had his own reasons for wanting to get back at that family.”

  “Oh?” Her brow furrowed. “Oh. I see.” Kate’s dark eyes assessed him. “And you went along to help Hartley avenge his own honor rather than to be an idiot on my behalf?”

  Sam didn’t know how to answer. Kate had laid a trap for him and he didn’t know how to get out. “Well,” he started. Kate’s eyes narrowed further, but she sat back down.

  “You never told me how you met Hartley. I made certain assumptions about how you might have run across one another.” She paused, letting that sink in. She had apparently assumed that Sam and Hartley had met in precisely the sort of place Sam had suggested Hartley visit to pick up men that first night. Sam opened his mouth to protest but held his tongue. She may have been wrong about the precise circumstances of their meeting, but she wasn’t wrong about the substance of their friendship. He waited, and even though he’d give it twenty to one odds against her being disturbed, he felt a creeping sense of dread until she reached over and squeezed his arm.

  “That’s not how we met, not exactly, but you have the lay of the land,” he said. That was the first time he had ever spoken openly about who he went to bed with. It was almost dizzyingly strange. He went on to tell her how he had gone to the address she gave him and found Hartley living there; he left out the more explicit details, just like anybody would, but he also didn’t pretend nothing explicit had happened.

  At the end, Kate pursed her lips. “You and Hartley. He and I used to get along like a house on fire and I’m glad to see that he’s made out well. And here I’ve been worried about your being lonely.”

  “It’s not like that,” Sam said quickly. “It’s . . . We had an arrangement.”

  “You have a lot of arrangements that involve your sticking your neck out for another man? A rich man, even?”

  She was right there. “Just an arrangement,” he repeated.

  “He being decent to you? I’ll murder him if he isn’t. Wait. Are you being decent to him? I’ll murder you both if you hurt one another.” She looked
so torn about not knowing who to murder that Sam couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

  “Does Nick know?” Sam’s cheeks were hot. “About . . . me?”

  Kate frowned. “Nick isn’t a noticing sort of person, bless the man. He might have seen that you don’t have an eye for the ladies, but that’s it.”

  Sam nodded. That sounded like Nick. And he still didn’t know whether he was relieved Nick probably didn’t suspect, or whether he wished Nick knew and hadn’t let it change anything between them.

  “It’s as good as over,” Sam said a bit later, after he had cleared some empty mugs and wiped down the bar. “With Hartley.”

  “You don’t seem pleased.”

  He thought about denying it. But he had lied enough today, and if he knew Kate, she was already well aware of it. “I’m not. I’m fond of him. And he doesn’t have anyone to look after him.” He remembered what Hartley’s brother had said about Hartley not answering letters or talking to his family, and wondered if the reason that Hartley didn’t have anyone to look after him was that he didn’t let anyone. Or maybe he didn’t think he deserved looking after.

  “He’s a man, not a stray animal,” Kate said, petting the dog on her lap. “You can’t just keep him because he doesn’t have anyone else.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” Sam said.

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “I don’t rightly know, Kate,” he admitted. And that was the truth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was with a sense of great satisfaction that Sam finally dislodged the bird’s nest from the chimney. It was old and brittle, the birds long since having hatched and flown away. “There, now,” he announced to the taproom at large. “That ought to take care of the smoke.”

  “That’s just a chimney swift’s nest,” said an elderly patron, bent over the sooty remnants of twigs and mud. “A wee little thing like that won’t have caused all that smoke. What you’ve got is a bad chimney cap.”

  “Or a faulty flue,” chimed in another patron.

  Sam suppressed a groan. They had already paid good coin for a chimney sweep to put in a new chimney cap and to repair the flue, but still the chimney smoked.

  “It’s a down draft,” said the first patron in ominous tones.

  “Not good,” agreed the second. “Not good at all.”

  The reason he had been able to get the Bell on such favorable terms was that he had a repairing lease, meaning that he alone was responsible for repairs. The building’s owner had, as far as Sam knew, no obligation beyond taking Sam’s money. Whatever additional expenses they incurred fixing this blasted chimney were Sam’s responsibility alone. If they failed to keep the place in good repair, the landlord would have every right to kick them out.

  He had worked hard to make this place a cut above the seedy alehouse it had once been. Now it was a place where black tradesmen and laborers could talk to one another over a pint or a bite of food and know they wouldn’t get caught up in a brawl. Sam didn’t want to see that all down the drain just because of a temperamental chimney. He’d just have to find a way to hire another, hopefully better, sweep.

  When he caught Kate wiping a table, he didn’t even have the heart to remind her that she didn’t work at the Bell anymore and ought to be sitting down, or possibly be at home getting some rest. Instead he hefted a stack of dishes to bring to the sink when he felt a gust of cold air from the street.

  “You,” Kate said in a voice that meant she was scanning the room for likely weapons.

  “You, yourself,” answered a too-refined voice. “Honestly, darling, sit down. You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

  Sam held his breath. The patrons at the table nearest Kate edged their chairs away. There was a moment of dangerous silence. But instead of murdering Hartley on the spot, Kate sort of collapsed onto his shoulder in a fit of laughter and tears. “I know,” she said. “I’m half asleep on my feet.”

  “There, there,” Hartley said, patting her back. Sam was out of view of the table where Hartley and Kate sat, hidden in the shadows near the doorway. But he could see them clearly. Hartley had on one of his many-buttoned waistcoats and a coat the color of wet cobblestones. His hair was as tidy as ever, his face neatly shaved, but around his eyes were tiny lines that Sam thought hadn’t been there before.

  Sam watched, transfixed, as two of the prickliest people he had ever met dissolved into a puddle of affection. Hartley had Kate nearly in his lap, and she was sobbing into his collar. Any difficulties Hartley had with being touched didn’t seem to apply to Kate. In fact, Hartley’s starchy reserve seemed to disappear around women. Hartley had been downright charming to the innkeeper’s wife. He wondered how much of Hartley’s chilly demeanor was simply the fact that he was afraid of men.

  Maybe fear wasn’t the word. Maybe it was more physical than that—the instinctive flinch at a fast approaching fist. Maybe all men posed that same potential danger for Hartley. And wasn’t that a rubbish bit of luck for a man who preferred men. Sam was glad that old Easterbrook was dead, otherwise he might be tempted to do something about that for him.

  Nick appeared then at Sam’s shoulder to relieve him of the stack of plates he was still carrying. “That Kate’s friend who was here the other day? Some toff she used to know?”

  “That’s him.” Sam hoped he had managed to keep his voice disinterested.

  The dog rushed in through the door Nick had left open and ran over to leap around Kate’s and Hartley’s feet. Hartley promptly picked him up and started to talk to him in a daft voice.

  “Not the sort of man you worry about your girl being around,” Nick said.

  “You don’t need to worry about Kate around anyone.”

  “I know that,” Nick said. “I just meant that I don’t think that fellow is going to give her any trouble.”

  “How can you tell?” Sam snapped. “I didn’t think you knew many men like that.”

  Nick looked at him, wide-eyed. “Well, he’s not making a secret of it, is he?”

  Sam turned his attention back to Hartley and Kate. It wasn’t that Hartley was exactly feminine, but there was something about the way he held himself, something about the tone of his voice, too, that wasn’t quite masculine either. Sam didn’t think it was anything Hartley was deliberately doing, so much as something inborn in him, just part of who he was. And his looks didn’t help; he wasn’t handsome so much as beautiful. Maybe that was why the gossip had ruined him: it was just so easy to believe that Hartley was that kind of man.

  Sam had always been able to keep his bedroom preferences separate from the rest of his life. He had good work and a family who loved him. That was the sum and substance of his life. Nobody who saw him had to know that he liked men, which meant Sam hadn’t had to think about it much either. But he knew what it was like to be judged on appearances and found wanting. These days, he rarely heard the slurs that had been openly shouted at him in the ring. Cowed by Sam’s size and his history, people tended to hold their tongues. Only men like Constable Merton, with the full force of the law behind him, weren’t afraid.

  Did Hartley walk down the street imagining the slurs that people were just barely managing not to say aloud? Did he suspect that everyone he met secretly disdained and distrusted him? Sam knew what that was like, knew it better than Hartley ever could. When Hartley had said that he wanted to travel, maybe what he really meant was that he wanted to get away from those hateful whispers, wanted to go someplace where people looked at him and only saw a finely dressed white man. Sam didn’t have that as an option, and wouldn’t have taken it even if he had; he didn’t want to be anybody other than hardworking black Englishman that he was, but he knew that when many white Englishmen looked on him they saw someone inferior, someone who didn’t belong.

  It had hurt to hear Hartley speak words that seemed to carry the echo of that kind of ugly sentiment. Failing to count Sam as a guest in his house, suggesting that Sam could walk away from the Bel
l—even if Hartley hadn’t meant to demean Sam, the fact that he didn’t understand how Sam would interpret his words was itself a problem. But seeing the man bent over a table, deep in conversation with Kate, Sam didn’t want to believe Hartley was just another Constable Merton.

  What he wanted didn’t matter, though. He couldn’t put his dignity, his safety, or his work on the line for anyone, least of all someone who didn’t respect him and who he was. He ought to cut his losses before he got in any deeper.

  “Where’s Sam?” Hartley asked, trying and failing to sound uninterested.

  Kate gave a slight roll of her eyes. “He was here before you came, so I suppose he’s avoiding you. You know why better than I do.”

  Hartley took a sip of ale before speaking with more sangfroid than he felt. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

  She regarded him carefully, as if deciding whether to say something. “He told me about the two of you,” she said quietly. “Well, no, actually I told him and he didn’t deny it. So you don’t need to come up with any tales. Hurt him and I’ll cut off your bollocks and feed them to Daisy.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “And if I ever, ever hear about you putting him in danger again, I’ll slit your throat and dance in your blood.”

  “Christ, Kate. Anything else? Any other gruesome fates you need to threaten me with today? You don’t need to worry about my putting Sam in any more danger, because it’s over.”

  Kate raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s what he said.”

  “As well he should. I was rude and stupid and thoughtless. You know, the usual.”

  “If you put your foot in it, which I can well believe, you’d better fix it. Sam is fond of you.”

  “Perhaps he was—”

  "What is the matter with you?”

  Really, Hartley hardly knew how to begin answering that, so instead he drained his tankard.

  “If you bollocksed it up, fix it you daft sod,” Kate said, slapping the table between them.

  They talked until Sam appeared, hefting a cask of ale on one shoulder. That explained the muscles, Hartley supposed. Even now, through the linen of Sam’s shirt, he could see the man’s arms and shoulders ripple as he set the cask down. He remembered the feel of those strong muscles under his hands, and he remembered everything else that had happened that night too—the sense that Sam would use his strength for Hartley, the warmth and security he had felt in Sam’s company. And then he remembered the look of stunned hurt on Sam’s face the next day. True, Hartley hadn’t meant to hurt him, but it was also true that if his head hadn’t been up his arse he would have thought before he spoke.