“You are not,” Will said with more loyalty than sense.
They walked a few paces in silence. “I met someone.”
“Ah. The fellow behind the curtain, I reckon.”
“I can almost stand to let him touch me and look at me.”
“That’s good, Hart. That’s really good.”
“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s a piss-poor thing to offer a good man.”
“I reckon he’s a better judge of that than you are.”
They continued walking, and when Hartley found his feet straying from the pavement, Will steered him in the direction he required. “His name is Sam and he keeps a public house.” He had to work hard to annunciate his words. “The Bell.”
“The Bell,” Will repeated. “Sam Fox? I know him. He’s your man behind the curtain?” He let out a low whistle. Hartley elbowed him clumsily in the ribs and then lost his footing. Will laughed and tugged him upright, and they made their wobbly way home.
Hartley walked right past the clerk’s desk and into the solicitor’s office, somehow managing not to cringe at his own unmannerliness.
“Mr. Sedgwick,” the clerk protested, calling after him. “Mr. Philpott is engaged.”
Philpott was not engaged. He was at his desk with no company but a stack of papers.
“Thank you so much for seeing me,” Hartley said with all the effusive gratitude of a client who had been granted a proper appointment, rather than someone who was no better than a trespasser. “No doubt your schedule is frightfully busy. I’m so glad you could find the time to talk to me.”
“Mr. Sedgwick,” Philpott said, plainly flustered. “I told you to consult another attorney. I’m not prepared to represent you in any legal matters.”
“Of course not,” Hartley said cheerfully as he settled into a chair, crossing one leg over the other. With a negligent air, he glanced around the room. There were four cabinets of the sort lawyers used to store papers, none large enough to hold paintings unless removed from their frames and rolled up. “But it’s not a legal matter at all. It’s quite illegal, in fact. And I do think you’ll want this door closed while we discuss it,” he advised.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Should we leave the door open, then?” Hartley kept his eyes wide and his expression innocent. Philpott called for his clerk to shut the door, and Hartley knew he had the whip hand in this conversation.
“What’s this about, Sedgwick? Whatever filthy business you’ve gotten up to is no concern of mine.”
“Oh, dear me, no. It’s not my filthy business at all. Only, it’s occurred to me that you must know where the paintings are.”
“I don’t know what you could possibly mean.” But his eyes darted to a small lacquered cabinet by the door. Hartley pretended not to notice.
Hartley made a disapproving sound. “Come, now. Of course you do. I’d really have expected a better caliber of lies from the man who served as Sir Humphrey’s solicitor. Either you have the paintings or Martin does. If Martin is on the Continent, then I find it hard to believe he’s traveling with a trunk filled with paintings. I’m certain he didn’t leave them at the Priory because it’s been let to tenants.” The tenants were Ben and his captain, and there was no possibility that the captain’s hellion children hadn’t run amok over every nook and cranny in the house. “And I also know they aren’t at Friars’ Gate because that place has been stripped to the floorboards. That leaves you.”
“Why would Sir Martin leave these paintings in my care?”
“Because they’re his principal asset.” It had taken days for Hartley to realize it, but the paintings were worth a tidy sum. They were the best kind of blackmail fodder: respectable people painted in the nude. “If you don’t have them—” he let his voice indicate how dubious a likelihood that was “—then we ought to ask Martin what became of them.”
“Sir Martin is traveling,” Philpott sniffed.
“Surely you have some mode of communicating with him. Where are you directing correspondence? A poste restante?”
A flicker of unease passed across the lawyer’s face. “Sir Martin left no address.” Philpott’s face was scarlet. The redder the solicitor’s face, the more certain Hartley became that the man knew exactly what had happened to those paintings. “This is highly inappropriate.”
“It was highly inappropriate for your late client to use me as he did,” Hartley said evenly. “And it was highly inappropriate for you to condone his behavior during his lifetime.”
“I never did any such thing,” the older man sputtered.
“Please, Mr. Philpott. You knew perfectly well what kind of man my godfather was, and you still took his money. You had visited his library and you had seen his paintings.”
“Sir Humphrey didn’t leave half his estate to those whores.”
“Yes, well, he did leave half his estate to this whore, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. It’s mine.” Philpott’s face was now purple with either anger or embarrassment; Hartley did not much care which. It had felt good to condemn Easterbrook; speaking the words aloud to someone who had known the man felt almost like retribution. “I’m giving you one more chance to tell me where the paintings are.”
“And then what?” the solicitor scoffed. Philpott’s implication that Hartley was, once again, helpless in the hands of a man with more power and influence made him want blood.
“Do you really want to find out? I have no reputation left to lose and I have a certain amount of money burning a hole in my pocket. I could bring an action against you for slander. Or, I could get Easterbrook’s will sent to Chancery. That ought to keep us both busy for the next few decades.” He was delighted to see Philpott’s face drain of color. He had come here to inspect the lawyer’s office for any likely hiding places, but wielding a little bit of power had been unexpectedly satisfying.
He stood up and put his hat on his head. “Good day, Mr. Philpott.” By the time he reached the street, he was more sanguine than he had been in weeks.
The door to Hartley’s house was opened by a tall girl in an enormous, starchy cap. Sam clutched the paper parcel under his arm. It was Sunday evening, and Sam had expected Hartley to be alone.
“How can I help you, sir?” the girl asked, as if Sam were the lord mayor coming to pay a visit.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Hartley Sedgwick,” Sam said, startled to realize that this capped and aproned servant was the same disordered girl he had seen in Hartley’s kitchen that night he had arrived with Daisy.
“I’ll see that he gets it,” she answered, holding out a floury hand.
“Ah, no, this has to go into his own hands.”
“You should have come to the front door, then, sir,” she said with the air of someone who knew exactly which doors people ought to be using and wasn’t afraid to say so. “But perhaps Mr. Sedgwick does things differently,” she conceded. “You sit by the fire and warm your feet while I let him know he has a caller. What did you say your name was?”
“Sam,” he said. When she continued to watch him, plainly waiting for the rest, he said, “Sam Fox.”
“Well, there’s hot cider in the pot if you care for some, Mr. Fox,” she said before disappearing up the stairs. As she turned he saw that she wasn’t merely plump, but increasing. Nearly done increasing, by the looks of her.
Sam ladled out some cider for himself, then sat in the chair he had occupied that afternoon he had watched Hartley play with the dog. Every time Sam had been in this room, it had been quiet and empty, with only the smell of old cooking. Now it was hot and bright, with three pots bubbling on the fire and the aroma of baking bread permeating the air. The cider was sweet and spicy and filled him with warmth.
There were footsteps on the stairs. “He says will you please join him in the library and, if you please, stay for dinner. It’s roast squab and carrots, nothing grand.” The girl said this not with the air of a cook apologizing for a humble supper, but
with the intimation that Sam might run if he thought he was being invited for a three-course meal. And she was right.
“I reckon I’ll stay. Thank you, ma’am . . .” She had called him Mr. Fox, and he didn’t know what to call her.
She opened her eyes wide and stared at him. “I don’t. I mean.” She was stammering as if she had been asked to do a tricky sum rather than her surname. “Sadie Russell. Miss.”
“Thank you, Miss Russell,” he said.
He found Hartley sprawled on the sofa, reading a newspaper. His head was pillowed against one arm of the sofa and his bare feet were propped up at the other end, crossed at the ankles.
“I thought it was the servants’ half day,” Sam said.
Hartley folded the newspaper and got to his feet. “It is, but if I want her to eat a hot meal I have to pretend to want one. Otherwise she eats bread crusts. It’s shocking.”
“She?”
“The new cook. Sadie. Well, she’s more of a cook-housekeeper, really.” Hartley seemed looser and happier than Sam had ever seen him. “And, well, not to put too fine a point on it, I have every reason to trust her discretion.” His cheeks flushed. “Not that your coming here means that we’ll have need of discretion. Perhaps you really did come to make a delivery.” He glanced at the parcel Sam still held under his arm.
“Ah. Well. I thought you might need cheering up, so I brought you something. But you seem in fine fettle, so perhaps I won’t—”
“Don’t you dare,” Hartley said, stepping toward Sam and reaching for the parcel. Sam held it over his head, well out of Hartley’s reach. “I love presents.”
“No, no,” Sam said with a sad shake of his head. “I’ll save it for a rainy day.” Hartley was inches away now, one slender arm still raised toward the parcel and the other resting on Sam’s shoulder. Sam felt a rush of heat at the unexpected contact. He rested a steadying hand on Hartley’s hip, ready to pull it away. But Hartley didn’t flinch.
“All right, I’ll give it to you. But if you don’t want it or if you’re cross with me for thinking it was something you might fancy, I’ll take it away.”
“Now I’m curious as well as greedy.”
Sam huffed out a laugh and handed over the parcel. He watched nervously as Hartley undid the string, hardly daring to breathe. Hartley was carefully picking at the string and the paper as if he needed to save them for later use, as if he weren’t going to toss them into the fire or put them in the dustbin or whatever rich men did with rubbish. Finally, Hartley had peeled back all the layers of paper and stared at the object in his hand.
“I—” Hartley cleared his throat. “When you said you brought something to cheer me up, I thought maybe some boiled sweets. Not an enormous glass prick.”
“It’s not enormous,” Sam said before realizing this was not the best ground on which to protest.
“It’s very pretty,” Hartley said dubiously, holding it out so it caught glimmers of firelight.
“Kate picked it out,” Sam said, because apparently his brain had just stopped working at the sight of Hartley holding that thing. “I mean, I told her what I needed and she got it.” Sam might be foolish fond of Hartley Sedgwick, but he wasn’t fool enough to show his face in the sort of place that sold things like that. It was one thing for a woman to make that kind of purchase, but it was entirely more conspicuous for a man to do so. A girl like Kate could pull her cloak up to cover her head and come and go almost invisibly. Moreover, he knew he could trust her.
“She buy a lot of glass penises for you?” Hartley asked blandly.
Sam nearly choked. “I never saw one of those things until yesterday. But I’ve been thinking about how you said you liked being fucked, and how it’s a pity you can’t be. I thought it might be of use.”
Hartley raised his thin, pale eyebrows. “When you thought about precisely how this might be of use, did you let yourself imagine it in detail?”
If Hartley hadn’t been sliding his hand up and down the glass prick, Sam might have given a different answer. “You’d better fucking believe I did,” he said. “Jesus.” His own flesh and blood prick leapt to attention at the thought.
Hartley’s hand slid up the fake prick, his thumb skimming over the head, his eyes fixed on Sam. “Would you want to watch me?”
Oh, would he. His mouth went dry at the thought of it. “You offering?”
Chapter Seventeen
He was offering. Hartley could hardly believe it, but there it was. “I can’t promise that I can go through with it, but at the moment the idea feels inspired.”
When Sadie had announced that Sam was downstairs, Hartley’s stomach flipped in some unholy combination of anxiety and relief that Sam still wanted to see him, even after Hartley had alienated him at Friars’ Gate. Sam showing up was good; Sam showing up bearing gifts was better. The fact that the gift was a literal cock was delightful. No, more than that—it was kind and thoughtful and dear, because he was trying to give Hartley something he couldn’t otherwise get. Sam was a lovely man who did lovely things, and he likely deserved someone who wasn’t a colossal mess.
Well, if he wanted to be with a colossal mess, Hartley was going to make it worth both their whiles. He brought the glass prick up to his mouth and gave it a long, slow lick, watching Sam’s eyes flare at the sight. God, he loved watching this man get worked up. It was so subtle, just a slight quickening of breath, a bite of his lower lip. With other men, men who wouldn’t recoil in fear, maybe he let himself go, using his big hands and his strong body to take what he wanted. That was possible, Hartley conceded. But he knew that Sam liked this, liked the challenge of restraining himself. Well, Hartley liked watching Sam hold himself back. He liked it very much indeed. So much, he took the glass prick into his mouth and sucked the head.
“Oh fuck,” Sam whispered.
Hartley took Sam’s hand, meaning to lead him to the chair or the sofa or anywhere he could proceed to do lewd things with glass cocks. But Sam’s fingers closed around his own so lightly, so gently, that Hartley was momentarily unable to draw in a breath. It felt so good to have someone else’s hand around his own like this. Sam brought Hartley’s hand up to his mouth. He was moving slowly, carefully, his eyes on Hartley for any sign of upset. Hartley gave a little nod to show that whatever was happening, he liked it. Then Sam bent his head to kiss Hartley’s knuckles. The feel of lips on skin should not have felt like anything terribly special. Certainly it oughtn’t to have sent desire spreading across his body like butter melting on hot bread. And there was more than desire; there was a wash of acceptance, of affection, of a whole host of things that Hartley hadn’t known he wanted.
“Come over by the fire,” Hartley said, getting his hand free. “Can’t do this with clothes on.”
He hadn’t ever been completely naked with Sam. He hadn’t ever been naked with anyone since—then. But this was totally different. This was Sam, and Sam was safe. Sam wouldn’t do anything Hartley didn’t want. Hartley went to the door and turned the key in the lock. When he turned around he saw that Sam had taken his coat off and was sitting by the fire, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. He watched Hartley unbutton his waistcoat as if he were witnessing a miracle.
“Blast,” Hartley said. “I don’t have any oil.” It had been a while and he wasn’t shoving any cocks up his arse without oil. As much as he trusted Sadie and Alf, he wasn’t going to ask for cooking oil to be sent to his library.
“I have—” Sam took his coat off the floor where he had dropped it and retrieved a small jar from the inside pocket. Hartley recognized it as the salve he had used at the inn. “It worked when you used it on me, so I thought . . .” His dark skin flushed to a deeper color.
“Thank you,” Hartley said, taking the jar. He made fast work of his cravat, tugged off his trousers, pulled the shirt over his head, and then he was bare. Sam’s eyes were wide, his fingers pressed hard into the brocade of the armchair, and he looked at Hartley as if he were trying to memorize the sig
ht. Hartley stood beside the matching chair, a few feet away. He had given this some little thought while stripping. If Sam wanted to watch, Hartley was going to put on a show. But he wasn’t going to make himself ridiculous. Not that there was a way to bugger oneself with dignity—dignity was quite a moot point now that he was standing naked on his hearthrug. But he wasn’t bending over the sofa and going at himself. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it beautifully, which probably meant he was compounding perversions with vanity, but so be it.
He sat, slinging one leg over the arm of his chair and tucking his other foot up beside him. He was totally on display, and when he saw Sam shift in his seat, he knew he had achieved precisely the reaction he sought. His own prick started to harden at the idea of what he might look like, what it must feel like for Sam to be able to look but not touch. He took the glass prick and teased it down his length, and heard Sam mutter an oath. Good. He needed to know that Sam liked what he saw. He spread his legs a bit further and brought the cock to the sensitive skin beneath his bollocks. It was cold, and very hard, and altogether nothing like a real cock, which was good because Hartley would have shied at a real cock. This was different, and Sam didn’t want anything that Hartley hadn’t freely offered.
When he scooped out some salve, spreading some on the cold glass and some on his skin, Sam loosened his neckcloth. Hartley pushed inside himself with the tip of one finger and flinched a little at the sensation. It had been a very long time since he had touched himself this way, and even longer since anyone else had. He managed another finger, but this angle was terrible, so he lined the glass cock up with his entrance.
“Hartley,” Sam breathed. He was fully hard, Hartley could tell, but he still hadn’t moved his hands from the arms of the chair. “You’re beautiful.” He said it as if he were watching Hartley do something wonderful. As if there was nothing profane about this. Maybe there wasn’t.
A Gentleman Never Keeps Score Page 16
