A Gentleman Never Keeps Score

by Cat Sebastian

  “Shut up, you. I’ll have nothing to do with your radicals.” But Hartley couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hartley returned home to find Sadie in the kitchen, surrounded by about twenty pans of various sizes, two cloth-covered lumps of what he supposed was rising dough, and cuts of meat in assorted stages of preparation. The kitchen looked like a mess hall.

  “Is anything amiss?” he ventured.

  “No,” she bit out. A few strands of dark hair were coming down from her cap and her apron was askew. This was the first time since the night of her arrival that he had seen her even slightly disordered.

  “Where’s Alf?” He had specifically told Alf not to leave Sadie alone.

  “Gone to get Mistress Bradley.”

  “Miss . . .” It took him a moment to understand that Mistress Bradley meant Kate. “Is it . . . um . . .” He gestured to Sadie’s stomach. He had never gestured to anyone’s midsection as often as he had since Sadie entered his household and it filled him with dread rather than relief that the reason for this delicacy was about to make its appearance.

  She nodded curtly and resumed stirring what appeared to be a blancmange.

  “Are you quite certain this is the time to prepare dinner?”

  “Mr. Sedgwick,” she snipped. “I started these dishes earlier in the day with the hope that you and Alf might not starve during my lying in. If you’d rather I abandon my efforts and take to my bed, I can arrange for that.”

  “Ah, no. Carry on,” he said quickly. “Thank you. Perhaps you’ll let me stir that pot while you attend to the goose?”

  She turned away and gripped the edge of the table while Hartley looked on helplessly, then resumed plucking the goose. Hartley stirred the pot fervently.

  “Can I get you anything?” Hartley asked after the third iteration of this pattern of table-gripping followed by furious goose-plucking. Sadie shook her head.

  When Kate arrived with Alf in tow, Hartley fully expected her to take control of the situation. Instead, she watched Sadie for about half a minute, then gathered a basket of parsnips to peel. When Alf saw this, he whimpered. “You’re not going to do anything?” he asked.

  “How old are you?” Kate asked.

  “Eighteen this summer.” Hartley rather thought Alf meant this coming summer, but refrained from mentioning this.

  “You can tell me how to do my job when you’re thirty and you’ve helped deliver over two hundred babies.” That got a choked laugh from Sadie. “Meanwhile, go get a cask of stout brown ale, the darker the better.”

  Hartley fished some coins out of his purse to give Alf for the purchase, then resumed stirring the pot. An hour later, the motley array of pots and dishes had transformed itself into the beginnings of a minor feast, Hartley had learned that chopping a turnip involved taking one’s life into one’s own hands, and Sadie was still puttering about in the kitchen.

  “I think we’re about done,” Kate said with an air of finality.

  “There’s the washing up.” Sadie’s hands were wrapped tightly around a heavy wooden spoon and her voice was choked. She looked very, very young.

  “Alf can wash up when he gets back,” Hartley suggested.

  “Or you can do it now,” Kate chirped, then put an arm around Sadie’s waist and led her to her bedchamber.

  Before Hartley had finished the dishes, Alf returned, rolling a cask of ale before him. He looked half sick with nerves. Hartley wasn’t sure what Kate intended the ale for, but looking at Alf, he reasoned some of it could be spared toward putting the lad’s mind at ease. “It doesn’t have a tap on it,” Hartley said, walking around the cask.

  “They don’t come with taps, mate,” Alf said patiently. “You have to put them in.”

  “I know they don’t come that way,” Hartley said, slightly indignant. “I just assumed that in London ale was sold with taps already on the barrel.” As he said the words, he realized why he had made that error. So did Alf, evidently.

  “That’s because you’ve had a servant since you came here.”

  “I’m aware of that,” he bit out.

  “A whole house full of servants, even. You know your floors don’t sweep themselves, either, right?”

  Hartley, who at the moment was elbow deep in dishwater, knew that Alf was taking the piss rather than accusing him of being too fine for work. “I’m also aware that there isn’t another employer in London who would put up with this kind of insubordination,” he managed.

  “Nah, you like it. You were always on edge when the house was filled with proper servants. You like this better.”

  With all the force of an epiphany, Hartley realized that Alf was right. He did like this better. He was happier doing the marketing and helping Sadie in the kitchen than he was sitting in state upstairs and being waited on. He enjoyed the company of Alf and Sadie more than that of anyone he had met before his disgrace. This was likely some perversity of his own nature. But he also knew that he was beginning to view his few years of life as a gentleman as an aberration from the norm, a strange holiday in the land of the rich and idle. Doing the washing up felt like coming home.

  A sound came from Sadie’s bedroom. Hartley and Alf locked alarmed gazes. “At the moment I don’t care if I have to pry that cask open with my hands, but we’re each having a pint. Now,” he commanded.

  Alf nodded, his eyes wide, then rummaged around in the still room before emerging with a tap.

  “Ought we to go upstairs?” Hartley asked dubiously. “To give them some privacy?”

  “If you’re asking me, you must really be lost.”

  “Well, obviously I’m lost, Alfred,” Hartley said tartly. “I hardly know what the protocol is when one’s housekeeper is experiencing a blessed event and one is drinking copiously in the kitchen with one’s valet.”

  “Who are you calling a valet?” Alf’s speech was slightly slurred.

  “Frankly I don’t know what to call you.”

  “I told your friend Sam that I’d like work at the Bell.”

  Hartley stilled. “Is that what you want?”

  “No offense but I’m bored off my arse here. And you’re going to need to decide whether you’re running a proper establishment—” those were Sadie’s words, Hartley guessed “—or if you want the likes of me sewing on your buttons.”

  Hartley had already started to suspect he couldn’t go on indefinitely with this odd living arrangement. It was one thing for a man to live in lodgings and have a very bad servant, but to live in a grand house that was half shut up and almost entirely unstaffed was peculiar indeed. It would ultimately draw more attention than he wished. But Hartley doubted Alf was concerned with keeping up appearances, and wondered what had gotten the boy thinking about this. “Why do I need to decide?” he asked.

  “It might make life easier for certain people who are used to life being a bit more settled.”

  “Are you one of those people?” Hartley asked skeptically.

  Alf shot him a weary smile that made him look far older than his years. “No, mate.”

  “And I don’t suppose we’re talking about Sadie, either.”

  Alf shook his head.

  “What does Sam care what kind of house I keep?”

  “It’s not about your house. But for a regular person like him to take up with a rich man looks a certain way.”

  “I beg your—He’s never said anything of the sort to me,” Hartley protested. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe not. But here you are with your house and your cravats, gold coins falling out of your pockets—”

  “Alfred, you are drunk.” He snatched the cup of ale away from the boy.

  “Look, all I’m saying is that if I were to take up with a person, I’d want them to be my equal. Otherwise one person holds all the cards and it might start to seem more like the sort of thing I did at the docks and you did upstairs.”

  Hartley sucked in a breath. He had to
bear in mind that Alf was very young, and was likely letting his own experience color his judgment. “I should never have let you drink half this much,” Hartley managed, feeling his cheeks flame. “It seems the wildest flight of fancy on your part to imagine that any of this piddle has occurred to Sam. He’s a decent-minded person.”

  “Oh mate.” Alf shook his head. “You have a bad case of it.”

  “If he any reservations along those lines, he hasn’t said a single word about it.”

  “What could he say about it? Oh Mr. Sedgwick, please renounce all your worldly goods so we can live in beautiful and noble squalor together.” He said this last sentence in a slightly mincing tone that Hartley suspected was supposed to be an imitation of his own accents.

  “Utterly foxed,” Hartley muttered. But still, he suspected Alf was partly right, in that a person of Hartley’s class could hardly manage a lasting friendship with a person of a different background, let alone something more than a friendship. This, he told himself, was a point of merely theoretical interest: Sam surely was not looking for anything more complicated or enduring than their current arrangement. Hartley was perpetually struck with amazement that Sam wanted him around at all.

  The night dragged interminably. Hartley filled Alf’s cup until the lad fell asleep in his chair, then proceeded to clean the kitchen. When the pots were scoured and the surfaces wiped, he was left with nothing to do, so he cleaned it all again. Muffled noises were coming from Sadie’s bedchamber and none of them sounded in the least promising.

  “Don’t leave her,” Hartley said the second time Kate entered the kitchen in search of clean linens and broth for Sadie. “If you need something, shout for me and I’ll get it. Just don’t leave her.”

  Kate tilted her head. “She’s strong, you know.”

  “I do know. But she shouldn’t be alone. She ought to have her mother or her sister.” Not a confused employer and a snoring boy. “She deserves better.”

  “Maybe you need to get rid of your idea of better. Your boots are better than mine, but they won’t fit my feet. So to hell with better. Your boots and your ‘better’ can both go fuck themselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy, and she’s busy—” she gestured at Sadie’s room “—and sodding everyone but you is busy. Go to sleep. There’ll be plenty of work that needs to be done tomorrow, and right now there’s nobody in this house that’s fit to do it.”

  Hartley was not going to be able to sleep and he saw little point in even making the attempt. How could anyone sleep under these conditions? Sadie might die. Her baby might never live. It was appalling that this was how people came into being and Hartley had a mind to lodge a complaint, or, since that was not possible, to weep onto someone’s shoulder.

  Hartley checked that Alf was safely arranged on his chair, grabbed his topcoat, and headed outdoors. He didn’t even need to think about where he was going; there was only one possibility, late though it was. If the windows above the Bell were dark, he’d go back home, he decided. But there was a flicker of lamplight inside, and when he knocked on the door it wasn’t long before he heard footsteps.

  Sam was sweeping bits of crumbled brick and soot from the floor around the hearth when he heard a quiet tapping on the door.

  “The hell?” Nick asked. “It’s gone midnight. There’s somebody at the door every night these days. It’s no better than running a cathouse.”

  “Might be Kate,” Sam pointed out. He swept the soot into a tidy pile and was about to dump it into the dustbin when he heard Hartley’s voice.

  “Is Sam in?”

  “Yeah, he’s in. Don’t know where else he’d be at this hour,” Nick said. “But he’s about to go to bed and so am I, so—”

  “It’s fine, Nick,” Sam said, approaching the door. “This is Kate’s friend, Hartley.”

  “That’s right,” Nick said, realization dawning. He held the door open for Hartley to enter, then shut it against the chill of the night. “She said she was going to your . . . who is she, now?”

  “My friend,” Hartley said. “Sadie is my friend.” There was a moment of empty silence as it seemed to occur to Hartley that he needed to explain why he was here at such an hour. Sam wracked his brain to come up with an excuse, but he wasn’t cut out for deceit. Inspiration struck Hartley first. “Kate sent me for a cask of ale,” he said, and Sam wouldn’t have known it for a lie if he hadn’t sent Alf home with a full cask of their best porter only a few hours ago. But it was as good an excuse as any.

  “I’ll get it sorted,” Sam started to say, but they were interrupted by a loud, echoing clatter that began deep within the bowels of the building and culminated in a crash and puff of soot.

  “That’s another one,” Sam said with a sigh. “And I just finished sweeping up.”

  “Makes three tonight,” Nick said.

  “We’ll get the sweep in again tomorrow, I suppose.”

  “Wait. You’ve had three bricks fall from the chimney tonight?” Hartley asked. “That’s not a good sign.” Nick shot Sam a glance because that’s exactly what Nick had been saying all day, only Sam wouldn’t listen.

  In the near darkness, Sam regarded Hartley levelly before turning to his brother. “I’ve got this, Nick. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. Why don’t you go to Kate’s rooms so you’ll be there when she gets home?”

  Hartley shifted awkwardly while Nick took a coat off the hook near the door and disappeared outside.

  “What’s this really about?” Sam asked. “You have me worried.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Hartley said. “I was careless. I wanted to see you, but I didn’t think anybody other than you would open the door. It was reckless, which was just the thing you were scolding me about the other day and I’m so sorry.” His words came out in a rush and ended on a half sob.

  “Shh.” Sam came near but didn’t touch the other man. “What’s the matter?”

  “Sadie’s having the baby and I’m worried sick.” Hartley’s brow was furrowed with worry, and by the light of the guttering candle, his eyes shone. He usually did such a thorough job of tucking all his feelings out of sight that Sam was startled by the sight of him in distress.

  “Has Kate said anything about it not going well?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I just—I don’t want anything to happen to Sadie. Sam, I really shouldn’t have come. Now your brother will know and if anyone saw me come here they’ll know too.” He stepped close enough for Sam to hear when his breath hitched. Sam opened his arms in invitation, and Hartley tucked his head under Sam’s chin, wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck.

  “You can always come to me,” Sam spoke into Hartley’s hair, his arms around the other man’s back, holding him close.

  “No, I can’t. It’s not safe. I must have been half mad.”

  Sam guessed that Hartley had started to worry about Sadie and then the worry started to gather speed like a cart rolling downhill. This didn’t have to do with him, but with Hartley being out of practice in feeling things and caring for people. “Hart, when I told you I wanted you to stay safe, I meant not to get yourself hurt or arrested. There’s nothing wrong with coming here. People come here all hours of the night and day.”

  “You don’t let them in at this hour.”

  “I can let in whoever I want.”

  “If anybody knew me, they’d wonder about you, and you don’t need that. Your brother, Sam. How long do you think it’ll take him to figure out why I came to you? Or what about that constable you told me about?”

  Sam’s heart thudded at the idea of Merton seeing Hartley leaving the Bell in the middle of the night, long past closing. “Nick bought your line about the ale,” Sam said, because it was the only answer he could make.

  Hartley pulled away, letting the cold air slide between their bodies. “Eventually he’ll figure it out.”

  “No, he won’t. I’m careful. And even if he did, he wouldn’t say anything, even to me.” Nick wasn’t nosy, he didn’t ask questi
ons. But what if he did find out? Sam couldn’t quite imagine a world in which Nick knew that Sam went to bed with men, even less one where Nick knew Sam went to bed with a rich, dandified gentleman.

  Hartley gave a wintry smile, as if he knew Sam was conceding the point. “I see how it will go,” he said. “You’re such a bad liar, you know. He’d start to wonder. And you’d be ashamed of me.”

  “I would never—”

  Hartley held up a finger. “Not of me, per se. But of the need to keep a secret. It would weigh on you, because you’re an honest man, and you’re close to your brother. And I would resent you, because I’d envy that you have the option of secrecy.”

  Sam was about to protest when he was interrupted by the sound of another brick clattering into the hearth. They both stood wordless for a moment, listening to a peculiar creaking coming from above.

  “Sam,” Hartley said. “I don’t think this chimney is safe. We really ought to get out of here.”

  The sweep had assured him that the bricks that had fallen were old, not part of the chimney stack. Sam had no idea what that meant. But since the alternative was to believe that the chimney was unsound, and about to topple down and destroy the Bell, he had chosen to believe the sweep. But this time there was a sound like a groaning, deep from within the walls of the Bell. And with it came an echoing clatter, then something was falling from above. The next thing he knew, Hartley wasn’t in his arms, but on the floor.

  He scooped Hartley up in his arms, dimly aware that this was the first time he had held his lover so close. The next moments were a vague rush of hollered orders. “The chimney is collapsing,” he shouted into the empty street. A head poked through an upper story window, and then the street was filled with people in nightcaps and hastily donned clothes who either wanted to be clear of the buildings adjoining the Bell or who wanted to watch the spectacle of a building being destroyed.

  “I need a doctor,” he shouted. In the moonlight he could see that there was blood on Hartley’s head, but that he wasn’t out cold. His eyelids fluttered and his mouth moved slightly, as if he were trying to talk. Sam knew well what serious blows to the head looked like, and this wasn’t one. But it was still bad, and it was his fault.