A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Page 25
He rarely had cause to go to the attics, especially in the dead of winter. Dark and dusty places were in general not Hartley’s idea of fun, even less so when they were almost certainly crawling with vermin. So he was feeling rather put upon when he pushed open the door. Chasing squirrels out of his property was not what he had planned to do this afternoon.
Later, he’d wonder if he had known all along what he’d find in the attic, if he had known from the moment he had found the paintings behind the loose piece of paneling. But at that instant, when he saw the man standing in the center of the space, his first thought was that Alf had been correct in supposing the attic haunted. For here was a spirit of a man with shaggy hair and a great unkempt beard. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw that it was Martin Easterbrook.
His first thought was to wish that he had Sam with him. His second thought was that he ought to flee. Martin didn’t look like he was in fighting form, and surely Hartley could reach the street before him. He could pretend he had never seen Martin. He could leave the new occupants to deal with Martin as they might.
But then he took in the full extent of Martin’s haggard appearance, his sallow complexion, the bloodstained handkerchief in his hand, his thinness. He again wished he had Sam with him; not to keep him safe, because it was plain Martin posed no threat to anyone, but because Sam would know the right thing to do.
Hartley didn’t know whether Martin had been behind the gossip that had gotten him cast out of society. Perhaps it had been Philpott. Or perhaps somebody from his godfather’s old set had spoken up. At the moment it didn’t matter.
“You’re not going to ask what I’m doing here?” Martin asked. He looked terrible. Hartley supposed living in unheated attics was not generally beneficial to one’s health, but Martin looked positively sickly. Hartley found that he was very nearly concerned.
“It’s quite clear what you’re doing here,” Hartley said, gesturing at their surroundings. There was a pallet bed, a few candle stubs, and a pile of apple cores. “I daresay you have nowhere else to go, or at least that’s what you’ve told yourself. You will need to seek other accommodations, but we’ll discuss that in a moment. First, I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Martin didn’t respond. He only coughed into a dirty handkerchief.
Hartley sighed. “For God’s sake, take this.” He handed Martin his own handkerchief.
They went out the front door and Hartley hailed a hackney. When he gave the driver the address, Martin startled, as if he wanted to jump out of the carriage. “Don’t do it,” Hartley said coolly. “I don’t think you’d survive the fall.” Hartley paid the driver and they set off down a series of insalubrious lanes and climbed a rickety staircase. At first there was no answer to Hartley’s knock, but then he heard footsteps. Will answered the door and turned so pale that Hartley regretted not breaking the news to his brother more gently.
“I thought you were dead,” Will said, and proceeded to punch Martin solidly in the jaw.
All three of them stood in shocked silence for a moment, Martin rubbing his jaw, Will looking between his fist and Martin as if unsure how they had connected, and Hartley edging between them to prevent any further fisticuffs, as if he even knew how. Then Hartley cleared his throat. “Well. Didn’t anticipate that. Martin, I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but here’s five quid if you want to find someplace to stay that doesn’t put you into proximity with a man who means you harm.” He dug into his coin purse and picked out five pound coins. When he held his hand out to Martin, the other man waved him away, so he slid the coins into the outer pocket of Martin’s exceedingly dirty coat.
When Hartley went downstairs, the hackney had already left, and there was no chance of finding another in this quarter. He thought he ought to feel more than he did after seeing Martin, but as he walked back to the Fox he felt only pity for Martin and compassion for Will. The events of the past felt remote, not quite irrelevant but not important either. The snow was falling again, and soon he would be in his new home, starting his new life, with the man he loved.
Epilogue
It was snowing, so the flagstone floors of the Fox were growing slippery despite everyone’s best efforts to stomp their boots at the door. But somebody was playing a fiddle and the smell of roasting meat filled the taproom, making the pub feel like an island of warmth and merriment in the middle of a winter storm.
Hartley was at his customary table, a stack of papers and an inkwell before him. He absently rocked Charlotte’s cradle with one foot.
“When do you think he’ll be done?” Alf asked.
“He’s only been working on it for a month,” Sam pointed out.
“Yeah, but how long can it take to write a play? It only takes two hours to act it out.”
“I wouldn’t mention that to Hartley, if I were you,” Sam said, and handed Alf a tray of drinks to bring around. Then he poured a cup of coffee and brought it to Hartley’s table along with a roll.
“Thank you,” Hartley said, slipping a morsel of the roll under the table to Daisy.
“How’s our evil count?”
“Insufferable.” Hartley glanced up with a light in his eye. He was looking slightly scruffy these days, having disposed of his finest garments and adopted a style that he probably thought more suited to a working man. Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. “He’s being very dastardly indeed. I think it’ll be entirely amusing.”
When Hartley had said that he meant to stand on his own two feet, Sam hadn’t thought he had anything particular in mind, but it turned out that Hartley had meant to write a play. It was a rare treat, watching Hartley work, watching him find his footing. He had thought Hartley set such store by being a gentleman, but he seemed to enjoy his scribbling. Perhaps idleness, like pricey clothes, was another aspect of gentlemanliness he was glad to be shot of.
Sam took in the sight of him, ink-stained fingers, unkempt hair, a waistcoat the same pale grayish green as his eyes. “All lined up right and tight,” Sam said. “Not a single button out of line.” They both knew that Sam already was aware of this, since he had watched Hartley put on that very waistcoat a few hours earlier.
If there had been a bit more light, Sam bet he would have seen the pink rise in Hartley’s cheeks. It was a gift, knowing someone this well, seeing them day after day and living side by side. And to know that there were years ahead of them, that he’d get to see lines form around those pale eyes and gray streak that yellow hair, made him feel—well, it made him feel the way he hoped people felt when they came to the Fox and got whatever they needed. Warm, safe, and hopeful.
When people came together, in pairs, and families, and communities, it was a kind of commonplace magic that warded off the dark and cold of the outside world. He hadn’t ever thought he’d be on the receiving end of that sort of miracle, had thought it was reserved for people with fewer burdens and cleaner consciences.
“Later,” he said, his voice low and intent. “Later, I’m going to show you how glad I am that I found you in that alley.”
“Sam Fox,” Hartley answered, laying down his pen and looking up at him with an expression that was equal parts outrage and affection. “You show me that every day, every minute. I’m the one ought to be showing you how grateful I am. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be alone in the dark, counting my shirt studs or something.”
Sam leaned over the table on the pretense of wiping away a drop of candle wax. “I’m sure we can figure out a way to properly express our gratitude,” he murmured.
Hartley’s answering smile was fierce and joyful. “I bet we can.”
Acknowledgments
As always, this book wouldn’t have been possible without the support and hard work of the entire Avon team, especially my editor, Elle Keck. I hope all writers have cheerleaders and advocates as tireless as my agent, Deidre Knight, and my beta reader/friend/plot-hole-wrangler, Margrethe Martin. I’m indebted to Tasha Harrison for reading an early version of this boo
k and providing the sort of feedback that is pure gold to a flailing writer.
Announcement to A Duke in Disguise
The next exhilarating romance in Cat Sebastian’s Regency Impostors series,
A DUKE IN DISGUISE
is on sale
November 2018
About the Author
CAT SEBASTIAN lives in a swampy part of the South with her husband, three kids, and two dogs. Before her kids were born, she practiced law and taught high school and college writing. When she isn’t reading or writing, she’s doing crossword puzzles, bird watching, and wondering where she put her coffee cup.
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Also by Cat Sebastian
The Seducing the Sedgwicks Series
It Takes Two to Tumble
A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
The Regency Impostors Series
Unmasked by the Marquess
Coming Soon
A Duke in Disguise
The Turner Series
The Soldier’s Scoundrel
The Lawrence Browne Affair
The Ruin of a Rake
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
a gentleman never keeps score. Copyright © 2018 by Cat Sebastian. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition JULY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-282063-1
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-282158-4
Cover art by Fredericka Ribes
Cover photographs (left to right); © Jenn LeBlanc 2015 (man); © Mary Chronis, VJ Dunraven Productions & PeriodImages.com (man); © wtamas / Shutterstock (face); © Jana Mackova / Shutterstock (background)
Avon Impulse and the Avon Impulse logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America.
Avon and HarperCollins are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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