A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  “Oh, Harry,” she whispered, her lovely eyes grave. “Why did you never say?” She frowned, then, her beautiful face thoughtful and determined. “Perhaps we should tell papa,” she said. “He could help make sure whatever it is never comes to light.”

  “Are you insane?” he demanded, outraged. “You want to tell your father? Good God, even if I ever get away with this, he’d never let me marry you!”

  Her eyes grew ever more serious and her voice lowered further still. “Is it so very serious, Harry? What you ran away from?”

  “Serious enough to get me hanged,” he said, watching her hand fly to cover her mouth in shock and waiting with grim satisfaction for the moment she stared at him in horror. She would realise then what kind of man she fell in love with, she would realise that she wanted nothing more to do with him.

  He waited for it, and though her eyes shone with tears and she looked pale and afraid, she stepped closer and took his hand.

  “I know you, Harry Thompson, or Preston, or whatever your name really is,” she whispered, with more perspicacity than he might have credited her with. “And I know you are a good and honourable man. Whatever is in your past, I doubt it was something you could help, and no matter what, Harry, I love you.” She squeezed his fingers hard, her eyes so full of that pig-headed determination that had made her such an obnoxious child. “I won’t change my mind, and I won’t give up on you. Viscount or pauper, you’re mine, Harry. You always have been.”

  He laughed then, a genuine laugh of amusement, despite everything. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her, kissing her nose. “Spoilt wretch,” he muttered, absurdly touched by her impassioned speech. “Always have to have your own way, don’t you?”

  She made a sound of protest but he swallowed it with a kiss, kissing her to prove that he wanted her and everything she dreamed of, just as much as she did.

  Once she was breathless, though, he let her go and stepped away. “I must go now, love,” he said. “But I’ll remember your words, and I promise. I’ll do everything I can.”

  He bid her goodnight and headed to the front door.

  Dog in a doublet, Harry.

  Alistair’s words echoed back to him as he made his way outside. “All right, you old goat,” he muttered to himself. “I hear you.”

  Chapter 20

  Captain Huff - a noted bully

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Harry settled himself behind Alistair’s desk and tried to make himself believe it was his rightful place. He’d dressed with care, in his best clothes, taking a deal of time and effort over the blasted cravat, which had nearly been enough to make him want to forget the whole thing. If this was what it meant to be a gentleman, he wasn’t sure he was cut out for it. He snorted, remembering all the pains he’d taken over the past years to learn to do just that. Copying Alistair at every turn, his turn of phrase, the manner in which he spoke, his accent and his mannerisms. It had taken him years, but it was second nature now, yet it didn’t make him any less a fraud.

  Perhaps he could play at it, know what knife and fork to use and be able to speak intelligently of classical civilisation and even throw in a bit of Latin for good measure. Alistair had been careful to give him all that. Had he planned this, then, all along? Harry thought not. Alistair had known blood was important. If Wilfred had simply agreed to keep Harry on, none of this would have happened. Alistair had acted in a fit of pique. With sorrow, Harry wondered if he’d have regretted it once he’d calmed down.

  No.

  He remembered the look in Alistair’s eyes, the tone of his voice when he’d admitted he wished Harry was truly his son. He’d meant it.

  So with that thought in his head, he waited a moment before calling out as he heard the inevitable knock at the door.

  “Come,” he said, using the bored and slightly annoyed tone that Alistair had been so adept at.

  Reggie came into the room, holding the door closed against his side, which was no doubt annoying the hell out of Wilfred Preston. Reggie had overheard the man talking to his mother yesterday, heard her insistence that Wilfred should have it out with Harry, frighten him off, or pay him off, if necessary. So Harry was forewarned, though he still wasn’t relishing the prospect.

  “Mr Preston, Sr., would like to speak with you, if you can spare the time, my lord,” Reggie asked, his voice dripping respect. Harry shot the man an amused look and then gave a sigh of irritation that he didn’t have to feign.

  “Oh, very well, Fletcher. If he must,” he drawled, startling himself with the uncanny resemblance to the old goat’s way of speaking.

  Even Reggie looked a little taken aback, but he composed himself and opened the door, allowing Wilfred to step over the threshold with the disgusted air of one who was allowing a filthy pauper before the Prince Regent himself.

  “Cousin,” Harry said, not looking up from his ledger and not inviting him to sit, though the man did so in any case. “What can I do for you?”

  “You think you’re dreadfully clever, don’t you?”

  Harry waited a long moment before he looked up, sitting back and eyeing the man in front of him with undisguised dislike. He’d known men like Wilfred and his brother, growing up on the streets, though he rather suspected that Edwin was the worst of the two. He hadn’t yet decided about Baden. But Wilfred and Edwin were birds of a feather.

  Bullies.

  If there was one thing Harry despised above all else, it was a bully. Suddenly, this didn’t seem so hard.

  “Cleverer than some,” he agreed, giving a cool smile and steepling his fingers together.

  Wilfred snorted. “Cleverer than me? That’s what you think, isn’t it?” he accused Harry, and with such a violent outburst of temper that he looked positively feral. “You jumped-up little scrub.” The man sneered at him, leaning forwards in his chair, his narrow face full of hatred as he looked down his nose at Harry. “You are nothing and nobody, born in the gutter, I don’t doubt. You’re filth, nothing more, and I’ll see you back with the rest of your kind if it’s the last thing I do.” His face was a snarl, his eyes as narrow as his lips, drawn back over yellowing teeth in a grimace of displeasure.

  Harry didn’t react other than to smile a little.

  “I was born in the gutter, or near enough,” he admitted, his tone thoughtful. “The slums of some big town.” Harry waved a vague hand, watching the way Wilfred’s eyes followed the ruby signet ring with a look of pure avarice. “I don’t remember where exactly,” he continued looking thoughtful. “But my mother was turned off once they discovered she was pregnant. Father ... Lord Preston, that is,” he clarified, watching the fury mount in Wilfred’s face as he spoke with satisfaction. “Father didn’t know anything about it. He’d been away, you see. When he returned, my mother had gone.” He allowed his face to grow sombre, finding it easy to act the part, as he wished so badly it were true. “But he had Pennyworth search, too, and in the end he found us,” he said, using the story that Pennyworth had insisted on. “Or me, at least,” he added with a sorrowful smile. “My mother had died some years earlier.”

  “Fustian!” Wilfred exploded. “You’re an imposter. A filthy liar, and I intend to expose you.” He pointed a long, thin finger in Harry’s direction. “I warn you now, whoever the hell you really are ... If you go now, go away and relinquish any claim on the title, I’ll see you handsomely paid off. You’ll be able to indulge whatever disgusting vice you choose, and be king of the gutter the rest of your days.”

  Harry felt his temper spike at the contempt and derision in the man’s voice, but he remembered that Alistair was always at his most dangerous when he was quiet, and held his tongue.

  “And if I choose not to accept your ... extraordinary offer?” Harry replied with a polite smile.

  “I’ll destroy you,” Wilfred promised, such real malice in his eyes that Harry was truly a little shocked, though he didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid.

  “Is t
hat a threat, cousin?” Harry replied, his tone cool and as icily contemptuous as anything Alistair could have mustered. “Because I do not respond well to threats.”

  “Why, you ...” Wilfred growled, getting to his feet in fury.

  Harry stood, too, slowly, and used every inch of his imposing height and width to intimidate the sparse and lanky man in front of him. For the first time, Wilfred looked just a little daunted, but not for long. He gave a sniff of disgust.

  “My lawyers are the best in the country,” he promised Harry. “And I’ll spare no expense in proving you a phony who wormed your way into my uncle’s affections and twisted a dying man to your own will.”

  “Oh, with the man’s personal lawyer in on it, no doubt?” Harry replied, raising one eyebrow and looking just a little surprised.

  “Oh, you can play at being Lord Preston, you young tuft-hunter,” Wilfred said, his whole body so taut with rage that his voice shook. “But I’ll see you swinging by your neck if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Oh?” Harry replied, sounding mildly interested at best, though in truth he was suppressing a shudder of revulsion at the idea. “Hanging, now? You were content with simply seeing me in the gutter just a moment before.” He gave the man a soothing smile. “Really, cousin, you must control your temper. I rather fear for your health if you keep this up.”

  Wilfred paused at that, and Harry realised it had sounded rather like a veiled threat. Though he hadn’t intended it to be interpreted that way, it seemed to have discomposed Wilfred, and so he was happy to run with it.

  “Why not go for a breath of fresh air?” he continued, quite unable to disguise his amusement. “I find it good for the nerves,” he added, before calling for Reggie, who he knew was lingering outside the door. “Fletcher.”

  A bare second later the door opened.

  “You called, my lord,” Reggie said with such grave dignity that Harry almost laughed out loud.

  “Yes, Fletcher. My cousin is feeling unwell, perhaps you could show him to his room and ask your dear wife to prepare him a tonic.”

  “I’m not unwell!” Wilfred raged, looking like he really was close to an apoplexy now. “And I don’t want your blasted tonic, you ... you ... charlatans!” he exploded before stalking from the room in a towering rage.

  “He seemed upset, my lord,” Reggie observed with a straight face.

  Harry snorted. “He was,” he said, his tone dark. “God help us all.”

  ***

  Harry took his own advice in the end and went for a walk, though the weather wasn’t very conducive. A damp mist rolled low over the fields and rain clouds hung heavy and laden in the leaden sky. It had been a wet summer so far. Dismal, in fact. He hoped the wretched turnips didn’t rot; the old goat would be laughing his socks off, if they had socks in heaven. Harry snorted to himself at the idea of Alistair in heaven, wondering why he never even doubted it. But for all his miserly ways, Alistair had a good heart underneath it. He might not like doing the right thing, if it cost him money, but he did do it eventually.

  He’d just crossed the yard, thinking he might drop in on old Ramsy, as he hadn’t seen him for a day or two, when he saw Mr Brewer strolling back to the house at a leisurely pace. Harry kept his head turned away and hoped the fellow wouldn’t acknowledge him. If he truly believed he was Lord Preston and had any grasp of the social niceties, he wouldn’t dare.

  “Good morning, my lord,” the fellow called out, raising a hand to him.

  Harry scowled but forced himself to give the man a nod of recognition. “Brewer,” he replied, his voice terse.

  “Nice day for it,” the fellow said, grinning at him in a far too familiar fashion.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Harry muttered, not stopping, and felt deeply aggrieved when the wretched man fell into step with him. He stopped and turned to face the handsome valet with irritation. “Was there something you wanted, Mr Brewer?” he demanded.

  The man looked back at him, a measuring look that made Harry want to count his own teeth and check his pockets.

  “Perhaps,” he mused, a cautious expression under that calculation. “I was thinking that maybe ... we could help each other? You and I.”

  Harry’s scowl deepened. “I don’t see how. And what on earth makes you think I’d want your help?” he asked, his suspicions growing by the second.

  The man shrugged his broad shoulders, blue eyes twinkling, and Harry felt a burst of pure dislike as the man winked at him. “Oh, I don’t know, my lord,” Brewer replied, giving Harry’s title like he knew they were both the same kind of creature and were therefore brothers-in-arms. “But as a valet, I knows things, see. I hears things,” he added, winking again, perhaps in case the first one hadn’t been illustration enough.

  “So?” Harry demanded. “Why would you want to help me? What’s in it for you?”

  Brewer shrugged. “I fancy a change of scene,” he said with a grimace. “New start. But I can’t just throw up a job like thisun, can I?”

  Harry snorted and folded his arms, giving a measuring look of his own. “Mrs Preston keeping you busy, is she?” he asked, deadpan.

  To his credit, the man actually looked embarrassed.

  “You’re not exactly discreet,” Harry added as the fellow rubbed the back of his neck and looked a touch awkward.

  “Yeah, well, it ain’t me, she likes the excitement of it, and I didn’t exactly ‘ave a choice in the matter,” he muttered, his blue eyes darting about as though he thought someone was listening in. “You want to keep the job, you please them that pays you, right? And Norah’s not such a bad sort, really,” he added with a shrug. “Just lonely and miserable like the rest of us, I reckon.”

  Harry nodded, understanding that, at least, and feeling almost sorry for the man, though he wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. “Well, it’s your own affair. I can’t help you. Sorry.” Harry began to walk off, but the valet grabbed his arm.

  “You mean to say you won’t spend a bit o’ blunt on getting Wilfred out’a the way?” Brewer demanded, looking incredulous.

  Harry shook him off with irritation. “To begin with, the money is held in probate until the case is settled.”

  “Oh, come now, my lord,” Brewer said, a knowing look in his eyes. “You look like the sort who saves his blunt, if you don’t mind me observing it. Bet you don’t gamble none, neither, eh?”

  “Mr Brewer,” Harry replied, feeling his temper fraying about the edges now. He didn’t trust this oily creature, and he wouldn’t put it past Wilfred to find a way to set him up. No. Best he kept well clear. “Whether I can or I can’t is beside the point. The fact of the matter it that I do not require your help. My father made his will and attested to its veracity whilst he was alive and of sound mind. Sooner or later, your employer will have to acknowledge that fact.”

  Brewer looked back at him, wide-eyed with admiration. “Well, now, ain’t you a deep one,” he murmured with approval. “Impressive, I call that. Cool as a cucumber. Sound just like one of ‘em, you do, too.” He laughed and shook his head, apparently undaunted by Harry’s blunt refusal as Harry resisted the violent urge to take a swing at him. “You just think on it, my lord,” he said, walking away with a swagger. “You know where I am if you change your mind.”

  Harry watched him go, his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. What the hell did the man mean by getting Wilfred out of the way, in any case?

  Damn the insolent devil to hell.

  How dare he act like they were both birds of a feather?

  It took Harry a moment to catch up with the fact that the man was actually right in his accusations, and he had to take a deep breath to rid himself of the mixed emotions that realisation brought. You’re just pretending and he damn well knows it, he cursed.

  They all bloody well know it.

  Harry groaned and sat down on a large outcrop of rock that jutted out of the land. There was a fine view of Alistair’s lands from here. Alistair’s, he reminded
himself. Not his.

  How long could he keep this farce up for? Perhaps he should have just taken Wilfred’s money and run.

  Beryl and Reggie and Ramsy, they were all set now, no matter what happened. Clarinda though ... A strange aching longing curled around his heart and stayed there, but he refused to think about Clarinda. He’d been on the verge of saddling a horse and going to visit her earlier, but it wouldn’t do either of them a mite of good. He sighed and closed his eyes, the feel of her lips on his only too easy to remember.

  But then his thoughts snagged onto something Wilfred had said during his tirade: You’re filth, nothing more, and I’ll see you back with the rest of your kind if it’s the last thing I do.

  Harry felt every muscle lock down with fury. Perhaps he’d lived in the filth of the streets, scurrying around like a rat for survival. He and plenty of others lived like that. He’d been a lucky one; so many would still be there, fighting for survival, or perhaps have died the way they’d lived, with no one giving a damn. Just because they lived like that didn’t make them filth. It wasn’t as if anyone had given them the chance to be anything else. But Wilfred would never see that. He treated anyone not his social equal with contempt, that was clear enough from his treatment of Beryl and Reggie. How, then, would the other tenants fare?

  God, he’d be a bloody tyrant. Bleeding them dry and never giving a crumb in return.

  Alistair had been a poor landlord, it was true enough, but he’d never been cruel or out-of-hand unreasonable. Wilfred would be cruel, and God forbid Edwin ever inherit. There was something about the middle brother that made Harry’s blood run cold.