--*--
Jim was used to his plans not working out, so this time he’d made certain to plan for that too. Ideally, he’d planned to spend a couple days in London making certain he was all right, then start walking to whatever county he decided on, trying to get room and board in exchange for work when he could and sleeping rough when he couldn’t. He didn’t think scrubbing pots or mucking stalls could possibly be worse than leaning over a bench in Dixon’s kitchen or stables and waiting to see who would stick their cock in him. Then he could keep as much of his money intact as possible until he found the right cottage. Nothing would be worse than finding someplace he wanted to call home and discovering he was a few pounds away from independence.
But it didn’t work out. When he’d woken up the first day, it had been to find his body stiff and sore in what seemed to be every muscle and bone. That hadn’t surprised him; he’d spent two years doing hard physical work, so he shouldn’t have been surprised he needed to recover from it. He hadn’t realized it would take his body time to get used to eating normally again. Food had been plentiful at Dixon’s to keep up his strength but mostly made up of porridge, bad soups, and worse stews. So he ended up spending two weeks in his small rented room. On the day he checked out, it started to rain, which he thought he really should have expected. And Lincoln-on-Marsh was not close, although he didn’t consider that a bad thing. Far from London meant prices would probably be better and less chance of running into anyone who had known him there. In the end, he bought a ticket for the mail coach that would take him about halfway to Lincoln-on-Marsh. Lodging would be cheaper, and he could start walking from there.
Chapter 3
***
LIONEL WANTED TO STRANGLE SOMEONE. As none of this was really anyone’s fault, strangling didn’t seem to be a good option, which was probably for the best as the doctor was now fashioning what appeared to be a sling, and as he was the only patient at the inn, obviously it was meant for him.
“Nothing broken, just a sprain.” The doctor was very cheerful about it, which did nothing for Lionel’s mood. “Plenty of rest for it, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Considering how miserable the rain outside looked, Lionel wasn’t sure that was an improvement, but he thanked the doctor and paid him and went in search of his coachman.
Garrett was in the main dining room. “Axle’s broken, sir. I’m very sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. It wasn’t the man’s fault that the road was wet and the horses had been scared by some fool hunter’s rifle. “How are the horses?”
“Bit skittish still but not hurt.”
“That’s good.” He looked around the inn. The Four Bells wasn’t a bad little place, really, but he had to get back to Lincoln-on-Marsh and take over as magistrate as soon as possible. And with his arm, he couldn’t rent a horse and ride home. And Garrett needed to stay and see to the repairs to the coach and the care of the horses.
Garrett must have sensed his dilemma. “Landlord says there’s a mail coach heading towards Lincoln-on-Marsh arriving in half an hour. He said it’s never full this late.”
He could send a rider to Hensley House from Lincoln-on-Marsh to bring a carriage for him. Or Danvers at the White Hart could just drive him home; it wasn’t that far. “I’ll inquire about tickets. Thank you, Garrett. Did you wish to stay here, or should I arrange something else?”
“This’ll do for me, sir. Food’s good, and the stable is well run.”
“Then I’ll see everything is taken care of. Bring the coach back when it’s ready, but don’t push yourself or the horses. I won’t be needing it at least until my arm heals.”
Lionel gave Garrett a purse to cover unexpected expenses then arranged for room and board for him and the horses and waited on the front porch for the mail coach. There was only one other passenger when he got on, a shabbily dressed young man, who pulled himself into the corner when Lionel climbed in.
“I could ride up top, if you’d rather, sir.”
Lionel was surprised and a little concerned that the man had thought he’d want to be rid of him. His own staff knew him well enough to not be intimidated. Did he really seem so cold to the outside world? “Not at all. It’s a bit of journey, and the weather’s miserable.”
“Thank you, sir.” But the man stayed in his corner.
Perhaps he merely wanted to be alone. Lionel glanced at him without turning his head, trying to determine what to do. An introduction was always someplace to start. At least he’d know what to call the man. “Sir Lionel Westin.”
“Jim.”
It seemed overly familiar to call the man by his given name. When no surname was forthcoming, Lionel prodded a bit. “Mr. Jim...”
There was a pause, then the man said, “Smith.”
“Smith?” Lionel didn’t think he’d ever met anyone actually named Smith.
The man glared at him. “Yes, Smith.”
Lionel realized he’d offended the man. “I’m sorry. It’s a perfectly good name. Brings to mind ancestors who were blacksmiths or silversmiths or goldsmiths.” He was babbling. That would do nothing to improve the man’s opinion of him.
“Doubt any of my ancestors saw gold unless they stole it.”
“Do you have highwaymen in your family tree then? There’s a rumor that Great Uncle Claudius was, but never proved.”
Mr. Smith gave a bit of a snort and turned his head.
Lionel wasn’t certain what had come over him to make him actually joke, other than a need to stop his traveling companion from sulking and slinking away from him. He really should have known better than to try. “I truly didn’t mean any offense. Shall we begin again? I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith.” He made to offer his hand, but the sling prevented him.
Mr. Smith turned. “The pleasure is mine, Sir Lionel.” He gave an exaggerated, seated bow, but he was smiling when he straightened up. “Did you receive that injury in the course of a great robbery? Twenty men, armed to the teeth, guarding a shipment of rare gold coins?”
Perhaps it wasn’t the total disaster he thought it was. Lionel wasn’t used to being teased. He hoped he was responding correctly when he said, “Naturally. It had nothing to do with my coach slipping on the road and breaking an axle.”
“You’re lucky to be up and about.”
“I’m lucky to have a good driver. What brings you out?”
“I was looking to buy some property. And you?”
“Going home. Hensley House, near Lincoln-on-Marsh.”
“I bet it’s the family home. Large and filled with antiques and paintings going back ten generations.”
Lionel smiled. “Large, and there are antiques, but not the family home.”
“I suppose your parents must still live in the family place then.”
“They died. Mother when I was little, Father a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories.” Mr. Smith did look contrite. “Is that why you were in London? To honor his memory somehow?”
Lionel snorted.
Mr. Smith grinned. “That close, eh?”
“I may have made us sound closer than we were.”
“I see. What did he do to you, if you don’t mind me asking.”
Lionel shrugged. “It’s what he didn’t do. He left the business, all of it, every pen and inkstand, to my brother, Randall.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lionel realized he sounded mercenary, and that wasn’t why he was upset at all. But Mr. Smith was still looking at him with sympathy. Judging by the state of his clothes, Mr. Smith was far more knowledgeable about the power of money, or the lack of it, than Lionel would ever be. He felt the need to explain so the man would not think badly of him. “If there had been some acknowledgment. Even a line saying he knew how much I’d helped over the years, how many impossible contracts I negotiated for him, how often I’d cleaned up after my brother, how I�
�d managed to save a failing part of the business. Anything. But it’s as if he never noticed me, never noticed a thing that I did for the family.”
“Do you want me to get a bottle of Scotch and we could dance on his grave?”
Lionel looked up, startled. Robert had given the right sort of sympathy, but no one had been quite so completely irreverent about it.
“If you’d rather provide the Scotch, I could find us some cheap whores, and we could do other things there.”
Lionel started laughing in spite of himself. If Father had known what sort of a whore he’d have asked for...
“Feeling better?”
“A bit.”
“Is that why you were in London?”
“Yes. Well, not entirely. My brother got in trouble at the gaming tables, and I had to bail him out.”
“The one who inherited the business?”
“The same.”
“Oh, well that seems like an interesting choice then. What is the business?”
“Boat building, mainly.”
“Oh, then I won’t need to worry about doing business with them. I thought if it was tea or something, I’d avoid them.”
“No, the tea business is all mine.”
“Tea business? How many things is your family into?”
“Not that many. As I said, the tea business is mine. I thought, if I was able to make a go of it...”
“Your father would see you were the better choice? I take it old Randy is your older brother.”
“That’s right, on both counts.”
“Well, if old Randy runs it into the ground, that’s his problem now. Or into the sea, I suppose. Or would it be the coast? In any case, what’s it called so I can watch the newspaper for the scandal?”
“Westin and Son.”
“Not to be impertinent, but wasn’t the name a bit of a clue?”
Lionel grinned. “I kept hoping he’d add the ‘s.’ He said it upset the balance.”
“And did it?”
Mr. Smith was still grinning. Having an appreciative audience made Lionel want to try a bit of humor again. “Aesthetically, the sign can’t really claim any balance or any aesthetic at all. And physically, well, it is bolted to the outside of the warehouse. I hope one letter wouldn’t bring the whole thing down.”
“It might cause some people to doubt the balance of the boats. Hate to have one tip every time someone makes something plural when you’re at sea.”
“But I suppose that’s not my problem now.” Lionel leaned back in his seat. He felt better than he had in days. At least now he could laugh at the whole thing. He didn’t need the income from the business, not with his own doing so well. Of course, if something did go wrong, he’d have to rush back to London and bail Randall out, but for the moment, it was nice to pretend he wouldn’t have to.
Mr. Smith seemed to be relaxing as well. At least he continued the conversation. “Is that why you’re in such a hurry to get back? To get away from them? I noticed your arm, which I would bet you were told to rest rather than travel with.”
“No. I mean, I was told to rest, but Perkins, the local magistrate, had to leave town for a few days and asked me to fill in for him.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“It’s a difficult, terrible job.” It wasn’t quite so bad as he made it sound, but it was a thankless responsibility, and he knew Perkins only took it to raise his standing in the community. He didn’t want to Mr. Smith to misunderstand, so he added, “I have to talk to people and everything,” which really was a good bit of what he disliked about the role.
“Then why not say no?”
“It’s what a Westin is supposed to do.”
“Even after he’s been passed over?”
Lionel turned back towards the window. Was that what Robert had meant when he’d asked who he was trying to impress? Was he trying to impress someone? Who? It was too late for Father, and he wouldn’t have found the idea of being magistrate impressive, more foolish for not getting out of it. Randall would just think it was something Lionel did, like paying debts or negotiating an end to a duel. Maybe telling Perkins no wouldn’t have been the disaster he thought it was.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Smith said softly, interrupting his thoughts. “I really didn’t mean anything by it. It’s been a long time since I could speak freely to someone, and I think I’ve forgotten how to do it properly.”
“Don’t apologize. What you said reminded me of something a friend said to me in town. If you’re both of the same opinion, perhaps I should listen to it.”
“If your friend is clever, then by all means, listen to him. But don’t mind me. I think I’ve missed the sound of my own voice.”
Lionel rather thought he was enjoying the sound of Mr. Smith’s voice.
“But it’s your turn anyway. I’d like to hear about old Great Uncle Claudius’s exploits or your daring escape from an overturned carriage.”
Lionel smiled. He didn’t think he could tell much of a story, and he’d probably put Mr. Smith to sleep. “Would you settle for hearing about Lincoln-on-Marsh?”
The journey in the mail coach was the most fun Lionel could remember having while traveling, and really the most fun anywhere in a long while. Mr. Smith was by turns amusing and serious, asking intelligent questions about the area around Lincoln-on-Marsh and the possibilities for purchasing a small cottage with some land. From his evasive and unspecific answers any time London was mentioned, Lionel concluded that his new friend had led a less than savory life there. Surely nothing violent; he couldn’t imagine the man seated across from him as a thug or assassin. All right, he didn’t want to imagine him as someone violent. Perhaps a thief. He was slim and supple despite the obvious strength in his shoulders. That would seem to be helpful for when a thief needed to escape quickly and blend into the crowd, not that Mr. Smith would blend in anywhere. Or a pickpocket perhaps, with his long, slim, clever fingers that seemed to always be fiddling with his clothes as if they didn’t quite feel right on him. Lionel had to stop himself from offering to remove them for him.
When they pulled into the first coaching inn, Mr. Smith was watching the scenery outside the window, seeming fascinated by the small village. Lionel wondered if he’d ever been outside of London and altered the tale of a highwayman he’d been crafting in his mind to account for that.
“Not staying long, but long enough for you to get out.” The driver held the door for them then went to talk to the man who’d run out from the stables.
“Would you like to get some lunch?”
Lionel had been looking forward to having someone to sit with inside, but Mr. Smith shook his head. “I’d rather stretch my legs.”
Lionel wondered if that was true, or a polite way of saying he was looking for the privy, or if his new friend needed to be so careful of his money that he skipped meals. He would have offered to pay for his, but then Mr. Smith would probably have felt obliged to return the gesture, and this was the cheapest place they would encounter for quite a while. “I’ll see you in the coach then.” Perhaps the landlord would have some pasties or some other portable food for purchase. If he happened to buy more than he could eat, surely Mr. Smith would not feel obligated to repay his poor planning.
Jim wandered away from the coach and away from Sir Lionel Westin. He wasn’t going to miss this chance to have a nice conversation with a handsome, kind, intelligent man, but he needed to get himself under control again before he sat close enough for their knees to touch. Besides, he didn’t want Sir Lionel to know how careful he had to be with his money. He might wonder why he was traveling to the ends of England to buy a tiny piece of property, and he had no doubt Sir Lionel would take him up on the offer to ride outside if he knew about his time with Madame Rosamond—anyone would, let alone his time with Dixon. No, a few minutes walking would calm him, and then he could return to pretending that, if he bought a cottage near Hensley House, he could pay calls on Sir Lionel, maybe invite him for drinks, m
aybe invite him upstairs, maybe... And that line of thought was not helping matters at all.
And Sir Lionel was such a nice man. Although Jim hadn’t mentioned his true profession, it was obvious that he was of a completely different social sphere from Sir Lionel, and yet the man had treated him as an equal at once. Of course, that was most likely the close confines of the coach and the lack of any other company to make the time pass, but Jim liked to think at least a little of it had been Sir Lionel’s kindness. He’d enjoyed watching the man smile, watching him relax and even tease a little as they rode farther from London.
When Jim wandered past the inn again, he glanced in the window, scanning the tables for a glimpse of Sir Lionel. He didn’t see him at any of the tables. He kept looking until he spotted him at the bar, talking to the man behind the counter. Sir Lionel seemed to be ordering a basket to bring with them. Jim imagined sitting next to Sir Lionel while the man ate, licking sauce from his fingers, offering Jim a taste of it. That undid everything the walk in the rain had done.
Jim finally walked as far as the stream behind the inn and filled his mind with thoughts of the cottage he would buy. Perhaps he could find a place with enough land for both a vegetable garden and one for flowers. That would be nice, to have fresh flowers growing outside his door. With those sorts of thoughts, he was able to gain control of himself and return to the mail coach.
When he returned, he realized his dreams of more time alone with Lionel were just that, dreams. It was a public mail coach; of course they would pick up more passengers. The ones they’d found here appeared to be a married couple, firmly middle class, which meant they were ready to look down their noses at anyone without a title, although they didn’t have one, and would probably try to ingratiate themselves to Sir Lionel once they heard his. Jim sighed. It had been too good to be true. He approached the coach and nodded in response to the driver’s greeting.
The new passengers stared at him as he came towards the door to the coach. The man leaned out and made a shooing motion. “We’ve nothing for you here. Go ply your trade inside.”
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