Released

by Adella J. Harris

  Jim felt the urge to pull out his ticket and show that he was meant to be there, but he resisted. He had as much right to be there as they did. He had bought a ticket. He was not going to apologize. “I’m traveling with the coach.”

  The man stared at him. “You’re not traveling with us, are you?”

  Jim opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out.

  “I will have words with the driver about this. How they could let the likes of you... And my poor wife here.”

  His “poor wife” seemed very interested in the goings on. The man climbed out of the coach and grabbed Jim by the ear like a schoolboy. Not for the first time Jim wished he were larger and more intimidating. He had no choice but to let himself be marched to the front of the coach, where the driver was preparing to leave.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “How could you allow a person like this on the coach with respectable people?”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “This man is a prostitute from London. I will not have my wife subjected to his company.”

  “And you’ve proof of this, sir?”

  “You doubt my word? I will bring this matter up with the head of your company. I will have you know that I am personally acquainted...”

  “Now sir, I was just asking if you were sure of your facts. No need to be upset.” The driver turned to Jim.

  Jim sighed. “I don’t want to make trouble for you.” It wasn’t the coachman’s fault at all. The man didn’t deserve to get in trouble with his bosses over him. “If you could get my bag down.”

  “I trust that settles things for you, sir. Now if you’d just go back to the coach, we’ll be underway soon.”

  The man looked like he wanted to argue some more, but it started to rain again. Apparently, Jim wasn’t worth getting wet over.

  The driver got Jim’s bag untangled from the luggage on top and passed it down to him. “Sorry, lad. I’ve got nothing against a man trying to make a new life for himself, but I’ve my job to think of, and they’ve got connections you don’t. I’ll give you the money for the part of the ticket you didn’t use, but I can’t take you.”

  “I understand.” He did. Why would anyone want to ride in a coach with him?

  The driver put the miserably small bag of his next to him and counted out the money for the fare. Jim pocketed the coins and thanked the driver. “Does the inn know?”

  “I didn’t tell them, and I won’t. But I don’t know what he did.”

  “Thanks.” Jim shoved the money into his pocket and went inside. Maybe he could trade work for room and board until the rain stopped or another mail coach arrived or something. He found the landlord behind the bar. “Any chance of work in trade for food and shelter? A place in the barn’ll do.”

  “We don’t engage in that kind of work here.” From his tone, it was quite clear that the couple in the coach had spoken to him.

  “I meant honest work. Pots need scrubbing? Want someone to clean the yard? No one else’ll want to do it in this rain.”

  “No work here. If I hired you, my wife and half the regulars would have a fit, and they wouldn’t be wrong.”

  Jim tried to remember if he’d ever bent over for that man in the coach. He didn’t think so, and there was no other way for him to know just exactly what Jim had done at Madame Rosamond’s, although perhaps he’d guessed if he’d visited some of the women at Madame Rosamond’s establishment regularly and seen him there. “Not even if I was mucking stalls in the rain?”

  “Not even then.”

  Jim sighed. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. “Can I order some food at least?” He didn’t want to walk to the next town in the rain.

  “I’ll give you something, but you eat on the back porch.”

  “I can pay for it.”

  “Still the back porch.”

  Jim nodded. It was the best he was going to get, it seemed. The landlord brought him a bowl of stew that had probably been made from the leftovers of the last few days and pointed to the back door. Jim brought his food outside and sat on the step.

  He barely noticed the food in front of him as he thought. He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy to leave his old life behind. How many more times would he be recognized? And was there any way to avoid it? So how had those people in the coach recognized him? The man had to be from Madame Rosamond’s. That was the only place. They had been too high class for most of the places he’d worked, and no one at Dixon’s ever looked at his face except to make certain they were putting their cock in the right place. Jim stabbed at a piece of unidentifiable meat in the stew. Maybe if the town he went to was remote enough, no one from London would go there. Pity he hadn’t thought to ask Sir Lionel how small Lincoln-on-Marsh was. At least he hadn’t known about Jim’s past. He’d been such a nice man, Jim would have hated to remember him with contempt in those gorgeous eyes. And he was quite sure there would be once the two in the coach told him whatever it was they knew.

  Chapter 4

  ***

  WHEN LIONEL MADE HIS WAY BACK to the mail coach, he found there was a new couple already inside, taking up most of the forward-facing seat. He knew he should have expected them to take on more passengers, but it didn’t stop him from being disappointed; he’d enjoyed talking to Mr. Smith and doubted they’d be able to continue their conversation with this new company there. They certainly couldn’t joke about his father, although really, they shouldn’t have with him not even cold.

  “Last call for Leeds and points beyond!” the coachman called.

  “Mr. Smith isn’t here yet,” Lionel said to the driver.

  “He won’t be continuing on with us.”

  Lionel stared. Had he said something to upset the man? Had he really been offended by the banter? Lionel wasn’t any good at joking. Maybe he really had said something unforgivable unintentionally. “Did he say why he wasn’t?”

  The gentleman inside leaned over. “You mean you didn’t know? That man worked in a—” He glanced at the lady then leaned forward to whisper, “A brothel.”

  “What?”

  The man got out of the coach and led him around to the side. “Hard to believe, I suppose, finding one on a public conveyance like this, but he is a prostitute of the worst kind. Worked for a time at a place called Madame Rosamond’s, where the most shocking things are allowed.”

  Lionel had the impression that the man was a little too intrigued by the shocking things he was talking about. And he highly doubted the man knew all of the shocking things that went on at Madame Rosamond’s, certainly not the ones Lionel had heard about from Robert. He wished Mr. Smith were there to take the man down a peg with his humor, but then Mr. Smith probably wouldn’t have been able to if the man had treated him as something inferior. Lionel would simply have to do the best he could on his own. “Then why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “Arrested him? How could I...” The man looked sufficiently taken aback.

  “I’m sorry, I assumed, since you were so knowledgeable about his crimes, you must have met him in a professional capacity. But if you are not a magistrate or a runner...”

  “I’m in cloth.”

  The man was clearly waiting for an introduction. Lionel wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “Well, I’m magistrate in my area, and I really must be getting back there.” He turned to the driver. “Would you take my things down? I think I’ll hire a private carriage to take me the rest of the way.”

  “Right away, Sir Lionel.”

  The title got the man’s attention, which was most likely the driver’s intent. Lionel ignored the merchant efforts to speak to him and went to stand by the inn door out of the rain. The merchant looked confused as he climbed back into the carriage. From the gestures he and his wife were making inside, they were either congratulating themselves on saving him from the notorious Mr. Smith or condemning him as the same sort.

  The driver distracted him from the speculation. “I’ll stack them on the
porch, sir, out of the rain.”

  “Thank you. And Mr. Smith’s?”

  “He didn’t have much. Has it with him.”

  “Very well.”

  The driver brought the rest of the bags in one trip. “There you are, sir. Shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone to take you. Sorry about the other fellow, but I didn’t see as I had much choice.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you did. Those two would have warned everyone who got on at every stop.”

  “Exactly. Pity there won’t be anyone to warn the new ones about them. Safe journey.”

  “And to you.” He handed the man a few coins to show there were no hard feelings and waited until the driver got on his way, then went to find out about a carriage to take him home.

  The innkeeper was very willing to accommodate his request for transportation. “The White Hart in Lincoln-on-Marsh? Certainly. We have a man who’ll take you that far.” They discussed price, and Lionel got the man to offer him something reasonable once he realized he wasn’t dealing with a fool.

  Once the money was finalized and the driver sent for, Lionel asked, “There was another man who was not continuing on the mail coach. I thought I might offer him a ride.”

  “Mr. Smith? I think he’s out back. He was looking for some work, but we didn’t have any, considering.”

  The place probably had its own people to do what he was implying. “Of course. I’ll go look for him.”

  Lionel could feel the innkeeper watching him as he walked outside, but he didn’t particularly care. Let the man think he wanted Mr. Smith for that sort of company if he wanted to, so long as he kept the idea to himself. Actually, he did want Mr. Smith for that sort of company, but he wasn’t about to act on it.

  Lionel found Mr. Smith out in the back of the inn, eating a bowl of stew that looked unappetizing while trying to keep dry in the small shelter of the back step. “Hello.” Well, that was a brilliant beginning, he told himself.

  Mr. Smith looked up. “You missed the coach.”

  “Didn’t like the company. I’ve hired a man and a private carriage to bring me the rest of the way home. If you’re interested, there’s plenty of room.”

  Mr. Smith began to stare at his food as if he had suddenly developed an interest in determining what sort of meat it was made from, which was probably not the best thing to consider if he was planning on eating any more of it. “What they said was true; I’m a whore from London.”

  “That makes me wonder how they knew that bit of information, particularly as you’re not practicing at the moment.”

  “And how do you know I didn’t proposition them behind the privy?” Mr. Smith didn’t look up, and Lionel realized it had been a serious question.

  “I told you I’m acting magistrate. You’d have to be an idiot to admit to all that to an acting magistrate. And you’re not an idiot. Believe me, I’ve known some.” Lionel couldn’t remember the last time he’d made so many jokes, but it felt good, especially when Jim managed half a smile.

  Mr. Smith glanced up. “My name isn’t Smith.”

  “I think we already covered that in the coach.” Lionel leaned against the wall of the inn. “I really do need to be home to take up as magistrate. Lincoln-on-Marsh is only about an hour’s walk from my estate. The coach will cost me the same no matter what. You may as well ride inside with me. Unless you’ve already made other plans.”

  Mr. Smith looked down at his bowl.

  “Walking in what is threatening to be a downpour is not a plan.”

  Mr. Smith smiled shakily. “If you really want me along.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

  “All right. But I can ride on top. I don’t mind.”

  “Have I said something to offend you? I didn’t mean to if I did.”

  “No, not at all. I just thought...”

  “Then get your bag, and we’ll be off as soon as I finish making the arrangements.”

  Lionel waited until Mr. Smith nodded, then hurried back inside to prepare before Mr. Smith could change his mind.

  When Lionel told the proprietor he would indeed be traveling with another passenger, the man looked at him sideways. “If you say so.”

  So he hadn’t been overreacting when he felt the man staring at him. He found he still didn’t mind what the innkeeper thought of him as long as he wasn’t running for the magistrate, but Lionel did worry that the man would say something to Mr. Smith, which might make Mr. Smith feel he couldn’t accept the invitation to accompany him. Then he remembered how the coach driver had silenced the other passengers. “If you need a name for your records, it’s Sir Lionel Westin of Hensley House, Lincoln-on-Marsh. Should you discover any reason to contact me.”

  The man immediately became more polite. “Of course, sir. I’ll see that the carriage is ready as quickly as possible.”

  Lionel looked at the rain outside. “With fresh travel blankets, of course.”

  “Naturally.” From the way he said it, Lionel suspected he would have gotten some flea-infested things if he hadn’t been specific, and made a note to check everything before he got into the carriage. He glanced around the room, trying to think of anything else useful. The food inside looked far better than what Jim had been eating outside. “And pack some of that chicken and that ham for us, with some bread and your best ale.”

  “Yes, Sir Lionel.”

  Good, the man remembered the title. Lionel glanced around and saw a woman had come out from the kitchen. So that was who the host was trying to impress. At least it would ensure the food was good.

  When the carriage was being readied, Lionel paced anxiously on the porch. He’d told Mr. Smith they’d be leaving soon, so he’d expected to find the man waiting somewhere nearby, but he wasn’t. Lionel had checked the yard out back, but there was no sign of Mr. Smith there either. Lionel couldn’t help but worry that the host or one of the staff had said something to upset him, to make him decide walking in the rain was better than being in a carriage with Lionel.

  The driver finally came around to the porch. “Ready when you are, sir.”

  The driver seemed nice enough. Perhaps the host hadn’t said anything to him yet. “There will be another passenger.”

  “Where is he then? The horses don’t like waiting once they’re ready.”

  Lionel swallowed. He could ask the host to send someone to look for Mr. Smith, but that would risk just the sort of comments he was trying to avoid. He hadn’t realized how much he was looking forward to spending time with his new friend until the possibility was taken away from him.

  And then he spotted Mr. Smith walking up from the woods. Of course, the man had probably wanted to avoid the inn and the staff for just the sort of reasons Lionel had been worrying about. He raised his hand in greeting, and Mr. Smith waved back. Lionel didn’t want to shout across the yard, so he had to content himself with smiling as Mr. Smith approached.

  The driver waited to take Mr. Smith’s bag and strapped it to the carriage. Lionel couldn’t stop smiling and realized he probably looked like a fool. Or worse—at least a fool would have said something. “Ready to go then?”

  Mr. Smith watched his bag being put away. “Unless you’ve changed your mind. I quite understand if you think you’d make better time on your own.”

  Offering him an honorable way to rescind the invitation if he wanted to. Lionel shook his head. “I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t meant it. Shall we get in?”

  Lionel waited for Mr. Smith to climb into the carriage before he did, just in case the man decided to leave while he was distracted, then settled himself inside. The driver came to see they were ready then shut the door. Lionel could feel the sway of the carriage as the driver got underway, then he relaxed. He’d have Mr. Smith to himself for a little while at least.

  Mr. Smith pulled himself into the corner near the window and sat hunched away from him. Lionel tried to watch him without being obvious. Was it merely a pose to keep the innkeeper from thinking wh
at he obviously had been, and they would return to their friendly conversation as soon as the inn was out of sight, or did Mr. Smith really think Lionel might not want to speak to him? Either way, there was no reason for him to be uncomfortable. Lionel took the two travel blankets from under the seat and held one out to Mr. Smith. When he didn’t take it, Lionel unfolded it and tossed it over Mr. Smith’s lap then tucked himself in under the other one. Mr. Smith was clearly chilled to the bone after sitting out in the rain. Lionel wished he’d thought to ask for some bricks to be warmed for them.

  Mr. Smith continued to stare out of the window as they pulled away from the village. Now that he had him here, Lionel didn’t want to merely sit in silence. Unless that was what Mr. Smith wanted. Or did Mr. Smith think that was what he wanted? He ought to say something. “Do you have plans when you get to Lincoln-on-Marsh, Mr. Smith?” That was uninspired.

  “I thought we covered that my name wasn’t Smith.”

  So he didn’t want to talk. “I suppose we did.”

  Mr. Smith turned towards him slightly. “I meant you might as well call me Jim. That is my real name.”

  “All right, Jim.” Lionel liked the way the name felt rolling over his lips. Short, but his lips pressed together as he said it. “And as we’re traveling companions, you must call me Lionel.”

  Jim’s spine snapped straight. “I couldn’t, sir... I mean, it wouldn’t be proper...”

  “And you’re concerned with propriety? You offered to get drunk and dance on my father’s grave.”

  Jim laughed a little at that. “I suppose that does make it hard to refuse.” He paused then added, “Lionel.”

  Lionel smiled too, although it was because his name sounded so good coming from Jim’s lips.

  As the day wore on, the rocking motion of the coach made them both sleepy. Jim succumbed first, which made Lionel wonder how much of the journey he had completed before he met up with Lionel. As Lionel watched Jim sleep, curled up in his corner of the coach, he thought back to all the things Robert had told him about Madame Rosamond’s when he was trying to convince Lionel to visit with him. If Lionel had known there were men like Jim there, perhaps he would have gone more often. But no, he wouldn’t have wanted to meet Jim like that, as a client, someone he had to please because he’d been paid for it. Even if there had been any friendship between them, any affection even, he would never have known if it was real or feigned to make an extra coin or two. Of course, he had no way of knowing if this friendship were real or the practiced art of someone used to making people feel comfortable. He hoped it was real.