When it seemed certain no one else was going to be using the campsite, Jim set about cleaning up, clearing away the leaves from the fire pit and checking the lean-to for damage. It looked sturdy enough, just needed a bit of patching, which was a good thing, he told himself as he went in search of sticks. Patching meant whoever had built it had left and not bothered to repair it. It would be perfectly adequate for him. After all, he was only staying long enough to see what sort of property he could buy in the area. And they would surely all be unsuitable. They should be unsuitable, he told himself. How could he live this close to Sir Lionel and not try to renew that acquaintance? And how could he see Sir Lionel and not want to do more than talk? He’d happily fall back into his old profession if he thought Sir Lionel would be a regular or even occasional client and that was the only way he could be with him. “No one like him would actually fall in love with someone like you,” he told himself severely and forced his mind to focus on collecting wood, although how he’d start a fire without a tinderbox, he had no idea.
By the time Lionel had gotten to the White Hart, after meeting with Perkins and hearing about the most recent reports of trouble between a pair of farmers over a boundary line and three local lads all courting the same girl and liable to break into fights whenever in each other’s company, then had finished sorting through the post that had accumulated since he’d been in London, he’d been too late to find Jim there. All the way back to Hensley House, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t disappointed and it was to be expected. He’d known there weren’t many properties for sale in the area. It was most likely Jim had gotten to his task quickly and had already seen and rejected all of them, or even heard the descriptions and known they weren’t for him, and then moved on to another town with more likely prospects. Mr. Danvers said the hired coach had returned so the coachman could eat and rest the horses before setting out for home, but Mr. Danvers hadn’t seen it leave. It was possible Jim had asked for a ride back in the direction they’d come, hoping to stop somewhere more to his liking. Quite logical, in fact. He had nothing to tie him to this spot. A short meeting with a stranger in a coach was hardly the sort of thing one stayed around for, even if one had found the company acceptable. Lionel sighed. No, one would only stay if they were a love-struck fool.
He realized Harrison had left the soup in front of him, and picked up his spoon. If only he’d been better prepared when he’d returned. Obviously, the meeting with Perkins to tell him he’d arrived couldn’t have been done in advance; not much point to it before he’d arrived. And the post that had accumulated while he was away, he didn’t suppose there was much he could have done to prepare for that. But surely there would have been some way to hurry those tasks along, some way to prepare so that he would have been done in time to try to run into Jim casually. And certainly he should have offered again to let the man stay with him. Hensley House had plenty of room.
Lionel realized the spoon was halfway to his mouth and tried to concentrate on his meal. If Jim wasn’t in the area, how would he find him? He had no idea where he’d worked in London, and Madame Rosamond’s was the only brothel Lionel knew. He didn’t even have a last name, not a real one, anyway. Lionel wondered if Jim knew what it was or if that was something that had been lost when the family scattered. Not that he would ever ask. Not that he would ever have the chance.
“Were you finished with that, sir?”
Lionel looked down at his barely touched soup. “No, no just thinking about something. On the trip... I...”
“Your arm? Perhaps I should send for the doctor.”
It was as good an excuse as any. “I don’t think it’s that bad, just a bit sore, and that makes me a bit slow.”
“I am sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to rush you.”
He would have to stop thinking about random men he met on his journeys and concentrate on what was in front of him. “You didn’t. I’m a bit tired, that’s all.” He started to eat the now cold soup steadily if not enthusiastically, but he wasn’t certain if Harrison was satisfied or not.
Jim eventually did figure out how to light a fire without a tinderbox, but that was more of an accident than any skill on his part. He also managed to find a stream with good water and more apple trees, which provided something to eat. He could return to the inn for a meal if he needed to, but he wondered if perhaps he could rig up some sort of snare and catch something instead. It was worth a try, he thought. He knew about knots; he’d been restrained by them often enough and had had to get himself out of a few situations before he’d gone to Madame Rosamond’s when the client had left him tied up and unpaid. The concept should be familiar to him, at least. He lay back under the lean-to and found the bed of leaves was no worse than other beds he’d had, only he had no worries about having to share it.
That had been the last thing he should have thought of. At that moment, he would have liked nothing better than to be sharing his bed with kind, handsome Sir Lionel. Doing whatever Sir Lionel wanted. He prided himself on giving men what they wanted, or had in his old life. So what would Sir Lionel want? He tried to imagine the man coming to him at Madame Rosamond’s. Which of the rooms would he have chosen?
For some reason, imagining what Lionel would want was harder than it ought to be. Perhaps because he shouldn’t be thinking of him, Jim reasoned. He rolled over and picked up the newspaper to distract himself, moving around until he could read it by the light of the fire. He turned to the page listing properties in the area and froze. There was an article about a house in the area, Beckwood Hall, recently sold to Lord Dixon, late of London. He should have known. He’d heard the name of the village from Murdoc. He should have known there was a reason. He couldn’t stay in Lincoln-on-Marsh. He’d have to leave.
Jim forced himself to calm down and read the article. The sale was recent, and it seemed the house was undergoing renovations. So Dixon wouldn’t be here breathing down his neck in the morning. He could sit down and plan logically and calmly where to go next. The slim chance that he might see Lionel in passing was not a consideration at all. Jim told himself that several times in an effort to convince himself it was true then turned to the most boring article he could find, one on horse trading, to read until he fell asleep.
Lionel tossed in his bed. All he could think about was Jim saying he was good at giving men what they wanted. Lionel wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he knew it involved Jim. Those pink lips pressing against his, working their way down, closing around his cock perhaps. Sucking, licking. He slid his hand under is nightshirt and stroked himself, trying to imagine it was Jim.
No, that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Jim spread out before him. That was it. Every plane of that slim body stretched out in front of him. He wished he knew what Jim looked like under his clothes. They’d been ill fitting, tight in the chest and loose in the hips, but not enough to give him an idea. He imagined the hard chest, not too hard, just enough muscle to be interesting as the sweat beaded and slid along the planes. He imagined leaning over and licking at the small nipples as they grew hard under his tongue. Then he’d follow the light dusting of hair along his taut belly until he reached his cock, hard and ready for him. He tried to imagine what Jim would sound like as he felt Lionel run his tongue along the length, but his imagination couldn’t produce anything that seemed right. It was enough to pull him out of the fantasy and leave him lying on the bed, frustrated.
--*--
Jim woke up feeling stiff from sleeping on the ground, but on the whole, well rested. He ate a couple of apples and considered his plans for the day. He needed to find a more recent newspaper to start, one that would list houses for sale in the area. Mr. Danvers at the White Hart had been kind, even though he hadn’t had any work for him. Perhaps he would have a suggestion on how to obtain a newspaper. He might even have one a patron had left behind that he would allow Jim to borrow, or perhaps he subscribed to a few for his patrons to read like some of the coffee houses in London. Or he might have an idea
of somewhere else for Jim to begin his search, or even know of a likely place to start. Jim knew he’d have his best chance at help from the innkeeper if he didn’t ask for it while the inn was busy with guests, which meant not at breakfast. So he would wander towards the town and have a look around before he approached the inn. Maybe there’d be a bit of breakfast left over that Mr. Danvers would give him for a good price.
As Jim puttered around his campsite, doing nothing of any real use, he found himself wondering what Sir Lionel was doing far too often. And when he wasn’t wondering that, he was trying to catch a glimpse of Hensley House, although he had no idea how far away it was. Perhaps he could find a cottage in the area and then there would be the chance that he would see Sir Lionel about in the village. But that would be a foolish idea. It would be too difficult to know he was that close and yet unreachable. Jim tugged on the sticks of the lean-to, but they seemed to be holding up well. He really ought to be worrying about this place of Lord Dixon’s. Jim had never been anyplace in Northumberland, he was certain, so it must be a very new acquisition. It would be more sensible to spend his energy figuring out where it was so he could avoid it than looking for Sir Lionel.
The breakfast room at Hensley House was just as it had always been, but Lionel had never noticed what a lovely view of the gardens it had, or would have had if the gardens consisted of something other than weeds. How had he let it go so long? Of course, when he’d bought the place, it had been because he thought it had potential beneath the neglect, and with so many other things to fix, the gardens had fallen to the side. Still, what would Jim make of that? Lionel went to the sideboard and began to fill his plate. Jim would probably laugh and tease him then give him proper advice on how to fix things.
That was what he should have said. If he’d asked Jim’s advice on the gardens, then maybe Jim would have agreed to come and stay to get a proper idea of the scope of the problem before he offered any advice.
Lionel brought his filled plate to the table and began to eat. Jim had enjoyed the ham in the meat pies; he would surely like Mrs. O’Brien’s with its glazing. Lionel took another bite. As the owner of a tea company, he always took tea with breakfast; did Jim, or would he prefer something else? Ale perhaps. He ought to see what sort of cellars this place had.
What would they talk about, he wondered. Jim was looking for property. Perhaps he’d ask about some in the area. And Lionel would give him his best advice, not merely tell him whatever was closest to Hensley House was clearly the best. He started on the toast. Were there places in the area for Jim? He didn’t know of any, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist.
Lionel heard Harrison come into the room. “Harrison, are there any properties for sale in the area?”
“Beckwood Hall was, sir, but that was purchased by Lord Dixon not too long ago.”
“Dixon?” Lionel had only met him once or twice, but Robert knew him well and didn’t like him at all, although he said the connection was “convenient,” whatever that meant. Lionel assumed it had something to do with Robert’s more unusual tastes in gentleman companions, although from what he’d gleaned, Lord Dixon’s were of another sort entirely. “I suppose one does get interesting neighbors in the country. I don’t think I’ll pay a call, though.”
“I think that’s wise.” Was it his imagination, or was Harrison actually smiling a little?
“I was thinking of smaller properties, though.”
“Smaller, sir?”
“Someone I know was looking, but it would be for something significantly smaller than Beckwood Hall.”
“I’ll have the staff keep an ear to the ground, sir.”
“Thank you.” Lionel picked up his fork, but Harrison didn’t move. “Was there something else?”
“There is a person to see you, a tenant named Curlew. He’s looking for the magistrate. There seems to have been a poacher seen in the area.”
“Then I’d best see him at once. Where is he?”
“The smaller study, sir.”
Lionel put down his fork. “Then I won’t keep him waiting.”
“Shall I have your breakfast kept warm?”
Lionel had the feeling that this meeting would take longer than he liked. At least the staff would have what was still in the chaffing dishes for their breakfast. “No, you might as well bring this downstairs for someone to enjoy. But leave the tea.”
“Very good, sir.”
Chapter 7
***
LIONEL GROANED. TRAIPSING THROUGH the woods in the rain was not how he had planned to spend his first day back from London. He’d spent far too much of the night thinking about Jim and not nearly enough time sleeping. But Curlew had reported a poacher near the stream, and that really did need to be looked into, even if the last thing he wanted to do was go out in the rain and check. He’d agreed to be magistrate while Perkins was away, and that was the job. Robert and Jim would probably both be saying it served him right.
Lionel found the spot where the poacher had been reported then followed the river. It made sense that a poacher would go farther away from the manor house, into the denser trees, where there was more game and less chance of being caught. There were deer trails deeper in, but along the river, he could still walk normally. Hopefully, he’d see some sign of something without too much trouble.
So what would Jim do if he were here? He’d said he wanted a house with a garden. Maybe he was good at the outdoors. Then he’d probably be seeing all the little signs Lionel was sure he was missing, although with the steady rain that was coming down, maybe they’d all been washed away, and it wasn’t his lack of knowledge that was causing him to find nothing. He kept walking, keeping his eyes on the brush on the sides of the path and part of his mind trying to figure out what Jim would do. It was his reward for having to tromp through the woods in the rain with his bad shoulder—granted, it was a light sprinkle, but still—instead of taking care of all the things that needed his attention at the house. Really, he should have been thinking about the morning post or the letter he’d received the day before asking about which shipping company he preferred for the journey to China. Thinking about Jim was an indulgence, but one he was allowing himself so long as he didn’t forget what he was meant to be doing. Poacher. He was looking for a poacher.
Lionel spotted something in the trees just off of the path he had been following. It could have been a campsite. He found a smaller path through the underbrush that seemed to head towards it. So there hadn’t been much of an attempt to hide the site. That didn’t sound like a poacher, unless they were very confident in their ability to lie, or they thought they didn’t have to worry with the magistrate away. Lionel picked his way through the branches and went to examine the site.
There had been a fire, but it had been put out and the ashes covered. It looked like whoever had been warming themself there was planning on coming back and wanted to use the same area for another fire. It made sense; the fire had been built in a spot that was somewhat sheltered from the rain by a rock, and the ring of small stones that had been placed around had been done carefully. The poacher had made a bit of a lean-to with some branches nearby. It looked more like a semi-permanent campsite than a poacher’s quick stopping place.
Lionel went to examine the lean-to, but the traveler hadn’t left anything personal inside. Probably wise, but it would have given him a clue. Perhaps it was a soldier on his way home. One who couldn’t afford the inn. That seemed to fit the facts better than a poacher. But if that was the case, really there was no excuse for it. There was plenty of room at Hensley House. The man could easily stay there until he wanted to be on his way. Lionel fumbled through his pockets but couldn’t find any paper. Probably just as well; he wouldn’t want to embarrass the man if he couldn’t read, and he’d hate to have to rescind the invitation if the man proved to be a criminal or someone inclined to mooch off of his generosity indefinitely. There was nothing pressing to be done back at the house—the post wasn’t going anywher
e, and he could think about shipping companies here as well as there—and the rain wasn’t terrible right now. He could afford to wait a little while and take the measure of the man. And if the man didn’t come back before the rain got worse, he’d go home and dry off and come closer to sunset. The fellow would probably come back then to prepare food and sleep. He could extend the invitation of a room and dinner then.
The lean-to proved to be drier than he’d expected. And whoever was hiding out there was literate. There was a newspaper in the corner, on a rock to keep it dry. Lionel glanced down at it and noticed it was open to a section on land for sale. That made him think of Jim, although everything seemed to be doing that lately. Had Jim found his little place in the country yet? Surely by now he’d determined there was nowhere nearby for him and had moved on. Knowing that was the only thing keeping Lionel from going to the White Hart and loitering in the taproom, watching the customers. Although it wasn’t a bad idea. He could go around suppertime, when the guests would be likely to be there, and see if anyone had heard anything about the poacher.
So where would Jim have gone? West to Cumbria? Or farther south, back towards London? Or perhaps up into Scotland? Lionel leaned back against the rock and resolved to think about shipping companies, although his thoughts kept drifting towards Jim, trying to imagine what sort of place he would end up choosing for his country cottage with a garden.
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