The Gentleman and the Rogue (10 page)

“Now then, Sergeant, cut line and tell me what has happened.” Alan hadn't called Badgeman “sergeant” since their return to England and hoped that pulling rank would serve to loosen the man's tongue.

Badgeman adopted the proper stance—at attention, shoulders back, hands at side. But he didn't obey the order. “Begging pardon. 'Tis nowt to do wi' ye, sir.”

So much for the absolute authority he'd once wielded over the man, Alan thought wryly.

Still at attention, Badgeman said, “I pray I might take a bit o' time off, though. To attend to personal business.”

“Of course you shall have time off.” Alan hesitated. “I shan't interfere, Badgeman. And you know we keep one another's secrets.”

Badgeman blinked and looked away. “Aye. Only…'tis…I'm ashamed. Simple as that.”

Alan waited.

Still pretending to examine a nearby tree, Badgeman blurted, “I made a promise to Charlie Cutler, and I ain't even tried to keep it. Been more 'n a year, and I never even…” He pulled in a deep breath. “I just went on my merry way.”

“Don't be a fool. Any promises you made to Charlie had to have been before Badajoz. I recall he died of fever weeks before, poor devil. He'd understand your situation. Getting blown to bits isn't exactly going on your merry way. You had your own worries.”

“But Mrs. Charlie and the Major. I promised to look out for them, sir.”

“Ah.” Dismay flooded Alan. During his absence, Badgeman must have learned some bad news about Mrs. Cutler and her daughter.

Alan hadn't known Private Cutler's wife well, for all that she followed the drum. Mrs. Charlie had a strict sense of protocol and kept out of the officers' way.

The Major was a different story. Cutler's daughter had been fearless and quietly inquisitive. Conditions in the camp were primitive. The Major—Alan couldn't recall her real name—didn't complain, for she had never known any other life. She'd had the propriety of the military drummed into her but still managed to slip through the rules when her mother wasn't watching. More than once he'd been sitting in his tent and looked up to see her solemn gray eyes watching him from the open flap.

Badgeman choked out the words. “I promised Charlie I'd watch over his wife and the Major, but then with one thing and another… Right after Charlie perished, Mrs. Charlie told me she wanted for nothing. That she'd help with the wounded like she always had.”

“A strong woman,” Alan said, recalling the dark-haired lady who never smiled and who tried to hide her permanently reddened hands whenever she encountered an officer. “And she had some pride.”

“Made of iron,” Badgeman agreed. “Said working with the surgeons and the wounded made her forget her own troubles.” He rubbed his scarred cheek absently with a hand. “But you see, sir, she was not the best judge o' character. She greatly admired that Mr. Schivvers.”

“You're worried that she might have taken up with him? Whatever news you've heard, I doubt it could be that. Not that bastard. He thought too highly of himself to take a woman like her even for a moment's fun.”

Mr. Schivvers, the head army surgeon, was a fine figure of a man—tall, lean, with a ready smile and thick, pale hair. Yet the man had repulsed Alan from their first meeting. For months he couldn't understand why. After all, Schivvers was cultured, trained by the best, and skilled at his work. More than a mere stitcher and bone-cutter, the man had aspirations to be a physician.

Then Alan had discovered he'd kept his skill finely honed and learned new ones by chopping up the corpses of those who'd died on his table. Not that he'd killed them. No, he did his cool best to save the men under his knife. But if they expired on the table, Schivvers would continue carving them up, casually poking through their insides, all the while whistling under his breath.

Lying injured on the ground, Alan had also watched the man go through the pockets of the dead and slip money and goods into his own pockets like any battlefield vulture.

“
Not me, you bastard
,” he'd whispered.

Schivvers had smiled, showing his strong white teeth. “
We'll see
.”

“That man is the devil, sir. I think he's got no soul,” Badgeman said now and began to pace again. “Soft-spoken. Acts the gentleman, but I swear, sir, nothing's there.”

“True enough. But if Mrs. Charlie has taken up with him, there's nothing you can do.”

“Naw, naw indeed, sir. That would be bad enough. But 'tis worse. I met up with a man from my village just now at the King's Arms. He'd been in the Ninety-fifth Fusiliers and got injured. Missing most of his hand now.”

Alan wanted to interrupt and tell him to get to the point, but country-bred Badgeman would tell stories at his own slow pace. “My old pal Ned was in Portugal. Not Spain like we was. He saw Schivvers there, so the surgeon's shifted quarters. Ned only noticed him because of the man's shadow—went with him everywhere. Ned told me she was a pretty little thing. Young. An orphan.”

Alan closed his eyes, dreading what would come next.

Badgeman continued. “Mrs. Charlie had met her maker, poor thing. Ned thinks she died of fever or some accident in Spain. That's the thing, sir. Schivvers has the Major. Ned says she's the one 'at's his shadow. Do ye see, sir? The Major was left in the surgeon's tender care by Mrs. Charlie.”

“Shit.”

Badgeman gave his crooked half smile. “Sums it up, sir. So now you understand. I gotta go.”

Alan nodded. “I'll have Jem pack my things as soon as we—”

“No, sir. Not you. I were the one that promised Charlie. 'Tis not your affair. 'Tis my failure, and I must make the remedy.”

“Sergeant!” Alan barked the word from their past life. “Cutler was under my command. The fate of his family is my concern. You will allow me to help you.”

Apparently his discipline had broken down entirely since army days, for instead of instantly obeying, Badgeman only shook his head. “No, sir.”

“And why not?”

Badgeman glared back, but eventually his gaze dropped. “He has her legally, sir.”

“And you plan on taking illegal action?” Alan swore again.

“I'll do what must be done. With all due respect sir, I do not want you there.” The servant's quiet voice was apologetic but firm. His accent had vanished again, so he was in control.

Alan gave up. No doubt Badgeman was right to put him off. Alan no longer wallowed in miserable self-pity most of his days and nights, yet he was still weak and hadn't ridden more than a mile on horseback for over a year—he'd be a greater nuisance than help. “I'll fund your journey.”

“It's not necessary, sir. I have the funds saved.”

“Damn you, Badgeman, you must learn to compromise. I shan't insist on going with you, and that's my concession. You will take my funds and stop your whimpering about it—that is yours. And as soon we return home, I'll consult a lawyer. There must be something to be done short of killing the bastard.”

Badgeman looked relieved. “Thank you. That'd be useful, sir. With your permission, sir, I'll start as soon as may be for Lisbon. That's where Ned saw that bastard surgeon.” He stopped pacing and thumped a hand against the carriage wheel. “Captain Watleigh, sir. Oh, no. Your household. Who'll run it when I'm gone?”

“Why me, o' course.” Jem appeared next to them. “No snuffbox, sir,” he told Alan with a wink. Alan had actually forgotten his existence for five whole minutes—for the first time since the man had entered his life.

“No need to glare like you'd love to tear me limb from limb, Mr. Badgeman.” Jem opened the carriage door and waited for Alan to enter. As he stood with a hand on the handle, he bowed to Badgeman. “'Twas a joke, I promise.”

“A poor one,” Badgeman muttered.

“I heard nothing much, Mr. B., if that's your worry. Only that you'll be traveling to a surgeon.”

Alan ignored Jem. He squeezed his ex-batman's upper arm as he passed him. “We'll miss you, Badgeman, but there's no need for you to worry. I promise the house shan't tumble down during your absence. And I will do what I can to help.”

Badgeman muttered his thanks, and Alan climbed in.

“I overheard more 'n I told the badger,” Jem said as he settled onto the seat next to Alan and the door closed behind them. Propriety dictated that he should have taken the seat across, with his back to the horses, but again Alan didn't say anything.

Jem cocked his head. “He's truly tearing off to foreign parts to kill some bastard?”

Alan considered telling him to mind his own business, then he noticed the glowing blue eyes showed more than curiosity. “Do you like Mr. Badgeman, Jem?”

“Him? That fearful, ugly devil? P'raps.” Jem leaned back in the seat and looked out the window as if wishing he hadn't displayed concern.

“It won't come to murder.” Alan spoke with more confidence than he felt.

Jem's attention seemed fixed on the scenery outside the coach, and Alan used the moment of his rare distraction to admire Jem's lean, muscular body. His hands, with their long, sensitive fingers, lay relaxed, splayed on his thighs. The light from the window gilded Jem's throat. The glow picked out his Adam's apple and then the lines in his cheek as a smile flashed across his face.

“Like what you see, sir?” he asked in low voice without turning from the window. Damn the man, he must have eyes in the back of his head.

Alan folded his arms over his chest. “I'm only noticing you've gained some weight in the time you've been in my employment.”

“I have at that. You have as well. But truly, is that all you notice?” Jem looked away from the window, and Alan saw he wore the smile of a ravenous predator.

Alan's breath quickened, and his cock stirred. “Yes, that is all. We will not behave like animals in the coach.” He commanded his unruly body to relax. Very well, if his desire refused to abate, he would have to fall back on sheer resolve. Not in the park and not here, Alan told himself, and then realized the implications. He hadn't added
not in my house.

It would happen, of course. The ever-present, nagging hunger weakened his resolution. He held his breath, waiting. If Jem so much as touched him now, the last of his qualms would vanish as they had in the park. As they rode through the busy streets, he'd seize Jem and taste his mouth and his skin again.

Alan sat in the quiet coach, dreading and hoping that Jem might lean against him or brush fingers over his thigh. But the man kept his hands to himself, and they didn't speak again until Badgeman flung open the door in front of the town house.

“Thank you, Badgeman,” Alan said. He rubbed his leg hard, pretending it hurt, as he waited for his erection to subside. “I'll compose a note to my solicitor immediately.”

He soon climbed out of the carriage, and without looking back to see if Jem followed, mounted the steps to the house.

On his way to the study, he was startled by a crash from a room down the hall, accompanied by a distressed oath. “God's blood.” Dicky's favorite.

Alan paused, wondering if he should go to the room and confront Dicky. What would he say other than “clean up that mess,” which the footman was bound to do anyway.

The efficient Mrs. Crimpett had recently come to Alan, complaining about Dicky. “
You must see he's not good anymore. You might hire two handsome lads, the same height, sir
,” she pleaded.

Alan had refused—and not just because he had no interest in filling his house with attractive young men. Bad enough some men lusted after their female servants. Although, God, he'd done just that with Jem, hadn't he?

He'd told Mrs. Crimpett that as long as Badgeman had no complaints, neither did he. Since the housekeeper was terrified of Badgeman—who had a soft spot for the almost-addled footman and did most of his duties for him—Dicky was there to stay.

“
One more lie from him, sir
,” Mrs. Crimpett had warned Alan, “
and you must show him the door
.”

Alan hadn't bothered to answer. The old dragon had been with his family forever, and letting her have the last word was the best way to keep her from breathing fire.

And now Dicky had apparently broken something in the sitting room. No doubt he'd be able to hide the evidence, and no one would notice for days, if he was lucky.

Alan continued on to the study, reflecting he was a poor steward of his family's possessions. He couldn't care less about many of the things he'd inherited, especially the decorative nonsense. As far as he was concerned, most objects turned into meaningless junk after the people who'd bought and cared about them died. Others, like his father's desk, held too much meaning.

The crash from the sitting room didn't dismay him in the least. Perhaps that was why he hadn't lost any sleep over hiring a thief. He'd lost a great deal more sleep thinking about the thief's welcoming body lying so close to his own bedchamber.

Enough useless, painful lust. He sat to write his note summoning Mr. Gardner for Badgeman and promptly forgot about whatever Dicky had broken.

An hour later, as he awaited the response from the solicitor, he heard another cry of distress coming from the sitting room. Soon after, a babble of excited voices started up. He sighed, put down his book, and went to investigate.

The housekeeper stood in the middle of the sitting room, fists on hips, glaring at the half circle of servants—the ones who had permission to enter the family quarters. Dicky, the maids, and, of course, Jem. None of them noticed Alan in the doorway. The servants' attention was focused on Mrs. C., Jem's name for the fierce protector of the Watleigh house. She pointed at shards that had been carefully wrapped in a handkerchief. Now it lay on the cloth atop an occasional table—a smashed figurine. Judging from the pieces, it was the shepherdess, one of the more repulsive ceramic pieces collected by a forgotten ancestor.

“I know Jane is not responsible,” Mrs. C. declared. “As I sent you in here, Dicky, you and only you could be the culprit. This is
the end
, I tell you.”

Alan hadn't ever seen her on her high horse with the other servants, and this was impressive. She was as loud and full of hellfire as a preacher from the pulpit. Poor Dicky looked on the edge of tears. Mrs. C. went on. “The master agreed with me. One more incident, and you'll be turned out. I promise you, Dicky, this is—”