The Gentleman and the Rogue (17 page)

The phaeton jolted into another rut, and Jem gritted his teeth and gripped the armrest of the seat. He'd stopped singing or telling jokes many miles back, sick of his own voice for maybe the first time in his life. Now he slouched in brooding silence. Good God, was he turning into Alan?

He glanced at the other man, who sat with his spine erect and shoulders squared. His military bearing never left him. Jem could imagine him in a smart red coat with shiny brass buttons and those epaulets dangling from his shoulders. The man probably looked right toothsome in uniform. Perhaps someday Sir Alan would put on the scarlet for Jem in the privacy of their bedroom and order him about in that lovely commanding voice that made Jem's hair—and other things—rise.

Hark to himself, thinking of “their” bedroom as if he had some part in it. He must stop considering his master's home as his. Look how easily he'd nearly been sacked. It could be “back to the gutter with ye, Jem” anytime he displeased the man. Important to remember who held all the cards. Important to remember his place. The best Jem could hope for would be to keep Alan happy, and maybe his lordship would continue to keep him around.

He'd no business being melancholy or upset by the knowledge that his happiness depended on his master's whim. The night before last at the inn, for example, he'd grumbled inside at being exiled from Alan's bed and sent to the servants' sleeping chamber. Yet not too long ago, he'd have been perfectly cheery about having a belly full of food and a warm place to sleep at night. Now he was as spoiled as a cat sleeping on a silk cushion with a bowl of cream at hand. Could a cat such as that survive in the alley again? He was giving himself airs, imagining his worth to Sir Alan was much greater than it was.

But he was here to be a jester, so let him earn his keep and remove the strained frown from Alan's face, lightening the last few miles of the journey. Clearly the man's leg was paining him, and he was probably dreading his confrontation with Schivvers. Time to perk up and put Alan at ease with a funny tale.

“Sir,” Jem began, “this north country reminds me of Pat's country cousin Danny Bingham and his wife Nancy. A very private conversation between that couple was told to me by Pat over a glass o' gin one night. Seems Danny and Nancy was celebrating thirty long years of wedded bliss by taking a tumble in the hay, as country folk seem fond of doing. Old Danny squeezed his wife's tits and told her, 'Ah, Nance, if these were only a bit bigger and could produce milk, we could get rid of the damned cow.'

“His wife ignored the rude comment, and Danny reached a bit lower, fingering the trap between her legs. 'Sweet, Nancy, you know I love you, but if this were only a wee bit tighter, we could use you as a mousetrap and get rid of the damned cat.'

“A bit riled now, Nancy grabbed her dear husband's tool, squeezed it hard and cried, 'My darlin' husband, if only this were a whole lot bigger, we could get rid of your damned brother!'”

Jem was rewarded with a smile that relieved the grim line of Alan's mouth. That one wee smile did him in. His heart twisted and flipped like a fish caught on a hook and dragged out of the Thames. All in a flash, he realized what he feared most wasn't losing the silk-cushion-and-cream life or being released back into murky, dangerous waters. What he feared losing was this difficult, complicated, dark, and melancholy man. He loved Alan's sweet flashes of tenderness, such as this journey to save an orphan. Not many men of his class would bother about a soldier's daughter. Watleigh had an honorable, upright nature and was dead-loyal to his men, especially trusty old Badgeman. Jem wanted to be worthy of loyalty like that.

Also, Jem had discovered he liked having someone to take care of. He'd be lost without Alan to do for. He didn't want to return to looking out only for himself and letting the devil take all others. He needed Alan to give purpose to his empty life, to warm his spirit as well as his body.

Listening to Alan's warm chuckle, Jem wondered what his master would do if he guessed the way his thoughts lay. Did Alan care for him even a little bit, or was Jem only a bedmate and a temporary amusement to him?

“Speaking of haystacks,” Jem said, “there seem to be a lot of 'em hereabouts. Perhaps we should follow the country practice and make use of one.” He rested his hand on Alan's thigh and squeezed lightly. “Remember what I done for you? I'd like to try to beat my eight-minute record.”

Alan exhaled deeply, not a sigh of annoyance, but a shaky, hungry breath. “You are incorrigible, Jem. There's no time for that now. Sheffield is just up ahead, and I'd like to find an inn and get settled before dark.”

Jem noticed that he didn't protest about the idea of sex in a haystack, only about the lack of time. Maybe on the way back… But no, they'd have the girl with them if all went well, and everything would be different.

Alan gently disengaged Jem's hand from his leg.

Subsiding back into his seat, Jem folded his arms across his chest. Annoyance bit him like one of the deerflies that darted from the overhanging tree branches in defense of their territory.

“Ah well, maybe another time.” He kept his tone breezy and changed the subject. “You think Danny and Nancy was a pair? You should hear what their rich neighbor Thomas Crowell done to choose a groom for his pretty daughter.”

But Jem didn't get to share the tale as they rounded a bend in the road and beheld the town of Sheffield sprawling over the plain before them. It was a great deal bigger than Leicester. Smoke from hundreds of chimneys hung in a pall over the metropolis, which grew on the banks of the River Sheaf.

“It's no London,” Jem said with a sniff.

“No,” Alan agreed. “No Paris or Rome, either.”

“Are you taking the piss, sir?” He glared at his benefactor.

“Maybe a little. Don't be a snob, Jem. Every man believes his home is the center of the world.”

They rolled forward over more bumpy, badly rutted road. Jem smelled the familiar sewage scent of river water long before they reached the bridge and crossed over it into the city.

The carriage wheels clattered now over brick and cobblestone. He had to raise his voice to speak to Alan. “Do you have an address for this Mr. Schivvers, sir, or will we need to do some hunting?”

“I shall have to ask the direction, but I have an address in Derwent, not far from here. We'll find an inn on the road and make a plan to find her.”

Jem hesitated. “Could it be the girl's fine where she is?”

Alan's brows went up, almost as if he knew Jem hated the idea of adding to their household.

So Jem hastily added, “Even the worst of men can be gentle to their daughters.”

“If he thinks of her as such.” The grim look on Alan's face would freeze a river on a hot day in August.

Jem nodded. “If he dips his wick with young ones, we got no choice about it.”

“None. But you're right. I won't disrupt her life if she's well cared for.”

“Could be, sir,” Jem said hopefully. “He's got the groats to give her a good upbringing.”

But the look on Alan's face remained cold. “I know Schivvers. I don't know his plans for her, but I am certain he wouldn't take on a girl out of charity or kindness.” Alan stretched out his legs and wiggled in his seat. “I wish there was a way I might observe her without his awareness of my presence.”

“Easy enough. I take a look and report to you.” Jem scratched his chin. “Best shave and wash some of the road's dirt off me. Don't want to get run out of the place looking as disreputable as a man who's escaped from the treadmill.”

Alan remained silent and staring ahead.

Jem understood and grew impatient. “I swear upon my granny's grave to give a true report. You think I see a whelp being mistreated I'd lie about it?”

“Not exactly.” Alan said and fell silent. The horses walked along slowly, and he did nothing to speed them on their way. Alan didn't trust him, still.

Jem wanted to bellow at the man, beg him to forgive his mistakes in the past and swear he wouldn't lie or steal again, but then Alan was explaining his hesitation. “I am not certain that we would have the same notions of what constitutes proper behavior on the part of a child's guardian.”

Jem got it now. His master accused him not of being a liar, but of being an ignorant child-beating bastard. Well, true enough, he didn't have the sensibilities of a gentleman. “I'll watch,” he said, managing to keep his temper in check, “and tell you all of what I see. No deciding what's important and what's not worth hearing. Agreed? Every word and gesture I see, I tell you.”

Alan nodded. “We'll try that first.”

They found a small inn with a taciturn landlord and only two rooms. “Ye'll have to share a room.”

First good news Jem had heard for a time. He wished he had time for a full bath, but Alan's impatience was palpable even when the man stood in the middle of the room looking about. “I'll wait below,” he said, no doubt running from temptation.

Jem hurriedly washed himself in a basin, then put on a fresh shirt, a starched cravat, and a dark, tidy suit that might belong to a servant or a curate on his day off.

Alan met him in the taproom, and they went without another word out to the waiting carriage. The horses had been exchanged for two new ones: a black and a brown. No more need of four for speed and no glossy matching animals in this backwater. Jem examined the horses for a few seconds more, trying to remember all the points Alan had explained.

Alan dropped him at the edge of the little town near the address he'd been given. “I'll meet you back at the inn. I might go into the city.”

The house Schivvers rented was set back from the high street, not far from Derwent Hall.

The small green just on the high street offered a public spot where Jem could lean against a tree and keep an eye on the back of the house. He settled on the grass with a chunk of wood and his knife to whittle while he waited for signs of life. The occasional villager passed and slowed to look at him curiously. Derwent was not a hub of activity, and Jem was an object of great curiosity. He nodded and smiled and went back to work on his carving.

After several hours, a barouche rolled from the stable yard behind the house to the front gravel drive. Jem shoved his knife and carving away and trotted toward the road in the front. He whistled a song so anyone watching from the houses near the green would know he wasn't alarmed, merely in a hurry.

The barouche pulled near the front door, and Jem, positioned on the road across from the hedges, watched as a tall man with broad shoulders swept out the front door. He clapped a hat on his flaxen hair. He looked just as Alan had described him once. And his aspect matched his name in that it would give Jem the shivers if he ran into the tall, pale, black-eyed surgeon on a dark night. His expression was as dead and cold as a two-day-old codfish. He had the look of a man who'd stick a knife in your gut without blinking an eye, a lack of affinity to all humankind which Jem recognized from personal experience in the criminal underworld.

The man was closely followed a young girl. The Major—Alan had recalled her real name—Annie Cutler. She was well dressed and looked clean and well cared for. Her hair fell in glossy ringlets down her back. No expense had been spared to dress or shod her, but it wasn't showy wealth. Dainty, with pale skin and a heart-shaped face, she was a naturally attractive child. Jem knew she'd fetch a good price in one of the more shadowy houses of ill repute even if she had been touched. There now, that thought raised a possibility that wouldn't cross a gentleman's mind. Though come to think of it, Alan had mentioned it without wailing or protesting such a thing never occurred. Sir Alan didn't flinch at life's harder realities—except when he thought he was guilty of 'em.

The girl didn't smile or jump about. She only waited, hands clenched at her sides, a dull look in her eyes. Maybe she was tired or perhaps distracted, because she didn't seem to notice how the man waited for her to climb in. Jem could almost hear the surgeon's impatient sigh, though he stood yards away.

Yet the tall, elegantly garbed man didn't seize her or shout. He leaned down and held out his hand so she might grasp it and climb into the low open carriage.

Then she turned her face up to her guardian, and Jem caught full sight of her and knew the emptiness in her face was more than a passing moment of fatigue. She wore a million-miles-away stare, the look of a person trying hard not to exist in that place or moment. Either she was gone in her mind, or she was terrified and longing to be anywhere else. Men on their way to the drop and dangle wore that face. Likely Jem had worn it himself sometimes when with a less-than-choice customer.

The pale, expressionless girl took her place in the open carriage with her back to the horses, and they drove away. Perhaps she had only overindulged in blue ruin, but that would be near as bad, now wouldn't it?

“Oh, shite,” Jem whispered.

He considered running after the carriage but instead walked along the dusty road back the way he'd come.

The inn was four miles away, and he broke into a trot to deliver his first report to Alan.

The captain's carriage and team were gone, and the innkeeper, after a barrage of questions, at last admitted that the gentleman had ridden in the direction of Sheffield but had left no word of where he'd gone.

Jem wished he'd stayed put in his position at the entrance to Schivvers's house. He cursed and paced and waited for Alan's return.

After brushing the clothes they'd worn the day before, he pulled out the block of wood he was trying to carve into a horse and wandered outside to the stable yard. Having nothing to do should have been a fine treat for him, but Jem decided he didn't like inactivity. What if the girl and Schivvers returned to the house and he missed a chance to speak to her? He wished he could write a note for Alan and leave.

Well, why not? It wasn't as if his sad excuse for writing would be any great shock to Alan. The man knew he was a street rat.

Almost defiant at his decision, he went to the innkeeper to demand pen, ink, and paper. For once the man moved quickly. Jem sat in a quiet corner of the taproom and stared at the blank sheet of parchment. He wondered if pictures could do the trick, but in the end decided a couple of lines would serve. He wrote and let the ink dry. Once he folded the paper, he flapped it against his hand awhile, then decided to leave it in their room.