The Gentleman and the Rogue (18 page)

Upstairs, he smiled at the bed, imagining Alan sprawled on it, and felt himself stir. No, he had to keep his mind off his cock and on the job at hand. He looked down at the messy note he'd written and left it on the small desk, propped against a vase.

And then, with a sigh, he began the long walk back to Mr. Schivvers's great gray house in Derwent. He rubbed his bum, reflecting that at least he wasn't traveling by carriage.

Back at the house, the barouche had returned and was already in the carriage house. Jem settled to wait for more signs of the surgeon and his charge.

After a long time, a footman in full gear, including wig, came trotting across the gravel path, down the smooth lawn, and then, wonder of wonders, carefully picked his way through the small copse of trees to the public land where Jem sat. The footman was fat. Not just a bit of a pudge, but a sack of grease, as Noah would say. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his reddened brow.

“Care to sit?” Jem waved a hand at the ground.

“Naw, thank'ee.” He carefully straightened his wig and touched the lace at his throat. “Thing is, Mr. Burton want to know what yer about.”

“Sitting on my bum, carving a horse.” Jem stood. If his guest wasn't going to rest, he knew he shouldn't. He held up the horse carving. “See?”

The footman squinted and pushed out thick lips thoughtfully. “Nice. Just enjoying the fine day? You've nowt to do wi' the house yonder?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Mr. Burton worrit. Seem you been staring and staring. Know ye the master?”

Jem had trouble understanding the man, who had some sort of broad accent.

“Mr. Schivvers, you mean?”

The footman nodded.

“I don't know much about him.”

“Nor do I.” The footman's voice dropped, as if the empty green were filled with spies listening to their conversation. “He only recently took the house.”

The footman didn't seem eager to return to the house, so perhaps Jem could learn something else from him. Perhaps something about the girl's keepers. “Mr. Burton's the butler? I'll wager a bellowing old tyrant?”

“By bloody half, he is.”

The footman shifted away a little so he, unlike Jem, wasn't in direct line of sight from the house. No one would see him lounging against the tree. “Tell me true, lad, were ye watching? Like Mr. Burton thinks?”

“A bit,” Jem admitted.

The big man's spaniel eyes bulged as he stared at Jem. “Truly?” He sounded thrilled, like a man trapped in a dull little village, longing for something intriguing to discuss.

“No need for alarm. I'm only a tad curious about your Mr. Schivvers and his little shadow.”

“Tha' girl, you mean?”

“The very one.” Jem felt his words slow and his tongue slide over the sounds in a new way. He ended up mimicking his elders, his betters, the sinful, and everyone in between. He'd have to be careful about letting himself slip into whatever accent this man had. “She have a nanny or governess or what have you?”

“Nay. Later, he says.”

The footman flapped his handkerchief over his face again and pushed away from the tree trunk. The day was warm but hardly steaming. “I'd best be going back,” he said without moving.

Jem held out a hand. “Jack Browning,” he lied.

“Melvin Lincoln.” The footman folded and tucked away the cloth and solemnly shook hands. When he began his slower walk across the green, Jem fell into step next to him. “Why is your Mr. Burton so suspicious of strangers?”

“He's not. Burton's put on airs, but he's from up York way. Not from the south like you and the master, as I can hear from your voices. Burton couldn't care a twist about strangers. More the master. A right cautious man, the master. Burton's following orders, he says.” The footman stopped. “Not sure he'd want you walking over with me.”

Jem laughed and waved a hand to indicate the softly rolling hills, the puffy clouds. “Hardly the stews of London. He afraid I'll run off with the silver? Just walking you back to the house.”

Melvin laughed too. “'Tis nonsense. 'Sides, I got two stone on you at the very least.”

More than that, Jem thought, but didn't say. “If I try to make trouble, you'd break me in half I'd guess.”

Melvin liked that and practically roared with laughter. Now that he'd completed the embarrassing part of his errand, he was showing himself a jolly lad.

“I suspect you're from London, even?” Melvin asked.

Jem nodded.

“I got a cousin there. In service for a family near Wimbledon. Know that area?”

“Certainly,” Jem lied cheerfully. “Pretty place.”

“I might go down with Mr. Schivvers when he travels south.”

“Is he traveling soon?”

“Sure, sure. Next day or two.”

“Ah.” Jem studied the side of the house as they approached.

A small face watched from an upper-story window. Melvin walked ahead chattering about everything from the new master who'd only taken a year's lease, to what Melvin wanted to do and see in London.

“No, sir, you don't want to miss Astley's,” Jem agreed as he waved at the window. Was it the girl? Just in case it was, he stopped dead, and on impulse, Jem snapped a salute, exactly the way he'd seen Badgeman do. The signals Alan had shown him, might she know them? Feeling like an utter fool, he patted himself on the top of the head, then clenched his fist and moved it quickly up and down between his leg and shoulder.
Join me double time.

The face in the window vanished.

Melvin, who hadn't seen him making a fool of himself, turned back and held out a soft, sweating hand. “I'll bid ye good day, Jack. Nice though 'tis to see a new face hereabouts, best if ye don't linger.”

“Sure enough, Mr. Lincoln. Pleased to make your acquaintance, and perhaps we'll meet again soon.” Jem shook hands and wandered back to his spot on the green. For the rest of the afternoon, nothing of note occurred. A few birds pecked around his feet, and he threw them the crumbs of the loaf he'd grabbed for food. His only activity other than whittling consisted of tipping his hat to the pair of girls who paraded first in one direction and then the other, giggling and flashing him hot looks.

The sun sank low, and he set off for the inn. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. The girl to run out of the house and find him? He'd imagined scooping her into his arms, running the miles back to the inn, and presenting her to Alan. More probably if he managed to get near her, she'd commence screaming and kicking.

Chapter Eleven

Alan opened to door to the room and spotted the note at once. It had
Sr
in an uncertain, wobbly hand. Jem? Somehow Alan was shocked that his writing was so tentative, nothing like the man. He stared down at the messy, unsteady letters, blots of ink and a few crude pictures. His first thought was that Jem must have been very upset to have attempted a note. The man had pride and surely knew his writing was shabby. His second thought was,
I'll have to teach him to read and write better.

Why would he do that? Alan shifted from foot to foot and stared down at the note. Enough with trying to get to the bottom of Jem's soul and improve him. Better to concentrate on trying to understand what he had to say.
Bn der cum bk
. There was a rather crude picture of a dog holding a knife and a beer, and Alan remembered the name of the inn was the Dog and Arms.
grl iz sd. I gu dak ber. Son I km bk. Jem
, followed by a picture of the sun at the horizon and another dog with a knife.

He decided Jem had reversed a couple of b's and d's, and the note read,
Been there and came back. Girl is sad
—or sick?
I'm going back and will return at sunset to the inn.

Alan traced the letters of the note, wondering how long Jem had taken to write it. He'd wait. After all, he'd had little success in Sheffield, where he'd sought out a lawyer to look into the matter of making the girl at least a ward, with several men acting as guardian instead of simply being under Schivvers's unmonitored control. Alan had convinced the man it was a good idea, but the lawyer warned that the courts might not agree to even hear the matter. They didn't have time for one fortuneless orphan.

Maybe Jem would bring him good news.

The man appeared soon after sundown. Impatient though Alan was to get the news, he could see Jem was thirsty and in need of a rest. He ordered a light supper and they settled in a far corner, away from the fireplace. The taproom was filling with workers, employed by the plating company if their silvery fingernails were any indication. The two men sat across from each other over a small wooden table in a chilly corner.

After downing nearly a pint of some of the inn's decent ale, Jem wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed. “Thank you, sir.”

Alan nodded. “Go on.”

Jem stretched out his legs and winced. “I said I'd report on words I heard, but all I listened to today was a footman. Jolly soul, but of little use to us, at least not for information. I heard nothing from the girl or your friend Schivvers, though I saw 'em not so far away.”

He paused. “No. I were to be as a parrot, not telling more 'n I witnessed.”

Alan interrupted. “I regret injuring your feelings by saying that I don't trust your judgment.”

Jem's blue eyes widened. He burst into a peal of laughter. “God bless it, sir, you make me feel like a spoiled lad on occasion.”

“Did I judge wrong?” Alan smiled; Jem's laughter was infectious.

“No, too right, I'd say. My pride was injured, and I was pining away with the pain.” He threw back his head, widened his eyes, and clutched at his heart.

“Gudgeon,” Alan said. Jem's habit of exaggeration swept the incident into the trivial, but Alan suspected he'd truly been hurt—and perhaps worse, Jem might believe Alan's assessment. “Go on and tell me what you saw, and please tell me what you believe.”

The food arrived, and Jem piled thick slices of the ham and spooned the overboiled potatoes onto his plate as if it were the finest fare. He noticed Alan watching him and put some of the potatoes back on the platter.

Alan reached for the plate of ham. “Your note said the girl was, ah, sad?”

Jem beamed around the mouth bulging with food. “You understood the note? Yes. Worse 'n sad, really. She's given up. If a wind came and pushed at her soul, she'd let go.”

“She's too thin?”

“No, I said it wrong. Her body looks fine. Trifle scrawny, yes. But it's her heart, I mean. She got no resistance to trouble left in her. Mind you, that's from three minutes of watching. But that look…” He shook his head. “Dazed-like. Opium? Alcohol? Maybe, though she walked without a stumble. No. I think she's pulling away from this world.”

“Three minutes of watching told you this?” Alan asked.

Jem had crammed a piece of ham into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and said, “Three seconds, more like. I wanted to grab her out of there, sir. Even if she were an unholy bitch.” He paused. “Might she be such?”

Alan shrugged. “She was a quiet girl when I knew her, but children must change and grow.”

Jem put down the knife and fork he'd been clutching. “You've got to talk to her, sir.”

“She hasn't seen me in more than a year. She mightn't know me, but Schivvers will. It might be easier for you to get in to speak to her.”

Jem grinned. “Now that's a compliment, sir. You'd trust my report of what she'd say?”

“Cut line, Jem. I already apologized.” Had he? He would say more now. “I trust your judgment.”

“But I like to hear you got confidence in me. It's sweet music.” His grin faded, and he rested his chin in his hand, frowning in concentration. “She'll recall you, I'll wager. Your name if not your face. You got to find a way to talk to her and see if we need to grab her now. Mel the footman claims they're off for London in a few days. Wonder why he's cutting out of this house so quickly. Just took it for a full year's lease, Mel said. Restless soul, is your Mr. Schivvers?”

“He is most certainly not mine, Jem. Perhaps he's moving her around. Not allowing her comfort.”

“All that effort for a little mite like her?”

Alan shrugged. “He was hard to distract from a project. A good thing in a field surgeon. He'd start a job and keep going, without looking up even if a cannonball fell nearby.”

“Not a coward.”

“No, but not brave, either. Bravery requires a man to feel fear and overcome it. I am convinced Schivvers is a little mad. I think he believes himself the center of creation, so of course, he wouldn't die in the war.”

Alan leaned back and looked at Jem, who gazed back. Jem's lips parted, but no words came out. Only the promise of that mouth and…
Oh God
. The heat was instantaneous, engulfing Alan, making it impossible for him to draw a deep breath. No one in the taproom paid them any mind beyond initial curious glances, but they mustn't look at one another with any heat. Never in a public place. Nor in private. Not until they had a plan. And then? No tempting thoughts. He had to steady his heart and breath.

So he looked away and tried to concentrate on Schivvers. Now that was a cold bath to chill the warm promise in Jem's eyes.

“Schivvers had a notebook,” Alan said, staring down at the congealing undercooked meat on his plate.

“Did he?” Jem sounded distracted. With the way Jem pushed at the food on his plate, Alan didn't have to look up to know Jem's eyes were focused on him, watching his every move. He could feel the gaze.

“Jem.” He spoke in a low voice. “No.”

Jem made a rude noise and began to eat again. “Right then. What about the notebook?”

“He kept it with him all the time. A small leather-bound book, bloodstained and scuffed. Back before I saw him for what he was, I looked over his shoulder once and saw he had very neat handwriting. He closed the book quickly when I asked him what he was writing. 'Research,' Schivvers told me. 'It's why I'm in Spain.'

“'Medical research?' I asked. I didn't like him much, but I still admired his skill and dedication to improving it. And the man had aspirations beyond mere surgery; I overheard him declare he'd be a physician on Harley Street someday.