The Gentleman and the Rogue (7 page)

He looked straight into Jem's face for several long heartbeats. No need to guess at the threat in that harsh gaze. “Thank you ever so much,” Jem said and grinned. “Just give me what he's got, if you please.”

Badgeman served Jem silently, then poured two cups of thick steaming chocolate and placed one in front of each of them. He stepped back, bowed, and left without saying a word.

“Don't you have anyone else about the place?” Jem asked. He picked up the toast and spoke through the mouthful. “Servants, I mean.”

Alan picked up his thin porcelain cup. “I gave them all last night off.”

Of course. The obvious move for any gent planning to bring home a male whore would be to dismiss the servants so they wouldn't find out about his dangerous tastes. “Where are they now? On a normal morning wouldn't you have, I dunno, footmen and whatnot staring over you while you eat?”

Alan shook his head. “Badgeman seems to believe I can't serve myself, but I draw the line at more help. I don't require anyone to cut my meat for me.”

He looked pointedly at Jem's hand and raised his eyebrows. Jem had grabbed a slice of ham from his plate with his fingers.

Laughing, he dropped the ham back onto the plate and picked up a fistful of cutlery, which he shook at Alan. “Surprised you'd allow me a knife. After all, I might be prone to violence. You don't know about me.”

“I know you have very little in the way of manners, but that's not my concern.”

Jem dropped the silver back onto the table with a clatter. He selected a fork and a knife, and sawed away at the slice of ham.

“Tell me, Jem, what would you steal in this room?”

His words stung. Jem felt a flash of anger. He put down the fork he clutched and drew in a long breath to steady himself. First Lord High-and-Mighty mocked his manners, and now he reminded him of his stupidity the night before. The gent was obviously tolerant, but Jem suspected he wouldn't stand being called a buggering bastard.

“I'd steal naught from you, sir, especially now, for should anything go missing, you'd know where to hunt. Easy enough to set your badger or the watch after me. No, thank you. I don't court hanging—leastwise not for thievery,” he added as an afterthought.

He prodded the ham with the point of the knife to avoid looking at the handsome man who leaned on the arm of his chair and watched. Jem gave the ham a particularly sharp poke. “Last night I musta been dicked in the nob to take from the likes of you. I'm a half-a-loaf man.”

“You are offended,” Alan said. “I'm honestly curious, I assure you. I've never had a conversation with a thief.”

Oh. Now he understood. Jem decided he might sing for his breakfast, but he wouldn't tell a tale on any of his mates. He looked around the room, then examined the handle of the knife. “The silver don't have letters on it, so that'd do if I'm feeling lucky.”

He pointed the knife at a large silver thing with pedestals, bowls and strange silver animals perched all over it. A monkey hung from the side, and an elephant stood at the very top. “That thing is too bulky and too what-you-may-call-it. Distinct-like. Jimmy wouldn't care to take such a thing.”

“That thing's an epergne. Jimmy's the merchant you'd sell to?”

Jem nodded. “Runs a stalling ken, or he's a fence, we'd call it.”

Alan smiled suddenly. A real smile with white teeth.

Jem narrowed his eyes. “Don't tell me you know Jimmy, sir, because I changed his name.”

“I'm amused because you're teaching me your words, and I'm teaching you mine. Epergne for stalling ken.”

Jem chuckled. He liked this Alan when the man shrugged off that mantle of sorrow that hung about him like a fog. Hell, he liked him even when he was Lord Gloom.

“Anything else you'd take?”

Jem waved a hand airily. “The whole of it. 'Cept maybe that epergne thing. 'Tis too silly and wouldn't fit my dining room.”

“Ah. But this is the breakfast room.”

Jem hooted with laughter. “Naw, you're pulling my leg, sir. Truly? You have a special room for each meal? What if you grow peckish between the meals? Do you stand in the corridor between 'em?”

The corners of Alan's mouth twitched, and he leaned back in his chair. “After breakfast, would you care to see the other rooms?”

“So I might tell you what else I'd pinch?”

“Certainly.”

“If you want God's honest truth, there's not much I would lift from this place.”

Alan's eyes narrowed in obvious disbelief.

“Not because I'm an upright cull, but I'd wager your possessions are too costly.” Jem shook a finger at Alan and slipped into cant. “You got to be awake on all counts if you're to be an angler or crack a crib. Don't be caught with more 'n a pound in your dabblers, or the beak will pass the cramp word, and it'll be the hemp for you, lad. Better to be a clouting lay.”

“And what is that?”

“Those who dive for handkerchiefs on the sly. A humble trade, yet if you're nabbed, you still end up a lag and perhaps get some air and exercise.”

Alan nearly smiled. “You get air and exercise in prison?”

“Nay man. No real airing in the trib. Means to be drubbed at the cart's arse. A good basting.”

“Beaten behind a cart?”

Jem nodded.

Alan's smile actually reached his eyes, and he was almost completely transformed from the granite-faced Lord Doom. “Fool that I was, I thought I knew cant.”

Pleased that he'd managed to again get Lord Grim to smile, Jem grinned back. “Epergne. Hmm. Can't recall any other words from you. Now it's quite a lot of fine language you owe me, sir.” He crammed the rest of the ham into his mouth and stood. “You ready? I am.”

* * *

Alan wasn't sure why he wanted to show the man the rest of the house. It was hours past the time they should have parted ways—setting aside the fact that they shouldn't have met at all. He searched his heart for the sick regret and contempt he'd felt the two other times he'd indulged in his perversion, and felt nothing but a curious lightened sensation.

Odd, because yesterday he'd hit upon a solution that had given him a sense of peace, and now he'd abandoned it. Sometime during the night he'd decided against the sin of suicide. If the heavy blanket of misery could lift for a few minutes now, perhaps in time he'd live without it for hours, and he might eventually even shed that weight for an entire day.

He supposed if he had decided to live, he'd best grow used to such frighteningly changeable moods. The ground under his feet had shifted, and as a result, he was no longer the same steady, calm man. No longer a soldier, son, or brother. What would he be instead?

He led Jem through the red drawing room and answered his many questions about the marble fireplace, the inlaid wood floors, the paintings, and the pianoforte his mother used to play. The man seemed honestly curious, not simply looking over Alan's home for the best items to steal.

When they entered the library, Jem gave a low whistle. “Take a look at that. Never seen so many books in one spot. Must have paid a goodly sum in paper taxes. Nearly makes me wish I could read better.” He glanced at Alan and shrugged as if he'd asked a question. “I can scratch out my name and a bit.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the room until he came back to Alan's side and caught sight of the mahogany desk.

Alan had avoided this elaborate, ugly thing, with its vast surface that still carried the hint of his father's snuff and cologne. He still thought of it as his father's and used the much smaller escritoire in the cramped study for his correspondence and work.

He'd avoided the library altogether, and now, as the memories poured in, swamping him with bleak and bitter loss, he remembered why.

He wondered how he might end this tour. Which brought up the question of what he would do once Jem left the house.

Why had he come home to London? He should go to his family's seat in Shropshire. He imagined riding through fields that weren't scarred with blood or cannon fire. His army charger had been shot from under him during the second-to-last campaign, and he hadn't replaced the big gelding, hadn't wanted to.

Jem stopped running his hands over the carved lotus flowers on the desk leg. He straightened and sauntered over to Alan. “Come now, sir. Didn't yer mum or old nanny tell you yer face will freeze like that?”

“Never.” Alan forced his scowl to relax, amused that he would give in to the bullying of a thief who sold his body on the street. “I'm certain this is dull for you,” he said and left the room. When Jem didn't immediately follow, he reluctantly reentered the library.

Jem stood in front of the family portrait. “Tell me about 'em,” he said without taking his gaze off the painting.

When Alan said nothing, Jem pointed to the boy standing behind the mother's chair, his hands on her shoulders. “That's you, no doubt. The eyes tell me. And that's your brother next to you. He looks less merry than you, I'd say—leastways, less merry than you was back then. Older 'n you?”

Alan turned away.

Jem put his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet as if he hadn't noticed Alan's disinterest. He kept chatting about the painting as if they held a conversation.

“Yes, I'd say so. Though not as tall, he's the older brother. Oh, and your mum is pretty and your dad a solemn old cove. Quite distinguished, but not such an old stick as some. Are you lot as happy as you look there?”

Alan didn't want to answer. “I'm the only one left,” he said flatly. “I'd prefer not to discuss the matter.” His voice was steady and cool, thank goodness.

“Oh.” Jem looked at him at last. Thank God he didn't offer any driveling words of sympathy.

“Come on,” Alan said, and they left the room in silence.

As they entered the dining room, Jem spoke again. “Is your loss a recent one, sir?”

“I said I do not wish to speak about the matter.”

“Yah, you did. But I wasn't sure if you meant it.”

“Christ, man,” he snapped. “I speak plain English.”

“What you speak of and what you long for are a fair distance apart, pardon my saying so.”

Alan's breath hissed out on a curse. He suspected Jem taunted him for his cowardice in not facing up to his sick tastes. “And if I don't pardon your impudence?” He'd moved closer to Jem, anger pulsing through him.

The corners of Jem's eyes crinkled, the hint of a smile. “You'll get your bloody big badger to scoop out me insides, or do it yourself. Not that I'd blame you a bit—a nosy beggar like me, prying into your business. Thing is, you interest me, Lord Alan.”

Alan steadied himself. He didn't want to speak of his family, and he didn't want to throw Jem out—although God knew why.

He could hear Jem's soft, fast breath, and Alan's anger began to turn into something worse. Arousal beat in his veins and stiffened his cock with every heartbeat. He stepped back from the temptation.

“I'm not Lord anyone.” He headed for the window to put some space between them. The bright spring morning beckoned. The doctor had pronounced his leg still too weak to ride. He wondered if Jem rode horses.

“No title, then?” Jem asked.

“I'm a baronet, which makes me Sir Alan.” Turning from the window, he met Jem's eyes. Why the hell not tell his name? He didn't fear blackmail from this source, not really.

“Sir Alan Watleigh,” he finished.

Jem's eyes widened, and his arched brows rose higher. He touched his forelock in a proper salute. “An honor, Sir Alan Watleigh.” There wasn't a trace of playfulness in his manner. “Jem Brown, at your service.” He bowed.

Alan felt a surge of warmth which wasn't lust this time. He was oddly touched by the small sign of respect from a man who appeared to regard everything in life with glib irony and a dismissive casualness.

“I suppose I might show you the garden,” he said, changing the subject.

As he led his guest outside, Alan realized he was doing everything in his power to prolong Jem's stay. What would he show him next, the attic? The kitchen and the servants' quarters?

The thought was born in sarcasm but blossomed into an idea—a way he could keep Jem around longer than one night. The concept was preposterous, yet even as he examined it from every ludicrous angle, Alan knew he was going to make the offer.

“Mm, smells good.” Jem turned in a circle on the stone path that led through the shrubbery and inhaled the bit of nature. “Ain't seen this much green in a long time. Not a lot of gardens in the circles I frequent.”

When Alan didn't respond, the young man looked sharply at him. “What's troubling your nob now? You're the hardest-thinking man I ever clapped eyes on. Should give your brain a rest before you break it.”

Alan cleared his throat. His heart pounded and his cheeks were burning. How ridiculous to be blushing, to be making this suggestion, to be afraid Jem would laugh when he heard it and refuse. Alan's misgivings clamored to be heard, but he spoke over them.

“I was wondering if you might consider a position on my household staff.”

Jem stared at him and waited.

“Perhaps permanent employment if it works out. But perhaps you wouldn't be interested.” He felt as nervous as a youth asking for a dance. Ridiculous! He who had commanded men in battle, who'd ridden into cannon fire, what did he have to fear from this street rat?

“Employment? Here?” Jem's surprised stare melted into a devilish grin. “Doing what, exactly?”

“I need… That is, it's customary for a man to have a valet. Other than Badgeman, I don't have any servant to fill that capacity. He has enough duties to perform without caring for my clothes and effects. The man deserves a rest and more time to himself. I've been considering hiring someone.”

“Oh, so it's for poor, tired old badger, I see.” The grin grew wider and possibly more devilish. “That is so kind and generous of you, Sir Alan.”

Alan felt his flush grow hotter and his temper rise along with it. How dare the impudent whelp make light of him? Who was this common whore to disrespect his betters and to jeer at an offer of honest work?

“You needn't take the position if you don't wish to. It was a mere passing thought. Of course, you wouldn't be suitable at all.” The sharpness of Alan's voice sliced the smile from Jem's mouth.