Discreet Young Gentleman (18 page)

The tone he used for females traveling unaccompanied was not shaded toward the soothing and solicitous, and the woman in grey stiffened. "I'm no lightskirt, if that's what you're thinking, nor a creditor nor anything else unsavory. I'm a respectable female, who has simply...misplaced...someone very dear to me, and am seeking to rejoin him again."

"I see." He didn't. Who was this woman, and what connection could she have to the Earl of Carwick? Perhaps a poor relation— since the title had only recently changed hands, this was the time for distant connections to creep from the woodwork with their hands out. "You're a member of the family, are you?"

The woman's laugh seemed genuine, and surprised. "It's not Carwick himself I'm looking for, but someone I believe to be with him."

"Ah." Hume nodded. Well, since they don't seem to be on the Bristol highway, you might catch them on the Chippenham road."

She stood. "You're right. I'll cut over, and if I don't find them there, I'll go on to Bath."

Chapter Sixteen

Asking at a farmhouse did the trick, and with clear, labeled \ U directions Dean and Rob made it to Minchinhampton before luncheon. Dean had been concerned about how Erich had got on, for over a full day among those who didn't speak his language.

He needn't have worried.

"Erich!" A man paused from replacing the wheel of a fashionable landau. "Das Graf ist, uh, kommen."

The coachman emerged from the carriage-wright's shop, and slapped the laborer on the shoulder. "Der Graf," he corrected solemnly. "Der Graf ist angekommen."

"Danke." The man grinned at Dean. "Welcome, my lord Carwick. I knew it was you. 'Rotes Haar,' Erich said." He touched his own hair. "And that's easy enough to figure."

"Yes, Mr.—"

"Hutchins, the name is, and this is my shop."

"Thank you for looking after my coachman, Mr. Hutchins. Is the carriage ready?"

"Aye, and I've sent to Cirencester for hired horses. You'll be on your way within the hour, my lord. In the meantime, the Amberley does a nice luncheon. Tell 'em Frank sent you, and they'll treat you right."

"Thank you. Erich? Kommst du? Herr Black und ich essen gerade zu Mittag."

Erich shook his head. "Ich habe schon mit Frank gegessen."

"All right, then," Dean said. "Which way to the Amberley, Mr. Hutchins?" The carriage-wright pointed the way, and soon they were ensconced by the inn's fire.

Rob had spoken little since this morning, and was no more talkative now. "I think the rain's stopping," Dean offered, when they'd been warming their hands in silence for a while.

"If you say so, my lord."

"Be nice if it gets pleasant again."

"Yes, my lord."

Rob, I miss you, Dean wanted to say. Talk to me. Tell me stories. Make me laugh.

But he had been intentionally cruel to his companion, the better to keep him at a distance, and would have to pay the price for it. "It's exactly because of what you are,"

he'd said. Dean hadn't meant prostitute, although he'd deliberately allowed Rob to think so. What you are is beautiful. Warm. Unbearably precious. One night with you, and I'd do anything to keep you. Tear Carwick apart, stone by stone, with my bare hands. If it were only me... But it wasn't. The burden of the earldom lay heavy on his shoulders. The estate, the title, the family. His tenants. Rob was a dream.

Just a few more days, and then he could begin the long business of putting his dreams behind him, and forgetting that he'd ever met this man. In the meantime, he ached for Rob's former easy companionship. Couldn't he at least have that? If only he were better with words he could think of the right thing to say, to preserve their friendship these next few days, without giving false hopes for more.

They ate in silence. At another table, the barmaid was regaling her customers with the tale of the highwayman's ghost. "I've heard them myself, late at night when the inn is quiet. Hoof beats, coming fast, with never a horse to be seen. Nothing can keep them apart, not even death."

Dean stood. "Let's go."

"Yes, my lord."

The borrowed horses were harnessed, and the coach ready to go when they returned to the carriage-wright. "If you don't mind," Rob said, not looking at Dean,

"I'll sit up next to Erich."

Dean nodded brusquely, then realized his response was invisible to one so studiously avoiding his gaze. "Fine."

"May I borrow your German dictionary?"

"Oh. Right." Dean took it from his pocket and handed it to Rob, then climbed into the coach. Alone in the jouncing carriage, he closed his eyes, hoping sleep would bring a respite from his misery. Rob's laughter floated back to him from the coachman's perch up front, and Dean felt a stab of jealousy. Shortly thereafter, an unfamiliar sound followed: another man's laugh, unpracticed and hesitant. Dean sat up. Erich was laughing? He never did. The event, which should have been cause for wonder, merely tightened his throat the more. Rob charmed everyone, didn't he? Oh, God. Dean doubled over from the pain. Why couldn't they have met three months ago?

Due to the late start and wet conditions, they were barely halfway to Chippenham when they stopped for the night in Malmesbury. The first inn they happened upon, the Old Bell, was small but virtually empty of other patrons. Dean was relieved to be able to procure separate rooms for himself and Rob, and even a small private chamber for Erich.

"Sign the ledger for me, will you?" he asked Rob, flexing his hand. "My fingers are swollen from that fall in the mud."

"Please," Rob muttered, dipping the quill into ink. "Name or title?"

"Just the name. Please."

Dean watched as Rob carefully wrote out the required information, admiring the graceful calligraphy taking shape on the page. "List," he said, reminded. "We should make a list of the things we need to buy in Chippenham. It will save time when we go to shop for them."

Rob finished writing and set down the quill. "As you wish. My lord."

They shared a quiet meal, neither man displaying much appetite. The quality of the stew didn't help. "God," Dean said, pushing his bowl away. "That sheep never baaed.

It barked."

A glimmer of a smile appeared on Rob's face. "Bow-wow mutton, they call it in Town."

Dean, frantic to keep the conversation going now that Rob had finally responded, seized on the topic. "Do you know London well?"

"Not as well as I'd like. My uncle hated it, and most of my..." Rob paused.

Patrons, Dean thought. But Rob seemed to be avoiding any direct reference to his trade tonight. As if either one of them could forget it.

"Most of my time is spent in the country. Or on the Continent."

Right. Rob's gentlemen would hardly take him to London, where everyone knew everyone else's business. Safer to invite him privately to their country homes, or go anonymously abroad.

"For someone who fancies both ghosts and history," Dean offered, "I would imagine the Tower of London would be a veritable paradise."

"I imagine so. I've never been." Rob's shoulder raised in a shrug. "Perhaps when I've—perhaps someday I can spend more time in London. What about you, my lord?

Do you care for the city?"

Dean was silent for a moment. "I suppose I do. I've had the Carwick townhouse in Worcester for several years, since it became clear I'd inherit the estate. But I spent most of my time in rented rooms in Hampstead, just outside London. Away from the hustle-bustle, yet convenient to Town. I've been so busy since inheriting the title, I haven't been back."

"Oh? What did you do in Hampstead?"

Dean colored. "Rode. Fished. Went into Town. In other words, not much."

"Ah." Rob's tone was faintly mocking. "A gentleman of leisure. Much devoted to the social whirl of the ton, I suppose. Morning rides in Rotten Row, afternoons in the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall, dancing the evenings away at Almack's."

In spite of himself, Dean laughed. "God, no. I hate that sort of thing. Although I suppose Minerva will— No, I stayed near London for the music."

"The music?" Rob cocked his head. "I thought you hated music."

Dean's flush grew deeper. "It's in my blood, whether despite or because of my upbringing. London is an excellent place if one needs to hear music regularly, with a concert or musicale almost every night. I only hate playing it myself because I was forced to."

"I see. Just as someone forced to bake bread might still enjoy eating it." His companion's smile took on a bitter cast. "I rather feel that way about sex."

Dean's heart twisted. "Rob, about this morning. I am so—"

"Don't." Rob lifted a hand. "Don't apologize. I was out of order to approach you, and it was wrong of me to be so sulky when you very naturally refused me."

"But I—"

"Don't, Dean. Let's leave it at that, shall we?" Rob's smile approximated its usual sunniness. "How about some cards, or a game of backgammon?"

Dean nodded. "Let's make that list of things we need first." He nodded at a table near the wall. "There's some writing paper there, and a pencil."

For some reason, Rob's smile grew tight. "I'll bring them to you."

"No, you'll need to write. My hand, remember?"

The other man made no move toward the table. "I have a very good memory. I'll keep it here." He tapped his head.

"Good for you," Dean said. "But I don't, and if we split up we'll get the shopping done twice as fast."

"Perhaps in the morning your hand will be better."

Dean was growing confused, and exasperated. "Rob, what is it? Your handwriting is fine. It's absolutely gorgeous. I just saw you sign the ledger, remember?"

Rob looked at him for a moment, then rose and sat at the table, placing a sheet of paper in front of him and choosing a pencil from the jar. "All right. But please, go slow."

"I will. Clothes." Dean pointed his toe and looked at it. "Let's start with the feet and work up. Shoes. No, cross that out. Boots will be better, if we can get decent enough ones in a hurry. Stockings. Breeches. Undergarments. Shirts, waistcoats, and jackets."

"Will you please slow down?"

"All right." He thought for a moment. "Neck-cloths. Handkerchiefs, for that matter.

Gloves, cufflinks, hats."

Rob's voice emerged from between gritted teeth. "You're going too fast for me."

"Are you caught up yet? Personal items. Razors, soap, toothbrushes and tooth-powder."

The pencil snapped in Rob's hand.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Give me that." Dean reached and snatched the paper from the table, then frowned at it in puzzlement. "'Preeches'? 'Soad'? You've got your words all mixed up, and some of your letters are backwards."

"I told you I was stupid." Without a trace of his customary grace, Rob pushed his chair back from the writing table and rose, his face as white as the paper in Dean's hand. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I'd prefer to retire now." His attempt at a smile was crooked and unconvincing. "This has not been one of my better days. Good night."

Rob was gone from the room before Dean could wish him a good night in return.

Alone, he stared at the mixed-up words, trying to make sense of their existence. Rob could read, and quite well, too. He'd proved that by reading the Quarterly aloud, with never a stumble or hesitation. And while it was certainly possible to be literate without being able to write as well, Rob also had demonstrated that he could form his letters perfectly, even beautifully.

If he had enough time.

Dean shook his head, unenlightened. How could someone have practiced writing enough to have the calligraphical skills Rob had displayed, and still be awkward enough with letters to make such mistakes if going quickly? He read through the list again, this time seeing a pattern emerge. The tailed letters, b and d and p and g, were interchanged randomly, resulting in not just 'preeches' but 'dloves.' Was this why Rob considered himself stupid? An unfortunate quirk, perhaps, but surely not one to drive a man to prostitution. There must be plenty of jobs where the ability to write quickly was not a requirement.

And yet...Dean studied a backwards 'S,' thinking back. If letters look the same, backwards or forwards, do other things as well? Suppose one's mind swapped other similar items. Numbers. A shop clerk wouldn't last long if a customer paid for an item that cost nine-and-six, and received change for six-and-nine instead. What else?

The valises, that first morning at Carwick. Yours is the one on the right, he'd told Rob. Who had thought about it, then picked up the wrong one. Not enough sleep, he'd put it down to.

The morning after that dreadful night in the tavern, they'd woke up lost. That time, Rob had claimed he'd been too drunk to remember which way they'd gone.

Today, getting them lost again despite Uncle Silas's crudely-drawn map. Up, down.

East, west. Left, right. Somehow, despite his obvious intelligence in other areas, Rob couldn't tell the difference. And that might matter to an employer. On a farm: 'Plow the north pasture, Rob, and make sure you harness Daisy on the left so she doesn't keep pulling right.' In the city: 'Take this note round to Lady Fine.' If Rob could get lost so easily, it might take him hours to find his way back from a simple errand. Even setting a table properly would be beyond his command, or following a recipe. Six cups of flour wouldn't suffice if nine were called for.

Uncle Silas had shrugged and laughed when Holly mixed the table linens garishly, or served the wrong wine at dinner because she couldn't distinguish between the dark red bottles of hock and the dark green bottles of claret. Then he adapted, ordering new table settings in blue, and tying bits of string around select bottles so Holly could tell them apart.

Rob's schoolmaster had beaten him for his faults. The other children would have laughed at him, mocked him mercilessly. Dean had thought it humiliating to be teased for his looks: Hip, Michael, your hair's on fire! Rob would have suffered worse. You stupid idiot. Lazy sod. Look, he can't even make his letters right. And his mother, similarly afflicted, had despaired, allowing that devil's bargain with Rob's "uncle" in hopes of securing her son's future. From something Rob had said, Dean gathered she was dead now, and he wondered if she'd lived long enough to see how the arrangement had turned out.