Discreet Young Gentleman (19 page)

How many other occupations Rob had attempted before giving up? Before relying on the one area he had experience in, had confidence that he could perform to satisfaction. He smiled grimly: Rob's disability would have few consequences in his profession. 'A little to the right, sweetheart,' might be commanded on occasion, but with someone like Rob in one's bed, there would be minimal dismay should he go a little to the left instead.

If only Rob could find an employer who knew about his problem, and was willing to work around it, as Uncle Silas had with Holly. As he himself did with Erich. Peter?

But no, Stonehurst was too close to Carwick, the visits between the two too frequent.

Best to keep temptation as far away from him as possible. For the first time in his life, Dean rued his small circle of intimates. One of his uncles, perhaps. He visited them only rarely, and although they were in general an unsocial lot, they had a strong sense of family and could be counted on in a pinch.

Uncle Silas had liked Rob, and he and Holly were getting on in years. Perhaps his uncle could use a strong back and good pair of hands around the farm. It would be hard on Dean, knowing Rob was just a few days' drive away, but it would be much harder to know he was still selling himself into the arms of strangers. His own discomfort was negligible, if he could somehow find a way to free Rob from prostitution.

And it was about time he put Rob first.

!

The serving girl tells me there's a Grey Lady here," Dean said the next morning, over breakfast in the inn's dining room. "I didn't notice it in the dark and the rain last night, but it turns out there's an abbey just next door. The Old Bell is built on what used to be part of the churchyard."

Rob, heavy-eyed, nodded over his cup of coffee but didn't speak.

"But the Grey Lady wasn't buried there. The story is, she was married at Malmesbury Abbey, and unhappily so." He paused for a response that didn't come, then continued. "Why, you ask, would she haunt the inn, then? It's a good question, and here comes Polly with the coffeepot. Polly," Dean asked the serving girl, "why does the Lady haunt the inn, if it's the Abbey she's upset with?"

Polly, a colorless young girl with rabbity front teeth, giggled. "Mayhap she's just passing through. Or," she lowered her voice and glanced around. "Had to spend her wedding night somewhere, didn't she? Doesn't always go as planned, or so I hear." She hid a snicker behind her hand. "I suppose that could be why she was so unhappy."

Polly glanced at Rob adoringly, obviously imagining a much more satisfactory consummation. "Can I get you anything else, Mr. Black?"

"No, thank you." Rob managed a sweet smile, and Dean doubted the girl saw the effort behind it.

"I'd like more coffee, miss." Dean held up his cup, and Polly dragged her eyes away from Rob, giggling again.

"Of course, Mr.. .uh.. .sir." She poured and retreated, with a last smile for Rob.

"Smith is such a hard name to remember," Dean muttered. "Don't you think?" He added sugar to his cup and stirred. "Polly was telling me before you came down—while I still existed, in other words—that Malmesbury is the oldest borough in England, with a charter given by Alfred the Great himself. There's also been a church on Abbey lands since Saxon times, and King Athelstan's tomb is over there. Care for a look?"

"I doubt we should take the time," Rob said.

"I wouldn't, except we're only going as far as Chippenham today, since we need to rig ourselves in respectable clothes before we reach Bath. Uncle Silas was right: I can't visit Minerva dressed in his castoffs. So there's plenty of time. I mean, if you want to see the Abbey ruins."

Rob blinked, looking more awake. "Athelstan. Alfred the Great's grandson?"

"If you say so. Do you know anything about him?" Dean leaned back in his chair, unaccountably pleased to have sparked Rob's interest at last.

"He reigned in the 900s. Had some trouble with the Danes— I think he's the one who took York away from them. And he subjugated the petty kings of the north and west, becoming the first king of all England."

"And to think, he's lying next door." A half-memory nagged at Dean, from his own school days. "I thought the first king of England was..." A beatific smile spread over his face. "Egbert. That's it, isn't it? Your name's Egbert."

"No, and no." But Rob laughed, which this morning was victory enough for Dean.

"Egbert was a king of Wessex. He may have held sway over large tracts of England at various times, but he didn't rule all. And I'm not named for him." His eyes regained some of their sparkle. "Think saints, not kings."

"Saints...hmm." Dean tipped his chair back on two legs and regarded the ceiling beams. "I've already guessed Cuthbert and Lambert, but of course you said you wouldn't tell me if I hit upon it."

"And so I won't." Rob drained his coffee cup. "Leave me some secrets." His tone was light, but Dean fancied he heard a note of real pain within it. He thought of his idea of the night before, that perhaps Rob could work for one of his uncles, and brought his chair to the ground with a thump. He had been going to wait for the privacy of the coach, but this was as good an opening as he was likely to get.

Dean leaned forward. "Rob. About secrets and such."

Rob's face grew guarded. "Yes?"

"I was thinking... wondering... if perhaps..." It was harder going than he'd hoped, and he pushed the words out in a rush. "If one of my uncles could use you—oh, God, not use you, I mean, not like that—if I could find you employment with one of my uncles, would you consider it? Not.. .doing what you do."

"I'm sure you mean well, Dean." Rob rose, buttoning his jacket against the light rain that was still falling outside. "But it's not just the writing I have difficulty with.

There's little practical use for me. Besides the obvious."

"That's not true, Rob. Listen. My uncles aren't young men, and they aren't getting any younger. Uncle Phineas was complaining, a few Quarterlies back, that he has trouble reading, even with his new spectacles. You could read to him, keep him company. Or help at Uncle Silas's farm—he makes allowances for Holly, he'd do it for you. Oh, God. It wouldn't be glamorous, and it wouldn't pay well. But Rob, it would get you out of what you're doing now."

"There are other considerations. Would any of your uncles want me in his house, if he knew what I am?"

Dean flushed. "You wouldn't have to tell—"

"Wouldn't I? Think about it. Suppose it were discovered." Rob looked down at his hands, perhaps picturing the men they'd touched. "I wouldn't be the only one humiliated. How would your uncle feel if the world knew he'd been keeping a male whore? Could you do that to him?"

"Rob, listen."

Just then, the dining room door swung open, and Polly trotted over to their table. It looked like she had pinched some color into her cheeks, and between that and the warm glow in her eyes as she simpered at Rob, she looked almost pretty. "You're not leaving already, are you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Rob smiled at Polly. "We're going to have a quick peek at the Abbey before we leave town, so we'd best hurry." He took her hand and squeezed it.

"But thank you so very much for all your efforts."

"Oh." The serving girl blinked at the coin Rob had deftly left behind in her palm.

"Thank you, Mr. Black."

They took their leave of Polly and the Old Bell, and collected Erich from the stable. Dean asked the coachman if he'd like to accompany them to the Abbey, and was surprised when Erich agreed. Rob, however, seemed to seize the servant's presence as an excuse to avoid further discussion with Dean.

"Wie heifit das?" On the short walk to the Abbey, Rob pointed to his hat, coat, shoes, apparently enthralled to learn the German equivalents. To be fair, given his curiosity and interest in words, Rob probably was enthralled. If not, he gave a good show of it.

"Did you hear that?" Rob turned to Dean, laughing. "The word for 'glove' is der Handschuh. 'Hand-shoe.' Isn't that wonderfully practical of the Germans? I suppose it's also evidence that they borrowed the idea of gloves from somewhere else," he added,

"since there's not a unique word for them. Can't you picture it? 'What the hell is that on his hand?' 'Why, it's a hand-shoe, obviously.'"

Dean grinned at his exuberance. "You can make a story up about anything, can't you? You should write a book."

Rob's smile tightened. "I should dictate a book, you mean. So hard to find a good secretary these days, and I doubt a publisher would supply one." He turned back to Erich. "Eine handshuh. Zwei...?"

Dean let himself lag behind, deflated. There had to be a way to get Rob out of his current profession. Unless he didn't want to? But that was absurd, and contrary to Rob's own words. He might, though, be afraid to try something else, in case he should fail. Again. Rob might not enjoy prostituting himself, but he'd made terms with it, and could see a not-too-distant future when he'd be comfortably out of it. Perhaps it was cruel to suggest other avenues, when they might so easily be blocked from travel.

And yet, he had to keep trying, because the thought of Rob in another man's bed was loathsome. Dean shook himself. In a client's bed, he meant. Surely he wouldn't want to keep his friend from enjoying pleasure with someone he desired. But that thought, too, made his gorge rise. He should get Rob out of prostitution because it was the right thing to do, then leave the man to his own devices. Because Dean couldn't have him.

Ahead of him, Erich's unfamiliar laugh burst forth, sounding more like a grating cough. Dean quickened his gait to catch up, calling "Warte auf mich! Wait for me!" If Rob wanted to lob words around like tennis balls, he would play, too.

The bilingual badinage continued until they stood at the sarcophagus of Athelstan, in the nave of Malmesbury Abbey. "Konig Athelstan von England," Dean told Erich, pointing at the effigy. "Anglo-Saxon. Angel-Sachsen, ja?"

Erich thought about it. "Athelstan, er war ein angelsachsischer Konig?"

"Ja." Rob tilted his head. "I wonder where Erich comes from. Can you ask if he's from Saxony?"

Dean shrugged. "I doubt it, but I'll ask. Erich, kommst du aus Sachsen?"

A shy smile spread over the coachman's face. "Nein. Ich komme aus Hannover."

Rob grinned back. " I got that one. I come from Hanover.'" He bowed to Erich.

"Ich komme auf—aus Cheshire."

Erich nodded and smiled, then turned back to Athelstan's effigy, his fingers tracing the bearded stone face lightly. "Wann?"

Dean, stumped, searched his pockets for his German/English dictionary, not finding it. "Bloody hell," he said to Rob. "He wants to know when, but my numbers don't go that high."

"Let me try. Most of the other numbers are very similar." Rob held up nine fingers.

"Neun, ja? Hundred?" When the coachman looked puzzled, Rob flashed ten fingers, ten times.

Erich cocked his head. "Ah, neunhundert. Im Jahr neunhundert?"

Rob's face lit up. "Ja! Dean, what's 'he died'?"

"I'm not sure, and I can't find the dictionary. Do you still have it?" asked Dean.

"Maybe." Rob felt around in his pockets, locating the desired item. "Ah, Here it is.

Starb. Er starb im Jahr neunhundred— hundert und..." Rob flashed all ten fingers again, four times. "Neunhundert und das."

"Vierzig," the coachman said, nodding and turning to Dean. "Er ist sehr schlau."

"Ja, ist er," Dean replied. "He thinks you're very smart, Rob."

"Not in any way that counts," Rob said softly.

"Stop that. Listen, I've been thinking. If you'll permit me, I'll write about your situation in the Quarterly. Tell my uncles everything, right out, and ask if one of them—"

Rob glanced swiftly at Erich. "Do you think we should talk about this here? He's no dummy himself."

"I told you, he can't learn English."

"It's hard to believe that's possible. So many of the words are almost exactly alike.

He must pick things up here and there."

"Rob," Dean said patiently, if a trifle louder, "Did you notice? You said 'hundred,'

and it meant nothing, even though the German equivalent is 'hundert.'"

"But..."

"He can't learn English the same way some people can't learn the difference between east and west." Rob stiffened. "You figured that out."

"Come on." Dean took him by the arm. "We'll talk in the coach. Erich, die Kutsche, bitte."

Dean waited until they were under way before resuming the conversation. "That's it, isn't it? You lack some sort of inner compass."

Rob sighed. "Something like that. It's more like living in a hall of mirrors: I have no instinct for whether something is forward or reverse. With letters, at least, if I have enough time, I can write them correctly."

"Like with the ledger at the inn last night."

"Yes. It also helps, as in that case, to have other writing in front of me. If I can look at another 'D,' I can make one just fine."

"If you take your time, can you figure out direction, as well?"

Rob smiled wryly. "If I really put my mind to it, and concentrate very hard, I might get it right.. .oh, half of the time."

"But you can dance."

"I can memorize movements. I can't tell you whether to go left or right on a certain step, though—if you remember our lesson, I had to show you."

"I see." Dean was silent for a moment, thinking. "I can't tell stories like you can, but this is one I think you should know."

"Oh?"

"Erich's not German. He's English."

Rob stared at him in confusion. "What? You've insisted he can't understand English."

Dean blew out a breath. "He can't, or won't. No, he can't. Because if he did...oh, hell. Let me start earlier—I told you I'm no good at this. Erich's real name isn't even Erich, it's Jim, and he's not from Hanover, he's from Sussex, I think. Or Somerset. He and his brother Michael enlisted in the army. They were twins, did everything together. Close as God's curse to a whore's arse." Dean shot Rob a quick look. "Uh, sorry. No offense meant."

Rob smiled. "None taken. It's just a saying."

"Well, anyway, a man named Jacob Franklin was their captain. He was my best friend in the world, next to Peter. But his company—hell, his whole regiment—was devastated in the storming of Badajoz. The regiment was re-formed from bits and pieces of other surviving units, including a few companies of Hessians."