Discreet Young Gentleman (20 page)

"Hessians. That's where Jim learned to speak German?"

"Yes, from Erich. The real Erich, I mean. There was one, and Jacob told me he became a very close friend to both Jim and his brother."

Rob's eyes darted back and forth as his quick mind filled in the story himself. "Jim and Michael had a German friend. Let me guess...he died?"

"Yes. The real Erich had just died of illness, and then Michael fell at Vittoria."

Rob winced. "Don't tell me. Michael died in his brother's arms?"

"Well," Dean said apologetically. "All over him, really. Grapeshot is—" "Ouch."

"Yes." Dean lifted his shoulders. "Jim was wounded in the same battle. He couldn't, or wouldn't speak at all at first, and when he did, he insisted, in German, that his name was Erich, and he belonged with the Hessian troops."

"Why didn't they send him home?"

"They needed the soldiers. And apart from that one quirk, Jim was a damned fine one." "I thought he hated guns?"

"He won't touch them now the war's over, but while it persisted he did his duty, and quite well, from all accounts. The Hessians hardly minded keeping him, especially since over time his German improved to the point where they could almost believe he was one of them. But my friend Jacob managed to keep an eye on him for the rest of the war. Then, after Waterloo, Jacob wrote to me, and asked if I could possibly take Erich on."

"So you did. That was very generous of you."

"He could hardly go back to Hanover, when he didn't really come from there.

There was no one in England, either, no wife, no family. And...Jacob was dying. Shot through the lung, or he would have kept Erich himself. I could hardly refuse."

"I'm sorry about your friend." Rob thought for a moment. "Then, if Erich speaks English, that's too close to an admission that he's really Jim? Because if he tried it would soon be all too apparent, especially to himself, that he did know the language.

So he can't speak it, can't even begin to understand it."

"I think so. Jim's brother exploded all over him at Vittoria. If Jim is Jim, then his twin brother is dead. But Erich never had a brother."

"And the real Erich, he's still alive too, so long as Jim continues to impersonate him." Rob spoke softly. "Poor Jim."

"That's how I see it, anyway," Dean said. "If he speaks English, his brother and best friend are dead. Maybe someday he can face that."

Rob looked down at the coach floor, somber. "Why did you tell me?"

"I thought...I thought you should know. Hell, I know it isn't quite the same, but you're—you're not stupid, Rob. And neither is Holly, or Erich. You're all good, smart, worthy people, each with

a single flaw. I don't know exactly how it works with any of you, but I do know that much. And there are people who will work around it, like Uncle Silas, and Jacob Franklin—" "And you."

Dean flushed at the emotion in Rob's tone. "I can't take any credit. I inherited Erich from Jacob, and he's been a blessing to me. As long as I don't try to force him to speak English, he'll do anything, work round the clock if I ask him to. Well, except handle a gun—he won't touch one these days. But he's terrific with the horses, and he learned to cook and sew on buttons in the Army. Learning a few words of German is a small price to pay for such service."

A smile curved Rob's lips. "No, no credit to you at all."

"None," Dean said firmly. "Rob. Think about it. About letting me tell my uncles your story, and asking them for help."

"I'll think about it. And Dean?" Rob shifted in his seat, uncharacteristically awkward. "Thank you. No one's ever tried to make me feel.. Just, thank you."

Chapter Eighteen

By late morning, they reached Chippenham, a market town of about 3,500 souls nestled in a loop of the River Avon. The coach moved slowly across the bridge and through the town, slowed by a profusion of horses picking their way cautiously through three days' worth of mud.

"It's changed since I last was here," Dean said, rolling the window shade back down against the incessant rain. "Canal linked up to London a few years back; that's probably why it's so much busier."

They stopped first at a barber for a quick shave, then went in search of a tailor.

Polly had given them the addresses of a handful of candidates, and they soon found one who could be bribed to make them each a set of day and evening clothes as soon as possible.

"But can they be ready by tomorrow?" asked Dean.

Monsieur Au Sable, tall and lugubrious and unconvincingly French, gave a mournful sigh at the Herculean task requested of him. "Bien sur my lord Carwick. Of course, moi and my staff will be forced to work around the clock to have them ready so soon. Only for a lord of your stature would we even fait le attempt. But if we ignore all other custom, neglect our meals and forget that

such a pleasure as sleep even exists..."

Dean, taken aback, looked at Rob for support, only to find him and the tailor's assistant exchanging sidelong glances. Did Rob have to flirt with everyone? He pursed his lips, annoyed. "We need the clothes as soon as possible. My coachman can sew a little. I'll tell him to—"

"My lord!" Au Sable unstooped his shoulders and straightened to his full cadaverous height. "Je vous promis, my staff will finish on time, and with out l'assistance of your coachman. Should it force us into early graves."

Rob nudged him, nodding his head toward Au Sable's assistant, who seemed to be holding back laughter. The young man winked at him, and Dean, confused, bowed stiffly to the tailor. "We, uh, are very grateful, I'm sure. Thank you, Monsieur Au Sable."

The tailor nodded glumly at his assistant. "Mon fils Aloysius will take your measurements." He swept a curtain aside, revealing a hallway with workrooms and closets opening off of it. "If you please, mon comte et monsieur. The fitting room is to the back."

"It's all right," Rob said to the tailor's son, once his father's sonorous footsteps had retreated to the front of the shop. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder and squeezed it warmly. "You can laugh now. His lordship has an uncle named Aloysius, so we're practically family. Tell us what's so amusing, will you?"

"Oh, sir!" the tailor's son gasped between chuckles, his tones pure Gloucestershire.

He looked up at Rob with something approaching adoration. "Au Sable! Good French name, ain't it? Sands, we used to be called, before all the tailors had to be French to get any business."

"Well," Dean said, "you'll be busy enough tonight. Let's get this over with so we can leave them to it."

The tailor's son laughed again and shook his head. "We had a patron go bankrupt three or four months back, see? Bespoke a whole wardrobe, then couldn't afford to pick it up. Expensive stuff it is, too. Father's been frantic trying to think of how to recoup the loss."

Rob grinned. "And you think it will fit us?"

"Haven't taken your exact measurements yet, sir, but you'll both be near enough."

Aloysius regarded them with a practiced eye, lingering longer over Rob's form. "Oh, we'll have a few hours of adjustments to do, take in some seams here and there. And the hems, of course. But I'll have plenty of time for a few drinks at the Ram's Head tonight." He waved a hand at the ill-fitting garments they'd borrowed from Uncle Silas. "If you were thinking you might want to go out as well," he added with another glance at Rob, "I can even give you something respectable to wear today.

Won't fit perfectly, but.

"Better than my uncle's clothes," Dean said. "Much appreciated. We'll take them with us and change once we get to the inn—no sense in spattering them with mud. Can you recommend a place to stay?"

Once their business there was completed, they exited the tailor's shop into a drizzling day. "Damnation," Dean said, putting up his umbrella. "Isn't it ever going to stop raining?"

Rob shivered, handing over to Erich the two bundles of clothing Aloysius had provided them to wear until they could pick up their new garments in the morning.

"Hard to believe it's still summer. Let's get the shopping over with, and find an inn with a nice fire."

Dean gave him a sideways glance. "And then go out for a drink?"

Rob laughed. "Aloysisus was sweet, but he's far too young for me."

"You didn't give him that impression."

"Should I have? Tell me, does being gruff with people get better treatment than a few harmless pleasantries?"

Dean sighed. "I suppose you're right. I just don't think it would work for me."

"Try it some time. What's next—cobbler?"

No boot maker could produce a proper-fitting set of Hessians overnight, but ready-made items of passable quality were procured. After that, some hours were spent acquiring the other odds and ends a gentleman needs to groom himself and appear respectable in society. At the apothecary, Dean's hand hesitated over a bottle of Mrs.

Brown's Cucumber Extract, which according to the label was guaranteed to reduce freckles and other unsightly blemishes.

"Don't you dare," Rob said firmly, moving the bottle out of his reach. "You're gorgeous just as you are."

Dean felt himself color. "They never work, anyway. Believe me." He nodded at a small tin in Rob's hand. "What's that?"

His companion smiled brightly. "Hand cream. You never know when a nice slippery balm will come in handy." And when Dean looked puzzled, "Oh, blast. Figure it out. I'll be going straight on from Bath to visit one of my gentlemen friends."

The coach was loaded with parcels by the time they finished shopping, but it was a short drive to the hotel the tailor's son had recommended. By now, the rain had increased from a drizzle to a downpour. "I'll go ahead and procure rooms," Dean said, looking out into the falling rain. "Will you help Erich bring the parcels in?"

"Yes, of course," Rob replied.

Dean opened his umbrella and ran through the deluge, but the whipping wind ensured that he was thoroughly soaked by the time he made it up the stairs and entered the vestibule of the Hotel Grande. The establishment lived up to its name. The foyer, which opened into a gentleman's bar at the back, was tastefully furnished in the French style, with gilt-edged scrolling on the furniture and upholstery embroidered with delicate floral scenes. He could see himself reflected perfectly in the polished surface of the reception desk, and stood back a little, the better not to drip vulgarly on it.

"Beautiful place," Dean said to the receptionist, painfully aware of the figure he must make in his wet, ill-fitting clothing. Perhaps, despite the rain, it would have been better to have changed into something more presentable at the tailor's. "Do you have two rooms available, and lodging for my coachman?"

The man at the desk looked him up and down. "I'm sorry, sir," he said coolly. "We are unable to accommodate you at present. Perhaps the Pig and Whistle?"

Dean started to turn away, embarrassed, but then drew himself up to his not-inconsiderable height and did his best to look down his nose at the receptionist. "I am Dean Smith, Earl of Carwick," he said quietly. "I apologize for my disarray, but I was robbed on the road and my valises stolen. If there is any chance you can indulge me with a room, I assure you I will be much more appropriate to your dining room by dinner time. Are you absolutely certain you are full?"

The man blinked. "Allow me to consult with the manager, my lord. Perhaps something can be done."

While he was waiting, the door opened, and Erich and Rob hurried in with the first load of packages. At the same time, a gentleman of late middle years emerged from the bar, and with a start, Dean recognized him as the father of one of his Cambridge classmates. But the man didn't seem to notice him, instead making a beeline for the dripping figure of Rob.

"Rob? Good heavens, what brings you to Chippenham?"

"Mr. Parker!" Rob's face glowed as he pushed wet hair away from his forehead.

"How wonderful to see you again, sir."

"Here, let me." Richard Parker's father pulled out a handkerchief and mopped Rob's face tenderly. "Ghastly weather we're having. I'm so looking forward to our trip to Italy next month, aren't you?"

Dean stopped breathing. Not a chance acquaintance, no friend of the family. Parker was one of Rob's patrons.

"My lord?" The receptionist was back. Dean turned back to the desk, while the laughter and easy conversation went on behind him. Rob didn't have the grace to act ashamed, but had leaned into

the older man's touch as he'd dried his face. Smiled and flirted, his manner promising pleasures to come. Which for Parker, were available anytime he wished, as long as his money was good.

The receptionist was still talking, apologizing, offering a room. "It's the only one we have, my lord, but it's spacious and comfortable, I assure you. Our servant quarters can easily accommodate your coachman, and..."

The voices behind him ceased, and the door opened again. Dean glanced over, to see Rob and Erich just disappearing, presumably to fetch another load of parcels. Mr.

Parker stood, staring after Rob with a slight smile on his face. "I don't want to inconvenience you," Dean said abruptly. "Perhaps another hostelry can provide us with the two rooms I require."

"Oh, no, my lord!" The receptionist, who had almost certainly been set right by his manager about the inadvisability of refusing service to a peer of the realm, looked very alarmed at the thought of losing his aristocratic guest. "You don't want to go back out into that storm. I assure you, my lord, you'll be quite comfortable here. And with the fair going on, it's doubtful you'll find other lodging at all. Everyone's in town for the horse race tomorrow."

Better to sleep again in a barn, than under the same roof as one of Rob's gentlemen.

Parker turned and noticed Dean for the first time, his brow creasing as if trying to place him. Dean's hand clenched into a fist on the reception desk.

The clerk, noticing the involuntary gesture, swallowed audibly. "Give me just a moment, my lord. Perhaps...perhaps we can persuade two of our guests to share, so as to free up a second chamber for your lordship. Please, just give me a moment."