Discreet Young Gentleman (6 page)

Chapter Six

This will be a quick visit," Dean said as the carriage drove up the long, tree-lined avenue leading to Stonehurst, the house of his school friend Peter Chesterfield. Unlike the approach to Carwick, the road was smooth and well-kept, with nary a rut nor mud hole to be found. Shady elms lined the way, cool and restful on a warm summer's day.

"You may as well wait in the carriage."

Rob raised his brows. "Half-a-day's journey for a few minutes' conversation?

Surely we can spare the time for a cup of tea."

Dean felt his color rising, and wished with resentment that his pale skin didn't betray his every emotion. "I...oh, hell and damnation." He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small book. "I need a few pounds for the journey to Bath.

Peter's been after me to sell this to him for years."

"What is it?" Rob took the volume gingerly. "The Compleat Angler. Oh." His voice was reverential, and he opened the pages with care. "Oh, my. A first edition, and inscribed, too. If this were mine, I wouldn't part with it for—"

"Wouldn't you?" Dean snatched the book back, flicking his eyes over Rob's body.

"I can think of worse things to sell. Excuse me while I attend to my errand. And do stay in the coach."

"In case someone should see me in your company? I quite understand." Rob sat back against the seat, lips tight.

"None of my set would ever suspect what you are, I assure you," Dean said, and slammed the coach door on any reply that Rob might have. "They wouldn't have any idea creatures like you exist."

"Herr Graf?" Erich called to him, standing up from where he'd been examining one of the bay's feet. "Das Pferd hat sein Hufeisen verloren."

"He's—she's lost her what?" But the shoeless hoof made the coachman's meaning only too clear. "Oh, Holle." Peter's stable should be able to handle the job without sending for a blacksmith from town, but it would still take more time than he cared to spend.

And he could hardly leave Rob in the coach now. His words to Rob had been true: it wasn't that he was afraid Peter or one of his frequent guests would recognize him.

But he was uneasy about passing off the prostitute as an acquaintance, when he still knew so little about him.

Dean racked his brain, trying to remember if there were anything obvious in his companion's speech or manners that would brand him as an inferior. There had been nothing remarkable about his table habits, as far as he could recall. And Rob's accents were comparable to those of his own set, or perhaps more akin to the careful speech of an upper servant, without the drawling tones or thieves' cant affected by some of the gentry. He would have to grit his teeth and hope the man could pass. In a way, he supposed, it was good to test this out before they reached Bath. But did it have to be in front of his best friend?

Dean directed Erich to unhitch the horses and take them back to the Stonehurst stable, then rapped on the door of the coach. "Horse threw a shoe," he said briefly when Rob appeared. "You may as well come with me."

Dean tried to contain his apprehension as they approached the wide stone steps leading up to Stonehurst's front door. The house was a three-story box with no pretension of architectural grandeur, built of the local honey-colored stone sometime within the past century. It was comfortable and practical rather than stylish, with windows and fireplaces appearing exactly where needed instead of where they'd make the best effect. There was little wonder Peter's home was usually filled with guests.

Today was no exception. The door flew open in response to his knock, revealing neither staid butler nor imperious footman, but someone Dean vaguely recognized from Cambridge. "Christ's balls!" the young man cried, cravat-less and smelling faintly of brandy. "If it isn't Dean Smith. How are you, Smithy? Peter! Not you—the other Peter. Peter! Look what I found on your doorstep!"

Peter Chesterfield came at a run, sliding on stocking feet into the man in the doorway. "Well, come in, Dean! You remember Dick Cobblehill?" Dean nodded at the man who had opened the door, but his host didn't stop for breath, waving his hand toward the game room down the hall, source of greatest noise. "House party this week—you know, grouse season opening and all that. Good hunting this morning. We were going to do more shooting after luncheon, fell into a billiard tournament instead.

How are you?"

There was a roar from the game room, over which an agonized whoop could be heard. "Damnation!" Dick Cobblehill turned and ran, shouting back over his shoulder at them. "That's St. Dennis out. I'm up next."

Peter rolled his eyes, taking Dean by the arm and pulling him toward the front parlor. "I've been out of the standings for almost an hour. Come, let's have a drink and I'll think where to put you and—urn." He turned to Rob. "Do I know you?"

"Robert Black," Dean offered quickly, searching his mind for the story they'd agreed on and coming up blank. "He, uh, went to school with me."

Peter looked a trifle confused, as well he might. "Oh? Then he went to school with me, too. Harrow or Cambridge? I'm afraid I don't quite recall."

"Harrow," Rob said, shaking Peter's hand with easy warmth. "Of course you don't remember. I was quite dreadful back then, fat and spotty. You were all hideous to me, calling me the worst names."

"Blobby?" Peter threw back his head and shouted with laughter. "You're not Blobby, are you? But you must be: Robert, Bobby, Blobby. Of course!"

Rob grinned. "I prefer 'Rob' nowadays."

"I imagine you do." Peter cuffed his shoulder good-naturedly. "You certainly have improved. Brandy? Whisky? Hock?"

"A brandy would be delightful, thanks."

Dean declined a drink, not certain his hands wouldn't tremble on the glass from their near miss. He felt a reluctant admiration for Rob's quickness in salvaging their story. The man was definitely a fast thinker, and good with words. "We can't stay long.

I came to surrender the Walton, and my horse threw a shoe. Do you have a farrier on staff?"

"Yes, of course. Don't you? I heard you're at Carwick now." Peter grinned, making an exaggerated bow. "My lord earl! You weren't even Honorable when I first knew you. Which makes two of us, of course. Is the Little Stream still well-stocked? I'll have to come down for a visit. You can't be giving up the Walton. I don't believe it."

"Give my wife a chance to spruce the place up, and you're most welcome. Uncle Parmenius rather ran it into the ground since you last saw it."

"Wife? That piece of news I hadn't heard. Congratulations! When was the wedding, you old dog?"

"It will be next month, in Worcester Cathedral," Dean admitted. "And of course you're invited. Did you not receive a card from Minerva yet?"

"Umm..." Peter obviously had no idea. "Perhaps I did. I'll be there, if I can stand to watch." He gave an exaggerated shiver. "You'll not be seeing me put my neck in the parson's mousetrap anytime soon. All the more reason to visit soon, before you're utterly henpecked. Just dust off a chair for me, and I'll sleep in that. Give me a week or two to clear this lot out, and we'll finish August sleeping it off on the bank of Little Stream while the fish ignore us. You're a fisherman yourself, right, Bio—er, Robbie?"

Rob laughed. "What friend of Dean's isn't?"

"Too true. Not that he admits so many into the elect few, does he? Quiet boy, but the river runs deep. The Walton! Let me see it." Dean handed Peter the small volume, and his friend fell silent for the space of several seconds while he examined it. "The Compleat Angler, signed by Izaak Walton himself. Why the devil are you letting me have it? It'll be found some morning with its spine cracked, lying in a puddle of Madeira."

Dean winced. While he was trying to put that image out of his mind and think of a good reason beyond the obvious, Rob jumped in to help. "You won't believe it, but there was a second copy among the former earl's things. It's in perfect condition, and signed as well. Having two was an embarrassment of riches, so of course Dean thought of you. I begged him to sell it to me instead, but he claimed you'd been friends longer."

"Well, goody for me." Peter turned to Dean. "Soak me for every farthing you can, or I'll still feel guilty. And you're staying for at least a few days."

"Thank you," Dean said, "but we really have to be off as soon as the horse is shod.

I'm on my way to see my fiancée, and she doesn't like to be kept waiting. We won't make Tewkesbury tonight, but at least—"

"Tewkesbury? You won't make it back to Alcester." Peter drained his glass, and poured another. "My farrier's perfectly competent, but he wasn't shoeing today. The forge has to heat. Grant won't be finished much before sundown, so you're here for the night. And thank God for it, too. There'll be dancing over at Lady Newcomb's, and she's put out the call that she's dreadfully short of men. Why the whole Egglefield clan would go off to shoot in Scotland, when there's plenty of grouse here, I can't imagine.

But even with my lot of bounders, there are more fillies than colts in the paddock."

Dean flushed. "But you know I don't dance, Peter. I'm as awkward at these affairs as a whore in church." Hearing his words aloud, he just managed to keep himself from shooting a self-conscious glance in Rob's direction.

"Don't be silly. Everyone dances. It's all just," Peter made a twirling motion with his hand. "You know. And such. You dance, don't you, Blobby?"

Rob, laughing, confirmed that he did.

"Besides," continued their host in his most persuasive tones, "you can't deprive the ladies of dancing with an honest-to-God earl. We only have Lord Colby, and he's eighty-five if he's a day."

"I couldn't." Dean shook his head.

Peter jumped to his feet, only slightly unsteady from drink. "The music room is just next door—come on, we'll show you the basic steps. Nothing to it."

A tousled head peered around the doorframe, belonging to a short young man with yellow hair. "Peter! We need you. Doesn't your house rule say that if blue ball hits blue ball, the turn is forfeited?"

"Absolutely!" Peter shouted. "I refuse to allow blue balls to clank together in this house." He allowed the supplicant to drag him toward the door to the hall, but dug his heels in before reaching it, looking back toward the music room instead. "Wait, Web.

You play the pianoforte, don't you?"

"Yes," the fair-haired man replied, "but that's not important now. Come on, Harris is going to be out if you don't explain the bloody rule, and I've got all my money on him to win."

"I'll go, if you play so Rob can teach our Smithy to dance properly."

Web groaned. "But I'll miss the end of the tournament! Five hundred guineas, I've got on Harris."

"And you'll lose them all," Peter said, arms folded implacably, "if I refuse to go judge in his favor right this minute."

"All right! All right!" Web threw up his hands in surrender. "I'll play." He stood staring wistfully after Peter as he ran down the hall to the billiard room, then jerked his thumb toward the other door. "Come on, lads. Let's see if we can keep Smithy on his feet tonight."

Rob and Dean trailed behind the blond man into the music room, a cheerful, sun-flooded chamber boasting a marvelous rosewood pianoforte. Web sat himself down and launched into the opening strains of a country dance. "What do you say, Smithy?

Shall we begin with a Quadrille?"

"By all means," Rob said, taking a place on the floor facing Dean. "I'll be the girl, of course."

"Something I imagine you're quite used to," Dean murmured.

Rob, apparently refusing to be offended, flashed a smile of amusement. "Ready?

Stand on this side of me. During the first eight bars, you bow to your partner, then the lady over there." He nodded to the left. "No, not so stiffly. Like this. Now, the first of the five figures is called Le Pantalon..."

Dean felt even more clumsy than usual, paired with his graceful companion. It made him uncomfortable, too, having to touch Rob's bare hand each time the intricacies of the dance required it. Someone had paid the prostitute to touch him with those long, fine-boned fingers; it was difficult to clasp them and not remember that.

Picture them moving over his trembling flesh... Dean stumbled. Again.

Rob laughed and clapped him on the back. "You were doing so well, too!"

"I forgot which way we were supposed to circle," he said, red-faced. "Left or right?"

"This way." Rob demonstrated with his hand. "Web, pick it up about six bars back."

Somehow, Dean made it through the lesson, even with some confidence that he would not embarrass himself miserably in the Quadrille or a simple country dance. He balked, though, when Web began playing a waltz.

"Come on," Rob said. "One hand goes here, on my waist. Clasp my hand, out here, with the other."

Take this man into his arms and spin him around the room? Dean's breath grew short at the thought. He shook his head. "If I try to learn another step, my head will explode. I'll barely keep straight what I've learned already."

"Are you certain?" Rob's face was in high color from the dancing, his hair as disordered as it ever got, a single lock falling where it shouldn't upon his forehead.

"It's all the mode."

Dean shook his head again, mutely.

"Doesn't matter," said Web, whose full name had turned out to be Alvin Webster.

"Like as not Lady Newcomb won't allow waltzes danced in her ballroom anyway.

Pity, though. I'm quite fond of them." His fingers rippled lightly over the keys, settling into a vaguely military-sounding tune in 3/4 time. "I've no doubt that we'll soon have a 'Waterloo Waltz,' but in the meantime, we can make do with the good old-fashioned 'Lobster-Back Waltz' from last year. Have you heard it?"

"Yes, I have," Dean said, wincing. "That's not how it goes. First of all, it should be in A minor."

Web shrugged, changing the key. "Close enough. I've only heard it three or four times."

Dean's temper was out of sorts from the dancing. "Oh, for Christ's sake, you've got the tune mixed up with 'Drink Little England Dry,' of all things. Get up and listen." He took Webster's seat on the piano bench and closed his eyes for a moment, calling the waltz up from memory, ordering the melody in his mind. Opening them, he glared at the hated ivory keys and began to play. Despite long years away from the piano, the notes came out the way they were supposed to sound. "There," he said, finishing with precision. "That's how it goes."