Discreet Young Gentleman (7 page)

"Let me try." Web reclaimed the bench, and proved that he'd been paying attention.

Dean jumped at the feel of Rob's hand on his shoulder. "A favorite song of yours?"

"No." Dean shook his head. "Heard it once at a musicale with Minerva."

"Once? Good heavens, you are good. You play remarkably well," the other man told him, his voice warm with admiration. "I wouldn't have guessed it. Somehow, I pictured you more the outdoors type."

"I am," Dean said shortly. "That's why I hated being forced to sit inside and play scales when I'd rather be doing something."

"But with your kind of ear, I should think—"

"Smith!" Web had stopped playing. "This part here: I'm not sure I've got it. Help me out."

Dean was happy to oblige, not wanting to discuss his father's peculiar obsession with a man he barely knew. Even if it meant another few minutes at a bloody piano.

By the time he finished demonstrating the passage to Web, Peter appeared breathless in the doorway between the music room and parlor, shouting that they'd best hurry if they wanted to eat something before the cursed ball. "Because Lady Newcomb's lemonade and bonbons aren't going to keep anyone alive, hey Web?"

Any worries Dean had entertained about whether Rob could conduct himself properly in polite society turned out to be groundless. The prostitute's manners proved faultless at Lady Newcomb's ball, and he certainly looked well in the evening clothes Erich had chosen for him from Dean's limited wardrobe. They were not of the highest fashion. The long-tailed coats of black and blue superfine he and his companion wore tonight were unexceptionable, he supposed, and Rob had tied both their cravats into elegant falls. But their shirt collars weren't as high as those the other gentlemen were now sporting, and their waistcoats were plain white, while the fashion gods were now allowing color. After they married, Minerva would probably insist he replace his knee breeches with the au courant long trousers some men were beginning to wear as evening dress, which would be a pity. Dean fancied his calves filled out a pair of silk stockings nicely, and it would be a shame to hide what was probably his only point of beauty. He stole a glance at Rob's legs, and was annoyed to find that he was outclassed even there.

Busy with estate business, Dean had seen little of his fiancée all summer, even though Minerva preferred to stay close by in Worcester, and reign as queen of local society rather than compete with the belles of the London ton. Thus, he had not attended a social engagement since assuming his title in May. And what a difference it made. The young ladies in their colorful, high-waisted gowns might sigh at the handsome Mr. Black from behind their painted fans, but it was the Earl of Carwick they schemed to dance with. Only Minerva had ever entreated him to dance before, at the handful of balls to which she had been able to drag him, and he had always refused. Now, with the confidence bestowed by his title, and Rob's lessons of the afternoon, he had his pick of the prettiest girls in the room.

Rob, he noted after several dances, was taking a different tack. While he didn't neglect to admire the belles, he was also careful to seek out the plainer misses huddled in their chairs against the walls. Dean watched as one of them, a too-thin young lady in an ill-fitting dress, blossomed under Rob's attention. He felt shamed into making a similar choice for the next dance, only to find that his partner was just as awkward at making small talk as he was, and no lighter on her feet. Apparently, it was necessary that at least one of a couple knew how to flirt. After that experience, he slunk back to the belles.

At midnight, a light supper was set out on buffet tables. Peter sidled up to him.

"What did I tell you? Lemonade and bonbons. Nothing more substantial than a sugared nut."

Dean, unaccustomed to long hours of being sociable, seized on the excuse. "How long before it's considered rude to leave? All this dancing has left me starving."

Peter glanced back at a bevy of young beauties, one of which had claimed a considerable amount of his attention during the evening. "I'm staying to the bitter end, but I've no objections if you want to call it a night. Take the coach, and send it back here when you get to Stonehurst." "You'll make my excuses?"

"Don't I always?" Peter grinned at him. "I know the effort you've made tonight, and it's been much appreciated. Back to your hole now, hermit. Will you be taking your friend with you?"

"He's not my—"friend, Dean started to say automatically, then stopped himself at the last moment. "—charge. Rob can look after himself."

"Certainly turned out well," Peter said, looking at Rob with admiration. "Look—even Lord Colby likes him, and he doesn't like anybody."

The elderly man Peter pointed to was indeed chuckling amiably at something Rob had said, and patting the young man's arm with a tremulous hand. Dean's lips tightened. "Yes, he's always enjoyed a rare popularity among the elderly."

"Among everyone, I'd say. Did you see Portia Henry's face after he led her through a second country dance? She'll be posting banns all night in her dreams. Just as well you're not dragging him away, hey? The girls would beat you to death with their dancing shoes." Peter clapped him on the back. "Have something to eat for me when you get home. Bonbons." He shuddered theatrically.

Stonehurst was empty and silent when Dean arrived back at the house. He wasn't really hungry, and felt too restless to sleep. Perhaps he should check on Erich. The coachman might be at a loss in an unfamiliar place, among people who didn't speak his language. Peter's butler, who would remain on duty until his employer and friends arrived home in the small hours of the morning, gave directions to the servants'

quarters where Erich was housed.

Erich was not in the tiny room allotted to him, nor was he enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchens with the handful of servants who were reveling in a quiet night with their master out. Dean, red-faced to have disturbed their rare luxury, backed quickly out of the kitchen and continued searching. He found Erich at last in the stables, brushing one of the horses.

"Ah, Erich," Dean said with relief. "Alles ist gut?"

He received a rare smile in return. "Ja, Herr Graf. Alles ist gut."

"The horses, you're very good with them," Dean said in German.

Erich tilted his head in response. "I suppose. I like horses," he offered in the same tongue. It was rare for him to volunteer information. Dean, who had been on the verge of leaving the stable, perched cautiously on a bale of hay instead. "Did you have a horse back home?"

The servant continued brushing, brow furrowed in concentration. "I remember.. .I had a pony. When I was small."

"Do you remember its name?" Erich didn't answer, and Dean felt awkward, wondering if he should go now, or make one more try at getting the young man to open up a little. "I had a pony, too," he ventured. "Her name was..." Did one try to translate names? With a shrug, he gave it in English. "Milky." He waited a moment, but there was no response, and he rose, unaccountably downcast. "Gute Nacht, then."

"Blümchen."

"Sein Name?"

Erich nodded. "Ja. Gute Nacht, Herr Graf." He looked down at the brush in his hand. "Und. "Ja, Erich?" "Danke."

Erich seemed pleased that his employer had taken the trouble to speak to him, and that warmed Dean more than an entire evening full of empty compliments. He nodded again, and went to find his own bed, stopping only to look up the name of Erich's pony in his dictionary. Blümchen meant "little flower." Dean smiled to think of the sober young man giving his pony such a sweet name. But doubtless he'd been much different in his youth.

Dean awoke in the middle of the night, lying on his side, a masculine arm heavy across his shoulders. Someone was nuzzling the back of his neck. Rob, he thought, freezing, unable even to breathe. There were so many rooms at Stonehurst, but somehow his traveling companion had found him. No. More likely, stumbled upon him by chance. If Rob were looking to seduce anyone, there were better-looking choices among Peter's guests. And, of course, he'd be more likely of success with someone drunker than Dean. If Rob had climbed into his bed, it could only be by accident.

The lips on his neck became more ardent, sparking an unwelcome glow somewhere to the south. He'd best put an end to this, now. Before he could speak, the arm moved, a hand groping his chest. "Sadie," moaned an unfamiliar voice in an exhalation of whisky fumes. "Oh, Sadie."

Dean spent the rest of the night on the floor.

Chapter Seven

ewkesbury," Rob said, leaning out the coach window for a better view of the enormous Abbey tower looming over the town ahead. "I've never been here. Do you know it, my lord?"

My lord. Dean supposed it was his fault that Rob had dropped the easy familiarity of address appropriate to their visit with Peter at Stonehurst. Out of sorts from his uncomfortable night, Dean had been brusque enough this morning to induce Rob into treating him with careful formality. But there were long days to get through yet, he'd best make an effort to be pleasant. Especially since his companion had handled himself so well at Peter's. "I know it well enough, I suppose. Erich and I were here just last month on estate business. There was that battle in Tewkesbury, of course, back in...in..."

"1471, wasn't it? War of the Roses. Henry VI's son was killed, pretty much ending the Lancastrian cause until the Tudors came along."

Dean stared. "I thought you were thrown out of school. I couldn't remember half of that."

Rob laughed. "I lived with an...uncle who encouraged me to read books about things he was interested in, so we would have something to talk about. I ended up with a sort of education after all."

Dean, who'd been blessed with nine uncles of his own, rather thought Rob's was a very different sort of relation. "Oh? What sorts of things was your uncle interested in?"

"History, of course, and I rather enjoyed that. Poetry, as long as it was written before 1700

he had no patience for this 'modern nonsense.' Fishing, which became sort of a passion of mine. That book of yours, The Compleat Angler. I must have read it a dozen times—wonderful book."

Dean sat up straight. "You really are a fisherman, then? I thought that was just for Peter's benefit. You should see the trout streams at Carwick—" He broke off, appalled at himself. Absurd to think he would ever invite the prostitute to visit his home, even if Rob were a fellow angler. "What about your own interests? Were you encouraged to pursue those?"

"No. No, I wasn't." Rob was silent a moment. "My uncle liked art. Hired a tutor to give me drawing lessons, even though I had absolutely no aptitude for it. I begged him to let me take music lessons instead—he had this wonderful pianoforte which had belonged to his wife, just sitting there, unused—but he was tone-deaf himself, and wouldn't let me even try to play it. I envy you your skill."

"You didn't miss much." Remembering his resolution to be pleasant, Dean continued warily. "My father fancied himself a composer, you see, and was determined to bring up his own little Mozart. I was forced to practice constantly from the time I was in skirts, and I hated it. Playing those damned scales over and over, when all I wanted was to be outside riding, or fishing." Dean frowned, feeling the need to change the subject. "About those art lessons. Is there any chance you could make a sketch of the man who hired you to accost me?"

"No. I told you I was no good at it."

"But even a rough sketch might give me enough of an idea—" 'No," Rob said, folding his arms.

Dean narrowed his hazel eyes, losing his patience. "Sometimes I wonder if you really were trying to rob me. You've certainly been uncooperative in helping me so far."

"Oh, have I? I'm missing at least two appointments this week, and getting nothing from you in return, all on the chance that I might be able to identify someone who might or might not have gone to Bath to woo your fiancée Is that so uncooperative, my lord?"

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "It's the temper that goes with this blasted hair. Let me make it up to you." He rapped on the roof of the coach and leaned out the window.

"Erich! The Royal Arms, schnell." "The Royal Arms?"

"If you're interested in history, you'll adore it. It's the oldest inn in Tewkesbury, dates back to—oh, Christ, whenever. But it's very old, and not far from the Abbey. We can get a decent meal there."

Rob looked hopeful. "The Abbey. I don't suppose...?"

Dean sighed. He owed the man, if only for his success at Stonehurst. "Yes, if you're quick about it. We've been making good time today."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Dean. Remember?"

The barman at the Royal Arms was proud of the inn's history. "Oh, aye, she's an ancient one. Older than the Bear, no matter what they say. These walls were old when Shakespeare and his men played here. Oldest inn in all of England."

Dean put down his mug of bitter and wiped foam from his lip, frowning. "I thought the oldest inn in England is the Man and Scythe over in—"

Not politic, perhaps, but no real reason for Rob to nudge his foot under the table.

Still, he shut up while his companion turned a considerable amount of charm on their host.

"Shakespeare performed here? How fascinating. Can you tell us anything else?"

The barman was only too pleased, drawing himself a pint and joining them at the table, regaling them with story after story. Some of them, to Dean's amusement, seemed borrowed from the inn's famous playwright guest.

"No one knew it, but Meg, the daughter of the Yorkist innkeeper, secretly pledged herself to a young Lancastrian lord. It would be death for both of them if they'd been discovered." The publican paused for effect.

"Nothing so sweet as forbidden fruit," Rob said encouragingly, aiming a wink at Dean.

Their host nodded. "Aye. They met right here one last time, just before the Battle.

He said when the Red Rose was triumphant, he would come back for Meg and make her his lady."

Dean suppressed a smile. "I'm guessing it didn't end well?"