Discreet Young Gentleman (3 page)

Dean rekindled the fireplace and used rushlights to light the room's tallow candles. He was acutely conscious of the lack of new-fangled gas fixtures, or servants rushing to perform these tasks, but thankfully the prostitute refrained from comment. If nothing else, he was courteous.

Dean lifted a bottle from a tray on the table nearest the window. "I don't have any strong spirits in the house. Will wine do?"

"Yes, thank you."

He poured them each a glass of burgundy, ruby-red in the candlelight, then settled into a wing-backed chair across from Rob. "Now. We have to come up with some reason for you to be traveling with me." He looked at his guest with narrowed eyes.

"Will we need to avoid staying in public hostelries? To avoid meeting anyone you..

.you've...?"

Rob lifted his brows, sipping at his wine. "If we did, do you think it's likely that he'd call vow names in public? But I don't think it's probable we'll meet any on the road. Most of my.. .companions... have been older gentlemen who don't mingle much in Society."

Dean's lip curled. "Forgive me for not knowing how such things are arranged."

He received a cool glance in return. "I don't work the streets, my lord. Tonight's commission was too intriguing to pass up, and would have been quite—" Dean shot him a look, causing the prostitute to abandon that thought. "But most of my custom comes through referrals. There are a handful of gentlemen I visit at their homes on a regular basis, and I meet others through advertisements in the Times."

"The Times!" Dean stared. "You cannot be serious."

Rob smiled. "Discreet young gentleman required to act as traveling companion for tour of Tuscany. Must be clean, presentable, and have excellent personal habits. What on earth did you think such notices were about? If a man just wanted someone to write his letters home and fight with the concierge on his behalf, he'd take a nephew or friend's son, wouldn't he?"

"Bloody hell," Dean muttered. "I'll never think of the Times in quite the same way again."

"Of course, I usually have to write the letters home as well." His mouth twisted.

"But only if they insist."

Dean eyed him with suspicion. "You are clean and presentable, and you speak well for a...for what you are. Why haven't you found a respectable position somewhere? Or do you just not care to?"

"That, my lord, is another story." Rob folded his arms, chin lifted, clearly daring the earl to press further.

Dean broke eye contact first, reaching for his glass. In its reflection, the firelight made his hair glow orange. He grimaced. "I can't pass you off as a relation, or an old school friend. Everyone who knows me will know you aren't."

"A servant?"

"Hardly. If you're right, and the man who hired you to accost me is indeed a gentleman, you'll need to travel in my circles to identify him. How on earth am I to introduce you?"

"What's wrong with: 'This is my friend, Rob'?"

"Friend?" He knew he sounded appalled, and flushed.

Rob looked at the floor. "Friend of a friend, then. Or maybe someone a crotchety old uncle insisted you show around Bath for a few days. You don't have to actually pretend to like me."

"I do have several crotchety old uncles," Dean admitted. "Seven of them, at last count. It's not impossible. But you'll have to stop calling me 'my lord,' if we're to appear to be on intimate terms."

"What shall I call you, then? Carwick?"

"Just call me Dean. Smith is too common, and Carwick too new for me to remember to answer to it—I've held the title for only a few months."

"Oh. I'm sorry." It sounded like true sympathy in the prostitute's voice. "About your father, I mean."

"Thank you, but he died over ten years ago. The last Lord Carwick was one of those uncles I was telling you about, and not particularly missed." Nor was his father, but that was hardly relevant to this conversation. Dean gestured around the room. "My uncle was a bit of a recluse—the place all but fell to pieces about him. But there's no sense in spending a fortune putting it to rights when Minerva will just change it all again once we're married. She'll want to hire her own staff as well, in case you were wondering. Erich is sufficient to look after me."

Rob looked around the room, shabby but presentable, the tables gleaming with polish. "He takes care of the whole place?"

"A couple of charwomen come from the village to clean, if it matters." Dean frowned, realizing they were getting into subjects that were of no concern to someone he barely knew—and wouldn't choose to know, if necessity hadn't thrown them together. He dragged the conversation back on track. "You're to call me Dean, then."

"Fine. I go by Robert, but prefer Rob." "And your last name is?"

"Well, since Smith already seems to be taken, let's make it...I don't know." He tugged at a lock of sable hair. "Black. Robert Black will do."

"But your real name?"

Rob looked up, meeting his host's eye. "I have family too, and out of respect for them, I don't use it." "But—"

There was tension in every line of the prostitute's body. "Ever."

Dean nodded shortly. "Fine. You're the son of one of my uncle's cronies, and I'm showing you around Bath as a favor." He hesitated. "Will I owe you a fee?"

"I've already offered to help you find the man who hired me, and I consider that a favor for the trouble I've caused you." Rob relaxed, his lips twitching in mischief.

"Now, if there are other services you're interested in..."

Dean's back stiffened, and once again he felt a damnable flush flooding his face.

"There most certainly aren't."

"Of course not," Rob agreed, contrite. "I was forgetting Miss Lewis."

"Do you live nearby? We'll need to pick up some things for you as soon as I'm packed."

"I hadn't thought of that. I'm based in Hereford for now—forty miles in another direction. Depending on the roads, that could add a few days."

Dean drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, releasing little puffs of dust.

"We can't take the time. You'll have to borrow some of my clothes. Do you think we're close enough in size?"

"Stand up, and let's see." Rob rose and crossed to stand before the mirror hanging over the fireplace. Dean joined him, allowing his companion to consider their relative size in the reflection. "We're not so far apart," Rob said. "Right height, at least." He turned to face Dean, using his hands to measure the earl's shoulders. Dean had to fight to keep himself from shivering at the unaccustomed touch, trying to remember the last person who had put hands on him as many times as Rob had already in their brief acquaintance. "You might be just slightly broader through the trunk and shoulders,"

the prostitute continued, "but probably not enough to signify. If a few adjustments do turn out to be desirable, does Erich act as your valet as well?"

"If such a thing were necessary, I suppose he would. But if we're this near in size, I don't see any reason to bother."

"You don't need a valet?" Rob dropped his hands from Dean's shoulders, resuming his spot on the velvet sofa.

"Why everyone thinks a full adult needs another man to help him get dressed is beyond me." Dean sat as well, hand tightening on his wineglass. He'd been discomfited enough by the prostitute's hands on him just now. Imagine another man touching him like that, every day... "Do you have a valet?"

"Of course not. But you're an earl."

"And therefore incapable of buttoning my own waistcoat?"

"Stop scowling like that." A smile tugged at the corners of Rob's mouth. "I'm sure you're very capable."

"Well, I am," Dean muttered, feeling childish and unsettled. "Right. You'll borrow my clothes. We'll take the coach and pair. I'll need to visit a friend first, to—to—for an obligation I have to take care of, but that should still get us to Bath in, what? Four, maybe five days if the weather holds. If we're lucky and find our culprit right away, we should be free of each other within a week."

"A week. I can manage that." Rob lifted his glass. "To a pleasant and successful journey." Dean didn't smile. "To a successful journey."

Chapter Three

In the moonlight, the highwayman's eyes were dark and liquid

above the mask that covered the lower half of his face. The pistol in his hand was absolutely steady. Mesmerized, Dean held out his own hand, gold watch in his open palm.

"That's not what I want from you. " The highwayman stepped closer, and the watch fell from Dean's nerveless fingers, making a dull clank as it hit the road. Dean backed up a step, his back brushing against the carriage behind him. He could retreat no further. He closed his eyes, breath coming in gasps, as warm fingers touched his face, trailed down his neck. His cravat was loosened and pulled from his throat, and then the hand was gone.

"Take off your shirt, " the highwayman said.

Startled, Dean opened his eyes, and focused on the pistol in the other man's hand.

Of course. Undressing is a two-handed fob. Of their own volition, Dean's hands rose and began fumbling with his buttons. In dream logic he knew, without looking down at his exposed chest, that the moonlight was washing away his unfortunate freckles, making him look practically normal. Or there would be no reason for the heat in the highwayman's gaze, the low, throaty tone to his voice as he uttered his next command.

"Now your trousers."

Dean awoke trembling, reaching by reflex for the length of blue ribbon he kept under his pillow. The idea of a man touching him should be appalling. And it was, wasn't it? Of course it was. He twisted the ribbon around his wrist, calming. There had been women in his university days. True, most of his experiences had been drunken encounters with Cambridge fancy girls, but surely he'd acquitted himself well enough to imagine he was anything like Rob and his ilk.

Obviously he wasn't like that. He was merely trapped in an unusual situation now, so it was hardly surprising that he'd dreamt about it. Before long he quieted and drifted back toward sleep. Still, Dean's last coherent thought was that the quicker he was rid of the damnable prostitute, the better.

They breakfasted in the same parlor in which they'd dined the night before, one of the few rooms Dean had bothered to open at Carwick since he'd assumed the title back in May. The grey light of early morning was less kind than candlelight to the threadbare drapes and worn oriental carpet. His guest tactfully failed to notice, but then again, as Dean was perversely satisfied to find, the man was not much of a morning person. Rob was mostly silent and heavy-eyed over his breakfast, lacking the easy grace and verbal facility he had displayed the previous evening. Apart from a mumbled thanks for the coffee and rolls Erich brought them, he didn't converse.

Which was fine with Dean. Seeing one of his own shirts on the prostitute did not sweeten his own mood. Tailored for Dean, it looked much better on Rob. God damn him.

Rob poured another cup of coffee, closed his eyes and inhaled the steam.

"Not used to getting up early?" Dean inquired tartly. "Not used to staying up late."

Dean snorted.

Rob opened his eyes and glared at him. "I told you I don't walk the streets."

"No," Dean taunted, "you're a perfectly respectable whore. Used by one little old man every third Sunday, who barely touches—"

Rob set his cup down with a thump. "Stop it!" He took a breath. "Excuse me, my lord. I am what I am, and I've been.. .touched... plenty. But—and perhaps it's a subtle difference to you

I don't take on a dozen strangers a night. I have a select clientèle of older gentlemen, whom I visit anywhere from twice a week to once a month."

"Old men?" Dean pictured crabbed, blue-veined claws on Rob's firm young flesh and couldn't contain a shudder. "How can you stand it?"

Rob sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's the stories."

"The what?"

"Never mind. I just can."

"But for how long? You're not going to be young and handsome forever."

"I hope to have enough put aside so that I can stop this in a few years. If it's any of your business." The prostitute reached for a roll and began picking it apart. Very little of it reached his mouth.

"So you don't like it," Dean stated. "Why do it, then?"

"We aren't all born to the purple, my lord."

"Ha," Dean said. "Yet most men find an honest career. Why not you?"

Rob's mouth twisted. "Perhaps there's little else I'm suited for. Could we please change the subject?"

"Or little else that would let you retire by the time you're thirty? Oh, guten Morgen, Erich."

The servant extended a wrapped bundle, the size and shape of a ledger. "Dieses Buch ist für Sie gekommen, Herr Graf."

"Danke." Dean looked at the item and scowled. "The Quarterly. I can't face my family just now."

"The Quarterly?" Rob pushed at the plate holding the tattered remains of his roll, and reached to pour them both more coffee.

Dean handed the book back to Erich. "Put it in the coach, uh, in die Kutsche. The Quarterly is a book that acts as a sort of circulating letter amongst my family. Each of us adds whatever news we have to the ledger, then sends it on. Since it takes roughly three months to make the rounds, we call it the Quarterly."

Rob's smile was bright and false. "Think of the fun you'll have describing this venture."

"I liked you better when you were quiet," Dean stood up with such force his chair fell over. "Finish your coffee," he said, righting it with a scowl. "It's time to go."

"Fine." The prostitute rose to follow his host to the entry hall.

Dean paused at the door. "Erich packed us each a bag. Yours is the one on the right."

Rob stared, then slowly reached out a hand and picked up the wrong bag.

"Idiot," Dean hissed, snatching it from him.

Rob flinched, and claimed the other valise. "Sorry, my lord. It's early yet."

"Go on out to the carriage. I have to lock up."

Dean finished his task and approached the carriage. A large and bulky closed coach, it, like the parlor, did not show to advantage in the chill light of morning. The Carwick coat of arms had once