Lord Foxbridge Butts In (20 page)

“Thank you very much for your help, Gabriel,” Twister said to the boy when he’d finished, “I will be in touch again later on, especially if I need you as a witness; but in the meantime I will keep your name out of the papers.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Gabriel whispered; his crying had ravaged his voice and he was no longer able to do much more than croak, “I’m very grateful to you.”

“The gratitude belongs to Sebastian, here,” he passed off the thanks with an impatient wave, “Without his interference, I probably
would
have taken you down to the Yard for questioning. But knowing your story, I’d prefer to not involve you if I can help it. But I
do
have to ask you to give up your... well,
profession
. At least for the time being. If you get hauled in for soliciting while this investigation is going on, I won’t be able to help you.”

“I’ll keep him out of trouble,” I assured them both; I’d decided while I was waiting for the police to arrive that there was nothing else I could honourably do: to cut the boy loose after all he’d been through would have been as cruel as kicking a baby. I could be a
preux chevalier
, too, when the occasion arose.

“Well, then,” Twister got up and put his hat on, “I’ll turn my back while the two of you scurry off somewhere else. I’ll tell Brigham you wandered away while I was questioning someone else.”

“
Wandered
away?” I gaped at him, offended, “The man will think I’m an idiot.”

“He
already
thinks you’re an idiot,” Twister said with brutal candour, “And I’d just as soon he keeps
on
thinking that, if your pride can take it. If he found out there’s a real brain inside that pretty head of yours, he’d start asking suspicious questions about your inexplicable presence in multiple murder investigations.”

“You think my head’s pretty?” I grinned with delight, completely ignoring the rest of what he said — though I did indeed see the sense in it. If Brigham thought I was clever enough to commit a murder and then make it look like someone else did it, with three found corpses to my credit, I’d be in deep trouble.

“Be gone with you,” he rolled his eyes and left the room, “Before I change my mind.”

I didn’t need to be told twice, knowing I would not relish a
tête-à-tête
with Chief Inspector Brigham; I took Gabriel and slithered away to Wardour Street, where I hailed a cab and directed it toward St. James’s. When we arrived at Hyacinth House, I dragged him up to my rooms, where I told Pond to put him into a hot bath and get him something to eat, and warm whiskey with honey to soothe his throat, before I went out again.

“Mr.
 Delagardie,” I stopped at the front desk to talk to the manager, “I have a friend I’d like to stay here for a little while, if you’ve a room available.”

“We have four vacancies, my lord,” he opened his big ledger and peered down through his pince-nez, “I have the two-room suite above your own, two alcove suites on the second and third floors, facing the street, and a single room on the second floor facing the courtyard. Count Gryzynsky’s former room, you may remember.”

“I’ll take the Count’s old room,” I said, not because it was the smallest but because I wanted to keep him where I could see him, “Reserve it for at least a month, and add it to my bill. I’ll let you know then if I want to keep it longer.”

“Very good, my lord. Will you sign the register for your friend? Just his name and city of residence, if you don’t mind. Regulations, you understand.”

Gabriel’s name looked very odd when I wrote it down — I’d associated ‘Baker’ solely with the older brother, though obviously they’d have the same surname. But everyone called him Angel or Gabriel or both, and referred to his brother as Mike Baker, as if it were one word; so the misconception was understandable.

Having resolved the question of his room and board, I went out to buy him some pajamas and other toilet articles to see him through the night. I would have to take Gabriel
with
me, probably to Harrods, for some day-clothes; but in the meantime I could get some overnight things for him at Monsieur Alcide’s. The pretty lettuce-green silk pajamas and the darker green velvet dressing gown would bring out the green of his eyes, and though I didn’t know what scents he preferred, I chose soaps and colognes that smelled nice to me, redolent of verbena and lime.

I felt very paternal (or perhaps
avuncular
is a better word) making all these arrangements for Gabriel’s care, and I quite
liked
the feeling. I wondered if I would
continue
to enjoy it over a period of time, though: it felt a bit like Responsibility, which I had sworn to avoid until I acceded to the earldom. But it was fun for the time being, so I enjoyed myself without too much introspection.

When I got back to my rooms, I found Gabriel tucking into a perfectly enormous omelet sprinkled with Russian caviar and chopped onions, while Pond hovered solicitously at his elbow with a silver-lipped carafe of my second-best Tokay. The boy was wrapped up in one of my old bath-robes, which was much too big for him, making him look even smaller and younger than he already was — it was immensely endearing, and that avuncular affection swelled anew in my breast.

“You’re looking much fitter,” I sat down at the little table and motioned for Pond to bring me a glass of the Tokay, “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks,” he said around a mouthful of omelet.

“I got you a room here in the hotel, so you don’t have to worry about where you’ll stay. And I got some overnight things for tonight, I’ll take you to get some clothes tomorrow if the police haven’t finished with your rooms.”

“Oh!” Gabriel looked alarmed, “You didn’t have to do all that! I could just sleep on your couch tonight and go back home tomorrow. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Nonsense,” I waved away his objections, “You can’t go back to those rooms, at least not for a while, not while the memory is still fresh. And I told Twister I’d keep you off the game for the time being, you can’t stay out on your own with no income.”

“I have savings,” Gabriel grumbled but didn’t pursue the issue, instead changing topics entirely, “Why do you call Sergeant
 Paget ‘Twister’?”

“It’s his school nickname,” I laughed, “We public-school types always do that, I’m afraid. We revert to adolescence whenever we meet.”

“What’s your school nickname?” he wondered.

“Foxy, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“My title, and the red-brown hair,” I shrugged, “Not very imaginative.”

“I don’t know,” he studied me objectively, “‘Foxy’ suits you. Besides your hair, there’s something about your eyes and chin that suggests a fox, a sort of sharpness. But Sergeant Paget’s nickname, what does that mean?”

“I assume it’s because his Christian name is ‘Oliver,’ like Oliver Twist. Schoolboys aren’t usually terribly clever when it comes to making up those names. Did you have a nickname at school?”

“We all called each other by our surnames,” he said, returning to his omelet, “That’s even less imaginative.”

“More dignified, though,” I said, “What school did you attend?”

“Oaklands, in Bethnal Green,” he said somewhat dismissively, knowing I would never have heard of it; and he was right, I wasn’t even entirely sure where Bethnal Green was, other than somewhere to the east, “You’re an Etonian, aren’t you?”

“You know your Debrett,” I smiled at him.

“Not really, I only looked you up after we met.”

“If you’re finished with your supper, I’ll take you to your room so you can get settled in.”

He stood up with me, but when he looked at the door, his eyes suddenly widened with terror, “Can’t I stay with you tonight?”

“Of course,” I reached out and took his hand, “I wouldn’t want to be alone, either, in your place. Why don’t you go put on your pajamas and clean your teeth and do whatever you need to do before bed. I need to talk to Pond.”

“Thank you so much,” he came over and wrapped his arms around my chest, burying his face in my shoulder, then scurried away into the bathroom, passing Pond in the bedroom doorway.

“Pond, do I have any pajamas?” I asked him once the door was closed.

“Of course, my lord,” he looked at me strangely, “In the second drawer on the left. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I don’t want Gabriel to get the wrong idea by getting into bed with him in my usual state of undress.”

“What made you decide to take the boy on?” Pond asked with a little smirk, amused by my desire to keep my relationship with Gabriel as Platonic as could be.

“Well, honestly, I couldn’t just leave him alone. His brother has been murdered, his flat is crawling with coppers, and he’s been warned off his livelihood by no less a personage than Twister Paget. He’s in distress with nowhere to go, it would be like throwing a puppy in the Thames to just cut him loose.”

“I’m sure the lad has plenty of friends,” Pond suggested, clearing the supper dishes onto a tray.

“It’s easier to take him in, myself, than try to hunt through his friends for someone who is in a position to help. I mean, if all his friends are like Stan, people without surnames who live in the East End and the suburbs, what could they do for him?”

“
And
you like him,” he pointed out with a sly smile.

“I
do
like him,” I admitted, “But not like you mean, you dirty-minded old lecher. He actually reminds me of a boy who used to fag for me at Eton, Pongo Ponsonby.”

“Pongo?” he laughed at the silly name.

“Lord George,” I explained, “Second son of the Marquess of Faringdon.  Ponsonbys are almost invariably called Pongo at school.”

“Ah.”

“He was a very sweet kid,” I went on, “A little bit sad but always good-natured and eager to please. He aroused my protective instincts. And I
did
protect him, he was probably the only boy in Eton who didn’t get caned in his first two years, though it cost me a few black eyes and the occasional bruised bum. Gabriel arouses those same instincts.”

“So what happened to your Pongo?” Pond asked in a tone that he only used when he was leading up to something.

“Nothing
happened
to him,” I frowned, “I haven’t seen him since I went up to Oxford. I expect he’s still at Eton, he’d be in his sixth year. What are you getting at?”

“All the bullying and caning and fagging at public schools? What’s it all
for
?” he looked at me very seriously.

“I can’t say I’ve ever considered it had a
purpose
,” I shrugged, “It just
is
. The prefects said it builds character.”

“And did it build your character?” he pursued.

“I suppose so,” I hedged, “I’ve never really thought about it.

“And what happens when you take those character-building canings away from a boy?”

“Oh,
I
see where you’re going,” I smiled, “You think I’m depriving Gabriel of an opportunity to build character by protecting him.”

“A boy like Gabriel will likely excite two responses in other males,” Pond explained, “To protect or to hurt. Neither builds character. He’s always looking for someone to protect him from those who would hurt him, instead of learning to protect himself, and so he ends up letting himself in for being hurt more easily. Do you see?”

“I do see,” I conceded, “And you have a point. But I don’t see how throwing him onto his own resources when he’s suffered such a horrible experience would
help
him.”

“It wouldn’t,” Pond turned and began tidying the room, which was already perfectly tidy; it was his signal that he was done being my friend for the moment and was again my valet, “Your lordship has a kind heart and a generous nature. One is only concerned that young Gabriel might become dependent on your lordship’s kindness when it would be better for him to learn to stand on his own.”

“Something to think about,” I considered the point, but was too tired to pursue it, “I’m going to bed. I’ll undress myself. See you in the morning, Pond.”

“Very good, my lord. Good night.”

I slipped through the door to the bedroom quietly, finding Gabriel was already asleep; I found a pair of soft maroon-striped French linen pajamas in the drawer Pond had indicated, took them into the bathroom, and performed my usual bedtime rituals. Creeping silently out of the bathroom, a little warm and flushed, I slid as gently as I could into the bed, turned off the little bedside lamp, and composed myself primly on my back as far away from the sleeping boy as possible without slipping off the edge.

Of course, without the interference of consciousness, the body does what it wants: I woke up in the middle of the night to discover us nestled together like two spoons in a drawer, my arms around his narrow chest and his arms folded over them, trapping them there. It was a good deal more intimate than I wanted to be with Gabriel, but it was comfortable, so I went back to sleep. Then, when I woke up in the morning, we were tangled together so tightly that it was simply
inevitable
that things got very un-Platonic very quickly: we’d committed half the usual sins before I was even properly awake, and it seemed rude to stop there.