The Gentleman and the Rogue (4 page)

Give his lordship credit, he didn't so much as flinch or look away. “Do you think you know?” he whispered, and the vein in his temple showed, his well-formed mouth went thin. His nostrils flared. The impressive brow lowered. “You don't know shite, boy. Nothing.”

Jem's good humor had returned. He rarely held anger long. A spark, a flash of rage, and it was gone. He moved back from the gent, gave him some breathing room. “Now here's a surprise, sir. You don't like being taunted.” He plunked down on the edge of the bed, cool soft sheets against his bare bum, twisting sideways to hold the gent's gaze. “So I'll stop since I have a healthy respect for your ability to have me hanged, drawn and quartered, dipped in tar, and given the cut direct by all manner of good company. But you say I don't know shite? I do indeed know shite, although not the piles what you've waded through.”

He examined the grim lord up and down and wished he could use his hands and mouth to explore. “You're a military man, and I'd give good odds those scars are signs of your hard service. Not that they make that body of yours any less toothsome, if you don't mind my saying so, sir.”

The man's steady gaze shifted from Jem's face at last. Did the gent blush? Jem hoped so.

“But you're right enough, sir,” Jem said. “I don't know what could bring a man—a gentleman, I should say—such as yourself to crave oblivion. Truth to tell, I can't imagine life could bring anyone to such a pass. I mean, there's always some promise, eh? Something ahead. The next friendly touch.”

Here he didn't stop himself, briefly laying his palm on that powerful thigh, which was warm with a slight trace of rough hair. There might be a pucker of scars, but the flesh under his hand was so firm and sweet, his mouth watered.

When the man flinched, Jem moved his hand away but kept talking as if he hadn't noticed. “And if you're living like a hermit and hate humanity, well then, there's the next warm day to look forward to. Or the chance to see Bully Tate fall on his bum when he's preaching at the speaker's corner. So if I can't fadge the love of death, it's a lacking of imagination on my part. Sir.”

“You're a stranger to despair?” The gentleman seemed to have released some of his own anger as well, and a flicker of curiosity lit his dark eyes.

“No, sir, not me. We're close acquaintances, me and Mr. Des Pair. On first name terms, you might say. But mostly it's when the promise of death, not life, is dangled in front of me that I meet up with the bastard.”

The gentleman pulled himself up. He winced, and the lines on his face deepened, as if this look of pain was his habitual expression. He thrust the pillows against the massive bedstead and leaned back, lounging like a king. He moved without thinking, obviously used to sleeping on a heap of pillows. A bed of feathers and luxury, and a man couldn't look more grim.

“Jem,” he whispered. And Jem wasn't sure if he'd actually said the word. Maybe he was imagining things. At that moment, his belly gave a loud protest, and he clapped a hand to it. “Beg your pardon, sir.”

The man blinked, and a slow frown furrowed his brow. Confusion, not anger. “You're hungry?”

Jem didn't roll his eyes. “A bit.” He winked. “Good thing you weren't asleep, or I mighta eaten you.”

The gent didn't seem to catch the double meaning. Jem eyed the tidy limbs and good-sized cock displayed on the bed and wondered if he could get away with a demonstration. He abandoned the plan when the man slid across to the floor. Wrapping a sheet around his lean hips, he went to a bell pull. He hesitated, tossed his covering away, and reached for his drawers.

“Get dressed,” he ordered.

Oh hell. “If you insist, sir.” Jem swallowed his disappointment and then the pride that he couldn't afford. “But there is a matter of payment and—”

“Later. I'm ordering some food.”

“Ah.” For once Jem was at a loss for words.

He didn't have to go back out into the cold and scratch up a meal.

As he reached for his borrowed trousers, he was surprised to see his hand trembled. The gent pulled on his shirt, and the two of them silently dressed without meeting each other's eyes. The room reeked of sex, but they'd pretend nothing had occurred. Jem wanted to laugh. No, more than that, he wanted to make this man laugh, flat out roar with laughter. Those dry, humorless little chuckles didn't count. The cynical bastard would laugh before Jem was through.

The badger came to the summons. Jem didn't know much about a house like this, but he knew it was odd that a coachman would act as butler too. He'd wager neither man would bother to explain the arrangement.

“Evening, Badge,” Jem said and, sure enough, was ignored. He leaned against the massive bedstead, his hands shoved in the pockets of his posh new jacket, watching the two men talk quietly at the door. Damned if the badger didn't give a salute and a funny half smile at something the gent said.

“What amused your badger?” Jem asked as the door closed.

“He's glad to fetch food.”

“Worried you don't eat enough, I reckon. Right motherly sort. I can just see him wrapped in a holland apron, clucking at you, all dismayed you didn't finish up your nice porridge,” Jem said and was pleased that the gent's mouth quirked up at that.

He indicated a table with two chairs set in the corner by the fireplace. A chessboard was on the table, set up with a game in progress. “We'll sit there.”

“I'll move that, shall I?” Jem carefully lifted the board and froze when one of the pieces tumbled off.

“It doesn't matter.” The gent pointed at the floor. “Dump it there.”

Jem eyed the pieces as he set them carefully in the dark corner. Ivory, if he didn't miss his mark. Even one or two would fetch a nice price. He squatted over the board, his back to the gentleman, and slid a couple into this pocket, running his fingers over the smooth, polished surface. Lovely things.

Taking a seat across the empty table from his host, Jem folded his arms. He suddenly felt a bit awkward at the change in location. He knew what was expected of him in bed, but wasn't quite so sure what his client wanted from him now—more flirting and salacious remarks, or a weightier conversation.

His miserable lordship seemed equally ill at ease. He too had his arms crossed over his chest. Well, it was Jem's job to make sure the man had a good time—the better to earn a large tip—so he filled the silence.

“I see you're keeping track of the war.” He indicated the map on the wall with pins marking cities and troop movements. “You home on leave or mustered out?”

For some reason, that question earned a bitter smile. “I'm finished with my military service.”

“That's good, then.” As Jem fished for something else to say, a light dawned on him. “Badajoz! I knew that name sounded familiar. It was a big battle, hey?”

The frown returned. “Not merely a battle. It was a place, a city full of people trying to live their lives.”

“Your Badgeman said this was the anniversary.”

He replied with a grunt. His morose expression was locked into place again, any hint of good humor extinguished.

“Must've been hell,” Jem said, hesitant for once. “I heard there were lots of casualties.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. A memory like that'd put anyone in a right foul mood.”

Another grunt, and he shifted in his chair. “I'd prefer not to discuss the war,” he warned for the second time.

“Of course.” Jem couldn't stay seated any longer. He popped up and walked over to where the brandy had been abandoned. He took a long sip, felt the liquid sear his throat, and then carried the glass back to the table and offered it to his host.

“Here. Have a nip to keep the chill at bay.” And it was growing chilly in the room as the fire smoldered lower.

The man drank deeply without grimacing at the potent brew. Jem guessed Lord Gloomy had been drinking long and hard since he'd been back from the war. He'd like to erase the sorrow from the man's face. Among his mates, Jem had always been the jester, the one who could get any sour scowler to smile.

“Is there a name I can call you, sir?” He made his voice soft and cajoling, weaving a spell of intimacy between them. “Just for tonight.”

“Alan.” He gave no title or last name, which was to be expected.

Jem nodded. “Alan. Lovely to meet you.”

Silence wrapped around them like a silken cocoon holding them close together. Jem was caught by those mournful, dark brown eyes and found himself leaning inexorably toward the other man. In a moment their lips would touch.

A light tap on the door broke the spell. Jem jerked upright. Alan called, “Come in,” and the door swung open.

Badgeman entered bearing a tray. The smell of hot tea and buttered toast assailed Jem, making his stomach turn and leap in excitement. His mouth watered, and he swept his tongue over his lips, watching avidly as the servant set the silver tray on the table. It was laden with cold meats, cheeses, toast, and a pile of dried fruit.

Jem took his seat, perched on the edge, as eager as a dog ready to perform tricks for a bone. He swallowed and laced his fingers together on his lap to keep from reaching out and grabbing food in both hands.

Badgeman poured a cup of tea for each of them. Jem's nostrils flared at the intoxicating scent.

“Anything else, sir?” the stone-faced giant asked.

“No, thank you, Badgeman.”

Dismissed, the servant flicked one glance at Jem, which may or may not have contained a warning, before walking from the room.

“Help yourself,” Alan urged.

Jem didn't wait for a second invitation. He dived into the meal, slapping together a sandwich of bread, meat, and cheese and taking a huge bite before his host even had a chance to nibble at one of the plums he'd selected. His stomach rumbled in greeting, welcoming the new addition to its domain. He wanted to display at least a modicum of good manners, but found it impossible. One half-chewed bite after another slipped down his gullet and landed with a satisfying thud in his empty stomach.

When he'd devoured the sandwich, he drank a deep draught of tea, then bit into a piece of dried fruit, the sweetly tart summer flavor of peach flowing into his mouth. He'd never had such a treat in his life. For a few moments, he forgot where he was, forgot about his client—forgot everything except his immediate needs. Only when he emerged sated from the fog of raging hunger did he remember his host. Jem wiped his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve and glanced sheepishly at Alan, who sat watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Sorry, but it's been so long since I've had a bite, my navel was on speaking terms with my backbone.”

A small smile curved the other man's lips. “I've been there myself while on campaign when rations were scarce.”

“You look like you're halfway starved now,” Jem said. “Could do with a bit of fattening up. Why don't you have more than fruit?” He assembled another sandwich with the crisp, buttered toast and cold cuts, and thrust it at Alan. “Here you go, sir. Eat. You must be nearly as hungry as I am from all the exercise.”

He winked and jerked his head toward the bed. Alan might wish to pretend they hadn't had sex now that it was over, but Jem believed it wasn't healthy to deny who you were. He couldn't relieve the man's war memories, but accepting that he liked cock might go some way toward helping Lord Melancholy climb out of his black mood.

Alan accepted the sandwich in one long-fingered hand and began to eat, slowly at first, then nearly as ravening as Jem. He polished off the food and dabbed butter from his lips with a napkin.

Sitting back and sipping a second cup of tea, Jem watched him. “Nothing like a full stomach to perk up your mood, eh? That, a good fuck, and a good night's sleep. Downright restorative.”

His comment earned another small smile but no reply. That made Jem more determined than ever to make the other man laugh.

“Do you believe in goblins, sir? I've an interesting tale to tell about a woman who met one. Miss Sally Purdy from Pritchett Street told me about her personal experience. Would you like to hear the story?”

Alan looked at him through the rising steam from his cup of tea and raised a brow. “Intriguing. Go on.”

“Well, here's what happened, or so Miss Sally says. One morning she walked out her door and saw a little man in her garden. She snatched him up, saying, 'You're a goblin. I've caught you, and you owe me three wishes!'

“'Very well,' the wee man replied. 'What do you wish for?'

“Sally thought hard and replied, 'A big house to live in, a wardrobe full of fine clothes, and a table that will provide delicious food for the rest of me life.'

“'Aye, I'll grant your request, but to make your wishes come true, you have to spend the night having sex with me.'

“Old Spinster Sally hemmed and hawed but finally agreed, and that night, her maidenhead was taken at last. She and the man went at it all night long, and in the morning, she demanded her wishes be granted.

“'Tell me,' he said, 'how old are you?'

“'Thirty-five,' Sally admitted.

“'Och, lass! Thirty-five and ye still believe in goblins?' With that, the wee man scampered off.”

A moment of utter silence followed the end of Jem's bawdy tale. He gazed at Alan with an expression as sober as a vicar on Sunday, waiting for him to get the joke.

Suddenly Alan began to laugh—one snort at first, followed by a chuckle warmer than the pot of tea.

Jem maintained his deadpan face and spun the tale further. “You shouldn't laugh, sir. Poor Sally was never the same after. Ruined, she was.”

Alan laughed harder. Not quite the hilarity Jem had hoped for, but good enough for a start. His mission accomplished, Jem chose another slice of dried peach, popped it into his mouth, and bit down.

Chapter Four

Alan regarded the remarkable young man he'd brought home with him tonight. The lad was as refreshing as a tonic, with his sardonic wit and clever tongue. Sharing a late-evening snack with the whore he'd intended merely to fuck was not how he'd imagined the evening would end.

Then the man shifted, bent forward for another slice of cheese, and the candlelight glinted on something in his jacket pocket. No,
Jonathan's
jacket pocket. A bit of ivory. He knew that piece well. His grandfather had brought the set back from Italy.