The Gentleman and the Rogue (14 page)

Alan studied his eyes before nodding in return. “I will take a gamble and trust you, Jem. Within reason.”
Within reason and only a little past it
, that long gaze told Jem.

It seemed time for a change in subject and mood. Jem rubbed the back of his head where it had smashed into the frame of the mirror that miraculously hadn't broken. “What did your solicitor have to say, sir?”

Alan went to the drinks tray. For less than a second, he looked at the used and abandoned glasses. Jem waited for another reproach or perhaps a hard glance. Instead Alan picked up a clean glass and poured himself a half tumbler. He carried it back to a chair and sat heavily.

At the sight, Jem's mouth watered, and it wasn't for the taste of drink. He could tell Sir Alan's leg bothered him, and perhaps he'd allow Jem to have another go at rubbing it and other parts.

Oh, he'd have missed all of the man's parts if he'd been flung out on the street. True enough, he would miss some of the old rum scapegraces like Jerry, but until his master grew bored of him and showed him the door, Jem wouldn't contact them again. The loss of this man Alan would have been a hard blow to endure. Not just the velvet-and-cream life—the man himself. The thought of what he'd nearly thrown away and how much his patron mattered to him made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Danger…and excitement.

Alan settled on the sofa and wondered why he felt as if he'd been given a reprieve rather than granted one. He studied Jem, who'd regained that glow of his.

He sipped the brandy and enjoyed the warmth of it coursing down his throat. He breathed in its scent and remembered the taste of brandy in Jem's kisses. That fire was rarer than the brandy itself and worth the risk of keeping the man.

He regarded Jem, who stood arms folded, watching him with a hint of the devil back in those pale eyes. Alan knew that at his core, Jem was an honest soul.

Hell. Despite the danger that the valet had invited into his house—despite his own good sense—he trusted Jem. He almost smiled at the thought. “
Every man has to be a fool on occasion
,” his father had told him. He might as well enjoy this foolish sense of well-being he felt in Jem's presence.

Now the man was acting as if the incident with his “mates” hadn't taken place. He'd asked about Alan's meeting with the lawyer. Very well, Alan could let the episode go too, for now.

He stretched out his legs and answered Jem's question. “Gardner told me what I expected, that Mrs. Cutler left her daughter in Schivvers's care, so not much can be legally done to wrest her from him.” He paused to sip the brandy and wonder why he'd divulged his business to his valet. Perhaps it was the way Jem listened, alert and interested, more like a friend than an employee.

Alan continued. “But I did learn something of use at the pub where Badgeman's crony Ned Reilly lingers.”

He fell silent, and Jem prompted, “What did you learn, sir?”

Alan gave up trying to keep his own counsel. He hadn't realized how much he missed speaking of his concerns to another. His friends had died or drifted away—but never mind that familiar stab of loss. He had to figure out his next move, and just speaking the words could help him think of how to thwart Schivvers.

“I went there to ask the man for more details about the Cutlers' story, and he was able to tell me something he'd learned only this morning from yet another army mate passing through. It seems Mr. Schivvers has returned from Portugal to a place in Sheffield. One assumes with the girl still in tow.”

“Bloody ballocks. The badger's hared off to foreign parts for no reason.”

“I'll send a message that should intercept him in Lisbon, but in the meantime I feel obliged to take up his quest. I'll leave for Sheffield tomorrow to locate the doctor and see if I can convince him to allow me custody of the girl.”

“How'll you do that, sir?”

“My family name carries some weight. As Cutler's superior officer, I can say he once begged me to personally care for his family, and I'd only recently learned of his death.” He shrugged. “If that doesn't work, money can go a long way toward smoothing the way to her freedom. Schivvers is a greedy man.”

“Will you go on horseback, sir?”

“All the way to Sheffield? It's more than one hundred and fifty miles. Once upon a time, I might have. Now, no.” He gave a twisted smile.

“I don't see you taking the mail coach, sir.” Jem leaned against the edge of the sofa, far from Alan. At least the man had learned he wasn't supposed to sit in Alan's presence. Except now Alan rather wished he would.

Jem went on. “With the badger off cavorting, you got only that gutless Markham out back. That groom's near as clod-pated as Dicky. And the boy that feeds and mucks out your cattle ain't much more 'n a pup.”

Alan could see from that half smile on his valet's face that he had some scheme in mind. “Perhaps I'll hire a postilion,” he said, and sure enough, Jem shook his head.

“I got a better idea, sir.”

Alan wanted to laugh. Of course he had an idea. And Alan realized he looked forward to hearing the man's no doubt outrageous or amusing plan.

Jem suspected Sir Alan would bing off alone, leave his valet behind and try to forget. His lordship still hated the part of himself that longed for Jem's touch. No mistake, he'd inventory Jem's sins and convince himself he'd be better off without him.

Not if Jem had a say about it. “Perhaps you and me should go. Alone.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I never handled the ribbons, but I'm game to learn, sir. Not that closed-in coach. Your phaeton.”

Alan smiled. “That's hardly the proper vehicle for a long journey.”

“Why not? Markham showed off how the lid can be raised and lowered for when it pisses rain. It's not one of those high-perch numbers that tips soon as you look at it.”

“You're insane. You've never been out of the city, have you?”

Jem shook his head.

“You have no notion what a long journey entails, Jem.”

“Bags and trunks. A list of inns. A blanket for when you'd liefer sleep under the stars. A basket of food. We can put some of that at our feet. Rest behind.”

“You make it sound a romantic adventure.”

Romance is what he had in mind, true enough. Alan, on a blanket in some deserted field under the moon. Or in broad daylight.

“We can move fast on account of the girl you're worrying over.”

Sir Alan frowned and was silent for a few moments. “Yes,” he said slowly. “There is that. Speed is of the essence, and I cannot think of a faster way to get there. I'd have to stop only to change horses and eat and sleep. That might be the answer. It's not perfect, but perhaps you're right.”

“I'll go pack, then.” Jem pushed away from the sofa before Alan could change his mind. “Enough for a week?”

“The journey will take days, so better a fortnight's worth. I'll pack for myself, thank you. I had a batman, but I learned how to care for my own gear during my military service.” Better than Jem could, he didn't have to say.

“We'll go as soon as may be, yes sir?”

“I don't know about 'we,' Jem. This is business I'd best handle alone.”

“But you never know when you'll need help, sir, and with Badger gone, I think I'll suffice. I may not seem like much, but I'm a fine hand in a brawl if it comes to that, or I can be your eyes and ears, for who would look twice at a servant? And come down to it, sir, servants tell other servants all sorts of gossip about their betters. I could be of great use to you.”

Had he laid it on too thick with his rambling list of reasons why he should take part in this adventure? Maybe not, because Sir Alan looked at him appraisingly for several moments, and then nodded.

“Very well, Jem. You may attend me on the journey.”

After the episode of Jerry and Noah, Jem didn't want to appear too brash and forward, but a man had to take initiative where he could.

So Jem took it upon himself to tell the servants about the master's plans, begged Cook for a huge basket of food, and took off for the stables before Mrs. C., who'd returned early, could corner him and ask more questions. She'd already demanded to know what sort of nonsense he was babbling about. The master never traveled. Never went anywhere anymore. Barely set foot outside the house. And now, a journey? In a phaeton with only a flimsy bellows-folding cover for protection?

“The master's been near death's door for so long, and now he's come up with some foolhardy plan? 'Tis nothing like him. I believe you're behind this, you reckless young fool,” was the last thing he heard as he rounded the corner for the stable.

“Right enough,” Jem muttered. He'd been excited about the venture, a real journey. Yet her words sobered him. He'd heard how Sir Alan had been ill, plagued by fevers and sweating and raving when he'd been brought home from the war. And then he'd been a slave of the medicines to help with the pain, not to mention barrel fever, the longing for drink.

Jem had no fear of coping with such things should they arise. He'd seen far worse in his day, but the thought of reawakening the master's illness just for the sake of a lark worried him.

Feeling considerably less giddy, he gave the orders to Markham to prepare the phaeton.

He went to find Sir Alan, and found him scribbling on some papers in the study. “Perhaps, sir, you should look into a less rough way to travel.”

Alan put down his quill and looked up. “What are you talking about? Your plan is a good one. Four swift horses, a light vehicle.”

“Need it be so fast?”

“The faster, the better. I have located Schivvers, and I need to act quickly.”

“But you'd sleep sounder at quality inns, and taking your time—”

“Good God. You're turning into Badgeman.” Alan got to his feet. “I am a man full grown.”

“Oh, I know that well, sir.” Jem wanted to wink, but restrained himself. He couldn't help the suggestive tone, though, which Alan ignored.

“If I'd thought the plan a bad one, I would have dismissed it out of hand.” Alan crossed his arms over his chest and adopted the straight-backed, head-up attitude Jem thought of as his Lord High Captain Watleigh's posture. “Since you've suddenly taken it into your head I'm again an invalid, let me inform you that the lingering infection is quite gone, and I'm growing stronger daily. And even if I am less strong than I should be to travel, I have decided on this course, and consequences shall be on my head. Should I fall ill or die or grow melancholic or even drink too much again, only one man can carry the blame, and it is not you. Are we clear on this?”

Jem bowed. “As crystal, sir. I'd best be collecting my things together.”

Jem raced to his room. He gathered his clothes from the clothespress in the corner and laid them carefully in the middle of his cot. He now possessed several changes of underlinen, day clothes for five days, and two smart uniforms. And no bag to carry it all. He deftly wrapped the counterpane of his bed around the bundle. That worked beautifully. Jem was ready for his first venture out of London.

Chapter Nine

The journey was delayed by two things—Alan sending Jem up to the attics for a proper valise for himself, and then a massive rainstorm. They set out early the next day in the chilly, sweet, rainwashed air of a London morning. Jem's heart pounded fast with anticipation. He'd be leaving the city for the first time. And he had Alan all to himself. No obligations for either of them for several days. Just the open road.

Alan drove well. He was silent and unsmiling, terse when Jem spoke or asked questions about what they passed on their swift start. He fretted over the girl, perhaps, or hadn't had enough sleep, or had regrets about taking Jem. Whatever the reason, Jem ought to have known better than to attempt to jolly him out of the mood, but he couldn't help himself.

“I ain't been on an open carriage like this before. And the animals are something lovely—just about peas-in-a-pod alike. What're their names?”

“The one on the left is Admiral. The other is Rialta.”

“How do you tell 'em apart?” He gazed at one broad bay backside, then the other.

“You mean other than the fact that Admiral is a gelding and Rialta a mare?”

“Oh.”

“Admiral has a white blaze and stockings. Rialta doesn't.”

Jem did manage to stay silent for a time, contenting himself with watching the crowded streets give way to houses separated by expanses of lawns and then even larger expanses of fields.

They stopped at a posting inn and traded the pair for four new horses. Alan went off to arrange for the new, larger team, and Jem watched from the stable yard doorway of the inn, fascinated by the skill and foul language of the hostlers. Every few minutes another horn sounded, and a carriage rolled into the yard.

There was never such a bustling and well-kept establishment in his old haunts, and even if there had been, in his life as a street lad, he couldn't have watched men working. He'd have been chased off. He certainly wouldn't have received the respectful nod from a passing groom. He was still grinning as he climbed up on the phaeton and took his seat next to Alan.

“Four now? I didn't know you could change the number of horses.”

“Depends on the style of carriage.”

Jem waited for an explanation, but none came.

“How will Rialta and Admiral make their way home? Are they like those birds what find their way back? Will stablelads lead 'em out to the road and point 'em in the right direction?”

“Markham will fetch them.” Alan shot him a cool look, as if he did not appreciate silliness. He was still Lord High-and-Haughty.

Fine. Even Jem could get the message eventually. He settled against the bench and stared out over open land and woods, searching out the familiar shape of houses. The sight of so much pale green plant life made him uneasy at first, though he had to admit it was a pretty change of pace.

An hour after they'd left the posting inn, he couldn't restrain himself any longer. “I'd reckon we've lurched along for near three miles without seeing a dwelling or so much as an outbuilding. Who'd have known?”