The Gentleman and the Rogue (8 page)

Suddenly sober, the young man moved closer and gazed into his eyes. “Sir, I apologize for my yawning gob. I'd be pleased and grateful to take any position you like.” He suggestively stressed the final words, but Alan chose to ignore it. The lad couldn't seem to help putting a saucy spin on most everything he said. “If you forgive me asking, what would my duties and wages be?”

Alan paused, pretending to consider but actually collecting his wildly ricocheting emotions. Disbelief, delight, excitement, and horror at what he'd done warred within him.

“Badgeman can tell you the specifics. Since you'll be in training, as it were, your wages will be commensurate with your inexperience. I'm not certain of the going rate. Badgeman will know the proper wage, but I should imagine four pounds monthly would be sufficient to start.”

Jem's expressive eyes opened wide. Standing this close, Alan could see the dark rim and striations of navy against the lighter blue. The way they caught and reflected the sunlight made them shine like two bits of sky. His chest tightened painfully with some inexplicable feeling, and he cursed his increasingly emotional nature. What had happened to the officer whose men used to call Captain Iron Drawers behind his back?

“That would indeed be sufficient,” Jem agreed with a broad and not-so-devilish grin. “Thank you.”

Alan inclined his head. “Badgeman will outfit you in proper attire and show you your duties. The servants will be returning to work soon, and he'll introduce you to them as well.” He paused again, and a stab of fear went through him as he realized the danger he was putting himself in on a whim. “I trust you will comport yourself as a valet in training and not…”

“A foul-mouthed whore? Yes sir, I believe I can manage the role. I wouldn't give anyone reason to question the terms of my service here, I promise.” Jem folded his hands together and lifted his eyes to the heavens. “Pure as a choirboy and sober as a judge, I'll be. Jem Brown, late of Southwark, who was given the opportunity to rise above his pitiable life and enter service. I'll keep the story simple. Embellishments only get a cove into trouble.”

Alan grunted an acknowledgement, still mentally kicking himself for inviting this thieving stranger into his life. But then, it hadn't been much of a life before yesterday, and now it felt rich with color, like a black-and-white ink sketch turned into an oil painting.

“Come along then, I'll pass you over to Badgeman.” He led the way back toward the house.

“One last question, sir. Where might I be sleeping? Isn't it customary for a valet to have a small room adjacent to his master's in case anything is required of him in the night?” Jem's cheeky tone and grin were enough to make a saint lose patience, and Alan was no saint.

He stopped, turned, and favored the delinquent with his most quelling look, the one that had always made soldiers' gazes drop to their boots. His tone was ice. “As you can imagine, I have some serious misgivings about making you this offer. Please don't make me regret my decision. You can be returned from whence you came in a heartbeat.”

Jem sobered again, although he did manage to meet and hold Alan's stare unlike many a man before him. “Yes, sir.”

Alan turned on his heel and stalked away. Of course, the lad had a legitimate question. What was he to expect his duties to include in service to a man who'd recently buggered him? Alan couldn't deny he'd thought about sex when making his decision, but that wasn't at all his primary purpose in asking Jem to stay. It was the companionship he craved and the buoyant spirit the irrepressible thief raised in him.

Keeping him close for a while was a matter of Alan's survival.

Chapter Six

It was a posh new life, but with so many rules, constraints, and manners. Jem felt stifled by the very air of belowstairs where the household staff was headquartered. The hierarchy of the servants wasn't as rigid as one would find in most wealthy houses. Sir Alan kept his staff to a minimum, with Badgeman serving as steward, butler, and even as coachman when needed—unheard of for the butler to do outdoor work. But it was the awful housekeeper, Mrs. Crimpett, who Jem hated like a cat hates rain and who brought out the worst in him. She was a tyrant queen ruling with an iron fist over the parlor maids, the scullery maid, and the lone, feeble-minded old footman, Dicky, who by rights should've been Badgeman's responsibility. Even Cook, who controlled the kitchen, kowtowed to Mrs. Crimpett.

Jem hated a bully, had had his nose bloodied on more than one occasion, standing against those who would persecute the weak, and Crimpett was every bit as bad as some of the nappers who'd terrorized Southwark. He pitied poor Bridie, Jenny, little Susan, and that girl with the squint who slaved in the kitchen—he'd forgotten her name. Poor slobber-mouthed Dicky, who must be at least fifty, nearly wet his drawers every time Mrs. Crimpett addressed him. Shame on Badgeman for not taking his part.

As the master's new valet, Jem's duties didn't fall under Mrs. Crimpett's jurisdiction, so he could spend most of his time upstairs mucking about with Alan's clothes or pretending to polish his boots. But the old hag wanted to knock him down a peg; he sensed it in her every baleful glance and sharp word. She was biding her time until she could find a way to get him tossed out on his arse. Meanwhile, he only had to suffer her at meals when he sat with the rest of the staff at table. Of course, he couldn't manage to keep a civil tongue in his head, but had to tease and bait her with snide comments guaranteed to turn her already-florid face an apoplectic scarlet.

On the brighter side, it turned out old Badgeman wasn't the horror Jem had expected him to be. Oh yes, they'd had several set-tos on Jem's first few days in the house. The mountainous man didn't bother to hide his distrust as he grudgingly demonstrated Jem's new duties. But things got better after the third day, when Jem wheedled the story of his master's injuries from the badger.

“No. You brush
with
the nap,” Badgeman barked, taking the brush from Jem and demonstrating the proper way to remove lint from the velvet collar of one of Alan's jackets. “Be sure to check his boots at least once a day. A gentleman can't be seen in public with scuffed shoes.”

Jem watched him briskly brush the velvet until it lay smooth and lint-free. He could've done it right himself, but he enjoyed irritating Badgeman too much to resist playing dumb. “Check his boots every day. Got it. But the gentleman never goes out, does he? Hardly seems worth keeping a chap like me around.”

The badger grunted in hearty agreement.

“He's a bleak sort, but you admire him greatly, don't you?” Jem continued, determined to prod until he'd learned more about Alan.

“He saved me life.” Badgeman turned from hanging the jacket back in the wardrobe and stared at Jem with steely eyes from under his jutting brow. “And I'd cheerfully kill anyone as would harm him.”

“Aye, loyalty. I respect that. What were the circumstances of his saving you?”

“No business of yours.”

“'Spose not. But I'm asking all the same. If I'm going to work for the man, if I'm going to 'spend time' near him, it might help me to know what brings on his nightmares.” Jem opted for frankness. No point in acting the part of valet with Badgeman, who knew better. Draw a picture for him of sleepless nights and Jem offering a sort of comfort Badge never could. Assert his new place in the master's life. Although, truth be told, Alan hadn't summoned Jem to his bed once since that first night they'd spent together, and he was only guessing about the nightmares.

He met Badgeman's hard stare with one of his own, frank and guileless. “I may be a thief, a whore, and a liar, but I'm not here to hurt anyone, and if I can, I'll help. So why don't you and I come to an agreement? You tell me a little more about Sir Alan's past, and I'll stop acting like I don't know bootblacking from bacon.”

Was that almost a smile that curled the man's hard lips?

“Tell me about Badajoz,” Jem finished. “Please.” Oh, he could be a right winning lad when he tried. Even foul-tempered badgers softened at his innocent eyes.

“It were a cold day like this one here. We'd been digging trenches for weeks in muck so thick it could drown a man, and all the while the howitzers blasting over our heads, pounding holes in the stone wall around the town. Now it was time to attack. You ever tried to pour summat through a funnel only to get a bit o' shite stuck in the tube and back up the whole works?”

Jem nodded, but Badgeman's expression was far away as he painted the picture. “Two thousand men dead or injured in less than two hours' time, all clogging up those breaches in the wall. The French had mined 'em and was pouring musket fire and grenades down on us like fucking manna from heaven.” His voice was harsh with irony as he compared bombs to blessings.

“Did we retreat? Hell, no. Brave, bloody soldiers one and all, we clambered over our dead and dying, infiltrated the town, drove back the Frogs, and won the day. Heroic it were, what followed, but I missed out on that particular party, as my nob got cracked wide open, and I was unconscious. Still don't know how he managed to haul this slab o' flesh, but 'twas Captain Watleigh who dragged me, his batman, someplace safe before plunging back into the wild rumpus.”

Jem didn't have to ask what rumpus he was referring to. Everyone knew about the disastrous losses at Badajoz followed by the horrifying rape, murder, and pillage the victors had inflicted on civilians for nearly two days, long after the French and Spanish troops had withdrawn from the city.

“They say Wellington wept when he saw the dead.” Badgeman's laughter sounded more like a snarl. “He should weep in hell for orchestrating that buggering disaster.”

“Sounds like a right mess,” Jem said. “I shouldn't wonder if all the soldiers who survived would be walking ghosts after such an ordeal, you included, sir.” It was the first time he'd addressed Badgeman with the title of respect.

The man seemed to come back from his memories. His eyes flickered, and he cast a sharp look at Jem to see if he was once again mocking. When he registered his sober expression, Badgeman nodded. “Aye, that's a proper term, lad. Walking ghosts we are. None more so than the master, I'm afraid. What happened to him while I was out of me senses, he won't say. But it must have been frightful bad, and I don't mean the injury to his leg.”

“Well, time he came back to the living, I say, and I mean to see him do it.” Jem ventured a smile, and Badgeman didn't scowl, which was as near as he'd come thus far to politeness where Jem was concerned.

Since that incident, the two men had coexisted in wary civility, and Badgeman was, if not an ally, at least a more kindly face than Mrs. Crimpett's. Now it was nearly a week since Jem had taken up residence at the house near Mayfair, and he was bored out of his skull with being indoors, warm, safe, secure, and with having far too much time on his hands. Being a valet for a man who had no social obligations was not a strenuous task, so he'd done his share of exploring the house when he wasn't in Alan's company, including looking through the many library books he could scarcely read. He'd seen plenty of items ripe for nicking, but hadn't touched one of them.

Today he was ready for a bit of fun, perhaps a ride through the park in Watleigh's phaeton—the man had two carriages, one enclosed, one open—or a shopping trip. What was the good of having all that money if a man didn't use it to enjoy life? At the very least, if he couldn't cajole Alan to go out, he planned to land him in bed today. It was past time for a tumble—nearly seven days—and Jem didn't know what Sir Doom-and-Gloom was waiting for, why they were spending every night only a room apart.

He made his way to Alan's study, where the man was bent over his escritoire writing something. In Jem's opinion, he spent far too much time at the damned desk, poring over ledgers, letters, and God knew what all. What he needed was a good airing and a bit of fun.

Jem leaned against the edge of the small desk, picked up a small brass elephant perched on the top shelf, and hefted it in his hand. “Lovely day out. Seems winter's broke at last.”

Watleigh glanced up, distracted, from the correspondence he was reading. “Yes.”

This wouldn't do at all. He was looking
through
Jem rather than at him. Was he a stick of furniture to be ignored so, especially when wearing his spruce new jacket, fancy cravat, and with his hair freshly cut and styled like Brummell himself?

Jem set the elephant down. “Thought we might take a tour of the park today, or p'raps stop by your tailor. The state of your wardrobe is deplorable, sir. You need a new jacket or a waistcoat or two at least.”

His employer stared at him. “I don't require any new garments at this time. Thank you for your concern.”

“Just doing my job, sir. Valet,” Jem reminded in case he'd forgotten. “Care of your clothing is my life's work.” He grinned.

Alan's lips twitched. “Are you bored already, Jem?”

“Not bored, precisely. Our chess matches are a lark now that I'm getting the hang of the game, but I wouldn't mind going out and seeing a bit o' the town now and again.”

What am I doing here
? he longed to ask the man who refused to fuck him. Alan had kept him at a distance over the past week, speaking politely but not sharing intimacy as they'd done that first night. They spent time together discussing events of the day, which Alan read from the newspaper. Jem learned to play chess and card games and taught the other man to throw dice. But he must refer to him always as “sir” now—no more plain “Alan”—and this Watleigh treated him as naught but a servant, although quite a familiar one. Theirs was a strange and stilted camaraderie, not what Jem had expected or hoped for. Every night he gave the man plenty of opportunity to ask him to sleep in his chamber, but every night he was sent away.

Now Alan glanced at the papers on his desk, wiped the quill, covered the inkpot, and rose. “I suppose it would be good to get out of the house for a while. This winter has been confining, and my physician suggests it's time I exercise my leg more.”

“Good. A stroll in the park it is, then.” He paused. “But is it acceptable for me to walk with you?”