Discreet Young Gentleman by M.J. Pearson Read Free Book Online Page A

from it. "I.. .I was hoping you might be able to provide some information about the gentlemen what were—who were just here." Her hand reached into her reticule, emerging with a gold coin.
    Wickett blinked in consternation. He had little compunction about sharing what he knew, since he couldn't think of any way such innocent doings could be used against his visitors. But a guinea? Far too large for the meager information he could provide, far too large indeed. The woman's spine stiffened at his hesitation, and he sensed it would be an insult to refuse it: a suggestion that she couldn't afford the loss, or worse—that she didn't know what she was doing. And there hadn't been coin of that color in the Lion for many a year. "Mighty generous of you," he said, stretching out his hand for the blunt.
    When Wickett had told all he could, the woman thanked him and left, the ratafia untouched on the table. Wickett picked up the glass, intending to drink it himself, but his hand paused halfway to his mouth. "Here you go, Mistress Ann." He held the glass over the floor and overturned it, spilling the sticky sweet cordial onto the floor. "And whatever her goal is, if there's any help you can give that poor lady, I think she could use it." He shook his head. "Could use some help, indeed."
    And old Mrs. Smart raised a shaky arm and screeched for another glass of gin.

Chapter Six
    This will be a quick visit," Dean said as the carriage drove up the long, tree-lined avenue leading to Stonehurst, the house of his school friend Peter Chesterfield. Unlike the approach to Carwick, the road was smooth and well-kept, with nary a rut nor mud hole to be found. Shady elms lined the way, cool and restful on a warm summer's day.
    "You may as well wait in the carriage."
    Rob raised his brows. "Half-a-day's journey for a few minutes' conversation?
    Surely we can spare the time for a cup of tea."
    Dean felt his color rising, and wished with resentment that his pale skin didn't betray his every emotion. "I...oh, hell and damnation." He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small book. "I need a few pounds for the journey to Bath.
    Peter's been after me to sell this to him for years."
    "What is it?" Rob took the volume gingerly. "The Compleat Angler. Oh." His voice was reverential, and he opened the pages with care. "Oh, my. A first edition, and inscribed, too. If this were mine, I wouldn't part with it for—"
    "Wouldn't you?" Dean snatched the book back, flicking his eyes over Rob's body.
    "I can think of worse things to sell. Excuse me while I attend to my errand. And do stay in the coach."
    "In case someone should see me in your company? I quite understand." Rob sat back against the seat, lips tight.
    "None of my set would ever suspect what you are, I assure you," Dean said, and slammed the coach door on any reply that Rob might have. "They wouldn't have any idea creatures like you exist."
    "Herr Graf?" Erich called to him, standing up from where he'd been examining one of the bay's feet. "Das Pferd hat sein Hufeisen verloren."
    "He's—she's lost her what?" But the shoeless hoof made the coachman's meaning only too clear. "Oh, Holle." Peter's stable should be able to handle the job without sending for a blacksmith from town, but it would still take more time than he cared to spend.
    And he could hardly leave Rob in the coach now. His words to Rob had been true: it wasn't that he was afraid Peter or one of his frequent guests would recognize him.
    But he was uneasy about passing off the prostitute as an acquaintance, when he still knew so little about him.
    Dean racked his brain, trying to remember if there were anything obvious in his companion's speech or manners that would brand him as an inferior. There had been nothing remarkable about his table habits, as far as he could recall. And Rob's accents were comparable to those of his own set, or perhaps more akin to the careful speech of an upper servant, without the drawling tones or thieves'