‘I appreciate it, but I have all I need.’ Which was essentially nothing but his clothes and his weapons. This was his new life and he was going to build it exactly how he wanted it, one object at a time, starting tomorrow at Mr Christie’s auction rooms just around the corner.
‘Then come and tell Sophie and her parents about your plans and be prepared for an onslaught of good advice on setting up home.’ Cal paused just before the door and grinned. ‘You do realise they will start matchmaking now?’
‘They may try,’ Jared said, smiling back at the teasing. And they will fail. Because when a man uses a name not his own, lives a life far removed from what he was born to, there was a snowflake’s chance in Hades that he could ask a woman to be his wife. Not and retain a shred of honour.
The bed was truly magnificent, the kind of object that a sultan or a Tudor monarch might consider just about adequate. Hopelessly out of fashion and almost as big as his new bedchamber, of course. But what the hell, Jared thought, picking his way through the piled-up auction lots around it. I like it and what is a bedchamber for if not for sleeping? He prowled round the bulging bedposts, looking for signs of woodworm or rot, but the ancient black oak was hard as iron. If it can be got up the stairs… Yes, it took to pieces. Replace the network of ropes, put a new mattress on top of them and give it a coat of wax, that was all that was needed. Fancy bed curtains could wait, although crimson damask would be in keeping.
‘Now that is a bed that would either fill a man with confidence in his own prowess or cause a severe case of the droops,’ a voice said behind him. It was a deep voice with real humour beyond the amusement at the risqué remark.
Jared turned and found himself facing a big man, almost as tall as his own six foot and a bit, wide in the shoulders and beginning to sag comfortably in the belly. Mid-sixties, he guessed, then took another look, saw the puffiness below the eyes, the loose skin around the neck, and adjusted his estimate upwards by ten years. Seventies but as sharp as a cut-purse’s blade, he’d wager, meeting the faded blue eyes that assessed him right back, considerably more frankly. The gentleman – for he was not one of the dealers who virtually lived in the auction house – was too close, had arrived there too quietly.
A man to be wary of. Jared cursed his own lack of attention, smiled politely, replied mildly. ‘I was contemplating a good goose feather mattress and an even better night’s sleep rather than energetic bed-sport. Are you also in search of a bedstead, sir?’
‘No.’ The older man smiled, still jovial, still close. ‘I was in search of you, Mr Hunt.’
For a split second, in the wake of that remark about the bedstead and sexual performance, Jared thought he was being propositioned. It had happened before. He was no eyesore, he knew that without vanity, and some people, of both sexes, found the swordplay arousing. But not this man, he corrected himself after a moment’s scrutiny. He was being studied, but there was no heat in that inspection.
‘Indeed, sir? And in what way might I assist you?’ For all the greyhead’s apparent fitness, he seemed an unlikely candidate for fencing lessons, let alone anything more strenuous.
‘It can wait until you have completed your business, Mr Hunt. Mine is urgent enough, but I would prefer your full attention on the matter.’
‘I am bidding on a number of lots, sir. Perhaps if you were to give me your direction I could join you later.’ The auctioneer was walking to his rostrum, the crowd shifting to face him.
‘My card, Mr Hunt. I will look for you this afternoon.’ He gave Jared a nod and turned to make his way through the audience, taking his time, using a cane although not leaning heavily on it.
Used to being obeyed, that one. Jared glanced down at the rectangle of engraved pasteboard. Augustus Quenten, The Viscount Northam, Northam Hall, Dorset. Clarges Street, London.
He rubbed his thumb over it, feeling the depth of the engraving, and tucked the card into his pocket book. Never heard of him, good address. But then he had been out of England for seven years and only back for a matter of six months or so, much of that in the countryside. It was no wonder that many of the ton were unknown to him, although they seemed to know his name and reputation. His ignorance needed remedying fast because the fashionable classes were where his future income lay, although he had enquiries enough to begin with. Possibly Lord Northam had some spotty sprog of a grandson who needed fencing lessons.
‘Lot One, a fine walnut table and ten chairs including two carvers, lately the property of a gentleman – ’
He turned his attention back to the rostrum.
Jared emerged from the auction house at two, the owner of the vast bed, a mahogany dining table, six chairs, a sideboard and a pair of leather wing chairs. In addition he had acquired a large mixed lot, largely for the sake of the big copper bath tub and handsome set of fire irons that were included with the pots and pans.
His wallet was lighter, but not by as much as he had expected, and he was surprised to find he had enjoyed the experience, possibly because he had never had a home of his own to do with as he wished. It was an interesting exercise to build a new life, one saucepan and dining chair at a time.
In his twenty nine years Jared had gone from luxury that was not his to control to sleeping in a garret, then to a senior servant’s rooms when Cal’s father had employed him. At Cal’s side he had experienced the varied and various lodgings of the voyage round the world that the pair of them had embarked on as equals. Those had ranged from luxury to squalor and back again, almost from day to day. Things were exceedingly comfortable now. Too comfortable, someone else’s comfort, but now this was his world to shape to his liking.
When he reached his new home he washed off the grime of the auction room, swallowed a tankard of ale from the cask in what passed for his kitchen, gave the workmen in the salle d’armes a critical inspection, approved the colour for the wall paint and went out into the afternoon sunshine to climb the slope of St James’s Street. He turned left and crossed Piccadilly to avoid the usual scrummage around the White Horse Cellar where stages for the West were arriving and departing, and took a right into Clarges Street.
As always a rapier hung at his side, a rare sight on the streets these days. Only the military went obviously armed whilst gentlemen in full court attire wore a delicate dress sword, a symbolic toy. His was anything but a toy, it was a lethal tool but also part of his image, along with the black clothing, the long, tightly-controlled hair, the impassive expression. Men stepped aside as he approached, ladies cast him sideways glances. Sometimes he caught them.
The Viscount’s butler took him through to Northam without delay, pausing only to take the scabbard and sword belt he was handed. The promptness was interesting. Most gentlemen, in Jared’s experience, liked to assert their superiority by keeping an inferior waiting a while. True, swordmasters were several steps up on dancing masters, apothecaries and curates. They were equivalent, in most gentlemen’s eyes if not those of their wives, to lawyers, doctors and the vicar
. But of a certainly they were not equals. Cal treated him as one because they were friends: Jared did not make the error of expecting any other aristocrat to do the same.
‘Mr Hunt, thank you for obliging me with your attendance.’
Well that was amiable enough. Jared contented himself with a polite inclination of the head, settled his feet apart, put his hands behind his back and waited, apparently all his attention on the man in front of him. He also noted the other doors into the room, the quality of the furnishings, the books on the side table, the faint sounds of the household beyond the closed doors and, automatically, the various escape routes. A pleasant room, in good taste, a little cluttered with the accumulation of years of living, a little worn around the edges for ease, not from want of funds. A warm, comfortable space that spoke well of its owner.
‘Come, take a seat.’ Lord Northam lowered himself stiffly into one of the wing chairs before the cold fireplace, using the back and the arm as props. It was the first real sign that betrayed his age that Jared had noticed, beyond the sagging skin and the grey hairs.
Jared took the seat opposite, crossed his legs and waited. He was good at waiting.
‘You were recommended to me,’ Northam said abruptly.
‘Might I ask, by whom?’