Chapter Seven

Avery had selected with care the gift he intended for Officer Tate. It had taken him several days to come up with just the right thing, an ambassador, as it were, to signal his interest and demonstrate he held no hard feelings toward the policeman who’d arrested him. Since he didn’t know Tate, it was very difficult to find the right present.

Most items he considered, then discarded as too impersonal: a pair of gold cuff links, a stylish Homburg hat, expensive cigars—did the man even smoke?

What he’d finally settled on was perhaps too precious, not in expense but in how pointed the message was. He’d chosen a figurine of Don Quixote tilting at a windmill, which seemed to nicely encompass what he deduced about Tate’s character—the quintessential dreamer who prized honor and defended the weak, pitted against a world of corruption and casual cruelty.

It wasn’t until after he’d sent the package that it occurred to Avery the officer might not understand the literary reference. He had no idea how much education Tate had received, nor how many books he’d read. The meaning might be quite lost on him, which would be a pity.

Several days had passed since sending the gift, and it was time for Avery’s follow-up visit. Tate hadn’t responded with a thank-you note for the gift. Probably he should take that as yet another sign of disinterest, but Avery couldn’t give up so easily. He’d arrange to catch Tate at home or else intercept him after work.

In the end, he chose to lurk like a highwayman in Tate’s neighborhood. He was glad the copper lived on a quiet street with a miniscule park where Avery could wait and watch the door of his building. Rather shady behavior, but he couldn’t see any other way to arrange an accidental meeting.

It was almost dusk. Avery’s dauntless optimism was beginning to dim, allowing logic to tell him this plan was insane and would not achieve his goal, when he finally spotted Tate approaching. Avery hopped off the bench he’d grown quite attached to and headed toward the fast-walking figure.

“Good evening, Officer Tate. Fancy meeting you here.”

Tate spun around, truncheon in hand, ready to strike. Avery fell back a step, hands raised. “It’s only me. I’ve come to say hello and see if I can stand you a drink at the nearest pub. Or come in for that tea I missed the other day.”

Tate lowered the truncheon and tucked it into his belt. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you receive my message?”

“I received no message at all from you.”

The copper lifted one dark eyebrow, telegraphing that no message was a message—that he wished to be left alone.

Avery remained undeterred. He had his quarry in his sights and wouldn’t let him escape so easily. “I know the little gift I sent was a bit odd, but you should understand the context. The character depicted by the figurine is Don Quixote from the Cervantes novel of that name. He tilts at a windmill, believing he’s fighting an evil giant for a lady’s honor. The man is delusional, but, you see, he views the world—”

“As he wishes it to be. I’m familiar with the book,” Tate interrupted. “Is that the man you imagine I am? You couldn’t have it more wrong. I’m under no delusion about the horrors in this life or the weaknesses of human beings. I witness these things on a daily basis.”

“Ah, but you’re missing the point of my gesture.” Avery fell in step beside him, and they continued on toward his building. “I don’t think you’re blind to the ways of the world, but I believe you would champion the weak and the hopeless, those desperate souls who most need someone to stand for them.”

“Wrong again, Mr.…Lord Wickersham. I am not heroic.”

“You were heroic the morning of the raid,” Avery insisted. “You helped poor Bertrand and the Norseman, and that was a noble thing to do, whether you see it that way or not.”

“I don’t. It was wrong, a betrayal of my vow to uphold…” Tate trailed off as if the words were too much effort. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, suggesting a headache throbbed there. “I’m too tired for this. Please just go, Wickersham.”

Avery was nearly ready to accept that his no meant no when a woman emerged from Tate’s building with market basket on one arm. “Mr. Tate…and guest. How pleasant!” The woman’s feigned surprise upon meeting them was obvious. Avery felt fairly confident she’d lain in wait, as he had, to intercept her neighbor.

She stopped in front of them so they couldn’t get past without being rude. “I wanted to thank you again for helping me with my water pipe the other day. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your aid.”

“I was happy to help, Mrs. Beasley.” Tate wore the harried expression of a man who wished to flee unwanted advances.

It occurred to Avery that he hadn’t noticed quite that look in Tate’s eyes upon seeing him. Surprise, yes. Ill at ease, certainly. But not a Lord, let me get away from this person sort of look. Interesting.

“I can’t talk with you just now,” Tate continued. “As you can see, I’ve a friend come to visit.”

“Ah yes. Of course. Good day, then, Officer Tate.” The pert little bird of a woman seemed disappointed but fluttered away.

Avery laid ten-to-one odds she’d walk only a short way down the street and return home the moment Connor Tate was inside his flat. But God bless the woman, because she’d forced Tate into giving Avery an invitation. Sham though it might be, he’d take advantage of it.

“Shall we?” Avery asked, gesturing for Tate to precede him into the building.

“I suppose.” Tate glowered but led the way inside.

 

Once again, Avery was struck by the order and cleanliness in Tate’s small dwelling. The main room and dining area could be contained in Avery’s drawing room, but they were cozy and comfortable. He assumed a bedroom must lie beyond the door, and hoped he had an opportunity to find out.

“I like your place. Everything you need is close at hand. I particularly appreciate the, er, potted plant you have there.” He pointed. “Does it create that delightful scent?”

“Herbs,” Tate said shortly. He took off his coat, hung it on a hook by the door along with his hat, and reached to take Avery’s.

An invitation to stay longer. Avery was happy to shed his own coat and hat. It seemed, at the very least, Tate wasn’t truly averse to having him visit. That was progress. Then he noticed the Don Quixote figurine on the fireplace mantel. Even more progress. If this man utterly despised him, he’d have tossed the thing in the trash.

“Tea?” Tate asked.

Avery nodded and followed him to what must be considered the kitchen in a place like this. He watched Tate set a kettle to heat on a gas ring and marveled at how simply one could live if all the cushions of wealth were stripped away.

And on the topic of stripping… Tate unbuttoned the row of chrome buttons down the front of his jacket. He shrugged it off, leaving him in shirtsleeves, which he rolled to the elbow. The breadth of his shoulders and the flex of muscles in his brawny forearms seized Avery’s attention.

Then the copper turned to look at him, and any attempt at rational thought fled Avery’s brain as those unearthly blue eyes pierced him. “What is it you’re after, Wickersham?”

“Please, call me Avery. I insist. Wickersham is such a mouthful, don’t you think?” He winced at the double meaning of mouthful, but Tate didn’t seem to catch it. Avery rushed on. “I’m not after anything, Mr. Tate. As I’ve said repeatedly, I was impressed by what you did for my companions and it made me want to become better acquainted with you. I believe we might have much more in common than one would think.”

“I highly doubt that.” Tate busied himself with preparing loose tea leaves for the pot.

“We’ve both read Don Quixote, for one. That’s a beginning, isn’t it? We could discuss our opinions of the book over tea and see where that leads.”

“Where it leads,” Tate repeated softly. “I think I can guess where a man like you would like it to lead.”

Avery folded his arms. “Do you think a ‘man like me’ has only one thought on his mind at all times? That men like me are lust-addled and incapable of any thought beyond quenching their desires? Is that how you feel?” He waited for Tate’s flinch as Avery baldly suggested they were the same.

Avery continued. “Sometimes companionship and conversation are all one desires. Don’t you ever wish simply to talk with someone who understands the way you feel?”

Tate’s lips parted. He said nothing, but Avery could almost hear the affirmation trembling there. Rather than press further into such personal feelings, Avery elected to withdraw to a broader topic.

“So, Cervantes’s book. What do you think of it?”

A ghost of a smile crossed that lush-lipped mouth. “To tell the truth, I know of the character of Don Quixote but haven’t actually read the book. A fellow I knew once told me the tale, so I recognized who the figurine depicted.” He paused. “Thank you for the gift,” he added gruffly.

“You’re quite welcome. I shall lend you my copy of the book if you’re interested. It’s rather heavy reading, old-fashioned and wordy, in my opinion, but the message is worth slogging through to the end.”

Tate shot him a sideways glance while pouring steaming water from the kettle. “Well, there. We’ve discussed a book. That took all of half a minute.”

Avery threw back his head and laughed. The man had a delightful dry wit. He’d just known Connor Tate would be worth spending time on.

He got his chuckling under control and offered to help carry things to the table. It was a rare treat not to have servants doing everything for him. Avery quite enjoyed the domesticity of setting the table for tea, then sitting across from Tate on a chair that was hard as stone but much less steady. It wobbled on its legs as he settled upon it and rocked every time he leaned forward.

Now, to fill the awkward silence that fell between two men who knew little about each other.

“Do you enjoy your work, Officer Tate? Catching criminals and keeping the streets safe?”

Tate regarded him over the rim of his cup. “I’m well aware the crime you were arrested for put no one in danger. No need to drive the point home.”

“I wasn’t making that connection. Truly. I’d be interested in hearing about some of the villains you’ve faced, or the people you’ve helped. I’m certain there is much good to be accomplished in your line of work.”

The man cradled the cup between his hands and stared down into it as if reading the leaves like a fortune-teller. “I suppose I’ve helped some, but…”

“Go on,” Avery prompted when he didn’t continue.

“I sometimes feel my hands are tied. It’s not quite the calling I’d hoped it would be. We’re expected to look the other way regarding certain criminals and overextend the arm of the law for others.”

Avery nodded. The reputation for corruption in certain divisions of both the City and the Metropolitan police was well known. But so long as neighborhoods such as the one Avery lived in were kept secure, the upper classes would hardly complain. The job of keeping the lower orders contained was being accomplished. He could well imagine it would be hard for a man of Tate’s noble sensibilities to witness the darker side of the police force and not be able to do a thing to change it.

“If you were the man in charge and there was one thing you would change, what would it be?” he asked.

The copper considered the question seriously, as Avery imagined he did everything. Such a sober, somber sort of man, not his usual type at all.

“I would try to impress on the officers that they should actually listen to people before taking action. They don’t want to take the time to question many witnesses or truly investigate a case. Easier to jump to conclusions and clap the first suspect caught into jail.”

“So, at heart, you’re not an enforcer but an investigator. Have you considered aiming for an inspector’s position?”

He snorted. “Easier dreamed of than done. I’m not likely to be considered for promotion. I haven’t kept my head down or my mouth closed. And I haven’t as much education as some.” Seeming to realize he was speaking too openly, Tate pressed his lips tight.

“I’ve noticed in life that often those most worthy of promotion are not those who receive it. Certainly true in government, as can be attested to by witnessing some of the blithering fools who hold seats in Parliament.”

“What about you, sir?” Tate turned his unsettling gaze upon Avery. “Don’t you have a seat in the House of Lords?”

“Thus my comment about blithering fools in government,” Avery quipped.

Though he made light of it, he felt a flicker of shame about the seat he never occupied, his by birthright rather than any worth on his part. How disappointed his very political father would be at his taking no part in government. The man had lived and breathed politics, superseding all interest in his family.

If Father had lived to see his hereditary seat vacant… Well, then it wouldn’t be vacant, would it, for Father would still hold the position. Avery dispelled his momentary discomfort with humor.

“I prefer not to take part,” he said.

Tate frowned. “You have power in your hands yet make no use of it? What I would give to possess that sort of authority.”

This conversation was growing far too dreary and moving away from the direction Avery wanted to take. He glanced at his barely touched cup of quite awful tea. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything stronger at hand, would you? I could quite do with a brandy after the day I’ve had.”

Tate gave another snort. “Gin. That’s what we drink around here.”

“That would be fine. I’d enjoy a glass.” He wouldn’t really, but anything to ease Tate’s tension and make him friendlier. Maybe Avery could end the evening with the kiss he craved to pluck from the upright policeman’s lips.