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Sally hemmed and hawed but finally agreed, and that night, her maidenhead was taken at last. She and the man went at it all night long, and in the morning, she demanded her wishes be granted.
    “'Tell me,' he said, 'how old are you?'
    “'Thirty-five,' Sally admitted.
    “'Och, lass! Thirty-five and ye still believe in goblins?' With that, the wee man scampered off.”
    A moment of utter silence followed the end of Jem's bawdy tale. He gazed at Alan with an expression as sober as a vicar on Sunday, waiting for him to get the joke.
    Suddenly Alan began to laugh—one snort at first, followed by a chuckle warmer than the pot of tea.
    Jem maintained his deadpan face and spun the tale further. “You shouldn't laugh, sir. Poor Sally was never the same after. Ruined, she was.”
    Alan laughed harder. Not quite the hilarity Jem had hoped for, but good enough for a start. His mission accomplished, Jem chose another slice of dried peach, popped it into his mouth, and bit down.
     
    Chapter Four
     
    Alan regarded the remarkable young man he'd brought home with him tonight. The lad was as refreshing as a tonic, with his sardonic wit and clever tongue. Sharing a late-evening snack with the whore he'd intended merely to fuck was not how he'd imagined the evening would end.
    Then the man shifted, bent forward for another slice of cheese, and the candlelight glinted on something in his jacket pocket. No, Jonathan's jacket pocket. A bit of ivory. He knew that piece well. His grandfather had brought the set back from Italy.
    The strongest emotion Alan had felt in months was restless self-pity, and so he almost welcomed the fury that surged through him. He got to his feet, walked around the table, and held out a hand that didn't tremble, thank God.
    “Give them.” He could barely force the words out.
    For once Jem didn't speak. His smile vanished. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the chess pieces, and dropped them into Alan's hand. He rose and stood with feet apart and hands at his sides, as if waiting for the blow. By God, Alan was ready to give it. He grabbed the front of Jem's shirt and hauled him closer.
    “You bastard. Why?” Then he felt like an idiot for asking. When a man picks up a rat from the street, he shouldn't be surprised when it bites him.
    “Habit,” Jem said after a moment. “Idiocy.” He watched Alan's free hand, but still made no move to push away or defend himself.
    Alan let go of the shirt and thrust his fist up and into Jem's stomach, but not as hard as he'd hoped, because the creature had thrown himself backward.
    “Ain't gonna let you hurt me,” Jem said, all traces of jolliness gone. “No matter I deserve it.” He turned and walked toward the bed. Did he turn his back on Alan in scorn? Or perhaps a sign he knew Alan wouldn't attack from the rear?
    Alan lunged. He managed to grab Jem by the back of the collar. But a second later, he gripped nothing but clothing.
    Jem must have been unbuttoning the shirt as he walked away, because the coat fell to the ground, and the shirt tangled with the waistcoat dangled in Alan's hand.
    Jem turned to face him. “I get my own stuff so as I don't leave here naked, sir. We part ways, and that's that.” He crossed his arms over his pale chest. “I'm stupid, and I'm sorry, and that's a fact,” he said matter-of-fact, no cozening in his manner.
    “That easy?” The sense of betrayal still raged through Alan. He wanted blood.
    “Not easy, sir. No.” His voice broke. Of course the street rat regretted being caught. He'd lost more than a single payment for his whoring. He'd lost his chance with Alan.
    That passing thought stopped Alan in his tracks. Chance? At what? Nothing. Nothing.
    Yet oblivion had lost its appeal. He wanted to stay alive to beat the life out of the treacherous Jem.
    He circled Jem, who pivoted on his heel, watching, wary. Alan had kept his attention on the man's hands. He made the mistake of looking up. Their eyes met and held.
    Lust muddied