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  “Very well.” Murdoc added a paragraph to the end of the contract and initialed it. “Satisfactory?”

  “It is.” Jim took the pen and signed his name.

  “Excellent. We will see you on the first of the month.” Mr. Murdoc folded away the contract. “I am looking forward to it.”

  Jim could feel the man’s eyes roaming over him. All he could think to answer was, “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 2

  ***

  two years later

  SIR LIONEL WESTIN ARRIVED IN LONDON in a black mood. He’d been halfway there when he’d gotten a note from his brother begging him to stop at White’s and settle a little matter with Farhill for him. A little matter with his brother could easily run into the hundreds of pounds. He was very glad to have the excuse of meeting with the family solicitor to put it off. It was the last chance for him to know Father had seen him, had understood all the quiet work he’d done behind the scenes over the years, even after he’d formally left the company, even when he’d bought the Lotus Tea Company from Father and turned it into a business successful enough to draw the notice of the royal family and bring him a knighthood.

  The Lotus Tea Company had seemed like such a good idea at the time. He’d had a feeling that with a little care and better management, it could become something profitable, and then he’d been so certain Father would see he was every bit as good at business as Randall. But Father had dismissed the whole thing, as if the company were of no importance at all once Lionel took it over. Perhaps it had been hiring Mr. Sanders away from Father, although the man had said he was already planning on leaving. That had felt like the right thing at the time too, and Mr. Sanders had certainly been helpful, so helpful Lionel had promoted him to manager last winter, and Mr. Sanders had the office running so well Lionel was free to devote time to the new property in Lincoln-on-Marsh with only occasional visits to town. Perhaps that had been what upset Father, thinking Lionel had stolen a good employee from him. Lionel sighed. Or perhaps Father had simply figured out why Lionel showed no interest in marrying and had washed his hands of him, unless Randall needed bailing out, of course, or there was some thorny business problem no else wanted to deal with.

  Arriving at the office of his father’s solicitor did nothing to improve his mood. For years, Lionel had thought he simply hated solicitors; but approaching Mr. Pennington’s office never gave him the sort of sick feeling he got when he approached Mr. Jacobs’s place of business. Still, he was here about his father’s estate, and surely no one liked to discuss matters involving death, no matter how estranged you were from the person in question.

  There were no clerks in the front office, not even a secretary. That was quite different from Mr. Pennington’s office, and for the first time, Lionel wondered if perhaps Mr. Jacobs wasn’t as prosperous as Father had thought. He let himself through to the private office at the back.

  Mr. Jacobs looked up when he entered. “Mr. Westin, we were waiting for you.”

  Lionel had never liked Mr. Jacobs, so he took guilty pleasure in saying, “It’s Sir Lionel, now, Mr. Jacobs. As of last Christmas.”

  “I see, I see. A knighthood, though, not a title.”

  Lionel suppressed a sigh. He couldn’t win against the man; he’d never been able to. The only man who seemed able to was his own solicitor, Mr. Pennington. Lionel changed the subject. “Where is Randall?”

  “He should be here shortly.”

  So Mr. Jacobs hadn’t been waiting for him, not really. He also did not offer Lionel a chair. Lionel wasn’t sure if he should ask for one and risk being given the chair that squeaked, or stand, which was uncomfortable but did let him stare down at Mr. Jacobs. Somehow Mr. Jacobs managed to make sitting look like the more powerful position. Lionel knew he wouldn’t manage that, so he opted to stand while they waited in silence.

  It took half an hour for Randall to arrive. Mr. Jacobs was becoming uncomfortable in the silence, and Lionel was relishing the newly discovered chink in the solicitor’s impenetrable facade, particularly since silence never bothered him. Randall swept into the room and went straight to the desk. “Jacobs, old fellow, how have you been?”

  “Mr. Westin, a pleasure as always.”

  “As soon as we’re done with this, I have another little matter I want you to look into.”

  “Of course. I’m always happy to help you, sir. But I suppose we should complete this sad business first. If you’d like to sit.”

  Lionel took that as a sign for him to sit as well, but Randall got to the good chair before he could, so he opted to lean on the chest of drawers near the window. Mr. Jacobs stared at him, clearly waiting for him to sit. Lionel stayed still until Mr. Jacobs gave up and took the stack of paper from the desk in front of him.

  “I will skip the preamble and proceed directly to the meat of the matter. ‘As to the company known as Westin and Son, I leave it in full to my son Randall Westin.’”

  Lionel wished he’d sat down when he’d had the chance. None of it had mattered. All of the work, all of the help, all of the worry, the times he’d rushed to save Randall from himself, to negotiate contracts when no one else could, none of it had mattered to Father. Randall got the lot of it.

  --*--

  Jim woke up with a start. There was no one in the room with him. No one ordering him to eat or stay still or open his mouth or present his arse. Silence. He sat up and noticed there was a small table with breakfast laid out: a bowl of porridge, a cup of coffee, and a spoon. There was a bath by the window and a pile of clothes on the chair. He’d done it. While he’d been asleep, his two years of service to Dixon had ended. He scrambled from his pallet on the floor and went to the bath. It was lukewarm at best, but that didn’t matter. He tried to remember the last time Dixon had let him have a bath. It had been before the business meeting, with the seven men he’d come to know well over the five days even if they barely noticed him, and that had been in the winter. He sank down into the water and started to scrub himself clean, or as clean as he could. He knew it would take more than one bath to make him feel he’d washed Dixon’s service off of himself.

  While he soaped his hair the best he could, he considered where he’d go. London to start; he knew the city and places where he could get cheap rooms for a day or two, but where to look for his cottage? He had thought he’d be able to think about it during his two years, but Dixon had kept him busy every second it seemed, getting his money’s worth, no doubt. Jim dunked his head under the water and rinsed the soap out. He’d just pick somewhere at random. The first name of a small village he heard was where he would go. And if there was nothing for him there, he could fan out and look at nearby towns. It was some kind of plan, and that was what he needed. He got out of the tub and grabbed the towel then went to look at the clothes he’d been promised.

  The clothes felt uncomfortable once he got them on. They were the ones he’d worn when he’d arrived, but he seemed to have gained some muscle in Lord Dixon’s service. Not surprising, really. He’d spent two years doing hard physical labor of a kind. He shouldn’t be surprised that he’d gained muscle in his thighs and arms. And it had been months since he’d been allowed more than a bit of cloth or leather that covered nothing, not since winter when they’d thrown a coat over him to take him to the stables. But that was over now. Jim picked up the pouch of money that had been left on the table and counted it then went out to the stables. He’d asked for a ride to London—the stables seemed to be the logical place to find it.

  Balford, the stable-master, was in the yard. He was the last person Jim wanted to see, but it seemed he was the one he’d have to ask about the ride. Balford noticed him at once. “They let you have clothes? Special occasion, it seems. Or is it just so I can pull them off?”

  Jim could see the man was ready to do just that, and strong enough to do it, so he quickly said, “My term is over.”

  Balford laughed in a way that told Jim he’d known that already. “Want to bend over one last time for a r
ide to town?” Balford leered at him and stroked the bulge in his trousers. Jim had had that thick, short cock in him more times than he could count over the past two years, up his arse and down his throat. Balford rarely bathed, smelled worse than his stables, and liked to smack him like one of the horses.

  “I’ve already arranged for transportation,” Jim said as haughtily as he could. He was very glad he’d made certain when he signed the contract he’d be able to get back to civilization.

  “Afraid he has, or we could both enjoy him.” Murdoc was guiding the carriage down the drive. Another one whose cock he was thoroughly familiar with. At least Murdoc bathed, although he still managed to smell of old sweat most of the time. That was how Jim knew most of the people at Lord Dixon’s, by what they smelled like, what their cocks liked, or in some cases their asses, although not for him to use, of course, only to play with if they liked it. Murdoc and Balford both did.

  Murdoc stopped the carriage at the end of the drive. “I’ll leave you at the inn. You can get a ride to London from there.”

  “That’s acceptable.” It was more than acceptable, but Jim wasn’t going to say that. He knew Murdoc simply wished to be rid of him now that he couldn’t order him around, but Jim didn’t want to spend more time with the man who had been one of his masters than necessary. At least it wasn’t Balford. He’d have walked rather than spend more time with the stable-master.

  “Do you need anything from the village?” Murdoc asked Balford as Jim climbed in.

  “What I want, you couldn’t bring back anyway. Unless you’re bringing him back.”

  “Then I won’t be back. I’ll be on my way to Lincoln-on-Marsh. I’ll have the carriage brought back.”

  Lincoln-on-Marsh, Jim repeated to himself. That was the first town he’d heard. He should have said the first town he heard away from Dixon’s, but he didn’t remember ever having been there as concubine, so perhaps it would be safe enough. And really, no one from the village would know him, only if there was some wealthy landowner who frequented Dixon’s parties. And while it may have seemed he’d had half the landowners at one time or another, really, it was a small, select group who probably didn’t play in their own backyard as it were.

  --*--

  When Lionel left Mr. Jacobs’s office, leaving Randall to sort out whatever other mess he had in private, he went to the office of the Lotus Tea Company to go over the books. Not that he thought there would be any reason to go over the books, but it was his company, and he thought he should stay informed on what happened there. He’d gotten away from Mr. Jacobs’s office as quickly as he could once the will was read. No one seemed to mind that he’d left. Randall appeared to be having a problem with a woman that he needed legal advice on. It had meant Lionel could get away to the safety of his office and think.

  The will hadn’t been as bad as it had first sounded. Father had left him one of the smaller estates and a bit of money, less than what he’d given Randall but enough to show he’d actually spared a thought for the amount and not randomly written in some figure. There had been no mention of what he’d done for the family; Lionel would have been happy with a phrase such as “in thanks for the assistance he has provided to Westin & Son.” It would have been something at least.

  At the Lotus Tea Company, Mr. Sanders greeted him with restrained pleasure, although Lionel quickly learned that was because he wanted to express his condolences with proper gravity. Lionel managed a weak smile and some words of thanks then closeted himself away with the books and the inventory lists.

  It was quite lucky that Mr. Sanders ran the business so well, as Lionel got very little work done. There seemed to be an endless stream of employees coming to express their condolences, most of whom had never known his father so didn’t know about their chilly relationship or his all but abandonment of the company. After an hour, Lionel wanted nothing more than to escape, so he congratulated Mr. Sanders on the excellent job he was doing and retreated to his club.

  The club started as an inspired idea. He wasn’t there very often, so he had not formed any close friendships with the set that whiled away their afternoons looking out of the windows or playing billiards, meaning none of them felt any obligation to express their sympathy with more than polite nods. He was able to ensconce himself in an armchair by the fire and peruse the morning’s newspapers in peace. At least, he was able to until he had the unwelcome surprise that Randall had joined the club while he’d been out of town without mentioning it. Lionel learned of it when Randall flung himself into the chair across from him and started talking without so much as a hello.

  “I always hate spending ages at that office. What am I paying Jacobs for if not to save me from that?”

  Lionel didn’t know if he was supposed to answer that or not, so he changed the subject. “I didn’t know you were a member.”

  “Just got in last week. Hardly know a soul. It’s relaxing not having to discuss—money with everyone you meet.”

  That had to mean gambling debts. Randall was probably indebted to everyone he knew at his other clubs. “Well, you’ll have the business to keep you busy now, so you won’t have to worry about the clubs.”

  Randall clapped him on the knee. “Rum luck that, but still, you have the most profitable bit of the business.”

  Lionel was going to argue, but he supposed Randall was right. Perhaps that was how Father had seen it.

  “Wish we’d held onto the tea company. Who could have known it was going to burst out like that?”

  Lionel was going to say that he had, and if they’d only listened to his proposal that day in the office, they would have been a part of the company’s transformation, but Randall sighed so morosely that Lionel paused and wondered if his brother was actually missing their father. They had been closer than Lionel had ever been.

  “Now I have to go to White’s and see about seconds for a duel.”

  So not their father at all.

  “Unless you wouldn’t mind going down there and just making my excuses. I mean, I have spent the morning going over my inheritance.”

  “So did I,” Lionel pointed out without much hope of it being acknowledged.

  “But I was there for hours after you left. Being the heir and all.”

  And having some kind of trouble with a woman, but Lionel sighed. Randall was his brother, and perhaps there had been more for him to do after Lionel left. “I suppose I could go and make your excuses.”

  “And if they bring up the question of debts...”

  “I’ll explain that you need more time to get the estate settled.” But he knew what was coming next.

  “Yes, yes, that would be good, but you see, one of the creditors is the son of a client, so delaying on the repayment would also reflect badly on Westin and Son being able to pay, so...”

  Lionel sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’re a saint, brother. I don’t know how we’d survive without you.”

  Probably the truest thing his brother had ever said. “I’ll let you know how to repay me.” Not that it would happen.

  “Add it to my account.”

  Lionel found himself wondering if Westin and Son would be paying their accounts on the same schedule that Randall was paying his. If so, many suppliers would be in for a long wait.

  “There’s Hogart. I’d best go over and say hello.”

  Lionel watched Randall leave the room then flopped back in his chair and took a long sip of his brandy.

  “That sort of day, hmm?”

  Lionel looked up to see Sir Robert Farnsdale taking the seat vacated by Randall. Sir Robert was one of the few friends Lionel had in town that he actually liked spending time with, and he’d had his own problems with his father. “That sort of day, yes.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Mmm, thank you.”

  “Well, I had to acknowledge it somehow.”

  It might have been a nice change for someone to congratulate him on losing
the old coot, but Lionel nodded. “I know.” At least Robert wasn’t expecting more emotion than that.

  “So are you in town on business?”

  “Of a sort. The will was read. Randall got everything, more or less.”

  “I’m sorry.” This time Robert sounded sincere.

  “It’s only what I expected.”

  “Will you be leaving then?”

  “Soon, but Randall lost at White’s again, and I have to start making things right.”

  “After the way you were treated, you shouldn’t even bother.”

  “Coming from you of all people. And why are you in town? Is one of your companies choosing a new color stationary?” Robert was known for managing the smallest details of his small but profitable empire of companies. He was the last person to criticize Lionel for dedication to duty, even if the criticism might have had a small ring of truth to it.

  “Of course not. They all use ecru number four from Turner and Son in Kent.”

  Lionel couldn’t tell if Robert was joking or not. “Someone has to keep Randall out of duels.”

  “It should be one of his friends, not you. Not when you don’t have any stake in the business anymore. Or is he dueling with all of them at the moment?” Robert finished off his drink. “But you’re in town now. What would you like to do? Try some fencing with that new master everyone’s talking about? Riding? Theater?”

  “I’ll be leaving as soon as I get Randall sorted out.”

  “How long have you been in town without telling me?”

  “Not long. It’s just that Perkins asked me to fill in as magistrate for a few days, and I have to get back.”

  Robert looked as if he wanted to argue, but he merely said, “Who are you trying to impress now?”

  That comment didn’t make any sense to Lionel. He hadn’t even told most people he would be filling in for Perkins. Maybe Robert hadn’t been joking about the paper.