“What’s the wager?” a man called out.
“Twenty pounds!” George returned.
Money changed hands, the crowd growing.
“You done it before?” another called.
“Twice!” George rang out.
“Liar. Move it a little to the left.”
George gave Thad a sour look. “Says the man set to lose twenty pounds if I succeed.”
“Would I do that to a friend?”
“Without hesitation.”
“I am crushed you have so little faith in me.”
“I only have faith in your twenty pounds and your ability to lose every wager.”
“Not every wager.”
“Just most. You really should stop gambling.”
“According to the man with two steins of ale on his head.”
The crowd swelled. More money changed hands. Catcalls bounced back and forth, depending on which way the bets flowed. The third stein settled on top of the first two, and George slowly released it. They tottered but held.
Thad backed away carefully, well out of splashing distance. “I told Father you would come with me to America.”
All three pints crashed to the floor, showering anyone close enough with the foamy ale. Cries of dismay—and victory—rose up around them. George glowered at Thad, who shrugged. “You have to work on your concentration, my friend.”
The crowd dispersed with some laughter and grumbles, and George scooped up the steins and gave them to a passing server, who returned a few moments later with a towel for George and a mop for the floor. George cleaned up the best he could, then he slipped into his coat and moved with Thad to another table.
As they sat, George pulled his wallet from his coat, but Thad waved him off. “Forget it.”
George replaced the wallet, then ran his hands through his damp hair, smoothing the curls. “You know I have it.”
“I mean all of it.”
“I know.”
Thad had met George at Eton more than ten years before, when they both discovered they liked bareknuckle boxing as much as they did their studies. Thad helped George with the books, tutoring him in literature and astronomy, and George helped Thad with stances and maneuvers in the ring that compensated for his lack of vision and depth perception. George’s father, an industrialist with a number of mills in the north, had built a fortune greater than any one member of thetoncould dream of. They would never be true members of the elite, but George’s father had high hopes that more than onetonmother would look at George and his brothers—and their money—as a means to provide for her daughter, convinced that the social disdain for trade only extended so far.
George took out his snuffbox again. “Was your father serious about America?”
Thad shrugged. “Who knows? He considered me useless long before my brother married. Now that my position as spare in the family lineage has been usurped by my nephew, I am unsure either of them care what happens to me.”
“You are the second son of an earl.”
“Correct. With a minimal allowance and no prospects. You, my friend, have a much brighter future than I do. I cannotimagine the Church would want me or the military tolerate me. Since my mother will not deign to introduce me to any of her friends or their daughters, I suspect I’ll spend a lot more time here.”
“Maybe you should ask the Lyon for an introduction before she swindles you into one of her marital traps to pay off your debts.”
Thad looked again at the office door. “Unfortunately, I do not think many of her clients will look like my angelic hallucination.”
George ran his thumb over the lid of his snuffbox. “I don’t recall you paying much attention to looks.”
