Page 55

Later that week, Nathaniel found himself in the drawing room of Alden’s townhouse on Grosvenor Street, a glass of brandy he had no intention of finishing balanced between two fingers.

“You’ve done well with the Whitmore shares,” Alden said, settling into the chair across from him with the easy comfort of a man in his own domain. “Better than I expected, if I’m being honest. Most men of your rank leave that sort of thing entirely to their solicitors.”

“Most men of my rank inherited enough that they needn’t think about it,” Nathaniel pointed out. “I prefer to know where my money sleeps at night.”

Alden laughed, the sound genuine. “A sentiment I share. Speaking of which, I’ve had an offer made on the Bristol shipping contracts. Nothing signed yet, but the terms are favorable. I thought of you before anyone else.”

They talked for the better part of an hour about shipping routes, a parcel of land in Kent that Alden thought might interest him, and a tenant dispute Nathaniel had been putting off.

On the surface, it was an entirely unremarkable meeting between two gentlemen, and Nathaniel let himself settle into its rhythm. He let his guard down by the careful degree he always allowed himself with Alden and no further. He filed away every detail of the man’s ledgers, and every name and date carelessly mentioned.

As Alden rose to refill their glasses, he said, almost as an afterthought, “I heard that Cumberlea might return to town before the Season’s end.”

Nathaniel did not move. He had trained himself, over the long weeks of this pursuit, not to move. “Is that so?”

“Mm.” Alden poured the brandy from the crystal decanter, unhurried, his back still to him. “I know your history. Everyone does, whether they say it aloud or not. Your sister…” He turned around, and nothing unkind crossed his face. “I only hope old sentimentalities won’t interfere, should his name come up between us again. Business is business, and I’d hate to lose a partner as promising as you over a grudge, however justified it may be.”

For one moment, Nathaniel wanted nothing more than to cross the room and drive his fist through the man’s teeth. He thought of Isabella’s face in the last months of her life, all hollowed out, frightened of shadows, of doorways, of her own husband’s hands. And here was Cumberlea’s name, spoken in the drawing room as though it were a line item and not the most despicable word ever uttered.

He set his glass down with exquisite care.

“Business is business,” he echoed, his voice unwavering. “I’ve never let sentiment cloud my judgment, Alden, and I don’t intend to start now. The past is in the past.”

Alden’s shoulders relaxed. “Good man.” He handed over the fresh glass. “Now, about the parcel in Kent…”

Nathaniel let the conversation carry him back into safer waters, nodding at the appropriate intervals and making counterarguments when appropriate.

Cumberlea. Returning to town. Before the Season’s end.

It was the first solid thread he’d been handed in weeks, and he turned it over carefully in his mind even as he kept talking of Kent, already deciding what Croft would need to know by morning.

I will find him. I will make sure of it. But not today, and not with fists. Not in Alden’s drawing room either, where one wrong move could cost me everything.

He left an hour later with the taste of brandy and restraint both bitter on his tongue.

Nathaniel did not speak much when he returned to Duskwell House that evening for supper. Laura noticed the quiet that came over him, his eyes distant while the rest of him went through the motions of ordinary life.

Over the past weeks, she had learned that he needed time before words, not instead of them. So she said nothing when the faint scent of brandy drifted to her nose as he entered. She only rose and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, as though he’d come from nowhere more troubling than his club, and let Iris’s chatter carry through the room.

“Uncle Nathaniel, you’ll never guess!” Iris exclaimed before her napkin had properly settled in her lap. “Cook let me help with the tarts today, and I only burned one, which she says is excellent for a first attempt.”

“Is that so?” he murmured, staring down at his wine goblet.

“Yes! And then Laura and I read three whole chapters of the fox book, and the fox in the story turned out not to be wicked at all, only misunderstood, which I thought was rather clever of the author,” she continued as the soup course was served.

“Very clever, indeed,” Nathaniel remarked.

Laura watched him make the effort to engage with his niece. It made her smile.

“Iris herself is as clever as a fox, I would say,” she joked.

“I agree. Misunderstood foxes are considerably more interesting than wicked ones, I find,” he said, before taking a spoonful of the soup.

“That’s what I said.” Iris smiled and took a spoonful of her own soup. “Laura said so too, didn’t you, Laura?”

“I surely did,” Laura agreed, watching Nathaniel over the rim of her wine glass as she took a sip, noting the stiffness in his shoulders.

Iris kept up a steady stream of chatter about the day’s events through the fish course and well into the third.