Jordan blinked as he tried to sit fully upright, turning just slightly to take in this visitor with his good eye.
“Do I owe you money?” The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. That last punch to the jaw must have split his lip.
“No, my lord,” the gentleman informed him.
A wash of relief filled Jordan. Funds weren’t only tight, but nonexistent. “Is it Andrew?” His younger brother’s penchant for card games was often a cause of alarm, though he always brought the extra coin back to Dunnings.
“No.” The gentleman shook his head. “I am here for you, my lord.”
Jordan shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs. Why did this snooty, well-dressed man keep referring to him in such a way? He and Bentley looked nothing alike. Was he misinformed? “You have the wrong brother, sir.BentleySinclair is the earl. NotJordanSinclair.” He waved his hand for Edmonds to slide him another bottle of whiskey, since the previous bottle, still half-full, had shattered when Sisco tackled Jordan at the bar. “Head south until you reach London, that’s where you’ll find him. Number twenty-three Bruton Street, near Grosvenor Square.”
Jordan tried to grab the whiskey from Edmonds, who held the bottle in a death grip.
“Pay up, Sinclair,” the barkeep informed him. “You’ll get nothing on account at The Hen.”
Fair enough. Everyone in Spittal knew of the financial difficulties that faced the denizens of Dunnings. Jordan dug in his pocket. Nothing but lint.
“Allow me, my lord.” The gentleman tossed several coins at Edmonds, who nodded and slid the bottle into Jordan’s waiting hand.
“Thank you.” Damn, his face hurt. A tooth felt loose. “I must have forgotten my purse.” Jordan didn’t actuallyhavea purse because he rarely had enough coin to fill one.
“My lord—” The man cleared his throat once more. “Might I request a word with you in private? I fear it is quite urgent.” He tapped the valise meaningfully with one gloved finger.
Jordan tilted his head, which did nothing for his throbbing temples. “I fear you are here in error.”
“I assure you; I am not,” the gentleman said. “My name is Patchahoo. James Patchahoo. I am your solicitor, my lord.”
Jordan snorted. “I don’t have a solicitor.” The cost of the man’s coat would feed Jordan’s family for a week. “Can’t afford one. Now, I’m quite busy, as you can see, Patchasoot.” He gestured to the disreputable denizens of The Hen. “I’m sure you can find your way back to London without my help.” He tried to smile, wincing at the sting to his lip.
“Patchahoo, my lord. Scottish, I’m afraid. Several generations back.”
“No need to apologize. But Scotland is that way.” Jordan jerked his thumb. “If you’re lost.”
Patchahoo wasn’t nearly as old as his clipped, polite way of speaking and clothing made him appear. Solicitors, in Jordan’s experience, which admittedly was limited, were elderly white-haired gentlemen. The bit of hair sticking out from under Patchahoo’s hat was sandy in color, as was his mustache.
“How old are you, Patchahoo?”
Patchahoo cleared his throat once more. “Age, my lord, has no bearing on my duties as your solicitor.”
“I don’t have a solicitor,” Jordan insisted. “One must have property and the like to require your services. I’m not sure who sent you here, but they were in error.”
Patchahoo waved a hand towards an empty table tucked in the dim recesses of The Hen. “A word, if I may?” The solicitor’s nose wrinkled slightly as he took in Jordan’s stained clothing and bruised face.
Dizziness assailed Jordan as he slid off the bar. Two Patchahoos appeared momentarily before he blinked them away. If Bentley, that pompous prick, had sent this man all the way from London to inform Jordan that funds would not be forthcoming this month, as they hadn’t for the lasttwomonths, Bentleycouldhave sent a note.
“Is this about the sum I requested for the repairs to the roof? Because I wasn’t exaggerating. There is a hole the size of a mountain in the roof at Dunnings. Part of the third floor is uninhabitable. Not only because of the hole, but in general.”
Dunnings was in a constant state of repair, crumbling further into decay with each year. The house had already been in shambles when Jordan and his family arrived. Mice in the walls. The hedges so overgrown one couldn’t find the front door. Broken windows. Furniture rotting where it sat.
Mother had taken one look at her new home and collapsed.
The miniscule amount of funds Bentley had sent in the first few years had been barely enough to feed them all, let alone make necessary repairs to the house. There was no staff at Dunnings. Not so much as a maid or a cook. Jordan had become a master at negotiating with tradesmen while learning how to raise pigs, the only thing that would grow at Dunnings. He’d become adept at carpentry to an extent. Masonry still eluded him. Aurora kept a garden, which helped fill the larder, though they were all sick of cabbage. Clothes patched and mended dozens of times.
Anger towards Bentley, once a constant state, had faded in the face of trying to survive.
A drawn look came over Patchahoo’s face. “I must apologize, my lord. I was instructed not to send your usual sum.”
Jordan snorted. “Selfish prick.”
