My mind refused to remain where I put it.
Instead, it drifted to Finch’s report, to the Commissioner’s evasions, to Rosalynd’s face when she realized the damage inflicted upon the young woman. One thought bled into the next until the work before me felt both trivial and insurmountable. I pressed a thumb against the bridge of my nose, acknowledging the dull ache that had taken up permanent residence behind my eyes.
Milford’s knock came sharp and unwelcome.
“Your Grace,” he said, opening the door just far enough to announce himself, “Lord Nicholas is here to see you.”
I closed my eyes briefly. More than likely, he’d come to ensure I had followed through on his suggestions.
I braced myself. “Show him in.”
Nicky entered with a hurried stride, his expression urgent. He did not look like a man paying a social call. That alone set me on edge.
“If this is about Philip,” I began, rising from my chair before he could speak, “I have already written to my estate manager about him assuming some of the management responsibilities?—”
“It is not about Philip,” Nicky interrupted, breathless.
The words landed with enough force that I looked at him properly. “It is not?”
“No.”
I waited for him to continue. But he did not. Instead, he studied me with a frankness that suggested he was taking stock—of my unshaven jaw, the ink stains on my cuffs, the barely restrained impatience I could not quite conceal.
Wisely, he made no comment.
I gestured to the chair opposite my desk. “Then sit and tell me why you are here.”
Rather than do that, he crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a small measure of brandy. When he offered the same for me, I waved him off. “I don’t?—”
“You’re going to need it when you hear what I have to say.” And with that, he poured another measure and placed the snifter on my desk.
He did not drink his brandy at once. Merely turned the glass slowly in his hand, as though considering how best to begin.
“Do you remember Thomas Fairleigh?” he asked.
I frowned, searching my memory. “Oxford. A year behind you. Not the brightest.”
Nicky’s mouth twitched. “Still isn’t. But his fortunes have improved considerably of late.”
“In what way?”
“His mother’s brother died in February. No wife. No children. Invested heavily in industry. Fairleigh inherited the lot. He’s now a very wealthy man.”
That explained much. But it did not explain why Nicky was standing in my study instead of enjoying his afternoon. “And?” I prompted.
“And wealth,” he said, “has made him careless.”
I returned to my chair. “Careless how?”
“He has been drinking more than is wise, speaking more than is prudent, and congratulating himself on being invited to things he scarcely understands.”
The words caught my attention. “Invited where?”
Nicky met my gaze fully at last. “He approached me at the club last night. Quite deliberately.” His mouth turned down with disgust. “He actually wished to boast about it.”
“About?”
“An invitation.”
