“Sir, perhaps it would be best if you retired now. You haven’t been sleeping well, and tomorrow may prove stressful, to say the least.”
Alfred slowly rose to his feet, only to discover one was asleep. Resting his hand on the back of his chair, he shook the offending limb to restore circulation. The return of sensation through opening blood vessels shot a sharp spike of pain through his leg. If only all the veins and arteries in his body could be so easily repaired, it would be well worth the momentary discomfort. Satisfied he might now walk without tripping, he followed Bernard from the room, taking little heed of the length of shadow following in his wake.
Once in his bedroom and seated in a far more comfortable chair by a gas-log fire—a fixture more for show and psychological comfort than to ward off cold—Alfred allowed his butler to remove his shoes and gently massage his tired feet. “Would you like another brandy, sir?” Bernard inquired.
Alfred stared at his glass in surprise; he hadn’t noticed he’d emptied it. “I believe I will. Thank you.”
Warm and comfortable, he watched Bernard take the elegant snifter from his withered hand and quietly leave the room, only to return a moment later, the crystal balloon now sloshing with two fingers of amber liquid that sparkled in the firelight.
“Is there anything else you’d like before bed?”
After careful consideration, Alfred decided to confide in his friend and gain an ally for his plans. “What do you know of my nephew Alex?” he asked.
Bernard’s heavily lined face gave no indication of his personal opinion, and, as usual, he selected his words carefully. “A most brilliant man, I believe, and very popular with the… ah… ladies. Why do you ask?”
Alfred stifled a laugh at how the incredibly straight, straight-laced butler phrased his answer. Yes, Alex was brilliant when he applied himself; however, applying himself didn’t happen often. Bernard’s perception of Alex’s popularity with the ladies also held true, though it was no big secret he was more popular with men.
“No particular reason. You’ve arranged a room for him?” Even without asking, he trusted his dependable servant to have everything in order.
“Yes, sir, as requested. I placed him in the blue room. This meets with your approval?”
“Yes. Paul will have his normal room across from mine?”
“Yes, sir, as always.”
Alfred considered the arrangement and then changed his mind. “If memory serves, Paul is also fond of the green room. He loves the view of the gardens. Why don’t you put him there instead?”
Bernard peered at him quizzically from overtop a pair of round-rimmed glasses. Given their long association, and Bernard being equal parts servant and friend, questioning his employer’s decisions had never been discouraged, provided he intended no disrespect. “Are you sure that’s wise? Putting them across the hall from one another, so far from your own room? You know how your nephew values his privacy.”
Alfred smiled indulgently. “Bernard, get a brandy for yourself and join me here by the fire. I’d like a chat.”
Bernard shuffled from the room and returned a few minutes later, carefully avoiding Byron’s favorite chair in favor of an overstuffed ottoman. He took a sip of his brandy, sighing in contentment and savoring every drop as was his habit whenever he indulged in spirits—a rare occurrence. “What would you like to discuss, sir?”
“First, tonight we’re friends; drop the ‘sir’. You can resume it again tomorrow if you need to, but no formalities tonight, please.”
“Yes, si—Alfred. Now, what do you need me to do?” The suspicion in Bernard’s voice bordered on comical.
“You don’t have to commit murder, old man, relax.” Reaching over to the table between his chair and Byron’s, Alfred removed two of the many pictures crowding the polished marble surface, gazing fondly at the enormously different men in each. The first depicted a tall, big-boned, and ridiculously handsome man with sun-bronzed skin, penetrating blue eyes, and wavy hair resembling Alfred’s own.
He handed the photograph to Bernard. “What do you see?” he asked.
“Your nephew Alex. Might I say he looks surprisingly like you when you were younger,” the butler suggested, diplomatically latching onto a neutral topic. “It certainly appears he’s taking advantage of those gym memberships too.”
For the amount Alfred’s accountant sent off each month for fitness clubs and personal trainers, the young man should be winning marathons, though Alfred doubted how much money actually made it to those gyms. Another on an ever-growing list of reasons to put his long-delayed plans into action. “Actually, Bernard, he’s the spitting image of his late mother. It’s a pity you never met her. My poor, accidental sister. How the country club ladies must have snickered behind Mother’s back at this change-of-life child. I adored her, however. She was better than any pony or puppy in her simple wish to be loved. I’ll forever kick myself for not being a proper brother and protecting her from that damned fortune hunter. What were my parents thinking to allow that marriage? They probably hoped for an heir, knowing by then I’d never give them one.
“How she endured their badgering is beyond me. In the end, she showed them. After her worthless husband left, she refused to hand Alex over to nannies, insisting on being a hands-on mother. My parents were horrified!” Alfred smiled fondly at the memory. Little Victoria hadn’t stood up for herself often; however, no one prevailed against her when it came to her son’s well-being. What a fight to remember, and the only one of his recollection she’d ever won.
“Alex adored his mother,” Alfred continued. “Unfortunately, she didn’t enjoy the same good health the rest of the Andersons did. She died at thirty-eight.” He sighed, recalling unpleasant memories. “You know, I always considered the boy distant and cold after her passing. Don’t get me wrong; I love him as my own, regardless of his faults. Sitting at Byron’s bedside, holding his hand and watching him slip further away from me, I truly began to understand why my nephew is the way he is.”
“What do you mean?” Bernard asked.
Alfred took a sip of his brandy and stared thoughtfully into the fire. “As painful as her illness was for me to endure as an adult, Alex was only nine years old when his mother lay dying. Oh, my parents tried to send him off to school, but he refused to leave, wanting to stay with her.”
His eyes filled with tears, the memory still painful of finding Alex in his sister’s bed the night she died, clinging to her cold hand. No doubt the poor child had been with her when she breathed her last. Alex had grown sullen and withdrawn afterward, never regaining his former youthful cheer.
“I wanted to adopt him, you know. You can imagine how the suggestion went over at the time. In the end my parents raised him, giving him everything money could buy, provided they didn’t have to actually spend time with him. I never understood how his own flesh and blood considered him merely an heir to carry on the family line. Of course, they thought the same of me, once.”
Alfred had barely survived such a frigid environment. How much worse had it been for someone as loving and caring as his nephew used to be? Taught to believe his only value lay in his name and in the blood running through his veins, which the elder Andersons insisted made them better than everyone else.
