Waiting.
Like he was now.
The door creaked open.
“What new information do you have for me on Weiss?” Isabelle’s breathy voice was demanding even before she fully entered, champagne glass in one hand, fan dangling off her wrist.
Weiss.Aaron wrinkled his nose at the man’s name. Not that he wasn’t developing a sort of soft spot for the dandy, between what he’d heard from his servants and the Berabs’ opinion of him and, really, everyone from their part of the community, but . . . He grimaced again. Still, this discussion was part of his job too, and what he was being paid to do. He stifled a sigh.
“Not much more than I had the other night.” He slipped the book back on the shelf, facing her fully, and his mouth went dry.
Oy, she really was beautiful, wasn’t she? Yes, her gowns and jewels always fit her well, but there was a glow about her now. She shone. But not like a twinkling fairy or cosseted princess or clever enchantress—no, there was something bolder and more substantial about her. Something that made all the inappropriate thoughts he’d been having since their last kiss rise to the surface with a series of new fantasies.
“Nothing? Nothing at all?” She stepped forward and his damned heart quickened.
“Well.” He tugged at his collar. “I’ve learned that Weiss’s brother is . . .”
“Is?” She shut the door behind her, leaning against it as she cocked her head at him, her silky-to-the-touch black hair puffing up behind her as she crushed her elaborate style.
“A mamzer.” Because that was really the only word to describe the elder of the two brothers.
“Literally?” She narrowed her dark eyes at him speculatively, a thousand thoughts running through them. As if she was analyzing what could be done with such information—her mind terrifying and impressive all at once. She was definitely crime lord material. The thought was almost fond now. No wonder the volume in the room with the most wear and tear was the one written by Mr. Machiavelli.
“No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, his parentage isn’t part of the gossip.” He’d heard nary a word either way about the deceased father. “Figuratively. Towards his younger half brother in particular.” Not that Weiss would admit it, from what had been shared with him. It was amazing what was shared below stairs—or with sympathetic outsiders. Weiss defended the other man to anyone and everyone, but servants talked. He almost felt sorry for him, despite the difference in status and opportunities.
“Oh.” Isabelle’s eyes softened. “That explains a few matters.” She fingered the champagne glass before setting it on a shelf and moving back toward him. “What does he do? The brother?”
“Tasks him with all the unsavory jobs to help the business succeed and raise his social standing outside the community. Makes his brother take all the risks while he keeps his own hands clean and his tuchus protected. Treats him more like a henchman than a brother.” Aaron ran his fingers over the edge of the reading table before leaning against it, swallowing a little as he recalled the tone he’d overheard Weiss use when addressing his brother. It had set Aaron’s teeth on edge.
Her chin shot up as she appraised him. “So effectively, you and Weiss have the same job.”
He barked a harsh laugh. “Hardly. Though even if we did, I can assure you, whatever he endeavors, I can do better. At least for you.”
“Can you?” She matched his posture. “So you’re the superior hired muscle?” Her gaze drifted down as her fingers inched forward, nearly touching his. His breath hitched.
And despite everything—the Berabs’ threats, his duties to her, his growing sympathy toward the still-obnoxious Weiss, and his lack of ability to figure out which way was up in this situation—the slightest bit of mischief stirred in his gut. He leaned forward on his elbows, gazing up at her. “I’m superior to him in every way that matters. Especially all the physical ones.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Her lips twisted into a crooked smile, though her eyes still held a sadness, forcing him back to his task.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Weiss. A few years ago, he nearly died.”
A gasp of horror. “Why?”
“The brother lost some money at a boxing match and thought he was cheated. Refused to pay and told Weiss to take care of it.” Aaron winced despite himself. “Let’s just say, while he talks pretty fast, some people punch a lot quicker. The worst part was, they had the money—the brother just wanted to demonstrate that they were not to be trifled with, and Solomon paid. However, I heard he found other ways to get the last laugh. Which is noteworthy as he is not the sort of man who should be underestimated in his own right.”
Ways that involved a few well-placed rumors causing the men who took Frederick’s money to turn on each other, resulting in a rather bloody battle among themselves. Effective revenge that allowed both brothers to avoid suspicion.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Isabelle’s lip twitched in amusement instead of proper fear.
“You were the one who said you wanted someone you could control, and Weiss . . .” Aaron couldn’t help arguing.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure he’s very clever and ruthless, as is the brother.” Isabelle gave a dismissive wave. “But heisinteresting if there was less risk. Or he at least employed some different maneuvers. Ones that could be beneficial to me as well, and align with my goals for the business and the community.”
With a sigh, Aaron stood before pushing himself onto the table so he could perch as he finished his task. “So does that settle your decision?” He pressed his palms to the tabletop supporting him, rooting himself.
“Probably.” She wound the strands of beads at her neck around a finger. “My grandmother is less convinced, and Pena doesn’t like him. He thinks he’s merely asking questions, but he should never play poker.” There was a wry amusement in her tone, and a shadow of a dimple graced her cheek.
“Pena . . . your house manager?” he asked, hoping he’d guessed the correct title for the man.
