November 1832
Aldgate, London, England
What was the point of having a day of rest when one never enjoyed that luxury? When one needed to plot and plan and judge every situation, every interaction to extract the greatest benefit? When one’s family’s future depended on a compelling performance that never ended?
Conversation rose within the packed center of the synagogue at Duke’s Place even with the concluding prayers having not quite finished. The men swarmed, done with half listening, ready and eager to argue and debate over food and drink. An activity enjoyable in theory, but a field of snares for one without a scholarly pedigree and with only the frailest of fortunes. Not to mention a distinct lack of firsthand knowledge of a world that was supposed to be his birthright.
But when one needed to hobnob with the community’s most venerated, well… he’d make do.
Rising along with the throng, Solomon Weiss neatly folded the tallis that had belonged to his grandfather and slipped it into its thick, embroidered brocade bag.The prior “Solomon” had been his mother’s father, a man who’d died in Frankfurt before he was born. A man who, no doubt, had been a great deal more accustomed to playing his role in the community.
Or one would suppose. Solomon had never met the man, but considering the only prayers he’d ever heard in their house as a child had come from his mother’s lips, the assumption seemed reasonable. His grandfather’s knowledge would probably come in handy now.
Tucking the object beneath his arm, Sol smoothed the front of his newly remade velvet-lined frock coat. It was a rich deep blue—bold enough to garner attention but not so flamboyant to appear desperate—or at least that was the concept.
Cracking his back, he turned to the closest person he had to a friend, his hopefully soon-to-be business partner’s husband, Aaron Ellenberg. “I thought that would never end.”
“It’s the same length every week,” the other man muttered, straightening his fine silk cravat, his gloved hands a touch awkward. Though that was to be expected. After all, until six months ago, Aaron had been a mere custodian in this same synagogue. Now, however, he’d married the wealthiest heiress in Europe, securing his future and the future of any relations to come. A position Sol had sought. Though, in the end, even he had to admit that Aaron was better suited for both the role and the woman.
Damned lucky momzer. Especially as—though his salary was nothing to sneeze at—he’d not yet received the business partnership offered by Aaron’s wife when she’d turned down his suit. And wouldn’t until he snared more clients of his own. A task that had proveddifficult when he still had responsibilities to grow and maintain his family’s bank. Hence his repeat appearances at the synagogue. Even if the visits hadn’t been quite as fruitful as he’d have liked.
However, he was starting to enjoy the rhythms and the company. Same with the daily morning prayers Aaron had started dragging him to a few times a week. He still couldn’t forget his purpose.
Sol wagged a finger at his once rival, now friend. “That’s what they want you to think, but I have it on good authority that the rabbi’s sermons are getting longer.”
Aaron’s lip twitched as he adjusted his top hat over his yarmulke. “’On good authority?’ What authority is that, pray tell?”
“I have my sources.” He moved toward the aisle, searching for an opening to enter the river of exiting congregants. Sol winced as the fabric of his breeches rubbed against the nasty scrapes and bruises that he’d received the prior morning. This was what he got for permitting his horsemanship to get so rusty.
“Flesh and blood, or figments of your imagination?” Aaron grumbled. The other man then reached out to right an elderly gentleman whose cane slipped, before giving him a silent nod.
“Details, details.” Sol glanced toward the now vacant raised bimah. “The point is, they never should have been permitted to lecture us in English.”
“Why?” his friend asked as they finally found a spot in the shuffling sea of bodies.
“What?” Sol stopped short with the crowd nearly trampling two gentlemen debating a point about Abraham and his father.
A tap on his shoulder returned his attention to his friend. “Why shouldn’t sermons be done in English?” Aaron gave him a soft nudge with his elbow. “Enlighten us with your wisdom.”
“There is no ‘us,’ there’s only you.” Sol rolled his eyes. Glancing around first, he lowered his voice. “And if you must know, it’s because sermons are much easier to sleep through when I understand nothing, instead of having to block out drivel. And god knows, given my schedule, I need the sleep.” He put an arm on his friend’s shoulder and guided him around the group that was still holding up the flow outward. “Now come on, your wife is probably waiting for us.”
Aaron released a small snort though his expression became a touch wistful. “My wife is probably preening for compliments in her new gown, but if you want to spoil her fun…”
“No, I wantyouto spoil her fun as she loves you and merely tolerates me. I’m hungry and tired and don’t see anyone useful to charm—” He craned his neck just to make sure he wasn’t missing any opportunity. “Nope, no business to be had or connections to make. At least not at the moment so…”
“Please, she sings your praises. But I’ll go fetch her.” The other man gave him a brief nod before scurrying off, so the couple could leave and eat, and he could… well… lie down, he supposed, as his brother didn’t exactly observe Shabbos in their home.
Not that he could judge Frederick for it—it hadn’t been as important to his brother’s mother, their father’s first wife, and observance certainly had limited use, especially given the new, primarily gentile clientele his brother had acquired. Besides, as the elder and head ofthe family, Frederick had a great deal on his mind and more responsibilities than Sol could imagine, and certainly didn’t need him questioning his choices.
Sol rubbed the back of his neck as he searched for Aaron and instead spotted a group of bankers congregating near an alcove. Ones whose favor he and Frederick could certainly use.
Straightening his collar, he turned and—thwack.
A cloaked figure, head bent, flew right into his chest, stealing his breath. Planting his feet to hold his ground, he reached and grasped the falling form before him.
“Whoa, careful now.” As gently as he could, despite the rather sharp pain in his ribs, he worked to steady what now appeared to be a woman. “Are you all… right?” he asked, the last word breaking off as her hood slipped from her head.
Wide eyes, set off by heavy lower lashes, blinked at him in surprise, and a jolt of recognition blasted through his body. The wispy dark hair; the firm pointed chin; the full, plump, very kissable lips, pursed in determination—in an instant he was back in that alley, nearly six months ago, when, snooping in the shabbier sections of town had almost turned deadly before a rather quick-thinking stranger had saved him.
