“Something to consider at least. However, right now, I need something else from you.” His brother waved his hand, the gold buttons flashing against his jet-black jacket, only accented by his deep purple cravat. “A very important task, you understand.”
“Anything.” Sol clasped his hands together. “You can trust me, Frederick.”
“I hope that is the case.” Frederick adjusted his spectacle. “While I want to forget, you understand that it is hard to ignore your prior poor choices.” His brother’s gaze turned chilly. “Can I trust there haven’t been any new occurrences? That you aren’t keeping dangerous secrets from me?”
Sol swallowed.
He should confess. Tell his brother about Hannah. It was only right—first and foremost, he owed his brother his complete allegiance and honesty. And surely, if he explained, his brother wouldn’t force him to promise to never see her again? But before he could open his mouth, his brother interrupted him with a sharp laugh.
“I’m just joking, Solomon,” Frederick said. “There’s nothing in my house I don’t know about.” His lip curled. “Nothing.”
Sol blinked.
“But we don’t need to discuss your poor choices—I will let you prove yourself with what I need from you now.” His brother rapped his hand on the desk once, twice, three times. “There’s a very important package I need delivered, personally, to a client late this afternoon. However, I shall be attending another engagement with Lady Drucilla and her brother. A critical outing, with an old friend of the late viscount whose blessing we need if we are to continue our courtship.”
That was all?
“Of course I’ll take the package,” Sol said. What was so hard about that? Did Frederick really not trust him with so simple a task?
Frederick pursed his lips. “It’s a bit of a ways south, located in a rather nasty place on the docks.” His brother gestured outside. “Normally, I’d send a footman to deliver it, but it contains sensitive material, and the path can be dangerous. Though I suppose there’s danger everywhere in the city these days. After all, the Marquess of Brackley’s son was attacked the other day—robbed, right down the lane.”
“Is he all right?” Sol asked as his mind spun.Brackley.Wasn’t that the marquess whose son, Stoudmire, was the one Penrose wanted Drucilla to—
“Oh yes.” His brother waved a hand. “Just injured, nothing fatal. Left to his father’s estate in the country to recover. Such a pity we won’t be seeing more of him. Childhood friend of Drucilla. Perhaps we’ll visit him after we wed.” His brother folded and unfolded his fingers. “I expect that to be soon enough.”
Sol nearly jumped for joy. Yes, everything was coming together for them. They just had to hold on a little longer, and all their dreams would come true.
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “And I will support you in every way possible.” He’d be exactly what his brother wanted and needed. No matter what.
“I know,” Frederick said with a smile. “And in the meanwhile, we both need to be careful. Both with our safety and our presentation. Especially now that I’m on the brink of proposing. Our enemies might see this as a last chance to strike out.”
His brother wasn’t wrong. Once he married himself into the gentry, he’d have access to privileges no Jew, no matter how monied, could touch, whether or not he was seen as a villainous usurper.
And it couldn’t come a moment too soon. He pursedhis lips, unable to ignore how Stoudmire’s situation might be viewed.
A prominent gentile attacked? Who was a rival of Frederick’s? People might jump to conclusions.
Ask any gentile on the street—Jews were either stealing good gentiles’ places in proper society, secretly manipulating their surroundings to oppress the innocent, sucking resources like nuisances, masterminding unscrupulous criminal activity, or a combination of all the above.
It didn’t matter where they came from—the city, the countryside, or out of England altogether—find an unhappy gentile and he’d explain why Jews were the villains in his tale.
If they were useful, they might have a temporary reprieve. However, if the choice was between one of them and one of their own… Frederick was right to be concerned. Sol shivered at the thought of Hannah, out on those same streets and coming to see him. Alone.
Oy. He needed to speak with her. Warn her.
Sol glanced toward the window. “It’s early yet. I can go on foot so I’m not too conspicuous nor would our carriage be spotted and draw attention.” He frowned at his bright coat and shiny boots. “I’ll wear something subtle, so I blend.”
“Excellent. Though watch your back. Stick to well-traveled areas.” He brother reached inside his desk drawer, retrieving a folded paper. “Here are the directions.” He tossed the sheet to Sol, who grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket.
“And here’s the parcel.” His brother also held out a small, flat pouch—documents, no doubt. “You should leave soon. It looks like rain, and you certainly don’t want to be in a storm after dark.”
No, he did not. “Don’t worry, I won’t fail you,” Sol promised him. “Good luck tonight with Lady Drucilla.”
His brother gave him a thin, tight-lipped smile before returning to the papers on his desk.
Sol braced his shoulders, then left the room. He’d not let his brother down; he’d not.
