Much to Sol’s chagrin, Aaron did not immediately tell him the identity of his mystery woman when they left the confines of the synagogue. No, the blasted man forced him to wait while he dutifully attended to his wife and her grandmother, making sure the latter was escorted to the home of a cousin for her luncheon and bidding the former farewell so she could spend time with her good friend, the rather surly daughter of the community’s midwife.
By the time they marched westward, snow had mixed with the rain, splattering debris all over his new boots, which were supposed to fool the world into believing his family was securely back at the “top of the heap,” as his mystery woman had put it. Because like attracted like, and if he was going to rise, the big machers needed to think he was one of them already.
He’d make sure the boots were polished when he got home. Sol frowned as they approached the large townhome his father had built, and his brother was still in the process of restoring. The building sat right between the western edge of Aldgate and the eastern side of Mayfair—a stone’s throw from a respectable gentile area the man couldn’t quite breach, but which couldeasily be seen from the enormous windows of the tall upper floors—beneath the imposing sloped roof, which would need maintenance if this weather kept up. Sooner rather than later, as only last month, a large brick had come off and near crushed his head. Yet another reason for them to bolster their coffers again. And quick.
Their accounts were still recovering from a few new ventures his brother had undertaken last year. Not that there was any cause for concern. You had to spend money to make money, and if anyone understood how to balance it all correctly, it was Frederick. If not, they’d have been bankrupt long ago.
Trotting up the stairs, with Aaron close behind, he rushed inside the large open door that Martin, the family’s butler, already held open, rubbing his hands together.
“Thank you,” he breathed as the man assisted him with his overcoat. “It’s getting a touch nasty out there and—”
“Ah, Solomon, you’re home.” His brother’s matter-of-fact tone cut him off. “Hopefully you’ll apply yourself properly to something useful this afternoon.” Sol glanced to the parlor entrance to find the elder Weiss standing in the center of the large, paneled doors, the mirrored buttons on his best jacket gleaming beneath the brightly lit chandeliers. His honey-colored waves glinted in the light, highlighting the seriousness of his strikingly handsome face.
“Frederick. I didn’t know you’d still be here,” Sol said as he approached his brother, his heart pounding. His brother typically spent his Saturdays making calls to gentile acquaintances as part of his efforts in restoring the banking business their father had destroyedbefore his death. That very same event had also saddled Frederick, a mere seventeen years at the time, with a seven-year-old half-brother to raise.
Nearly two decades later, not only was the business once again profitable, but its profile was also on the rise—to heights no one could have previously imagined. A feat that ought to give his brother his due after his many years of hard work, sacrifice, and schemes. As admittedly, his brother had superb and often underestimated instincts in spades.
A boon for them both, as Sol possessed far less natural ability and charm.
“I see you’ve brought Mr. Ellenberg.” His brother’s gaze narrowed, inspecting Aaron. “Are those new gloves? Good choice, covering those hands of yours.”
Aaron only stepped forward, extending the aforementioned hand to Frederick. “Good Shabbos. How are you?” His brother accepted after only a moment’s pause, though from Sol’s vantage point, the shake was limp and noncommittal. He winced—loyal to a fault, his brother had not quite forgiven Aaron for besting Sol in the courtship of the man’s wife.
“I’m splendid. Happy to spend the day with the best sort of company.” His brother stepped back and to the side and indicated a well-dressed gentile man and woman standing near the green silk fainting couch in the parlor. “May I introduce Lord Crispin Gladwell, the Viscount Penrose? And his sister, Drucilla?” Frederick returned his attention to the couple, his smile now wide. “Mr. Ellenberg has married into the Lira family, of Lira & Berab Sureties. My brother is very well acquainted with them.”
“How do you do?” The man—Gladwell—orPenrose—oy, he needed to get better at gentile naming conventions—stepped forward, his tone cool, as his gaze flitted first over Aaron before landing on Sol with a sharp intensity. “Interesting business, sureties. Lots of speculation and divination involved, as I understand, for very little return. At least not for the people whose hard-earned money you so freely take in exchange for your papers.”
Hard-earned money.
Sol’s jaw clenched. Something a viscount knew all about, no doubt. How again did the man purchase his bespoke garments? With funds yielded from the labor of farmers—people who worked land only his family held? Land that had been—what? Gifted to them by some long-dead king or queen for an undoubtably “noble” service? One that involved only “righteous” violence, no doubt.
Yes, the viscount’s fortune was completely virtuous in ways that his business could never be.
Not that he—or Aaron or even Frederick, who was still seen as more Jew than gentile despite his recent Baptism—could argue that point. They did not make the rules of the game, only played with what limited pieces they were allotted. Pieces that the likes of Penrose could take away over any insult or threat, large or small, perceived or real.
He exhaled and gave the man his most pleasant, deferential smile.
“I like to think of it more as a protective industry. We help businesses and the people who build them protect themselves against hardship,” Sol told him, threading his fingers.
“For a healthy cut of their profits.” The man gave a dismissive sniff.
He saw Aaron clench his fists. “My wife’s family and partners provide a service, one which harms no one, and certainly does not take any more than their fair—”
“That’s a lovely gown, Lady Drucilla,” Sol interrupted. “The way the trim on your gloves coordinates with the edging on the sleeves is so clever.” He moved quickly toward the woman, his voice loud enough to drown out anything else Aaron might have said.
“Thank you so much.” The woman’s face lit with a warm smile. “I’m just relieved to be out of mourning for my dear, late husband and wearing color again. Gentlemen usually don’t notice those things.” She glanced over to Frederick. “Though your brother always does. From the moment I returned to London, and we first met.” Her cheeks flushed.
Suddenly the source of Frederick’s poor behavior was clear. Penrose was more than important, not merely for their banking goals, but for, perhaps, a chance at the life his brother had missed out on by raising Sol. A life he most certainly deserved. Time to shuffle the conversation in the right direction.
“Frederick has the most refined taste in all of London. Especially for artistic objects—he has quite the collection,” Sol told her, hastily gesturing toward his brother’s prized antique mirrors hanging on the wall.
“Oh?” Penrose arched a golden eyebrow.
“My brother flatters me. I’m a mere appreciator of beauty,” Frederick said, coming to his side, his dark frockcoat swinging open to reveal its fine, royal blue velvet lining.
“I can tell.” The viscount paused, this time leveling that inspecting glare at his brother. “However, Drucillaand I must be going.” He snapped his fingers, and Martin arrived with a heavy overcoat for him and a fur-lined cloak for the sister. “We have several more calls to make. Your neighbor, Stoudmire, he and Drucilla were quite fond of each other when they were young, and his father is a marquess, you know? A good man. While he’s a second son, he’s retired quite admirably from His Majesty’s service.” He gazed at his sister.
“Yes, he was a most loyal and diverting companion. And so kind. He’s a benefactor to my charity for impoverished children,” she said. “It’s so lovely that you’re neighbors.”
