Finally, the twitch that had bothered him for days was quiet. His mind was free, and his thoughts were clear. He would sleep peacefully that night.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Harris entered. “My lord, Mr. Fleet wishes to see you.”
“At this time?”
“He came twice while you were away.” Harris gave him a long, appraising look. “Again. My lord, I must speak?—”
“Show Mr. Fleet in. Thank you, Harris.”
Harris pressed his lips. “Very well, my lord.”
Tristan waved his hand in approval. He was too relaxed to be bothered by his business partner’s late visit or his butler’s worried tone.
George stepped into the room and eyed the glass of brandy and Tristan’s pose.
“Not again.” He poured himself a glass from the sideboard. “One day, you’re going to get seriously hurt or lose a limb for your foolish addiction.”
Tristan shrugged. He didn’t care about anything after a good session at the ring. Not even about the truth. “What did you want to tell me?”
George winced as he sipped the brandy. “This brandy is awful.”
“You came here late at night to inform me of the quality of my liquor?”
George sat in front of him, giving him a paternal look that made him feel guilty. But what was he supposed to do? Take opium? He would be dead in a matter of months.
“I knew it.” George tried the brandy again before putting the glass on the low table. “I feared you were out to get yourself punched. You, your father, and I made many sacrifices to rebuild your family’s business, and getting yourself almost killed?—”
“Don’t.”
“—it’s a poor way to repay our work.”
He polished off his glass with one sip. Yes, maybe the brandy didn’t taste good. “If you’ve come to serve me with a sermon, you can leave.”
“Because I can only discuss business with you and nothing else?”
He didn’t answer. There was some truth in George’s words. Since Father’s death, George had grown closer to him, but he had kept him at arm’s length. He didn’t need George’s help to sort out his personal, intimate problems. They worked together, and it was better not to mix feelings with business.
“No, I came here to know if you talked with Winchester yesterday.” George went to the sideboard again. “We must start working in Easthollow and finish the new line before autumn begins.”
“The ass was visiting his son outside of London.”
“Rubbish.” George paused pouring himself a glass of Scotch. “I saw him in London.”
He sat bolt upright. “Where?”
“Close to the warehouse of Lord Carnegie after my meeting with him to discuss the steel supply. I was about to hail a cab when Winchester came out of the Russian anarchists' centre, shaking hands with them.”
Anger flared up again, but it was of a different type; it wasn’t the dark anger burning him when the twitch bothered him. It was a less destructive one.
“Since when did Winchester befriend the anarchists?”
George tasted his scotch and gave a nod of approval. “Who knows what business he has with them? Nothing good, mark my words. The point is, he was in London.”
Tristan drummed his fingers on the armrest but stopped when the simple movement shot pain up his arm. “The fact he avoids me is nothing new. But is he hiding his association with the anarchists? Those people keep placing bombs everywhere and killing innocents.”
Only two years before, the anarchists had bombed the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, and the Fenians placed bombs all over the kingdom as well.
“I don’t know what Winchester is doing. He’ll soon realise that dealing with the anarchists only leads to destruction. What I care about is that he sells us that bloody piece of land first.” George curled up his upper lip in annoyance. “That barren strip of rocks is worthless. No tenants live there. And he’s acting as if we asked him to sell us his home estate.”
