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The confirmation bred confidence. Rafe followed the bark of voices to his father’s half open office door. Abbreviated sentences reached him over the sound of his footsteps.

“Absolutely not … have my signature once the chapel bells have rung … no sooner.”

“Really, now … difference does it make? I’ve shown you loyalty … no need to worry … she will accept his offer.”

Rafe was two paces from the door. One stretch of his arm would see the room thrown open to him, but the violent eruption of Thomas’s voice pinned him in place.

“Are you under the impression I owe you something?” The baritone echoed in the walls, somersaulted off the ceilings, stirred the contents of Rafe’s stomach. Something crashed. “A deal is a deal. This is a fair exchange. Until I’m free to spit your title on every doorstep in London, you’ll not weight your pockets with my investment.”

“And what if your boy isn’t in agreement?” Lord Penney’s voice pitched high. “What if he puts off? I’m supposed to let you—a common merchant who ran up with a stroke of luck—bankrupt me?”

Rafe put his fist against his mouth, biting into flesh. Don’t, he silently begged the stupid old earl. Don’t underestimate what he might do.

The long pause ended abruptly. “I suppose so,” Thomas said, the words curling out like noxious smoke. “I didn’t force you to run through the last of your coin, now did I? Nor waste it for the last twenty years. Now get out!”

Rafe put himself out of the way just in time. Lord Penney burst from the room, his complexion the color of beetroot. If he noticed Rafe standing there, he didn’t let on.

The office door stuttered on its hinges, and Rafe stilled it with his hand. A splintered place in the wood caught the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

“You.” The word might’ve been a curse coming from Thomas’s lips. “I left word you were to stay at the house.”

“I wanted to speak with you.” Rafe dropped his hand, massaging the fresh, pin-sized wound as he entered the room. There was nothing easy about the way he took his seat opposite the desk. His legs shook. “It seems my instincts were correct, given what I’ve just overheard.”

His father’s presence reached out, filling every space. Rafe studied him: his bare hands rumbling over nests of paper, the tremolo of his breaths bordering on wheezes.

“Penney is right to be suspicious,” Rafe spat. “Whatever scheme the pair of you are concocting, I want no hand in it. I’ve decided not to court Miss Penney.”

The burly hands stilled, fingers spread wide. Flat, slate-colored eyes fixed on him. “Oh, shut your mouth, Rafe, and attempt to be grateful for all I’ve done for you. If you’re sore about being the last to know, I don’t mind bloody telling you— After the wedding, you’re to return to Cheshire with the Penneys, where you will oversee the production and shipping of our investments in wool. I waited to tell you for reasons precisely such as this.” He leant forward, his fingers seizing to crinkle paper. “You are arrogant, conceited, and about as prepared for such responsibility as a castrati choirboy.”

Something terribly wrong began happening in Rafe’s body. His ears buzzed. The room—the sweltering, singular, male presence in it—came into and out of focus. There was a live thing in his throat, hopping, growing.

“That’s right.” Thomas must have smiled, for the corners of his eyes crinkled. He thumped the desk with his fingertips. “You don’t have the bollocks, son, to face the consequences of defying me. So, you’ll do as I say.” He sniffed and returned his focus to the documents before him. “Now if you’ll see yourself out, I’ve had the devil’s own morning. Don’t test me.”

Was the live thing growing, or was his windpipe tightening around it? It didn’t matter—the convulsions rendered him stuck. Only a thin vein of oxygen was making its way to his lungs. His hand clutched at his chest. He needed more … air …

“Mr. Balfour, sir, pardon the interruption.”

A shop boy entered the room. Rafe wanted to clasp his hand as it passed his field of view. Please. Help. He remained frozen as the conversation passed around him.

“Missing?” Thomas bellowed. “Are you damn well certain?”

“Yes, sir, well, I believe so, sir.”

Papers breezed off the desk and swirled around Rafe’s feet.

“Make certain, will you? This log here—my son’s log—says we ought to have ten crates or more of the stuff.”

He was going to be sick. That was the only way to clear this obstruction, to restore breath to his lungs. Sweat trickled from his temple down the side of his face.

“Yes, yes.” Thomas’s voice cut through the haze. “That’s blue wool. I need every sample in that warehouse if I'm to choose a manufacturer.”

Rafe was moving, and then he was on his hands and knees, poised over the small refuse bin in the corner. He didn’t know how he got there. He only knew who was hollering above him, and that the convulsive act of his body was almost done, and air—oh, sweet, heavenly breath—was his again. He rested his head against the wall, eyes closed and burning from trails of sweat, and inhaled greedily.

“Unbelievable!”

A boot scraped over the top of Rafe’s neck. He cracked open one eye in time to see his father stepping over him.

“The effort it takes to run this goddamned business, and every single one of you, useless!”