Page 34

After a knock, the door swung open on the two-story house.

“Aye, good day to you, my lord,” he said, his voice groggy, as if he’d been sleeping.

“I shall be departing, after all. I have the coin for our rooms. I have added in enough to cover the week due to the inconvenience,” Abram said, passing the money in a small packet he had fashioned from paper and string.

“Please. Come in. Let us not conduct our business on the street,” he said, offering a wave then turning to walk inside.

The hallway was narrow and smelled of smoke and ale. While the apartments were generally clean, his house was dank, a stale scent permeating the air, growing stronger the closer he drew into the home. They stopped at a table in the very back of the home.

Ledgers and notes were strewn over the desk, scribbled markings over many of them. Atop the piles was a list of names; the very first on the list was Rowan’s. It must have been the current list of tenants.

He tossed the packet of notes onto the top before turning to face Abram once again. “I thank you, and should you ever need to let rooms again, you are always welcome here,” he said, grinning. “I understand trouble befell your man. Please accept my condolences.”

“Yes, nasty business. I am aggrieved at his loss. Thank you for your sympathy.” Abram felt the gentle pull of sadness in his chest.

“A shame. The city has diminished to no more than a rookery. Cannot trust anyone anymore. I shan’t keep you. Just wanted to say, sorry business, that.”

“Yes, thank you. But I must be moving along,” Abram said, extending a hand.

A calloused hand met his own, one evident of years of manual labor. “Be well, my lord.”

Abram turned and walked along the narrow path back to the door. He could not help but think back on the handwriting on the desk. He had seen the writing before. There was no way to recall where.

With a shrug, he exited through the heavy door and made his way to the carriage, tossing a wave to Boris to stop him from going through the ridiculous process of opening the carriage door for him. “We may go now,” he said, climbing through the open door of the carriage laden with both his and Rowan’s belongings. He was not the type to enjoy being doted upon.

As they went along, he watched the change in the neighborhoods, going from middling to fair as they reached the palatial environs of the Gray home. All along, he pondered who could have harmed his friend, a kinder man he had yet to meet.

Before long, the manor was in view, a grand design, even if he had seen it many times before.

As they drew to a stop, he replaced his bowler hat and unlatched the door. By the time he stood on the sidewalk, Boris was met by another footman to unload his belongings.

“Thank you,” he said, watching as the men removed the bags in their silver-embroidered uniforms. Mrs. Gray was meticulous in her attention to detail. Their uniforms matched the exterior of the house, a vibrant green with accents of white, silver, and bronze.

“Mr. Fain,” a voice called behind him.

Abram turned to find Dorchester walking out to the street, his white beard covering a dour expression. There was no way to tell whether he hated him or if it was simply his disposition. Butlers were oft times masters of cloaking their emotions. Abram could learn much from them, he realized.

“Good day, sir,” Abram called out. While he would prefer to go by his own name, he understood the need to suppress any alarm on the part of those residing in the home. At least there were some in the household who knew the real him. Rather, at least part of him.

“I have prepared a room for you, nearest to the viscount’s private quarters. Boris and Titalus shall bring along your belongings. The mistress is expecting you. However, they have all gone up to dress for dinner. There should be enough time for you to prepare yourself for dinner with the family.” Dorchester offered a near imperceptible nod to one of the footmen to open the door to the grand house, both servants standing aside as Abram made his way into the atrium.

“I should not like to bother the family during their dinner. I can take a meal in my quarters, if that is fine by Mrs. Gray.” He took off his hat and coat and found yet another footman waiting on the other side to collect them.

“She had requested the honor of your presence,” the butler said. “I am afraid dining in your room will not be expected by the mistress of the house.”

“Very well. I appreciate her for having me. What time is dinner?” he inquired, pulling his watch from his pocket to glance at the time.

“Approximately one hour. I can send a footman to retrieve you,” he said, extending a hand up the stairs.

Abram had never ventured up the grand staircase. It was framed by two gilded rails, the stairs covered in an emerald runner in the center of all the marble. The home was styled closer to what he had seen of American grandeur, more than its foundation, which was based in English architecture.

“I can return on my own, Dorchester. Again, I do not wish for you and your people to make a fuss over me. I am quite resourceful, I can assure you.”

They reached the top of the stairs and Dorchester turned to face him. “There are those who are required to uphold their role, Mr. Fain. You are a guest, and we shall treat you as such for as long as you remain under this roof. Whether you are deemed an aristocrat or not. Please, if you will follow me to your room, sir.”

Abram had not thought of it in such a manner. There were people dependent on their role in the home. He should not deprive them of their duties, and he believed this butler was making a show of entertaining someone the butler thought to be without title or fortune. It was an unpopular stance to treat all those with the same level of regard. This Dorchester must have been a decent human being.

“Here we are. Your bag will follow momentarily,” he said, opening the door and standing aside so Abram could enter the well-appointed room.