The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(10)

“You should have come with me to the card room last night,” Brice said, already reclining in his seat and still in his clothing from the night before.

“You’re up early,” Fallon said with a wry smile.

“Just a nightcap before bed,” Brice said, lifting the half-empty glass in his hand.

“You’re staying the night here? Difficulties with your father again?”

Brice shrugged and looked away. For a man who was ever eager to share a tale, he’d always been surprisingly quiet when it came to his family.

Brice was the fourth son of Lord Dillsworth, a man known all over the country for his keen eye for numbers and, as a result, his vast wealth. Dillsworth was not known, however, for being a jolly fellow or adoring father. Fallon didn’t know much else of the man, but Brice’s silence spoke volumes.

Fallon had wondered for years if he should inform his friend that he had such an obvious tell, if not for the sake of his cover in town, then to improve his bluffing skills in cards. But he had—like Brice—remained silent on the uncomfortable subject.

Instead Fallon simply ensured that one of the rooms upstairs was always kept open for Brice for those occasions when he’d rather not return to Dillsworth House.

“Any word on Grapling?” Brice asked around a loud yawn. He stretched his arms and almost knocked the tea tray from Mrs. Featherfitch’s hands as she approached.

“He escaped…again,” Fallon said, giving the housekeeper a nod of thanks as she set the tray down and left. She had the knack for finding him. Of course, there was a rather short list of places he could usually be found, even within the sizable home.

“Sorry he got away, but it was a brilliant night at the tables.”

“That’s a comforting consolation with a madman on the loose.”

“I am feeling rather comforted at the moment,” Brice said with a grin as he patted his pocket. When Fallon only scowled, Brice added, “I’m only having a go at you. I might have lost sight of the bastard last night, but I’ll continue the search today after a bit of a rest.”

“I’ve already sent a few men to scout his former haunts.” Poor sods. Fallon had divided a list of the worst taverns and brothels between them and sent them off at first light this morning. Constant watch of Grapling’s family’s home had been in place since last night. And still he wished he could do more to find the man.

“Don’t leave me out of the fun just because I need a bit of sleep now,” Brice complained, leaning back farther in his chair to stretch his legs beneath the table.

“I wouldn’t think of allowing you to miss the reunion.” Fallon ignored the plate of breads and the paste-colored bowl of porridge his housekeeper had included on the platter and poured a cup of tea.

“You haven’t worked out why he’s back yet, have you?”

Fallon winced and took a drink of the searing-hot liquid. “I’m going to go to the Swan and Pony in a bit. The man must eat at some point, and he was always prattling on about the food there.”

“That shabby little spot in front of the museum? I think it was the barmaids who held his attention, not their soggy meat pies. Made the mistake of going there once. It’s a wonder the nobs at the British Museum haven’t forced them to clean up their establishment. Its very proximity might soil the curiosities!” Brice fairly screamed in a false voice clearly meant to impersonate some museum official as he leaned forward to take a piece of the bread from the platter. A few men looked over but only shook their heads and continued their daily activities.

“Even so,” Fallon muttered.

Brice ripped off a bite of bread with his teeth and asked, “You’re off to the Swan and Pony then?”

“After I wrap up a few things here.” He needed to read the notes he’d abandoned on his desk. Instead of standing, he drained the last of the tea in his cup as if it could drown the troubles he was having. He poured another cup, intending to take it with him back to his library. He’d sat here too long already.

“We’ll find Grapling in no time. If he’d been in the card room, he would have witnessed quite the game. You should have come with me.” He pointed to Fallon with the half-eaten piece of bread in his hand. “There I was, simply filling in for Lord Turnwell so play could continue, and…”

Fallon couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down to a hand of cards without the intention of discussing business. A hand of cards as sport was as foreign to his life as sipping rum in island heat in the shade of a palm tree. What was the point of sitting about and chatting when that talk didn’t further some strategy for the Spares?

While Brice had relaxed last night with a hand of cards, Fallon had met with one of his men and a lord in town to discuss their mutual interest in a piece of legislation currently before parliament. Then he’d moved on to meet with another and receive an update on the investment in Crosby Steam Works that Claughbane had brought to the table. That was how an evening should be spent—productively.

Move ever forward.

That had been the mantra of one of the gentlemen he’d respected the most at the Spare Heirs Society. He might have been Fallon’s subordinate, but he’d always offered guidance when it was needed—and in those first few years, guidance had been in short supply. Now Fallon had built an empire and his friend was no longer with the Spares, but his words still resonated through everything Fallon did. He was always moving forward. By midafternoon he would have Grapling in hand and all his other plans could proceed without incident.