The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(9)
“No.” It was the same answer he gave her every morning. It wasn’t going to change, yet she always asked.
“One day, I’m going to get you to eat before noon. Or after, for that matter,” she tossed over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. “It isn’t good for you to go about on an empty stomach.”
He remained silent. Mrs. Featherfitch didn’t need to be reminded of his reasons. Fallon hadn’t eaten before noon in ten years, and he wasn’t going to begin today. Mornings had once been filled with laughter, and now he had no choice but to work until the morning was behind him. He would eat later, when there was more time.
He glanced down at the documents on his desk. Tea wouldn’t dull the ache of knowing what he was about to read, what he could have stopped from happening. If he’d only seen Reginald Grapling in a clear light. He’d been preoccupied, and it had taken only a moment for details to slip past his attention. That’s all that had been necessary for theft and ultimately tragedy. And he wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
Suddenly anxious to delay, he pushed his papers aside and stood from his desk. It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning—surely some of the gentlemen would be about by now. He moved to the door and stepped into the hall, spotlessly clean aside from the large table piled high with coats, hats, and random bits of twenty different men’s lives.
Fallon gave a small nod to the cherubs in the mural on the ceiling, as he always did. Their dark, round eyes had watched over the lives of the inhabitants of this home for as long as anyone could remember. Those cherubs knew enough secrets to bring an end to the entirety of London high society, and as such, they deserved his respect. The other gentlemen didn’t understand his attachment to the merry little fellows, but as long as he was the head of things around here, those cherubs wouldn’t be covered over with a single fleck of paint.
The sound of voices reached him as he neared the main room of the Spare Heirs Society’s headquarters. The constant hum of activity brought him comfort this morning, as it often did. When he’d first received the house from Lady Herron—Pearl, as he’d known her—this had been an oversized and seldom-used drawing room. Flowers had been the primary theme here, as they had been everywhere in her house. Fallon’s lips twitched in an effort to smile before he recalled himself. Nowadays, this room served a purpose. The floral draperies had been stripped away in favor of something more masculine, and extra armchairs had been added over time. With each passing day, there were fewer reminders of Pearl, replaced by evidence of the gentlemen he’d drawn into his circle. Life had moved on, and Fallon was in the lead, just as she would have wanted.
Fallon moved around the billiard table in the center of the room so as not to disturb the early-morning game taking place, and headed for his usual spot in the corner. He liked this vantage point to view the day’s activities. From his chair here he could watch the goings-on of the society, keep a close watch on the members while still maintaining a view of the street outside. Nothing escaped his notice—not an occasional woman slipping from the front door in the early hours or an argument after too many drinks at night.
Drumming his fingers gently on the table, he watched. He’d always been perceptive—the skill that had once made him an awkward child now served him well.
“Sir,” his butler offered as he neared.
“Togsforth,” Fallon returned, still watching his men across the room.
The butler followed his gaze to where Wentwood and Lawson were playing a hand of cards. “They seem to be on friendly terms again.”
“It seems so.” Last week’s disagreement appeared to have ended. Fallon stood behind his decision to add a man to their team, overseeing the protection of the gaming hells in the east end of town. It allowed for work to continue at all hours—not to mention it prevented corruption. He ground his jaw at the reminder of corruption from long ago and looked away from the men, absentmindedly watching Togsforth continue on about his daily routine.
If the presence of the Spare Heirs Society was known across the country, most would find issue with their dealings. Living on the murky side of the law as they did, influencing and quietly profiting from society and keeping the seedier side of the city running safely, didn’t sit well with those of a fragile temperament. Those who knew the true nature of the gentlemen’s club that Fallon had founded, however, understood the need the group filled and were thankful for its existence. Fallon had built an army from the gentlemen society often overlooked—younger sons of the nobility.
Without the Spare Heirs, those men—his men—had few options in life. Fallon gave those gentlemen purpose, a wage, and in many cases a roof over their heads, and London was better off as a result. There had been only one gentleman who had fallen prey to the lure of more funds than St. James could provide through the Spare Heirs Society. And that man had now escaped prison and was back.
Somewhere in the city, Grapling was milling about, no doubt hatching another plan to serve his own interests. What was he after? Fallon had eyes at the prison. How could the man have possibly slipped past their notice? And yet he had.
Men like Grapling didn’t simply visit town to enjoy the sights. The entertainments he sought weren’t so entertaining to those around him, and now it was up to Fallon to eliminate the threat Grapling posed everywhere he went. Fallon was sitting and staring out the window at the movement of carriages up and down the street when someone dropped into the chair at his side.