A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(20)

“Ah. I shall send her a floral tribute then, just to let her know she is in my thoughts. There is no reason why a loving son cannot send his mother flowers regardless of whether there is an occasion or not.”

“That would be better than a visit, I believe.” The solicitor moved toward the door. “Don’t trouble yourself, Alex. I shall show myself out.” And he suited his actions to his words.

Alexandre managed to not grind his teeth as he moved to the window and stood where he could make certain that the old busybody had gotten into the firm’s carriage and actually left. The cheek of him! What is he doing now, paying for information about my movements? Looking for gambling debts or a mistress somewhere? He would not put it past the miserable old dotard. Fortunately, Alexandre’s tastes did not demand expensive women who required apartments, furs, and jewelry, not when he could get exactly the same services out of a young and disposable whore. And gambling was for fools—unless you had the secrets to winning. He did gamble, but not often; not so often that people would start to remark on his extraordinary luck. He didn’t need to cheat to win, after all. Not when he had magic. And he was very, very careful only to take money from those who could afford to lose it. Not out of any sense of pity—but because those who could afford to lose it generally took no notice of those who won it from them.

As the solicitor’s coach pulled away, a small mob of boys pelted it with snowballs. Alexandre smiled, thinly, and sat down again to his task.

Not, of course, that he was abstaining from expensive mistresses, luxurious apartments, and all the wonderful things that money could buy voluntarily . . . he’d have been perfectly happy to finally be in control of the family’s modest fortune. Without the need to conceal his gambling—and with the means to go to casinos on the Continent—he could build that modest fortune into an impressive one. As he had transcribed this book, dormant ambition had awakened in him. He would love to excite envy in the gazes of anyone who saw him. He could indulge all of his desires, and oh, he had a great many desires. But he was patient. Patience was, perhaps, his only virtue.

Except, perhaps, for the moments following one of these detestable interviews.

The old man had been a confidant of Father; if one of the other members of the firm had been put in charge of making sure the conditions of the will were followed, he doubted he’d ever see them. The business manager certainly did not care, and would not care, as long as Alexandre did not drain the principal and did not interfere with the management of the money. There would be no probing into his character, no quarterly interviews. As long as he kept his name out of the newspapers, the stipend would simply be deposited into his bank account.

But Fensworth took his obligations seriously, and seemed to regard himself in loco parentis to someone who was fully adult and certainly capable of handling his own affairs.

If only the old man would just die. Like Mother, he was a damned inconvenience. But not enough of one for Alexandre to undertake the kind of effort it would require to be rid of him. There were too many people around him who would prevent him from walking out into the middle of a winter storm to lie down and die—and Alexandre could not imagine how he would be able to get some personal item, like hair or blood, to set the spell in the first place. Victor had been easy; all Alexandre had needed to do was pay a visit to his brother’s rooms at King’s College on the pretext of borrowing something and stroll off with hair from his hairbrush. He had no such access to Fensworth’s belongings.

Patience, he reminded himself. But he couldn’t help brooding about it as he continued to work on The Book. If only the old man would vanish. Life would be so much easier.



Arthur Fensworth chided himself for the uncharitable thoughts that had crowded his mind on the way to pay his call on young Harcourt. Here he had been convinced the fellow was one of those idle fops, playing at being a poet, never really doing anything with his life—

And perhaps, at first, without the guiding hands of tutors and his father, he had been. But clearly he had found worthwhile work to do. Translating obscure religious works! He never would have thought it, but the fellow had clearly been hard at it when Fensworth arrived, and looked anxious to get back to it. And he’d gotten that book of poetry published as well! Old Harcourt would have been proud, of the translations at least.

He made his report to the head of the firm—who, as usual, seemed bored, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Fensworth was used to that. Old Abernathy would never have treated him and his report so flippantly, but Old Abernathy was dead and gone these three years, and his son didn’t understand the need to see that a client was still a client even when he was dead, nor that it was the firm’s obligation to make sure the client’s wishes were fulfilled in perpetuity. Fensworth intended to keep an eye on young Harcourt and keep making those quarterly reports for as long as he lived.

With that dismissal, Fensworth returned to his tiny office, wrote out the release for the quarterly payment to young Harcourt’s account, and went back to his regular duties. But, unusually, he couldn’t quite keep his mind on them. Although he had a good fire going, the air was cold, and the light seemed dim no matter how much he turned up his lamps. He felt . . . drained. Dispirited. Finally, in mid-afternoon, he decided he must be sickening for something, and returned to Young Abernathy’s office.

“Begging your pardon,” he said politely, when Young Abernathy looked up impatiently. “But I don’t entirely feel well. I was wondering if—”