Three of his brothers had perished. Grayson had left looking like Adrian, and he’d come back like this—hard and untrusting, with a haunted look in his eye when he thought Adrian wasn’t looking.
Now Grayson reached across the table and took hold of the telegram without asking. He read it with a curl in his lip before tossing it aside. “Denmore would ask you for your heart without paying a half-penny to say please. Whatever it is he wants of you? You don’t need to give it.”
“I’m a grown man. I don’t need to do anything.”
Grayson looked into Adrian’s eyes across the table. There it was—that look, that sense Adrian had harbored for years that his brother had lost himself, and still needed to be found.
After a moment, his brother sighed. “You’re going anyway. I don’t want you to be hurt.” Grayson looked away. “I just want to…”
Protect you, he didn’t say, but Adrian could fill in the end of the sentence. Grayson had always looked out for him.
If it had just been himself remaining of his family, maybe Adrian wouldn’t have gone. He knew, after all, what his uncle was. Hell, he had spent most of his years in England. He wasn’t a gentle artist’s soul, no matter what Grayson thought. It could be a hard, ugly world, especially for black men.
Adrian had been spared the worst of it; he knew that. That made him feel more of an obligation, not less.
“You don’t need to look out for me,” Adrian said mildly.
Grayson shook his head, smiling. “Shut up, sprout. That’s my job. Don’t you have work, in any event?”
Adrian had too much to do. He’d already put off his return too long; after Grayson left England this time, Adrian wouldn’t see him for years to come.
Every worker at Harvil Industries depended on their continuing success. If they hadn’t started producing plates in a month…
“Say no,” Grayson said. “You don’t have time. God knows you’ve frittered enough of it away, staying with me while I oversee the cable-laying contracts. You know Denmore.”
Adrian did.
His uncle was flawed and self-centered, occasionally…but good still. Human, in other words.
And Adrian knew Grayson—knew the scars he bore on his soul, the ones he refused to talk about.
“Don’t worry,” Adrian said, with a half-smile. “I can take care of myself.”
Protecting an older brother was dangerous work. Grayson would never allow it, if he knew Adrian was attempting it. That just meant he needed to be all the more diligent about it.
Adrian had been lucky—so lucky. He had lived. He’d been deemed too young to go to war. He’d had every advantage. Every time he thought maybe I shouldn’t, or maybe I don’t have the time, he reminded himself how much he had. He always asked himself if maybe, he could take on a little more.
He always came to the same conclusion—yes, he could manage more.
Adrian could trust a little, could show his brother that he could loosen his hold on that hard knot of his suspicions. Their uncle was human, but he was a good man at heart. And maybe, if Adrian kept trusting…maybe one day he’d see Grayson smile the way he had used to.
Grayson just sighed. “Well. When he pretends he doesn’t know you a second time, you’ll undoubtedly be too upset for me to chastise properly. So I’ll say now what I won’t say then: He’s already shown his true colors. What he did was unforgivable, and I can’t believe you’re giving him a —what is it now?—a fourth chance. I told you so. You should have listened.”
“Mmm.” Adrian nodded. “I’ll save my speech for when we know the outcome.”
Grayson just shook his head. “Take care of yourself, little brother. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Adrian stood. He reached out and set his hand on his brother’s shoulder. A little more, he thought. He couldn’t protect Grayson outright, but he’d trust where his brother couldn’t. He’d trust a little more, and hopefully that would help.
* * *
“Mr. Adrian Hunter to see you, my lord.”
All the reassuring words Adrian had spoken to his brother earlier that day were not enough to suppress his sense of disquiet at that introduction. The footman who conducted Adrian to the many-windowed room on the third floor overlooking his uncle’s grounds no doubt thought nothing wrong with what he’d said; it was, after all, the truth.
Just not all of it.
Adrian had visited his uncle for months at a time, starting when he was fifteen. It had not been a planned sojourn; war had broken out back in America, and his entire family had been determined to help. Adrian had been deemed too young to fight. His father had told him that his part in the war effort would be to keep the portions of the family business that were in England running smoothly.
His mother had given him another task. “Your charge is just as important,” she had told him before she had boarded the ship. “Your uncle is a respected man; if you can change his mind, it will make a difference.”
It had not been just as important, he had later realized; his parents had wanted to make sure that at least one of their sons survived the conflict. Boys his age and younger had fought. It had all been a lie to keep him from doing anything stupid, like trying to join his brothers as they blockaded Confederate forces.
During those years in England, Adrian had visited his uncle. Denmore, the Bishop of Gainshire, had been unerringly kind in private. In private, he’d talked lovingly of Adrian’s mother—his favorite sister, the sister whose loss he still mourned. In private, Adrian had asked why Denmore thought he had lost his sister when she was still alive and willing to speak to him, and had listened to the frank response.
His uncle had provided Adrian with some incredibly valuable lessons in how English society functioned.
One of those lessons was that being married to the wrong person was worse than being dead. Adrian hated it, but society wasn’t kind, and his uncle hadn’t tried to soften the blow. He’d taught Adrian to argue, to think, and to understand how the English thought in turn.
He’d cried and hugged Adrian when Adrian, impatient and determined, had left his uncle’s estate in order to take over his father’s bewildering responsibilities at Harvil; he’d embraced him every time he returned.
All that loving affection had happened in private.
In public, Adrian had been presented to all and sundry as first his uncle’s sometime page, then his part-time amanuensis.
In the seven years since Adrian had first visited his uncle, Denmore had never so much as mentioned their familial relationship in public. He had not let his own servants know the truth—not by so much as a flicker of a smile in their presence.
It had been thirteen months since they had last seen each other, and still his uncle let no spark of joy light his expression at the sight of his nephew. He did not rise from his desk; that would break his public façade.
Bishop Denmore would not show such affection for a man who had been a mere page.
Instead, he inclined his head. “Mr. Hunter,” he said calmly. “Do come in. It’s very good to see you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The footman was still present; Adrian stood stiffly beside the door. He could hear Grayson’s admonition in his head.
He’s going to hurt you.
Of course he was. Denmore annoyed Adrian every time they met by pretending they were not uncle and nephew. But Adrian could handle a little hurt if it eventually led to progress.
For now, he inclined his head.
“Bishop,” he said instead.
“Come, Mr. Hunter.” His uncle raised an eyebrow. “After our long acquaintance, we need not stand on such ceremony. Call me Denmore and be done with it.”
Beside Adrian, the footman shifted uncomfortably.
The request was a mark of familiarity. It would seem a kindness, an extraordinary condescension from a man of such exalted rank to a mere servant. The footman—his name was Walter Evans—believed Adrian didn’t deserve such respect.
> Adrian knew this because he’d said so, repeatedly.
Know your place, Adrian had been admonished when he was younger. Don’t take advantage of the charity of a good man.
“As you say, Bishop,” Adrian said.
Denmore sighed. “Well, Evans. Close the door behind you. We’ve business to discuss.”
Adrian and the bishop remained in place, a stiff, awkward ten feet distant. They waited until the door closed behind Evans, until they heard the servant’s footsteps receding in the distance.
Then, and only then did the bishop stand. He crossed the room and pulled Adrian into an embrace. “Adrian,” he said. “It’s been too long.”
It had been more than a year, and it had been a long year.
Bishop Denmore was almost a head shorter than Adrian; his wispy hair was white and textureless. His skin was paper-pale and creased with age, and he moved gingerly, evidence of his gout.
It was hard to believe they were related.