"...and so I stormed off. What else would you have me do?" an irritated Tennyson seethed.

"What do you wish you had done?" Lord Grimsby returned.

Both men were savoring an aged port, and while Lord Grimsby lazily sprawled back in his chair,  Tennyson sat hunched over and tense. He was officially at his wit's end, in desperate need of advice from a friend. And Sir Cartwright, besides being distracted by female pursuits, had less life wisdom to offer than Grimsby. Lord Grimsby had seen a lot through his years, and always managed to emerge in one piece and smiling. He was one of a select few people Tennyson cared for and trusted.

Anxieties swirled around Tennyson's mind. His Grandfather's lost will, the paper trail thus far leading to nowhere, being shot in the arm, kissing Josephine, and now striking Mr. Whitmore, a guest in his father's house!

Tennyson couldn't sustain any more blows.

"What do I wish I had done?" he repeated Grimsby's question. "Never been born? Never left my Grandfather's house, never met Miss Yorke..."

"Tennyson, we both know that is a heap of nonsense," Grimsby asserted, gesturing his half-empty glass towards him. "It is not like you to sulk around feeling sorry for yourself. Leave that behavior to the rest of us sad chaps. You are a man of action. A man of tenacity."

"As of late, the only thing tenacious about me is my endeavor to be miserable," Tennyson brooded, sinking further into self-pity.

"Why do you not ask the enchanting girl to marry you already?" Grimsby asked, and Tennyson abruptly looked up, surprised by the question. "Your father has finally given you a worthwhile gift in the form of a perfect bride, but you deny yourself. And I cannot gather why...I have been speculating, yet I am bewildered. And do not try to bamboozle me into thinking it is because she was your father's first choice as your wife. I am too clever for that."

"Firstly, you are not near as clever as you think. Secondly, Josephine is hardly perfect! She is obstinate and argumentative...and rarely serious. Sure, she may be witty and thoughtful...and so beautiful it almost aches to look at her..."

I am no better than Cartwright, the lovesick fool!

After spouting out his transparent and sentimental speech, Tennyson tried to redeem himself, offering, "It is complicated. And Josephine is but one of many complications."

Grimsby stared at Tennyson with narrowed eyes, as if sizing up his current mental state and finding it lacking.

"What?" Tennyson impatiently asked, uncomfortable with Grimsby's scrutiny.

"I want you to enlighten me. I can hardly offer advice without full knowledge of the situation. Besides, your complicated life is quite entertaining these days," Grimsby smiled, taking a leisurely sip of his port.

"I am thrilled my misery is an object of amusement for you," Tennyson sarcastically commented, before dropping his voice to a far more serious tone. "You know what my father is like..."

Grimsby cut in, "A selfish, violent tyrant whom would sell his own Grandmother for the right price?"

It was a dangerous observation for Grimsby to make, but sadly, an accurate one. Tennyson had become immune to the physical pain his father inflicted, but Horace Tennyson was capable of far worse than physical injuries. Charles knew Grimsby would understand his concerns for any future wife of his. Because any future wife of his would also be Horace Tennyson's future daughter-in-law. A frightening and undesirable position to occupy.

"Even if I wanted to make Miss Yorke my wife, I cannot. I never want her breathing the same air as my father!" Tennyson stressed, wringing his hands.

"So why not simply tell her such? It is clear the girl is infatuated with you, heaven knows why, but she apparently is. I am confident Miss Yorke will wait as long as it takes. And, surely it cannot be long until your grandfather's will is finalized..."

"Oh but it can!" Tennyson shouted, slamming his fist to the desk. "The amended will I spoke of? Well, poof! It has disappeared, obviously stolen by my father, and now all I have are some vague papers leading to an even more vague man. And unless I figure out who has the other copy then my father is going to get it all. And if he inherits, Isabella and I will forever be under his control. Not to mention, I am in the middle of hosting a blasted house party! At his house!"

"Is that all?" Grimsby coolly replied.

Tennyson's jaw clenched tight, irate that his friend would make light of such life-altering devastation. Had Grimsby not heard a word he had spoken? Several months ago, Tennyson was awaiting an inheritance which brought with it freedom and a faceless fiancé, whom he intended to discard. And now? His life was on the brink of ruin, either under extreme poverty or extreme tyranny. Both options churned Tennyson's stomach. And neither included Miss Yorke...

Lord Grimsby continued, ignoring Tennyson's scowl, "If you give me the papers I promise I will find your man. I happen to have an unconventional connection from my uncivilized days. He will find who and what you are looking for."

Tennyson glared disbelievingly. Was it worth trying? What did he have to lose? He had examined the documents left by Mr. Taggert with the diligence of a constable and came up empty-handed. Lord Grimsby was a man of ways and means, furthermore a man of secrecy. Confidentiality being vital when Horace Tennyson was involved. Charles' father was a ruthless conniver but he was also smart, thorough, and in possession of powerful allies. Tennyson knew that Grimsby would handle the situation with a tight lip and rapidity.

"If you can accomplish it, I would forever be in your debt," Tennyson confessed with a spark of optimism.

"When have you known me not to accomplish something I have a mind to do? We both know you currently hold the monopoly on favors owed. I will get your papers and you can declare us even. And, once I have your fortune secure, you and Miss Yorke may live happily ever after," Grimsby finished, as if giving himself a verbal pat on the back.

"Not precisely."

Grimsby sat in anticipative silence with his now-empty glass of port. Tennyson stood and began to pace while propping one hand about his hip. The tail of Tennyson's coat softly swayed with each passing movement.

"As I said, circumstances with Miss Yorke are complicated. It goes beyond my own financial obstacle."

"Uh-hmm, and this is the part where you explain to me the complication," Grimsby prodded. He wanted to help his friend by mending what he could, but until Tennyson spit it out Grimsby hadn't a clue how to assist.

"It has to do with the betrothal contract which was agreed upon before Miss Yorke and I were even born," Tennyson began to explain with all the anger built inside him. "For reasons unknown to me, Miss Yorke's father agreed to a contract providing a ludicrous sum as her dowry. A sum so large it would bankrupt Mr. Yorke if I were to marry his daughter. And the dowry is to be awarded to my father, not me, upon the marriage. Even if I inherit what was rightfully left to me, I would be consenting to bankrupting my wife's father and further lining my father's pockets. Do you now see why I am in such a fury?"

A slow frown stretched across Grimsby's face. Upon hearing Tennyson's explanation, he wasn't able to devise an immediate solution, aside from Horace Tennyson being buried ten feet under. But Grimsby offered what he could in the moment. "Have you mentioned any of this to Miss Yorke?"

"Of course not. What good would come of it? She could neither remedy nor ignore the problem. No, no, it is best she think I have jilted her. At least then she will be free to find a husband whom can provide for her. I have made peace with being the villain. I already informed Miss Yorke that I have no affectionate feelings and will never marry her."

Tennyson eased the pacing and retook his seat. Haphazardly refilling Grimsby's glass before turning attention to his own, Tennyson groaned in frustration.

"And yet you punched Mr. Whitmore in order to rescue her? Tennyson, your actions and words are not lining up. Poor girl is likely more confused than a blind dog chasing a hare. You need to tell her," Grimsby asserted, less suggestion and more command.

Grimsby thought it fair for both parties to have all the facts. Equal decision. Equal knowledge. And Miss Yorke still knew little. Grimsby planned on remedying that if Tennyson didn't himself.

"And what would you have me confess? That I am a liar?" Tennyson objected. "If she does not hate me now, she will then!"

"More than thinking you do not care for her at all? Are you truly so ignorant?" Again Grimsby insisted, "Tell her."

Tennyson quickly stood and kicked his chair in frustration, sending the wooden vessel crashing to it's side. Like father like son, he bitterly thought. Horace, however, used people to manifest his anger, whereas Charles had an affinity for destroying inanimate objects. Case in point, the sad chair donning a crack down one of the carved legs.

Knock, knock, knock

Before the gentlemen had time enough to react, Mr. Henry Whitmore came charging into the study, unapologetic of his interruption.

"A few words Mr. Tennyson?" Henry demanded, clearly not there to shoot the breeze. Grimsby leaned further back, a slow grin of amusement spreading his face, awaiting the spectacle that is Tennyson's life.

"If this is about hitting you, please accept my sincerest apologies," Tennyson expressed, glancing down at the overturned chair. "I fear the day's anxieties allowed me to get carried away..."

"The day's anxieties?" Henry hissed back, unimpressed with his apology. "We all have difficulties to contend with. But the blow to my jaw is not why I came here, although I would love nothing more than to return the favor. However, I came because of Josephine."

In an impossible feat, Grimsby's grin managed to grow wider. "This is better than Shakespeare," Grimsby mumbled.

Both men's heads snapped in his direction, and Grimsby raised his brows before sinking under their glare.

"Of what business is Miss Yorke and myself to you?" Tennyson snapped back at Henry.

"She has made it my business by crying upon my shoulder! You do not deserve her tears..."

As awful as he had felt, Tennyson did not doubt that Josephine would likewise feel miserable. And he hated himself for it, but he wasn't about to admit that to Mr. Whitmore.

"Whether I deserve her is neither here nor there, I do not want her!" Tennyson lied, wishing Mr. Whitmore would disappear.

Henry laughed at that, sarcastically saying, "Of course, and neither do I..." A powerful silence followed. Henry wiped his mouth with his hand finally saying, "Since you care so little for Josephine, I doubt this will be of any consequence to you." Henry placed a slip of paper onto the desk before turning on his heels and storming out without so much as a goodbye.

What is this?

Tennyson refused to acknowledge the paper until the door was slammed firmly shut with Mr. Whitmore on the other side.

"Oh the intrigue!" Grimsby teased.

"If I was not in desperate need of your help, I would gift you a swift punch in the jaw to match our friend, Mr. Whitmore," threatened Tennyson.

Grimsby smiled, ignoring his empty threat. "What do you think is written on it?"

"Whatever is written will be no concern of yours Grimsby."

"Suit yourself...I would rather play with a skunk than you. No fun you are as of late. Hopefully, I can remedy that! If you will so kindly bequeath me your mystery papers, I will be off to fix the shamble you call a life."

Once Lord Grimsby possessed the documents, and set off to help his friend, Tennyson righted his overturned chair and stared at the folded parchment atop his desk. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. Tennyson began reading...

***********************************
Sorry it took so long to update!! I'm in the middle of moving. I will try to update sooner! Thanks
***********************************