Byrne cursed fluently as he attempted to open his map while also trying to hold onto his umbrella in a vain attempt to keep it dry. The rain was still a drizzle, but with enough wind to make it thwart every attempt to hide from it.

He should have hired a horse. That way, when he got himself lost, at least it might be of shorter duration. He'd now circled this same hill from one end to the other and had no idea where his land might lie. A man of his standing should own a compass. He vowed he would purchase one before the day was out. But that wouldn't help him now.

Byrne growled and unfolded his map, trying to keep it open, even with the umbrella in his other hand, rather wishing he'd come here on some earlier day, so he'd been prepared. It was the sort of thing he usually did before an important meeting in London — walk the distance to the place or have Connolly drive the route at the same time the previous day to predict delays. He always wanted to know what he was walking into.

That must be why he felt like he was on the back foot today. He should have met with Gunn two days ago, at least. He could have had time to ponder this sudden opposition. And he hadn't thought this house party would be as great a distraction as it was. Silly of him, he now realized. It wasn't as if co-hosting four gentlemen and four ladies — now five — and their assorted chaperons was ever going to be simple. It might not be his house, but it was mostly his staff.

Still, he'd thought this part, though more important, would be easier, quicker. He was to secure Coton, then spend time on his marital prospects — and proper ones, not Miss Crewe — but it looked as if both would be more complicated than he had originally thought.

"Damn Gunn," he muttered, though he knew it was unfair. Gunn was not the cause of ill news, just the bearer of it.

"I doubt this venture of yours is going to be as simple as you originally thought," Gunn had said vaguely earlier.

Byrne had held his mug up, but didn't drink. He'd need all his wits about him today. "That's quite the departure from Rowley's last report."

Gunn scoffed. "No one talked to that fatwit when he was here. Their words, not mine. Me, I think he's more of a birdwit." He tapped his mug lightly against Byrne's. "Give him my best when you see him next."

"I will," Byrne said, though he doubted Rowley would appreciate it. Rowley didn't approve of Gunn, complaining that associating with such suspicious persons would tarnish the reputation Byrne was building, but Byrne was certain more of that was fear than actual disdain. The poor, older man flinched whenever Boniface Gunn — first name never used and very likely detested — appeared in the office. And appear, he did. He would often come in so quietly that no one had any notion he was there until he was suddenly standing behind them. And his disguises, while often simple enough, were effective and rather uncanny to behold when he removed them.

Without the disguises, he was still a rather fearsome looking fellow — scarred on what Byrne could see of the backs of his hands and forearms, also from the left corner of his mouth to the ear, and with a nose that looked like it been broken several times. Gunn had never revealed to Byrne how any of it had happened and Byrne could find no way, outside hiring Gunn himself, to find out more on the man's past or even present. But what did that matter? Perhaps it was the farmer in him, but Byrne felt more likely to trust a weathered man than one unmarred. They were more likely to deliver.

And Gunn always did.

His demeanor when himself, if he even was himself with Byrne, was devoid of nonsense, but Byrne sometimes suspected that was yet another disguise, the kind that would please a man such as Byrne.

Byrne had seen Gunn in his guises several times. He'd been a dock worker, a cutpurse, various beggars, even a supposed lord at one time, his scars smoothed with wax and powder, among other costumes. Here in Coton, he was a bearded fellow named Beckett, full of bawdy jokes and a booming laugh, coming to work for the season when there was work to be had. Some of the villagers obviously knew him well by now, teasing him about some sort of drinking contest last night as they passed.

"I see you've made yourself quite popular," Byrne said when the group of men moved away. "That might be useful if sentiment is, as you seem to think, not on my side."

"I don't think I'll be of much use, only being a worker, in swayin' hearts and minds. And you sent me here for information," Gunn went on, his voice rather stiff now, "not campaigning. I'd rather do the job I was hired for, not mire myself in local politics."

"Fair enough," Byrne said, disappointed, but not surprised. He couldn't imagine Gunn contending with being told what to say.

"As for what I know, there are a few eager to accept your price, but there's a sort of agreement among them not to sell unless their neighbors also do. So you've got some support, some reluctance, and some outright hostility."

"And what reason do my detractors give for that?"

"I should think it obvious. Not everyone wants their village invaded by noise and smoke."

"This village can hardly be called such. It's crumbling, cracking, and losing people by the month. Those that remain would do best to abandon the place before it tumbles down and buries them."

"Still... For those left, it's their home," Gunn said with a shrug. "You should also know that young Oliver Browning has been here at every week's end."

Byrne stiffened, then tried to pretend he was unaffected. "I don't really care about the younger Mr. Browning's comings or goings."

"I just find it curious myself. He's seen most often with Doctor Allendale."

"Likely related to some course of study, which has no bearing on—"

"I mention because, while Allendale might own no land to sell, he's a respected figure and like to be joining this meeting later... not in support of you," Gunn added.

"So a tool of the earl, perhaps?"

"I'd not go that far. The good doctor might be set against your plans, but from what I heard, he can't abide the earl, either."

"Then why is he hanging about with his son if... I don't care. Whatever young Mr. Browning knows, it can't be helped now. Even if he tells his father and the man does decide to bother with the place, he holds no sway over these landowners." Byrne pushed his untouched pint away, leaving some coins on the bar. "I'm off to meet the surveyor."

"I'll drink to your good luck, then," Gunn said, chuckling before claiming Byrne's pint.

"A man makes his own luck, but you're welcome to do so," Byrne said before making his way out, annoyed that the path wasn't as clear as he'd imagined. It was a good thing he didn't believe in luck or he would consider this a fate to accept. However the wind was blowing, whatever happened today, it would not mean the end.

He had chosen this time and this place and he simply had to trust that it would work out — that he would make it work out.

He might sometimes entertain the fanciful idea that fate or destiny played a part in his dealings but, in truth, it was all about negotiation.

It was a sort of dance, the ebb and flow of want and need. Byrne only had to be sure his goals were closer to want than need... or at least that they appeared that way.

It was something he'd honed over the years, a studied nonchalance. Whether in buying or selling or getting himself into a lucrative enterprise, even while gambling with irresponsible young lordlings, he was always in control so long as he appeared not to truly need the prize in question. When he won, as he invariably did, it could be a heady feeling indeed.

It had been less satisfying, the more it happened. But perhaps that was inevitable, the diminished thrill. Nothing would ever compare to that first negotiation; the stakes had been higher, the uncertainty stronger, and Byrne... Well, he'd been no more than a green boy. It had been thirteen years ago, after all...

********************

Cloghroe, Ireland

1802

It was quite dark when Domhnall started up the steep path that led to Ambrose Hall, looking over his shoulder, wondering if Father Fitzmaurice would come to stop him.

He had told him to accept that drink with Lord Linfield, but not tonight.

"You'll want your wits about you," the older man had said. "Linfield might be a careless spendthrift and a drunkard to boot, but he has his tricks, same as any of them rich lords. A good night's sleep is best."

But Domhnall knew that was impossible tonight. Whatever sleep he might have would be fitful, if he slept at all. There was so much new knowledge warring in his head, battling with what he'd always accepted to be true. So much of what he knew, what his mother knew, was in doubt. How could he rest in such a state?

And why shouldn't he see Linfield tonight? It was only just past eight. And he had been invited. He was expected. The windows were lit, as if waiting for him. Besides all that, hadn't Father himself said the trick was to catch Linfield in the right state?

The man would be in a beastly mood in the morning, after being in his cups all night, and then either off shooting or drunk again. Didn't the rich eat their supper at these ridiculously late hours? Perhaps he'd have more food than wine in his belly by now. This could very well be the best possible time... and for Domhnall as well.

Something felt right about it. He felt strangely invincible. Perhaps it was the whiskey still warming his belly or the fact that he was dressed in his Sunday best or the restless energy of all he'd learned tonight or Father's words...

"He's got something you want. You've got something he wants even more. You just remember that."

Didn't that mean the iron was hot, as they say, and that now was the time to strike?

Yet he still felt a frisson of fear as he stared at the house up close, unsure if he should knock at the front door or the back. At best, he was a Yeoman farmer. At worst, he was a peasant, a papist, and a bastard, none of which were likely to be received and announced by the butler. Being thrown out was the most likely end to this folly.

Sure, he had been invited. But he had no proof, since he'd tossed Linfield's note into the fireplace.

He started as the front door opened while he was still deciding whether to knock. "Who is it? Who's lurking about out there?"

"Pardon me. I was mistaken." Domhnall started away.

"Is that young Dommy Byrne at last?"

He stilled. "Yes. But I'll be going," he said as he turned back. "I know it's far too late to—" His voice dropped off as he stared at Lord Linfield himself, swaying in the light from the doorway. That was shocking enough before the man gripped his wrist, pulling him in.

"Thank goodness I'd been passing or you might have left. My dear boy! I had despaired you ever accepting my invitations." Lord Linfield pumped his hand jovially, as if they were old friends when, really, he'd only spoke with the man once or twice, and most often that was about seeing to his horse on his attempts to cajole Uncle Ciarán into selling the farm. "I had a good mind to drop myself on your doorstep if you continued to rebuff me."

"I have been busy," Domhnall droned, staring at Linfield's hand, now clapped on his shoulder as he mindlessly marched forward with the man.

"I can well believe it. Running a farm alone, I hear, a boy your age." Linfield tutted, taking Domhnall's cap off his head and tossing it to a liveried footman already struggling with a tray of dirty dishes. "Look alive and tell the cook we have a guest."

"I'd rather keep my cap, if you—"

"Glad to give you a respite from it, and a fine meal, if you like." Linfield went on, ignoring him with a chuckle. "We might be between butlers at the present, but we still have a passable cook. I insist you join us!"

Domhnall didn't know who us was, but it was obvious now was not the time to strike. Linfield was intimidating enough without his high society friends. "Thank you, but I had my dinner."

"A drink, then. I'm afraid we're a small party tonight." Linfield steered him to the left, toward some sort of large sitting room... judging by all the seats. Only the English would have a room just for sitting. "No need to bother with the dining room for just Bertie and I." Linfield gestured toward a snoring man draped over the arm of on one of the settees. "Lord Bertram, that is. You must forgive him. The silly man had a few too many libations with supper." Linfield swayed slightly as he moved to the table, still littered with plates, and Domhnall thought Bertie wasn't the only one. "Just Bertie and myself this time. Getting harder to lure the others all the way to Ireland. Bertie and I were just lamenting how very old and boring some of our friends have gotten, while we remain young men about town... and country," he finished with a laugh, splashing something sloppily into a glass.

Domhnall stared at Linfield's graying temples, thinking it was no wonder his friends no longer wanted to attend drunken shooting parties, if they were as old as he. "Drinkin' is a young man's game," Uncle Ciarán had grunted on the rare occasions he was sluggish at the morning chores, something that only happened after a night at the tavern. Linfield might not be as old as Father Fitzmaurice, but he was older than Uncle Ciarán had been.

He held out a glass of what looked like wine, but smelled like sour, spiced fruit.

"Port," Lord Linfield said. "Have you never—" He laughed. "But of course you haven't. The local tavern isn't known for its fine wines from Portugal, is it?"

Domhnall didn't take the glass. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same," he said, feeling uncomfortable, feeling every inch a peasant farmer.

But why shouldn't he be? That's what he was, after all.

"Oh, of course not! Now I remember!" Lord Linfield snapped his fingers. "I invited you for ale and ale, you shall have!" He snapped again, gesturing to a bored man in a wig leaning on one side of the doorway. "The new ale for our guest. Two pitchers! And someone take this mess away." He turned to Domhnall. "Sit, sit!"

Domhnall nervously took one of the wingback chairs on either side of the table as the other footman returned to clear the remaining plates. Looking closer, Domhnall thought perhaps they weren't bored, but tired. They'd probably been working since dawn and would be up far longer if their master continued to require them to stand by. Though waiting about was less laborious than what Domhnall did from dawn to dusk, he was certain he'd rather do his work than stand on attendance in a starched collar and fussy wig on the whims of a lord.

"Just you wait," Linfield said as he took his seat. "I say the tavern has no fine port, but they've no fine ale either. I'd wager a good Yorkshire ale is finer than whatever watered-down swill you've had, poor boy."

Domhnall seethed a bit at being called a boy, and several times now, though it was true that the only ale he'd ever been given had indeed been watered down at his uncle's behest. Still, he couldn't feel any real anger at the man, though he was taken aback. He'd have been more comfortable if Linfield had been imperious or forbidding. At least that would be as expected, not this drunken foolery.

The only times he'd seen Lord Linfield before this, the man had been reluctantly dragging himself to the English church in the next village on the rare times his mother visited with him, that or in the village, also looking annoyed to be there, and a few times arguing with his uncle, only giving Domhnall a dismissive glance as he rode off in a huff, not slapping his shoulder and offering him ale.

Of course, all of that had always been in the daytime and, according to Father, Linfield's head may have been aching with drink. Of course, now he was drunk, which Father said was also a bad time to get anything from him, so... No. Father had said too drunk. His words weren't slurred and his manner seemed pleasant.

Then again, no one had ever said Lord Linfield was a particularly cruel sort of man. They said he was a drunken, silly spendthrift who detested that the only property his father, the duke, would grant him was in Ireland. Domhnall heard Lord Linfield was a courtesy title until he came into his own. He resented the place so much that he came only to hunt and shoot and cared nothing for his tenants. But there was a certain gratitude that he also didn't interfere as to matters of the village or the church. So many landlords liked to think themselves constable and judge over their tenants, but Linfield didn't seem to care how they governed themselves as long as they left him out of it.

Really, as far as the English went, there were worse landlords.

"I'd wager I can guess why you've finally been tempted to join me," he said, taking a cigar out of a box on the table, snapping for his footman, who was already approaching with a lit spill. "After Father Fitzgibbon's visit the other day and his many questions, I was certain you'd show up sooner or later." He puffed on his cigar, then nudged the footman, who hastily offered Domhnall the box.

"Fitzmaurice," Domhnall corrected, shaking his head at the footman. He'd only smelled the awful things a time or two, but he'd never liked it. Right now the smell from Linfield made him want to lose his supper — and the whiskey, can't forget that — on the expensive carpet below. Though he was grateful the footman slipped him his cap, which he hastily stuffed in his pocket.

"Ah, yes. Father Fitzmaurice. Good old chap."

"He said you wouldn't answer him," Domhnall countered, not mentioning Linfield's threats against the school in the hopes he might not remember them himself.

"Well, of course not. These are family matters, concerning your mother and father, aren't they? No need for too many busybodies sticking their oar in. And I might not have been your father's family, but I was certainly his friend." He leaned forward, his face a mask of concern. "It's one of the reasons I've been so keen to look in on you, my boy. In his absence, and now that your dear uncle's gone, someone must see to it that you have the life you should."

Domhnall didn't believe it for a second, considering Linfield's concern wasn't present for the last seventeen years, but he decided not to let on that he wasn't fooled. Besides that, he knew more than Linfield thought he did. "My father may be absent," Domhnall said carefully, "but he's not gone, is he?"

Linfield's eyes widened slightly and he opened his mouth... But whatever he might have said was cut off by the movement outside the door. Linfield smiled, calling out, "Ah! Here's the ale, at long last!"

One footman came in with a heavily laden tray, with two large pitchers and two tall mugs, made of some sort of metal embossed with leaves and apples, which the other one quickly filled. They must be made of something stronger than the tin they used at the tavern as, when he grasped his, he was taken aback by the weight and the icy feel of it. He knew Linfield had an ice house, but not that it made things so damned cold, especially this time of year, when the heat was, while not unbearable yet, always teetering on the edge of it.

Linfield held up his mug. "I can go no longer without toasting to your fine family," he said, his face quite suddenly losing its wide smile and taking on an expression of deep sadness, "to find them gone upon my return was truly heart-breaking."

Domhnall raised his mug as well. Though he was certain Lord Linfield was nowhere near heartbroken, he wouldn't hesitate to raise a glass to his family and, upon sampling the ale, found it rather more pleasant than he'd have expected from his previous experiences. It wasn't watery and warm, but sweet and hearty and there was something soothing about the ice-cold feel of it as he let it slide down his throat. "To the Byrnes," he said breathlessly after.

Linfield, also after a long gulp, said, "Your Grandmother was a strong and resilient woman, by all accounts; your uncle the finest sheepdog trainer I ever heard of, even if a stubborn old fool; and your mother... What a kind soul she was, so dedicated to educating the poor. Your father met her when he came upon her school, didn't he? What man wouldn't fall in love with such a paragon?"

Domhnall looked down, hiding the leap of interest that he was sure Linfield would see. He did know how they met, through some reminiscences in her letters, but he also knew — from her accounts of her "sweet Dommy" alone — that his mother's version of events tended to color them much prettier than they were. He did rather want to know his father's side of things, and Linfield's account would be the closest he could get. But not yet. He needed to get the niceties dispensed with first. He lifted his mug again. "We'll never see her like again," he said, giving away as little as possible.

"She was a tireless teacher, even at the risk of her own freedom." He sipped again, leaning back and regarding Domhnall. "Her work continues, even now, they say, God knows why," he finished on a chuckle. "Sometimes I think it might be best to end the whole business. Safer for all, don't you think?"

Domhnall let his mug hit the table. Avoiding the softness that threatened to swallow him, he sat on the edge of his chair, rather than sink into it again. Threatening the villagers wouldn't move him. They weren't his family. They were his judges, even his tormentors. They deserved no pity from... Damn it! As little love as he had for the people of Cloghroe, he'd never let harm befall them if he had any say. "Is the school in some danger?" he asked carefully, trying his best not to let on whether he cared or not.

"Now, now. Don't fret. I would never say a word, but the law, the county... I have no control there."

He knew a threat when he heard it, but he wouldn't acknowledge it as such, not yet. Linfield was trying to shore up his position of power... but not if Domhnall could help it. "Yes, my mother cared deeply for the people of this village — but they certainly didn't deserve it," Domhnall added, forcing a laugh, only because he could think of no other way to wipe the sneer from his face. "What they'll ever use it for now, I don't know, but she was soft-hearted, my Mam," he finished, chuckling again as if he found the whole thing ridiculous. It was anything but that to him. He raised his mug. "Bless her and her harmless nonsense," he lied, hoping she would understand. Her last day, her only concern beside him had been her school, but Linfield didn't need to know that.

Linfield peered at him, perplexed, but he then laughed, leaning in as if they shared a secret. "Harmless nonsense, indeed! I confess, I've no idea why she bothered. I know some of your ilk want to be educated, but what use could they get from it?" He sat back in his chair, drawing on his cheroot. "And, might I say, as an educated man of Eton and Oxford, I've no use for most of that nonsense m'self. I can barely recite a couplet, let alone a stanza, from The Iliad and, as for Shakespeare, I'd be hard pressed to tell you if Hamlet was the best of his comedies or not."

"Hamlet is a tragedy," Domhnall said, wondering if his mother had taught him better than Linfield's Oxford professors. He wouldn't doubt it.

"Is it really? Such a funny name, might as well be called Piglet," Linfield waved a hand. "Anyhow, I care very little whether you lot know your letters and numbers or not. As long as the rents are paid," he shrugged, "I am willing to turn a blind eye to all kinds of things."

"Well, I'm not of that lot," Domhnall said, keeping his smile. "I pay rents to no one."

"Aye, some might say you're a lucky one, but I'm not certain I agree. Granted, you're a strong lad, but your uncle couldn't very well have run that farm without your help, nor your mother's and grandmother's."

"Help can be hired as needed. I've managed well enough this long."

"It's still quite the row to hoe. I am truly concerned. A capable young man such as yourself... Why, if you wished to be free of your burden, you might very easily make your way in the world with, say, one hundred pounds."

Domhnall nodded. It might look like a king's ransom, but he knew very well his uncle had been offered more over the years, and not just from Linfield. Linfield obviously thought he was not only a boy, but a stupid one. "That's a fine idea. I could very likely rent it out for that much, if it were land alone. With the house and outbuildings, all in fine repair, a working kitchen garden, household livestock, sixty acres of grazing land, forty to farm, seventy ewes and ten rams, a steady stream of dogs with good bloodlines to breed, and train or sell," he said, listing his assets with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Aye, I could very likely lease it for twice that each year," he finished, noting that Linfield's fingers tightened on his mug.

He seemed to recover. "Ah, but you'd only get paid every quarter. And you'd need to travel here four times a year to collect."

"Many landlords seem to do well enough without such inconveniences, you for one."

"I've a steward. You'd have to hire someone trustworthy, adding to your expenses, and you'd need to pay for supplies and repairs every time something goes wrong and, trust me, there's always something."

Domhnall wanted to say that Linfield seemed to do well enough neglecting the latter as well, but he doubted insulting the man would get him far. "Still, a hundred pounds..." Domhnall shrugged. "There have been far better offers."

Linfield's lips thinned. "But do those offers come with anything else?" He seemed to relax again. "I wondered why that priest of yours suddenly had questions. I thought the two of us had settled the matter in a way satisfactory for all, all those years ago. But you are older now, aren't you? It's only natural for you to be curious. I can help with that. I can answer everything. And you're right that one hundred is enough for the land only. Very astute. I can take the farm and all its attendant headaches off your hands for... two hundred pounds."

Domhnall sighed, feigning boredom, though something in him felt alive. Linfield had doubled his first offer and Domhnall still had more to bargain with. Linfield didn't know what he knew... or what he thought he knew. If what Father Fitz found was wrong, he'd be no further along than at the start. "If it's all the same, I'd rather keep it than let it go for something I could earn in a year if I kept it. And I'm not sure how much more I care to know about a man who cares nothing for me and, quite frankly, didn't care for my mother even half as much as she cared for him. I know as much as I need to."

Linfield leaned forward. "What precisely do you think you know?"

Domhnall took a deep breath, a small part of him still hoping that his mother was right about his father. He wanted her to be. But that couldn't stand against the evidence to the contrary... if it was even correct. He'd find out soon enough. "I know that he didn't go to war, and that he certainly did not die fighting. He's very much alive."

Linfield deflated slightly. "But that's not all there is to know."

True, but it was enough confirmation that he felt quite at ease being more specific. "I know his name is Geoffrey William Browning, the Earl of Hadingley. And I know his family seat lies in Cambridgeshire. Hardstone, isn't it?" he asked, as if he couldn't recall the name. "No, Hardwick."

"B-but there is more," Linfield sputtered. "I know things that you could never find."

Domhnall tried not to smile. Now that Linfield quite helpfully confirmed all Father had found, what power did the man have? "I suspect traveling there will give me any other answers I seek, but..." He paused, recalling Father's words from earlier. "This is a man who seduced an innocent, abandoned his son, lied about his military service, and feigned his own death. Should I even want to know such a man as—" Domhnall stopped himself, as if he'd said too much. "Forgive me. I understand he was your friend."

"Friend?" Linfield scoffed, then leaned toward Domhnall once again, as if they were co-conspirators. His newest tack. "He was always my least favorite guest. Only put up with him as a friend of the family. But very well. The priest was obviously more successful in his search than I thought," he grumbled. "You know, he was the one who suggested she be lied to, not I."

"He tells it differently." In fact, he was quite sure Father Fitz had quoted Linfield as saying, "Oh, tell her he's dead and be done with it! He's surely not coming back here!"

"Well, he's wrong," Linfield said now. "Though I did imagine saying he was found dead in some gruesome, heroic way so she'd think him brave, I didn't think he truly deserved that. But really, there was a danger the fool might get it in his head to come back here. So I allowed Father to tell her he was likely dead, but not to say how, you see. I'd thought it kind to let her hope. I really am more generous than people—" He stopped, staring into his mug, seeming to realize it was empty. He snapped his fingers and the footmen both rushed to fill each of their mugs.

The one who neared Domhnall started a bit when he saw the mug was still nearly-full, then smirked and slowly tipped the pitcher, as if it was taking more time than it should, for which Domhnall was grateful.

"Your mother was a kind soul and I showed her every... kindness," he finished awkwardly. "And that father of yours was a terrible shot, never much fun, and cheap to boot. The man hasn't come back since. Really, I should toast you for that. To your birth!" Linfield said, with a sloppy clunk against Domhnall's mug.

"I'm glad to hear he was no great friend of yours. The less I know of him, the better."

"Indeed not. Glad to be rid of him. You are well shut of him as well. Best to be free. Why, with... two hundred-fifty pounds, you could travel the world, seek your fortune in exotic lands."

Domhnall sat back, quite at ease that he'd raised his offer again, but feigning discomfort. "Aye, but I worry. Setting off to strange places where I know no one to help me nor house me..." He weighed going high so soon against how badly he wanted to go home to bed. In the end, he decided he'd rather get this over with sooner. "I'd best not try it until I have a thousand pounds, at least?"

Linfield choked and sat up, sputtering, "A thousand pounds? For a farm? In Ireland?"

"A working farm in good repair, with a furnished house, outbuildings, livestock, good soil for vegetation, grazing lands, and let's not forget the dogs and the—"

"The sheep, yes. My dear boy, I doubt any of that is worth the price you are asking."

"I suppose I could sell all the sheep and dogs, livestock. Maybe then it would be worth the price you were giving."

"But without them, half the value is—" Linfield stopped himself. "Ah, never mind. I don't want it anyway. It's a paltry thing. I'd be glad to leave this hellish place behind me altogether. I'm only stuck with it because the old man's got his tight fist around everything else. I can't sell it unless the price is handsome enough for the old codger."

Domhnall was confused now. "If you're planning to sell, why would you want the farm in the first place?"

"Because my estate would be a prettier parcel without your family taking a big bite out of it!" Linfield snapped. "Because I've been trying for ten damnable years and I'll not let that be time wasted! It should have been mine in the first place!"

Domhnall was tempted to laugh. He was giving it all away now. "Well... some might say we were here first. Not that that's ever stopped the English before." Domhnall set his mug down. "Thanks for the ale, but I think the rest is not for me. A good evening to you." He stood and tugged on his cap, then nodded toward the man still snoring on the couch. "Lord Bertram as well." Maybe Linfield would offer more tomorrow, maybe he wouldn't. He had the information he needed confirmed and a good idea of the kind of offer not to accept.

"And what of the letters?" Linfield called after him. "Have you no interest in them?"

"From him?" Between what he'd learned from Father Fitz and now Linfield, he had little interest in his supposed father. "I don't think I care to read what he has to—"

"From your mother."

He stilled in the doorway. He'd expected Linfield to add more money, but this... He turned, struggling to school his expression into one of mild curiosity. Damn Linfield. The man finally had something he needed. "What letters?"

"She'd sent them through me. Some were sent back to me, you know. And there was even one your mother gave me that I hadn't the heart to send."

"Why would you keep them?"

"Information is a powerful thing, my lad. One never knows when it will be needed."

"My mother wrote many letters to him," he said evenly. "She used to fancy he was reading them in Heaven."

Linfield clutched at his heart. "The poor, dear soul. What a—"

"No use dwelling on the past. I have enough letters that I've no time to read," he lied. "I've far too much work. I've a farm to sell, after all." He started out, then heard Linfield scrambling behind him.

"Damn it all... Four hundred pounds!"

"Not nearly enough," Domhnall said, still moving to the door.

One of the footmen was holding it open, looking rather amused. He probably enjoyed seeing his master foiled.

Linfield rushed to step in front of him, unsteady on his feet. "You are very foolish to think you can get more, especially if you're thinking of Farmer Murphy. He's cheap, like all you Irish beggars."

"I suppose I'd better find out for myself." Now he truly wanted to leave. He wouldn't be insulted on top of Linfield's meager offers. "Perhaps an auction might be best." He tried to step around him, but Linfield gripped his shoulder.

"Wait, just wait!"

Domhnall tensed, wondering if he'd have to fight the man to escape. Linfield had a few stone on him, particularly around the middle, but Domhnall had defended himself against the village boys all his life.

But Linfield just sort of drunkenly leaned on him. "What will it take?"

Now they were getting somewhere again. "I told you before."

"Five hundred pounds sterling and that's my final—"

"One thousand."

"Six hundred and I'll ensure the church school is never trifled with."

"One thousand. I've never cared for the villagers," he said, which was mostly true.

"Seven!" He looked desperate now.

Domhnall took a deep breath. That would be enough. That was actually the number he'd wanted from the start. But why not try for a little bit more than enough? "Eight hundred pounds sterling, the letters, and the village school stays safe." He held out his hand. "Have we a deal?"

"You little bastard," he breathed, chuckling slightly.

"I can't deny I'm a bastard."

"I thought you didn't care about the letters."

"I'd rather have them than not," he answered, shrugging slightly. "They aren't any use to you, are they?"

"And the school?"

"I might not care for the villagers, but I'd like to think education has a slight chance of improving them."

Linfield regarded him closely. "Seven-fift—"

"Good night." Domhnall patted him on the shoulder and finally passed the still-grinning footman.

"Very well, damn you! But I'll need a week to get the coin together."

Domhnall turned and shook his outstretched hand. "We have a deal."

*******************

Present

********************

Byrne couldn't help smiling at the memory of that night. It had been his first negotiation, the first of many. He'd got everything he wanted and a bit more to boot. He'd barely slept that night, but for a better reason than the rest of that year.

It had been thrilling. He'd left that house full of energy, and genuinely smiling for the first time in over a year. He supposed Linfield's drunken state had helped, but he'd also stayed strong and held out, masked his wants, gave little away. Looking back, it had been the perfect start to a long streak of successes. Whether it was the confidence he'd carried with him since that night or his own bullheadedness, he'd not lost since.

Now that the rain was letting up, he made his way up a high hill, thinking a bird's eye view might help. It was a sight better than wandering aimlessly. While he was annoyed that he was lost in the first place, he told himself these little hiccups were nothing. His streak might have a few setbacks, but he wouldn't let that discourage him when he was so close to his ultimate goal now.

He stared over the land west of him, imagining it transformed by tracks and platforms, bustling workers and loaded wagons. That was where this world was headed and he wanted to be there from the start. He'd seen Richard Trevithick's Steam Circus seven years ago. It was a fine spectacle, with the riders whooping and the crowds clapping whenever the "Catch Me Who Can" passed them on its circular track. But it wasn't lasting, even as a novelty, with its track problems and constant delays.

He'd followed the man's work since, but those failed experiments after only showed that steam engines were not ready yet. Matthew Murray had the right idea. These sorts of things needed to be perfected with industrial hauls before they could carry something as precious as human cargo. His "Salamanca" had been huffing its way through hauling coal wagons from Middleton to Leeds for three years now. It was a short distance, granted, but it had been dependable so far.

There was discussion of extending the line south and Byrne wanted to help them in that endeavor.

He turned and, through the clearing mist, saw it — Hardwick. He was high enough that he could see the walls, but no more. He'd been closer to it the first time he passed through Coton, but he didn't see the estate then either. He doubted he'd have been let through the gates even if the family had been at home. He'd learned that The Earl and his family spent the greater part of their time in London. At the time, he'd been relieved. He was forcing himself to do as his mother wished, but he had little desire to meet the man.

Those final letters Linfield had given him had been worlds away from the rest. There was a sort of hope and desperation to them that he felt keenly, imagining his mother young and with child and, at first, so sure the man she loved would make it right, but her hope dwindled. There were likely many tears between the last desperate letter through Linfield and the first in her collection, resigned and sad.

But they'd never been angry or bitter. She believed him to be so much better than he was. Sometimes he'd told himself that she wouldn't wish them to meet, had she known the man to be a liar and a coward. Yet he'd gone on to London anyhow, fool that he was. Back then, Domhnall Byrne had still been a boy who wanted nothing more than to please her, even in death.

If he'd known what was waiting for him there, he might done anyway with the whole journey. He doubted he'd have gone back to Cloghroe, but he might have tried Scotland instead. He liked his home there now. Outside of his parties, there were very little English about.

Then again, if that night hadn't happened, everything after might have been different, lesser. Still, he had no wish to remember it. It was the one piece of his past he was loathe to revisit. Whenever it invaded his thoughts, he could still feel the pain, the humiliation, the impotent rage...

He shook it off, turning away. It was best to look to the future. And just in time, too. He could see two figures below. The one that wasn't a horse seemed to be eager for his attention, waving and shouting unintelligibly. He held up his umbrella and started down, thinking of those walls.

They might be high enough to shut out the rabble, but the earl wouldn't be able to ignore the rumble of a train.

The earl had borrowed against the estate several times, too, when his spending outstripped the estate's earnings or — far too many times these past years — to pay off his oldest son's gambling debts.

Well, his oldest legitimate son.

It would be a shame if Hardwick were to decrease in value. An even greater shame if his debtors called in their loans all at once.

He felt a surge at the thought and nearly ran down the remainder of the wet hill, but stopped himself.

Patience.

If he were to fully succeed, he only needed to stay the course he'd laid out carefully.

Brick by brick, the walls the Earl of Hadingley, his father, and his forbears had built would crumble.

And Byrne would make sure he knew precisely why.

*************************

My apologies, once again, for the wait, but it was quite an involved, research-heavy chapter. Also long. Very, very long. I hope that helps, after the wait.

The next few have been mostly pre-written (something I did when I got frustrated with this one LOL) and should be heavier on house party hijinks than angsty back-stories. Much easier to write. :)

Come find me on Twitter @AWheelerRomance. I'd love to see you in those parts. You can bug me for updates or ask me any burning questions or just fangirl over Bridgerton with me. All are welcome!