Byrne peered through the deluge out the carriage window and wondered if he would be able to see it from here. Hardwick was quite a large estate, after all. He'd not come from this direction when he'd seen the place before... or what he could see of it even then, over the high walls.

The third Earl of Hadingley, seventy or so years before, had the walls built as high as he could, the better not to see the farmers, villagers, and other such low persons if he could avoid it. And the two heirs since made no effort to lower them, obviously sharing his disdain.

Byrne shut the curtain, giving up on catching a glimpse. It was not likely anyhow, through this downpour, and staring out the window of his jostling coach was likely to give him a headache. The roads weren't well kept in these parts.

He'd not been here since his first time traveling through England. And he'd not been back after that, but he'd certainly kept his eye on this place over the years, in one way or another. He knew more than most about Hardwick and the village that bordered it to the west.

He felt himself jostled as the carriage hit a rough patch again. Those rough stretches were getting longer and with less time between, the closer they drew to the village, only confirming what he knew to be true.

Coton was in poor condition. The roads weren't the end of it, what with its declining populace and its state of disrepair and neglect. The current earl barely frequented his country seat, even with the large amount of land he owned and properties he was responsible for. He kept to London through the season and even beyond, his visits here short and perfunctory, even in the off-season.

Hence, without patronage, it was a village on its way out. Byrne should know. He'd left one just like it, after all.

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

Cloghroe, Ireland

1802

Domhnall followed Father Fitzmaurice to the small cottage behind St. Augustine's, his mind teeming with questions, but Father said he'd not answer a thing until he'd seen Domhnall clear half his plate.

"Not a child," he grumbled as he ate, though he had to admit the roast and potatoes Mrs. Ryan had left was far better than the dried beef and beans he'd been living on at home. He'd almost cleared his plate entirely when he finally remembered what they'd come here for. "Now what does Linfield—" He broke off, finally glancing up at Father sitting across from him. He'd not looked closely at him before, but he now could see his dark cassock was streaked with yellow and blue and what looked like a small red hand print right in the middle. "What's happened to you?"

"The school is what. Mrs. O'Connell has a formidable look about her, but that doesn't seem to go far at keeping those wee beasties in order. I can't imagine why she thought adding paint to the chaos would help." He chuckled. "At least it was by the stream, but it's a wonder we weren't raided, with all the shrieking. I never had to break into the middle of a paint war before, not with your mother running things."

"She didn't even need to shout," Domhnall said softly. "She could silence them with a clearin' of her throat and a look."

Father stared at him sadly. "I meant what I said before. You can't live for the dead."

"And I meant what I said before." Domhnall pushed his plate away. "I am living just fine. I don't need you to—"

"Do you want to know what she asked of me?"

Domhnall shut his mouth, glancing away. "I'm sure I know already. And I imagine that's why you keep nosin' in when, even I don't need—"

"Well, that's just tough luck for you," Father said over him. "Because she did want me to nose in, as you say. She told me to look in and, furthermore, push you in the right direction if you didn't seem happy. And that wasn't all—"

"And what is the right direction? Did she say or are you the one who decides?"

"Ah, if it were me... Could be up north, could be Dublin, even Scotland, the Americas. I'd even take England for you. Anywhere but here." He leaned over the table. "You'll never be happy here."

Domhnall stood and paced away. "And why should I be happy? Did she expect me to be? For what reason?"

Father let out a long sigh behind him. "I know you think I'm treating you like a child, but I'm not. I want to see you become the fine young man you ought to be. And that won't happen in Cloghroe."

"I didn't come here for this." Domhnall turned back to him. "I had questions and you haven't answered one."

Father sat back, resigned. "Very well. Ask away."

"What did she ask you? You said nosin' in wasn't all. What was the other thing? What does Linfield have to with anything? And was my father a soldier or not?"

"That's quite a lot to answer at once. I'll start with the last, if you don't mind. If he was a soldier, I could find no evidence of it. I also couldn't find the man himself. Your uncle had me look into him, once it was clear your mother was in a family way. She said she'd written to him, that he'd come back for her, but as more time passed, your uncle grew angry. He wanted to hunt him down, make him pay, make him marry her or accept a duel. I think he may have preferred the latter, rather see him dead, so I suppose I'm lucky I didn't find him." Father shook his head. "I'd have never wanted that sin on his head. Your uncle was a quiet man, but he could be hotheaded when he had reason to be."

"I remember." When Domhnall was little, he used to talk of enlisting, just like his father. Uncle Ciarán would get quite angry at the idea. "The English sacrifice enough of our young men. They don't need to dispose of you, too," he would sneer. He also remembered Uncle Ciarán's distaste for any talk of his father.

"It wasn't as if I didn't try. But... William Brown, your father called himself," the older man groaned. "Might as well have been John Smith. Might as well have been a needle in a bale of hay."

"But Mamaí mentioned letters she'd sent. The ones before she knew... or she thought she... How did she send them if—"

"She passed them through Linfield, that's what she told me, and she begged me not to tell your uncle. And I didn't, else he'd bloody his hands with Linfield instead of your father. We have no love between us, Linfield and I, but we somehow put up with each other, as it is. I did ask Linfield about the letters, though. He claimed he sent them. I told him I'd rather write to the man myself, impress upon his friend the severity of the situation. He laughed at that," Father said, quite bitterly. "He said he doubted he'd care. Then he said it wasn't his place to divulge that sort of information. And his guests leavin' by-blows behind had naught to do with him. I knew which way the wind was blowin' then and I hadn't the heart to tell your mother. And I... I'm ashamed to admit it, but I encouraged him to lie to her."

Domhnall opened his mouth.

But Father held up a hand. "I know very well that God will judge me for it. But I would do it again. Your mother saw beauty in the world, hope. I didn't want to rob her of that. I would rather her think him dead than that she was nothing to him but some... summer's indiscretion."

"She wasn't some..." Domhnall stood and paced away, ripping a hand through his hair. "She was better than him, better than anyone!"

"That she was. Best person I ever knew. I loved her as if she were my own. I didn't want to see her hurting."

"Then why didn't you hunt him down?" he demanded, angry now. "Uncle Ciarán was right. He should have been made to pay—"

"I've seen the way these supposed gentlemen care for their own sons and daughters. They call them base-born, bastards, by-blows, whoresons — and that's when they aren't denyin' they bear any responsibility at all. I did make inquiries, all the same, but I didn't find a thing... not then, at least."

Domhnall glanced sharply at him.

Father stood and moved to the desk in the corner. "You see, in the end, your mother didn't just ask me to look in on you. She told me what she knew of him, tasked me with finding his relations and, when I did, or when enough time had passed, she wanted me to give you this," he finished, holding out a folded letter.

Domhnall stared at it, almost afraid. He'd read so many of his mother's letters, but never had one been written to him.

She'd never had to. Not surprising as they'd never been apart for even a day. He turned away for a moment. He'd never cried in front of another person, not since he was a babe. For those who teased him, he didn't want to give them the satisfaction. And for those who loved him... Well, he'd never wanted to appear weak in their eyes.

"So you found his... relations?" he finished, a catch in his throat.

"I found... something. But I don't think it's as important as this, so..." 

Domhnall couldn't bring himself to turn, to take it. 

Father cleared his throat. "Silly me. I nearly forgot to put the kettle on. I'll just take these and... er... leave you a moment."

Domhnall swiped at his cheeks as he heard the clinking of plates before the older man left the room. He turned to see the letter, waiting for him on the table in front of his chair. It was unsealed, like her letters to his father. But written to him.

He sat, letting out a long, shaky breath as he turned it in his hands. It was a rare and unexpected treasure. Like finding a favorite author had written just one more book. And he wanted it so badly. But once he read it, it was the last he'd have of her. He was tempted to take it home, wait for it, savor it, perhaps with a word a day to make it last longer.

No.

This was no time for sentimentality. He needed answers. God help him, the anger he'd felt just from the little he'd found out tonight was better than all these months of grief. Yet he breathed deeply again, clenching his fist, digging his blunt fingernails into his palm until he could feel the sting of them. He'd be calm, taking in her last words to him. She deserved that much.

My Sweet Dommy,

If you are reading this, I hope it means Father Fitzmaurice has been able to do as I asked. If he hasn't, then I hope it finds you well and happy, or at least seeking out your own happiness, you wee grump.

I can hear you now, protesting that you're taller than I am, but you'll always be my little boy, even when you're old and gray, even if I am not there to see you. Even not seeing you now, I can imagine you quite well some time hence — stubbornly tending the farm, refusing company, refusing joy. And all alone.

I hope I am wrong, but if I am right, then I beg you not to accept such a life. There is so much more in this world for you. And I know your uncle had no love for the English, but you are half-English, my love. Your father might be gone, but somewhere, there must be family. And perhaps they will help you nurture that fine mind — deep underneath that thick skull of yours...

Domhnall let out a startled laugh, which quickly became a dry sob.

...at the very least, they can ensure you won't be left alone in this world. I thought of seeking them out myself, years ago. But with what means? And what could I say to them? For me to apply to them, they'd see me as a slattern or, worse, think I was seeking money. It's not as if they said it to me, Dommy. It was just my own silly fears, so I didn't try.

Don't be like your silly mother. Don't let fear rule you and keep you standing still. I know they would love you. I know they'll see his handsome face in yours, they'll see his kind eyes. I'm certain they miss him as much as I do and I'm certain they'll love you — almost as much as I do.

And I do. I love you so much and I hate to leave you, but I'm not given a choice in that. My only comforts are the hope that you won't be alone, the certainty that you will find happiness, and perhaps that I can be with your father again, that we can both watch over you.

All my love, Always,

Mamaí

He rubbed at his eyes, then clenched his fists, breathing deep and trying to get control of himself. Even with no one to see him, he couldn't allow this.

He wanted to feel comforted. He wanted to imagine his mother in the room, watching over him. But all he could feel was anger, even at that thought.

If there was anything the letters showed him — other than how much she loved him, so much he might never deserve it — it was how much she loved his father. And how loved she believed she was in return.

She said his father had told her he was enraptured by her, fascinated by her life as a teacher, so impressed at all she'd read, so glad to talk to one with such a keen mind as hers. He told her she was the most intelligent woman he'd ever met, the kindest, the prettiest...

And yet he'd left her to raise their child alone. Or had he? Father never said he'd found him alive, only that he'd found something.

And then there was Linfield. Domhnall had only seen his name once in her letters. He doubted there was friendship between his mother and the man. He'd only sent her letters — and begrudgingly according to Father. The one mention of him had been "Lord Linfield must be right" in the very first letter. He'd remembered those words as they'd struck him as odd when he'd first read them, but that was the first read of many.

Days have become weeks, weeks turn to months now. The result of our love grows harder and harder to ignore and, soon enough, will be impossible to hide. I shall have to go somewhere soon. Máthair insists. Yet I have stayed in the hopes that I'll be where you are sure to find me, dreaming that you will knock on my door insistently, perhaps barrel past my bear of a brother and sweep me up and into a life together, just like we'd planned. But Lord Linfield must be right. Everything in me rebels at the thought, but I must accept that, if you still breathed, you would not leave me to face this alone.

That must have been after Fitzmaurice had convinced Lord Linfield to lie. He glared at the man as he came back into the room, shouldering the door as he hefted a tray.

"Ah, Dommy. Would you mind pushing these glasses aside so I can set this down?"

He did mind. He didn't want tea. He wanted to take the tray and hurl it to the floor.

Still, he did as he was bid and waited, noting that the tray had more than tea on it as Fitzmaurice sat with a groan before he poured. He then poured a generous helping from the brown glass bottle into his own cup before pouring a smaller amount into the one in front of Domhnall. "Talks like these," he said, with a sad sort of chuckle, "shouldn't be done without a bit of help. Don't you think?"

Domhnall didn't answer, though he did take his cup, his nose crinkling at the sweet and sour smell of it. He didn't much care. He gulped down half, before stopping with a gasp. He'd never had liquor before and it burned, even drowned in tea.

"Aye, it's not the finest whiskey," Fitzmaurice said with a sigh, "but it'll do its job just the same."

They sat in silence for a moment as Domhnall sipped more carefully at the rest.

"I never read the letter," Father finally said, "just so you know. But I hope it brought you comfort."

"I wish it did," Domhnall grunted, feeling a sort of warmth spread in his belly. It didn't subdue his anger, but he did feel calmer as he said, "She thought he loved her and she thought him dead. She was wrong about both, wasn't she?"

"I can't say for certain about either. And I can't say I've found his family, as it is. The only things I had to work with, when I started my search anew, was William Brown — a very common name — and how he'd talked of Cambridgeshire. I made inquiries and did find three William Browns, but none at the right age. As for the dead ones, I'd not found one who went off to war, at least not in our time. What I found was a family by the name of Browning." He took a long sip of his tea before he stood, moving to the bookshelf that lined the cottage wall before coming back, opening it to a dog-eared page. "More to the point, a Geoffrey William Browning." Father took a deep breath. "Your mother would chide me for doing such a thing, but I've no love nor use for Debrett's or the peerage, so..." He ripped a page from it, handing it to Domhnall.

"But what—"

"The name you're lookin' for is under Hadingley, as in the earl of."

Domhnall slid his eyes over the neat columns on the page, names and dates, until he found Hadingley, then Geoffrey and the names below it... Lydia... Reginald... Oliver...

"The Earl of Hadingley." Fitzmaurice sat back down, sighing and pouring more whiskey into his cup, forgetting the tea entirely. "You can see the pickle I'm in. I can't go about hunting down a nobleman and accuse him of abandoning his son, lying about his military service, and feigning his own death. Not when I can't be certain he's the man I'm looking for at all."

"But Lord Linfield," Domhnall breathed, feeling lightheaded. "Would he know if—"

"That he would. But whatever he knows, he won't be telling me. I did try to ask again, but he made it clear he didn't appreciate being inconvenienced and, if I bother him again, he might not graciously continue to ignore my illicit activities." He shook his head. "My own fault, really. I shouldn't have come upon him in the morning when his head was likely still aching with drink. But any time after that and he's either off shooting or drunk again."

Domhnall knew that well. They all did. Linfield owned most of the small farms, cottages, and meager shops that made up Cloghroe and its surrounding lands, with the exception of the Byrne farm, the church, and its grounds. The latter was kept up by the parishioners, but that didn't mean Linfield couldn't make things difficult for St. Augustine if he so chose.

"He knows about the school?"

Fitzmaurice grunted, "He's always known, I suspect. He just doesn't care until he can wield it to show his power over us all."

Most of the time, the village and its denizens weren't bothered by Linfield. They weren't aided by him either, not even his tenants. Needless to say, he had fled to England once the sickness spread. And he hadn't neared the villages nor tenant farms in the year after.

His steward only showed his face four times a year to collect the rents. Linfield himself only appeared once or maybe twice a year to hunt and fish, usually with some of his rich, English friends. No one looked forward to those visits, the way they took over the tavern, fussed with the village girls, cavorted loudly in the square at night. As little as the villagers loved Linfield, they hated his guests more.

And his father had been one of them... at least that much, he knew for sure.

"Linfield's been inviting me to Ambrose for meals and ale and the like," he droned. "Does it have anything to do with her?"

"I doubt it greatly. I can't imagine he's given your mother any thought. But I can imagine why he's so eager to see you now he's finally returned. And maybe you should consider—"

"I'll not sell him the farm," Domhnall cut in angrily. "Uncle Ciarán had offers for years, most from Linfield, and he always said he'd not sell even one acre, and especially not--"

"Your Uncle Ciarán passed without knowing your mother would pass on as well. You sell and you have money enough to seek your fortune elsewhere. Go to school, make something of yourself, be the kind of man your mother saw in you."

"I don't care. Linfield might own everything else, but this... This belongs to us."

"And who is us now? It's only you left. And you take no joy in it. I know you better than anyone else left in this world," Father said, an impatient note in his voice. "I also knew your mother since she were a babe. And I know she wouldn't want this lonely life for you."

"Perhaps I'll marry, then." He took that bottle and splashed some in his cup, tossing it down before sitting back, defiant at Father's shocked expression. "You can't say she wouldn't have wanted that."

"Not when you're only seventeen, she wouldn't," Father said, taking the bottle back. "I only gave you a drop to calm your nerves. Enough of that for you."

"I'm grown enough. Others have married at my age or younger. I can do as I wish," Domhnall said, hating the petulant note in his voice. He knew he sounded more like a boy threatening to run from home than a man grown.

"Very well. You've got your pick, if that's what you want," Father threw up his hands, "to be tied to this place forever."

"I'd rather stay here than seek out that man or his family." He paced away, crumpling up the page from that stupid book. "If he even is my damned father."

"I'd chide you for swearing, but if that man is your father, then he certainly deserves to be damned. But hang finding him," Fitzmaurice said, behind him now. "And his family, while we're at it. That's not what I care about. You are made for more than farming, same as she was." He turned Domhnall to face him. "Your mother was the smartest person I'd ever met. She was bursting with it, how eager she was to learn. She could have done so much in her life. I'd have put nothing beyond her."

"But she had me instead."

"No. She chose to be here to teach, and to be with her family and, yes, to raise her son. But very well. Make it some crime you committed so you must stay here to atone. But you're forgetting something."

"And what's that?" Domhnall demanded.

"Your mother wouldn't have wanted you to suffer. And haven't you suffered enough?"

Domhnall shook him off and sat down again, frowning into his empty cup. He hated that he was right. He might as well be reading out her letter.

"Forgive me for sayin' so, Dommy, but this village, these people... Even those chits fussing over you now, if you marry one, you'll be shunned by the ones you didn't choose, and their families to boot, and then a few more to be sure you don't get above yourself. They are my flock and I tend them, aye. But people who live unfortunate lives..." He chuckled darkly. "And isn't that all of us here? They tend to look for someone to be above. And they've chosen you. They will always see you as a bastard first. Every mistake you make, every bit of bad luck that befalls you will always be God's judgment on you for the crime of your birth. They'll never see the fine young man I know."

He met Father's eyes finally. "I thought I wasn't a fine young man yet."

"Ah, don't let it swell your head, but I think there might be hope for you. And the rest of the world... What business is it of theirs who your father was or wasn't? Who would need to know?" Father Fitzmaurice reached across the table to grip his hand. "Perhaps not even you. Perhaps you're better off if you don't know for certain."

"And what if that's not enough? How could I go on never knowing?"

Father sat back and sighed. "Then take Linfield's offer—"

Domhnall started to protest.

"Of a drink," Father amended quickly. "He's got something you want. You've got something he wants even more. You just remember that."

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

Present...

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

Byrne jolted at yet another rut in the road. They must be getting close. The roads were rough enough that even a well-sprung vehicle such as his was made unbearable. He tried to ignore the shaking, study his map, ready himself for his first visit to Coton with a purpose — as Daniel Byrne, that is. His last visit, as young and wide-eyed Dommy, had a purpose to it, but not nearly as much preparation.

He'd sent his secretary a few times but, while his reports on conditions had been accurate, Rowley was too stiff in his efforts to speak to the villagers. That was where Gunn, probably the most useful person in Byrne's employ, came in. Thrice, he'd paid the man handsomely to find odd work in Coton, talk to the locals in the fields and the taverns, see what the supposed rabble thought of the earl and his family.

His information had been most valuable indeed. They didn't care for Mr. Reginald Browning, the eldest son, at all. They tolerated his presence, at best. At worst, they loathed it. Some of the serving girls dreaded when he was staying at his family's seat, said he treated them as no better than whores, pulling them into his lap or dropping coins down their bodices rather than into their hands. The men weren't too keen on him either, except when it came time to take his money when he was of a mind to gamble, a mood that struck him very often. It only confirmed Byrne's own opinions of what a useless wastrel the young man was. They had been formed long before, to be fair, after what Reginald Browning had done to him...

He would dwell upon it no more. He could feel his fists clenching at the memory and that wouldn't do. Today, he would be calm and cool, the master of every interaction, not ruled by his anger and bitterness. He knew all too well that emotion was the enemy of successful negotiations. He'd navigated enough to know. The moment his opponent gave into his temper, raving about being cheated or storming off, tossing off slurs, Byrne knew he had all but won. He would not be that man today. Nor ever.

He thought of the countess instead. He'd seen Lydia Browning, Lady Hadingley, on only a few occasions — not only because he was not often invited to parties where such personages might attend but because, even in London, she was rarely seen outside the house. It was the same at Hardwick. She was a rotund woman with a rather pleasing face, but with a nervous temperament and a penchant for cleanliness that bordered upon obsession. The servants here didn't find her unkind, in particular, but very exacting in her standards and prone to fits of hysteria at any deviation, which had her hidden in her rooms for days until she could face the world again.

The younger son, a Mr. Oliver Browning, had been seen in the village more often of late, which might be hardly notable as he attended Cambridge, but without him staying at Hardwick, it seemed at least a little surprising. He was formed similar to his mother — short and stout — but not reclusive the way she was. Most thought him stiff and standoffish. He was never seen in the tavern, apart from occasions when his older brother, seemingly, dragged him there for uses that included demanding his pocket money to gamble with or embarrassing him about his weight or his distaste for drink. He'd also made use of him to lure Byrne to the park that day. The day that Domhnall Byrne became Daniel Byrne. He'd not been fooled again, no matter how many times...

Byrne breathed deep, trying to unclench again. None of that was useful today. Today was about hard facts, things he could use in his negotiations, things he could mold toward his ends.

Still, as for the Earl, Geoffrey William Browning, it was a comfort to know the man's tenants had no good opinion of him. His manners were brash and disdainful, his skinflint nature galled them as he would rarely, if ever, pay someone to see to the repairs and upkeep that they were due. He was never there to hear their complaints, either, absentee landlord that he was.

He'd seen his like in Ireland, even apart from Linfield. He'd once thought such neglect was a cruelty visited on the Irish in particular, but it seemed the landed gentry, and especially those of noble blood, were just as profligate with anyone they saw as beneath them -- which was most likely everyone.

Still, the rents grew every year, even as his attention to his tenants' needs dwindled. The farmers and villagers who didn't pay him coin also had little respect for the earl. Those who might expect employment from the estate were only given scant work when the family was in residence and were not retained year-round, only a handful of servants were kept to maintain the place when empty, and not paid very well for it, either.

The earl's steward was likely keeping the place afloat and no more and, as a consequence, the villages and lands around were suffering. The population had been declining. It only boasted twenty dwelling houses that were occupied. Even when there was farming work to be had, no one could be tempted to make their life somewhere that would not keep them through the winter. Apart from the earl's neglect, the village was made nearly inaccessible in wet weather.

If the earl was any kind of landlord or patron, he'd build up the roads, maintain them, have the neighboring farms cooperate in crop rotation to benefit all, bring innovation to the land, modern practices. Even without that, a landed gentleman needed to see to his holdings himself if things were to be run properly.

Byrne certainly subscribed to that. Here he was, after all, heading to Coton. His lands, as they were, might be uninhabited marsh with the appearance of fertile greenery, but that deceptive beauty was the end of their charms. Still, they had their uses and he'd not neglect them. Tony had been partially right, after all.

A more cynical man than I might think you were only here to be close to there.

Sculthorpe lay between Cambridge and Coton. For the duration of this party, he could ride there as needed until those straggling owners could be won. Despite their ill opinion of the earl, his secretary, Rowley, could prevail upon only a quarter of his neighbors to sell their land, even for as generous a price as Byrne was offering. And Byrne would prefer to have the remaining lands east of Hardwick. It would make his goals much simpler to achieve and so much more satisfying. He shouldn't have sent his secretary in the first place. Rowley was no negotiator, after all.

The carriage stopped suddenly and Byrne unclenched a bit more, grateful the rickety road was at an end. Even his scant breakfast seemed to sit uneasy in his stomach and he'd prefer not to start this very important day with him casting up his accounts in the village square.

Byrne pulled some coin from his pocket as he alighted the carriage in front of the inn, tossing a few bobs to the lads who rushed out to tend to his horses and carriage, then to Connolly as he jumped down. He knew his coachman had not relished the drenching ride, short though it may have been.

"Get yourself dry and fed."

"Aye, and for how long, sir?" Connolly grumbled, though his eyes lit a bit at the shillings Byrne had dropped into his hand.

"Three hours, possibly less," Byrne answered with confidence. Between his meetings with Gunn, then Mr. Murray's surveyor, and then with the farmers who had not accepted his offer of lunch, then back here at the tavern with those who had, Byrne was certain he could conclude each set within an hour. Byrne approached the tavern, Connolly on his heels. "I shan't stay here long before my other appointments."

"But won't you need me for—"

"I won't. Not for hours, as I said. But stay close to the tap room. I shall be conducting my last meetings there and won't wish to tarry after. I'll alert when I need the carriage readied."

"Are ye goin' out on foot? Surely, in this weather—"

"The rain has lessened. Even so, the roads where I'm going would have us rutted in a thrice," Byrne said, clutching his umbrella as he stared at the weathered sign, "that or there are no roads at all. I assure you, I'm eager for the exercise, damp or not." The sign — "The _usty Lion" — had lost a letter or maybe two some time ago. Perhaps it was "The Lusty Lion." No. That sounded too much like a bordello. "The Trusty Lion," maybe. Byrne thought "The Rusty Lion" would suit it best, the way the wooden sign swung back and forth in the wind, letting out plaintive squeals.

"If you don't mind me sayin' so, this ain't the weather for a long constitutional," Connolly grumbled.

"Perhaps it won't be so long." Byrne suspected that those meetings conducted out of doors would be short indeed if the steady drizzle returned to a downpour. Either way, he'd walk. He truly was feeling quite lazy here in Cambridgeshire. In London, he had boxing masters, fencing masters, hard rides in the early morning with Emir, even if his prized Arabian didn't enjoy their jaunts in town so much. Emir was of a mind to run as long and as far as he wished rather than be interrupted by the need to slow or stop for such annoyances as children on a walk with their nannies or Hyde Park's ill-mannered ducks, who refused to cross a path in a timely fashion.

Emir preferred Cumnock. He preferred the country, where Byrne could give him his head and allow him to set his own pace. Yet here Byrne was, in the country. Sure, Sculthorpe was close to the bustle of Cambridge, but there were plenty of open roads and fields for a horse to indulge in. Yet Byrne had done nothing for days but one little stroll in the woods — which was curtailed by Miss Crewe... yet another thing he was not thinking about.

Whatever scant distance he might walk today, it wouldn't be enough. His stallion was likely champing at the bit as well. Byrne wouldn't be surprised if they'd both perish of boredom with all this rusticating. Tomorrow, he noted, he should take a good, hard ride — rain or shine.

Byrne glanced over the inn's courtyard as his carriage finally moved and Connolly went after the lads to instruct them, thinking that it looked shabbier than it had the last time he'd seen it. Perhaps it was the weather or it had always been so and he'd simply been too young, some eleven years before, to see the decay.

It was a strange thing, seeing it again, if only because the moment he entered the tavern, someone rushed to take his hat and coat. He gave the girl a shake of his head and a coin, making his way to the bar. He'd not be staying inside long.

He ordered a pint, though he had no intention of drinking it, placing his hat on the stool beside him, waiting for his first meeting of the day.

"Ah, pardon me, sir." A large, bearded man placed Byrne's hat on the bar. "Nearly crushed your fine chapeau there. Shouldn't leave that sort of thing lying about."

"If it's all the same to you, I was saving..." He trailed off as he turned and met the man's eyes, one of which winked. "No matter. You might as well sit there. My companion is late."

"Is he, now?" the man asked pointedly, staring ahead and waiting until the barkeep moved away from them. "Or perhaps he's been waiting on you for at least a quarter-hour. For shame."

"Fair enough." Even if Gunn was teasing, Byrne had prided himself on his punctuality, always fighting against that English idea of the lazy Irish. The roads might have been unkind and the weather even worse, but it was no excuse. He should have planned for such things. "It won't happen again," he said, quite seriously.

"See that it doesn't. I'm a very discerning man."

"Enough foolishness. Mind telling me what I'm walking into today?"

TBC