"So the two of you have met." Tony looked between Byrne and his blasted brother, delighted. "Why didn't you say, Browning?"

Byrne turned away, taking a moment to collect himself as he poured that damned whiskey. He needed it even more now. He tossed it back before pouring another. At least it wasn't Reginald. Byrne would have knocked him flat the moment he saw him. Oliver only avoided such a fate because he'd been but a child back then. Though he'd certainly willingly played his part, hadn't he?

"I didn't think it signified," Oliver Browning said. "We've not seen each other much."

That much was true. Byrne had turned him away every time he attempted it, though it didn't seem to stop him. Every once in a while, the fool would turn up at his offices, his home, or other times he'd shown up at parties Byrne happened to be attending or even attempt to accost him on the street.

Oliver cleared his throat. "I am, however, looking forward to speaking more, Mr. Byrne."

Byrne didn't even grunt in response. He'd never believe a word a Browning spoke... or wrote. He'd written as well, honeyed words about how they were brothers, how he wished to know him. According to the good doctor, Browning knew a lot more than Byrne wished, likely from the papers. While Byrne couldn't very well help that, he could keep him from knowing any more. He had no way of knowing what he would do with what information he got, after all.

Or perhaps ruination wasn't his aim. Perhaps he was so relentless because he expected something. As Byrne had grown richer, the Brownings had grown poorer. Perhaps the younger Mr. Browning thought Byrne might take pity on his "family." And why should he? They had shown no kindness and certainly no mercy to him.

"B-but we know some of the same people," Oliver was saying. "Do we not, Mr. Byrne?"

"Aye, that we do," Byrne replied as he turned back, wondering if Oliver was trying to intimidate him, remind him of that night.

It wasn't working, if so, though Byrne did note that, when Oliver took his seat again, taking up his own glass, it shook slightly. Perhaps it was the cold as he was still looking rather damp. Or was he the one who was intimidated? If so, good. He had no right to intrude this way.

He'd not changed much since the last time Byrne had spotted him, or avoided him, more like. Really, it seemed he hadn't changed much since the very first time Byrne saw him, cowering behind a pillar as their father had Byrne tossed out. Oliver might have gotten taller through the years, but he was still a round young man. There wasn't much of his father in him, except perhaps the color of his eyes, a very grey blue, but without the sharp brow that his father, brother and, unfortunately, Byrne shared. His face was chubby, with a youthful appearance and an open, almost innocent, countenance, which he probably used quite artfully. It was likely why Tony took pity on him.

"What a small world it is!" Tony enthused, blind to the tension. "I'd never met young Mr. Browning here, but I am acquainted with his older brother. A year below me at Eton. He was a... fine fellow."

Byrne could tell when Tony struggled to find something nice to say of someone. If they were alone, he might know how Tony really felt about Reginald Browning.

"Shame we didn't keep touch," Tony went on, another falsehood. "But he went on to Cambridge, poor man, while I chose Oxford."

Oliver tore his eyes from Byrne and back to Tony, struggling to smile. "I wonder why. Oxford is so much farther from your family home."

"You've answered your own question there," Tony said with a laugh before turning to Byrne. "Anyhow, this one showed up and wondered if he might come in out of the rain for a spell. He was going home from Cambridge with all his trunks in a curricle, of all things."

"It was foolish of me to attempt it," Oliver said, shaking his head in a way that was probably meant to be bashful.

Byrne could see through it. This was all obviously by design. He could have easily arranged for a carriage.

"He'd have surely been swept away in this deluge. I couldn't deny the poor thing shelter, even if he is a Cambridge man. So here we are." Tony laughed.

Oliver laughed.

Byrne considered another whiskey. But he never allowed himself more than two, so he strode to the window. "The rain is letting up. Might be barely a drizzle soon enough."

"Well, there's still the wind," Tony said. "I'll not send this poor fellow out again. Not without feeding him, at least."

"Coton is a short distance and Hardwick is not much farther." Byrne turned back, trying to keep his voice even. "After supper, I could send my own carriage to—"

"Oh, there's no need for that. See, Browning and I were talking and this is actually rather fortuitous."

"I imagine it is," Byrne droned, pinning his brother with a stare.

"You see, we've got four gentleman and five ladies. And Young Mr. Browning here has all of his things with him already. I think he'll be a very nice addition to our little party."

"I'm amazed you can call it little anymore," Byrne grunted.

"It's no inconvenience. I've got one room left upstairs." He turned to Oliver. "Now it's not the finest in the house, to say the least. But the servants shall have it aired out and a bath prepared in no time at all. Are you certain your family will not miss you?"

"They are all in London. I'm sure, even if they weren't, they would not... er... It's very kind of you," Oliver finished haltingly.

"Truly, it's kind of you. We can certainly make use of a doctor in the house."

"I told you. I am not—"

"You will be soon enough, won't you?"

Byrne glanced at his brother, still highly irritated, but also taken aback. He'd thought his rumored time spent with Doctor Allendale had something to do with his studies, but not this. A son of an earl, even a second son, would likely purchase a commission in the army or navy, work in government or law, even the clergy, but a doctor was the lowest of all possible professions, likely only a step above working in trade. He was astonished the high and mighty Earl of Hadingley was allowing such a thing.

"Even so, it's close enough for my needs and, if it's not too much to ask, perhaps you can look in on poor Aunt Dotty. She's not herself today. I mean when you are settled, of course," Tony added quickly.

"It's the least I can do." Oliver smiled, though it faltered a bit when his eyes slid to Byrne.

And no wonder. Byrne could feel his blood boiling. How was he stop this?

Higgins appeared at the door then, clearing his throat.

"Yes?" Byrne snapped, feeling rather betrayed at the moment. Higgins had been instructed to turn this man away several times over the years. He shouldn't have allowed this.

Higgins didn't meet his eyes as he spoke, so he obviously knew that. "The room and bath are ready if Mr. Browning would like to..."

"Splendid!" Tony rose, clapping his hands together. "I'll see you at supper, then."

"Yes. Thank you again." Oliver stepped past Higgins at his gesture to precede. "Thank you," he said to Higgins as well, tossing a rather nervous look back at Byrne.

Higgins did the same, gesturing to Tony and exaggeratedly shrugging his shoulders.

Perhaps Higgins wasn't to blame. He didn't fully know the relationship between Byrne and the Brownings. But Fletcher certainly did. Why didn't he warn him? Or was this the result of his interfering as he always...

"Pleasant fellow," Tony said, taking his seat again.

"And how do you know that for sure?" Byrne asked, trying to keep his voice even. "You don't know him."

"Well, he seems so."

"You said you only knew the brother."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me. Believe me, next to his brother, he'd look like the most amiable man in all of England. Reginald Browning," he sneered the name. "Slimy little bugger. Reg and his friends used to have a certain way of welcoming the first years at Eton. Not that we all didn't. But most of us limited ourselves to pranks and silliness like having them walk about with women's underthings on their heads. But Reginald..."

"Go on," he prodded, trying not to sound too eager. Byrne had never thought to ask Tony about the Brownings, as Tony always claimed they certainly weren't friends of his. It was one of the things Byrne liked best about him — that and his many connections, of course.

"Reginald liked to break them in, as he said. It usually involved his ghastly friends holding them while he hit them."

That sounded about right, from Byrne's experience.

"A few of us gave them all back a bit in our last year — masked, of course, lest he run to his papa and ruin us all." Tony chuckled. "That was his little threat any time some of us tried to intervene. I doubt the Earl has that much influence, but we thought it best not to chance it. One of the professors even gave us an alibi, good old chap. We gave it to them pretty good." Tony jabbed at the air. "Suffice it to say, we didn't hear much about the next year's crop being tormented."

"Then why would you have his brother stay here? How do you know he's not just as—"

"I make it a point never to judge a person by their family. My parents were awful, yet look at the pleasing paragon you see before you." Tony spread his arms grandly. "At the very least, I let him take shelter. But then I found him to be likable and sociable. Nothing like that brother of his. I can tell. And," here he gestured to Byrne, "he has no interest in stonework or insects that I've seen, so he'll at least be more lively company than our fellow gentlemen thus far."

There was still time to send Browning away after supper. But how was he to dissuade Tony? With what reason? If Tony knew who Oliver Browning truly was to him... No, he'd never told a soul since he'd started his life here and he wasn't about to start now.

"Do you think nothing of my servants?" Byrne tried. "They are over-burdened as it is."

Tony sat up straighter, frowning. "But Higgins said it would be no trouble at all." Tony tilted his head. "Then again, he tends to say that about everything, doesn't he? Must be some sort of butler code. But the room has been readied and—"

"And has he brought a valet?"

"Higgins said Fletcher himself volunteered to take in any excess work that Mr. Browning might—"

"Yes, Fletcher." Of course Fletcher was complicit in this. He'd often sung the praises of Young Master Oliver despite how little Byrne wished to hear the tune. "I'd better see Fletcher," Byrne fairly growled.

"You really should," Tony said. "You look like the very devil. Perhaps you'll be less grumpy after you've been warmed up and made presentable. You should have another—"

"No, thank you," Byrne cut in, striding out. He didn't need another drink. He'd need his wits about him if he was to survive this night without throttling someone.

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

"Don't you think that's a bit," Mary tilted her head, staring Emilia up and down through the mirror, "formal?"

Emilia tried to keep hold of the braid she was attempting to plait with ribbons, which would be much easier if Queen Mary would stay still.

Emilia had already changed her own hair, upon Mary's insistence, from a coronet of braids to a simple twist at her nape.

"Really, such extravagant styles would only draw unwanted attention to your deception. On you, that is. On me, it would be very becoming."

So now she was dressing Mary's hair in the style she'd wanted for herself, but even that wasn't enough. She chanced a glance at her gown again — a dull, gray satin. The one Prudence often chose before Emilia corrected her. The most boring of all her gowns. And, sure, Emilia might have off-set it with silver ribbons twisted in her hair, but that was only so she didn't look as if she were in half-mourning. "One must dress formally for supper, particularly when a guest in another's home. And fashion dictates—"

"Really, I don't need you to tell me anything about fashion," Mary sneered. "But what of that dependable looking brown one? Surely that would be best if one wanted to draw less attention."

"That is a day dress," Emilia said, horrified. "Such a blunder would draw more attention." Also, she'd not be caught dead in it.

"Now, now, Emilia," Miss Prudence called from her place on Mary's bed, fussing with her sketching pad. "Mary's right. We must do better. Perhaps a burlap sack or a barrel held up by suspenders?" She looked up at Mary, tilting her head and smiling. "Would that make you feel prettier, Mary?"

Emilia held in a snort, then covered it with a hum, as if she were deeply contemplating the braid she had still not completed.

"Really! Now you're just being ridiculous," Mary huffed, bouncing in her chair.

"No, I sympathize. Truly." Prudence turned her eyes to Emilia in the mirror. "You see, Emilia, poor Mary fears you are so attractive that you might outshine her. You must be made less so by all means possible so she has a hope of attracting a gentleman's eye."

Mary gasped, turning in her chair now. "That is not what I... I never said she was... No one is more attractive than..." She turned back to the mirror, looking as if she were about to go into a fit before she took a deep breath. "I have no such vanity. And I have no concern for being outshone. In fact, I've been told I outshine all in the room, several times. Not that I would say so myself, but many gentlemen have—"

"Oh, of course. You'll be the prettiest, Mary," Prudence cooed. "We shall make sure of it. Now, Emilia, do go find the nearest plant and rub dirt on your cheeks."

"I don't find this amusing," Mary said. "But very well, if you value my counsel so little that you allow her to walk about so ostentatiously, then I wash my hands of it." She adjusted the bodice of her own dress, frowning. It was the yellow one Emilia had completed altering and trimming that very afternoon. Emilia had waited for her to find fault in it. She hadn't, even if Emilia herself thought the neckline was far lower than was fashionable. But that was what Mary wanted. She'd certainly have little trouble catching a gentleman's eye with such a display.

Emilia had started to repair the braid, but Mary leaned forward, tilting her head yet again. She could not take it anymore. "I cannot finish dressing your hair if you continue to flop about!"

Mary sat back, glaring at her before turning her gaze, but thankfully not her head this time, to Prudence. "Is this how she speaks to you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid she must," Prudence sighed, her eyes on her pad again. "And with Mama's blessing. Someone must rein me in."

"I think she should rein herself in," Mary said smugly. "Do you know she was embroidering this gown in front of everyone?"

"In an embroidery circle?" Prudence glanced up with a gasp. "What a horrid thing to do!"

"It was an obvious attempt to gain herself even more attention, and for doing no more than her job. If I were you, I should not put up with it."

"Emilia!" She saw Prudence set her sketching aside, then stand and approach them in the mirror. "How could you?"

Emilia met her Miss Prudence's gaze defensively. "I was given so very much to do, some of it had to be done with every spare—"

"That is no excuse." Prudence shook her head. "The puns were bad enough. But now you shall give me a reputation for needlework that I certainly cannot live up to," she said, pinching her side as if to buck her up. "Let's just hope Mama doesn't hear of it," she said before going back to her sketching.

Emilia held in a laugh and attempted to braid in that ribbon again, but Mary pulled away.

"I think the yellow looks rather dull, now that I'm seeing it properly," she said. "Pru, could you be a dear and fetch some gold ribbons?"

Prudence narrowed her eyes. "I'm not certain we have anything like that."

"Nonsense, she was wearing them with her gown last night. Surely you can—"

"But I can't." Prudence shrugged. "I don't even know where they are."

"I shall go," Emilia said, but Mary gripped her wrist, quite tightly.

"Never mind. Yellow will do." Mary finally held her head straight.

Emilia pulled her hand away. She knew what Mary's aim had been. Getting Prudence out of the room would allow Mary to be even more beastly, if that was possible. Luckily, Prudence had remembered her promise not to leave Emilia alone with her. She'd also quite easily thwarted all of Mary's attempts to belittle Emilia. Perhaps Prudence wasn't the worst possible mistress... except when it came to fashion.

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

A true gentleman must be impeccably garbed at all times.

Fletcher had said it so many times that Byrne could barely look in his closet without the words echoing in his head. Even now they did, as Byrne ran his eyes over everything Fletcher had brought to this Godforsaken party, wondering what would look worst when put together. Fletcher wasn't here yet and Byrne dearly wanted to offend his eyes. Perhaps he could pair riding breeches with that yellow waistcoat he'd always rejected in the morning and an evening tailcoat.

Would that be bad enough to match his betrayal?

He could wear it to supper, ignoring all Fletcher's protests and possible tears.

As it was, he'd only pulled out the coat when Fletcher came sailing in, announcing, "All is well, Sir."

"Is it now?" Byrne tossed the coat on the bed before pulling out the yellow waistcoat and letting it land on top.

Fletcher's eyes widened in horror before he turned to Byrne, holding out his boots. "Your Hessians have been restored."

"Is that what you've been doing all this time? Or were you hiding from me? Or was it both?"

When he'd first entered his bedchamber, he'd found a hot bath waiting, but no Fletcher. As much as he couldn't stand he man hovering as he bathed, he'd have welcomed his presence tonight, if only because he needed answers. And Fletcher obviously knew that, which is why he'd made himself scarce.

"I have no reason to hide," Fletcher sniffed, lifting his chin as he opened the closet, beginning to put the offending garments away.

"Not so hasty. I plan to wear that."

"You shall not, sir."

"Oh, yes, I shall."

Fletcher turned back to him, his expression pained. "I understand that you may be cross with me, but that is no reason to offend your guests by pairing day wear with evening wear."

"Aye, they'll surely run screaming from the room," Byrne said with a roll of his eyes. "At least you admit I've good reason to be angry with you."

"I said no such thing. But I imagine you are cross with me since discovering Master Oliver's presence, which is in no way my fault."

"Wasn't it? I heard you volunteered your own services should the staff be over-burdened."

"That was only after the invitation was issued. I thought it kind to offer assistance, should it be needed. And I should like you to remember that I tried quite desperately to tell you."

"Master Oliver," he muttered. "You don't work for them anymore. And it seems to me that you could have tried harder. Instead of all that hemming and hawing, you hardly—"

"With the ghastly mood you were in, I thought you might appreciate my attempts to be circumspect rather than blurt out—"

"But that's not the real issue at hand. It's the mystery of how he knew I was here. Did you write him? I know you two have your not-so-secret little lunches when he's in London."

"What I do in my free time and who I spend it with is my own—"

"And then you come home and make little remarks about what a marvelous luncheon it was with your amiable companion, as if I don't know what you're trying to do."

"Just as I restrain myself from commenting on your personal goings on, I would appreciate—"

"What rubbish! You nose in on everything I do."

Fletcher ignored that, going on, "I would appreciate the same. And while I might have considered meeting Master Oliver for a cup or a pint perhaps, with him being so near, I had not yet sent a missive to him at Cambridge. And I certainly wouldn't have, in my position, presumed to invite him here."

"Then how in hell did he know to come here?" Byrne growled. "There's no chance this was happenstance. He didn't look surprised to see me at all." Perhaps a bit nervous, but not surprised.

"I only saw him follow Sir Anthony to the library while going about my duties. I had no opportunity to speak to him directly, only to Higgins, though I quite look forward to doing so while he is here," he said, as if daring Byrne to forbid it. "I've known Master Oliver since he was a babe and I was a footman. I shall not cease speaking to him and, if you demand it of me, then I shall tender my—"

"For God's sake! I don't care if the two of you conspire to assassinate Prinny, but I'd thank you to leave me out of it. No veiled remarks about the new guest and no attempts to tout his supposed fine table manners or whatever it is you go on about. Do not speak to me of him. It's bad enough Tony's insisting on his staying here. I have no wish to associate with the Brownings, not one of them."

"I suppose not," Fletcher said under his breath. "It might make it harder, wouldn't it?"

Byrne pretended he didn't hear. There were certain concessions he made, having Fletcher in his employ, such as allowing him to order him about, needle him, nag at him, and mutter under his breath when he disagreed. That last usually came when the argument was nearing the end. Sometimes Byrne would address what he heard and pursue it further, other times, he ignored it just to have a blessed end to the bickering.

He didn't know how other men dealt with their valets. Sometimes he suspected their valets were far more silent and deferential. Sometimes he also suspected that Fletcher might have been silent and deferential himself, with his previous employer. But Byrne hadn't hired him for that. It was actually that damnable impertinence that made Byrne extend an offer in the first place.

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

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

**********

London

Winter, 1803

Domhnall stood on the other side of Cork Street, staring at the rather nondescript edifice of Schweitzer & Davison, a tailor's shop catering to the upper crust. When he'd first seen it, he'd been unimpressed, expecting it to be grander, perhaps. There were a few other tailors in the neighborhood with more ostentatious storefronts, the kind that old dandy Prince George was said to patronize, with chandeliers one could see from twelve feet outside.

But this was the one he wanted. He pulled his coat tighter, even if it did nothing to ease the shivers that still wracked his body as he crossed the street. His quarry would be arriving soon.

It had been four weeks since the incident at his father's town house and three weeks since that night when his brothers' hospitality had led him into The Thames in the dead of winter. It was only through sheer determination that he'd survived and, after a week trapped in bed, then another caged indoors, Domhnall's fever had turned into fury.

He was ready to act upon it, even if that domineering woman from the boarding house disagreed.

"You are still sick," she'd said in her odd, clipped tones. "You walked already today. You will make yourself sicker! You must rest!" He turned back with a confused look, gesturing to his ears as he walked out the door, pretending not to understand.

Really, that had been the case when he'd first rented his room here. Her accent had sounded so very strange to him, he'd had to ask her to repeat herself several times. It was almost as if she weren't speaking English. He later learned that she wasn't, muttering her foreign words under her breath when annoyed. But at the time, all these Londoners sounded odd to him.

They were English, but didn't speak with the crisp tones of Lord Linfield and they most certainly weren't Irish, though he did sometimes hear a voice in passing that reminded him of home. But most of the accents he heard were sort of harsh, assertive, it made it feel like the tongue he'd grown up with was a gentle song in comparison. Is that why they called the Irish accent a lilt?

These were but some of the fevered thoughts he'd had, stuck in bed, trapped in that room for two weeks that felt like a year. And not just by his illness. By that woman! He'd found the door locked on his attempts to escape. His banging had only succeeded in bringing that cruel woman to his door, with her little edicts. Wasn't he the paying guest? Shouldn't he decide when he wanted to leave?

She would then point out that he was in his nightshirt, the damnable woman, then ask him what day, month, and year it was. And she only let him guess wrong once before declaring he'd remain her prisoner. It was all extremely annoying and he had a good mind, when she came in with her trays, to refuse to eat in protest.

Sometimes, everything disgusted him. Other times, he was ravenous. She forced him to eat and drink no matter what, the cruel woman. And then... then she started forcing him to drink disgusting so-called remedies, the tastes of which were barely helped by the fact that he was unable to smell them for a time. But after his first taste, when his nose had finally cleared, his attempts to escape had doubled in effort but, sadly, not in success.

"You are sick," she'd insisted. "This will help. Are you so foolish that you refuse help?"

Yes. Yes, he was. Or he tried to be. But she would not allow it. He'd swallowed down more of her disgusting concoctions than should be allowed, yet she would not relent.

"You only make it worse," the woman had berated him a few days — or was it months? — back, putting her wrist against his forehead. "Your fever might very well break, if you rest and stop trying to escape. You stubborn English." She shook her head.

"I'm Irish," he'd protested, quite offended. "I'm not English. And you aren't either, are you?" Sure, every one he'd heard in London sounded foreign to him. Her English was good, but she sounded different, even from them.

"I am not," she'd said, but offering no more. "And very well. You are a stubborn Irish. It makes little difference to me. Neither of you listen!"

He'd only later learned she was German and, even later than that, Jewish. This boarding house had been run by her and her husband but, with his passing, she found it difficult to manage. "Guest after guest, haggling the price, some leave their rooms a disaster. It's more trouble than it's worth," she'd grumbled. "And stubborn boys like you do not help, wasting my time with your escape plans."

"I'm not a boy," he'd muttered. "I'm seventeen."

She'd only laughed.

One day, when she refused to leave until he drank an entire bowl of bone broth, he reckoned they might as well talk. He asked her why she bothered with this place if she hated it or, indeed, why she'd want to deal with the English at all. "I thought the Germans were better than this lot, more enlightened," he'd said.

"Is that so? How?"

His mother had tried to force him to read translated works of Herder and Goethe, claiming they would better his mind. "The philosophy, poetry, music, and all that nonsense."

"Some of their nonsense is good nonsense. And there's a certain pride in that, but it's not extended to everyone, certainly not the Jewish, not even those of us born there. We are always... the other to them."

Domhnall supposed he could understand that. Hell, he felt like the other even when his people had been there first. "Isn't it the same here?"

"Not quite. Here, there are some of our people to welcome us and help us make our way. Back home, everything we have, they think of as something they do not have, so we are to blame. And it's been getting worse. Here... It's better, only a little." She gave a bitter laugh. "Or perhaps you English just don't know what to blame us for yet."

"I am not English," he'd repeated balefully. "And you must be wrong about that. Nothing is better here," he'd growled. "You'd do better to take yourself somewhere else, not just for your own sake," he'd finished, gesturing to her belly, quite round with child.

She'd looked as if she wanted to toss the broth over his head. At least it wasn't that other noxious stuff. "Here is where I am. And I do not want to go back to what I left! So I will make the best of it!"

"I'm only saying, somewhere, there must be a better..."

"If I kept looking for better, I'd be wandering forever," she sighed. "Do you want to go back to where you came from?"

"No," he'd grumbled. Even though he'd been loathe to leave Father Fitz, it wasn't enough to keep him in a place that had told him, time and again, that he wasn't wanted.

"And why did you come here if it's so terrible?"

He'd stopped talking at that. He didn't even want to think of why he'd come here. He wasn't wanted here either. He'd found that out quickly. She'd called him a boy more than once. She'd call him a stupid boy if she knew. She'd seen him when he came back to the house that night, drenched and shivering, but she'd never asked what happened. He was grateful for that.

Despite everything he'd learned about his father, he'd still had hope. He'd still had this sense that there was something waiting here for him. But there had been nothing but rejection and humiliation.

At least now there was something else — revenge.

And the tall man now entering the tailor's shop was his means of getting it. He had to be. He'd actually got the idea from his jailer, herself, force-feeding him again and talking about some of her people thriving in London, bragging as if this place was some promised land. "I knew some Schweitzers growing up and now one of them is catering to earls and barons. They say the Earl of Hadingley's valet trusts no one else."

"The Earl of Hadingley, you say?"

That was where it started. After that, he'd asked the other boarders when he'd been allowed out of his room, then some shop workers having lunch at the tavern next door, bribed with drink, who'd informed him that this valet — described as tall, slender and snobbish — visited Schweitzer & Davison on Tuesdays at noon, nice and regular, and then took lunch at the coffeehouse across the way. Domhnall had never entered a tailor's shop nor a coffeehouse, but he'd patronize both today if it meant he might speak to the man.

Last week, he'd not managed to escape his jailer. She'd caught him trying to stride out the front door with what he'd thought was a jaunty wave, but actually had him toppling onto the front stoop, only catching himself against the railing before he cracked his head open. He tried to argue that, as he had caught himself, he was obviously strong enough now, but she didn't agree and actually called on the gigantic man who stood outside the tavern to actually toss him over his shoulder and cart him back to his cell. It was one of the more humiliating moments of the month, which considering this month, was something!

But he'd given that harridan the slip well enough today, though he did glance down the street a few times, imagining her rounding the corner and marching after him, her very large enforcer in tow. She did not appear, but he still hastened across the street, only letting out a breath when the door closed behind him.

He sucked it in again at the sight of the place. He'd never cared to look inside before, as he didn't care about the wares, only the man now perusing them, wherever he was. But now, being among the clean, well-ordered displays of cravats and gloves, the bolts of fabric in neat rows along the walls, and cuff links and watch fobs in glass cases. He felt unequal to even standing here. Even his Sunday best wasn't good enough for this place, let alone the sight of him now in his frayed coat, faded shirt and yellowed neck-cloth, not even tied well enough to be called a cravat.

It certainly was nothing to the starched cloths before him, mostly varied shades of white, but some in light colors or even bolder ones. There were two forms in the center, both with immaculate breeches and coats, one dark and one light, cravats intricately tied in shapes that even Lord Linfield might not imagine.

He stared up at one form, imagining himself in the dark-blue set with the stark white shirt and cravat. Even wearing such a thing to church in Cloghroe, he'd look like a ridiculous dandy. He laughed at the notion.

Of course, he immediately wished he hadn't as the laugh turned into a cough and, at the noise, one of the shop attendants turned to him, lifting a supercilious brow.

"You seem to have got yourself turned around," the man said, "the tavern is several streets down from here."

"I'm not lookin' for the tavern. I'm after a new suit of clothes." He gestured vaguely behind him. "Bespoke, like it says in the window." He wasn't, really, he was after the tall man, but he'd drop some coin on something here, if that helped his ruse.

The man scoffed, looking him up and down. "Surely you don't expect me to believe that."

Looking at this suit, he didn't see why not. It obviously needed replacing. But likely he thought Domhnall too poor to afford anything here. "Perhaps this will make you believe it?" He pulled his purse from his coat, so heavy the coins barely jingled. He had more hidden back at the boarding house. Linfield had given him pounds sterling as he promised. Domhnall wouldn't trust a banknote, not from the English. He'd spent very little on his journey and, though he had been set upon by thieves twice, a man didn't grow up a bastard in Cloghroe without learning to fight off at least three at once.

He wished it had helped him that night. But his guard had been down. And there'd been five of them.

The clerk stared at his pouch, still skeptical."Aye, and how do we know you won't make off with our wares without leaving any of it here?" His posh accent slipping now. "Dealt with you Irish a time or two and I'm not easily..."

"Why, Mr. Byrne. You have come at last. I'd begun to despair of it."

He turned to find another man, looking just as supercilious as the first, but taller and with black hair, greying at the temples. It was his target. But why was he acting as if he expected him. And how did he know his name?

"As you can see, Mr. Byrne is quite travel-worn and requires some help with choosing more appropriate garments for his stay in town. Leave him to me and I shall call you when your assistance is required."

"Yes, Mr. Fletcher," the man said eagerly. "Of course. I didn't mean to... I was only..."

Mr. Fletcher speared him with a glance.

"Yes, Mr. Fletcher," he repeated before hurrying away.

"Now, Mr. Byrne, shall we?" He gestured to the wall with the bolts of fabric.

Domhnall followed his lead, dazed. "Why did you say all that? You don't know me."

"But I do or, at least, I know who you are." He pulled at a bolt of dark gray, holding it near Domhnall's face, obviously for show.

He'd heard valets shared a certain intimacy with their rich masters, that they saw and heard all and, sometimes, were trusted to do their personal bidding. "So he talked about me, did he? Did he instruct you to threaten me or—"

"No, he did not tell me about you. Nor do I think he will, but Master Reginald did have some things to say — or boast about — concerning some Irish whelp who'd tried to blackmail his family."

"Blackmail? I never asked for a damned—"

"It would be best to keep your voice down." He sighed. "Though Master Reginald had no such qualms with his drunken declarations with his beastly friends. He didn't seem to care who heard."

"And what was there to boast about?"

"If you ask me, nothing. If you ask him, he seems to think you've scampered back to Ireland in fear of him."

"It wasn't just him," Domhnall said bitterly. It was actually galling, the way they got the better of him. He'd fought off multiple assailants before, but the boys in Cloghroe were never one to plan such a coordinated attack. "He didn't even hit me till the others had me held down."

"Yes, that sounds very like him. Anyhow, I've long since learned not to believe a word Master Reginald says, so I didn't believe that was the case, especially not when I heard you were still here."

"Does he know? Will he send his cronies again? This time, I'll be—"

"I doubt he does, but I knew that there was an Irish fellow asking after me, of all people."

He thought he'd been more discreet than that, but apparently not. "How did you know it was me just now?"

Mr. Fletcher shrugged and sighed. "You look like him."

Domhnall didn't have to ask who he was.

"Different coloring, of course, lighter hair and blue eyes," he frowned. "Dark grays would not suit you as they do him. Lighter ones might. Or shades of blue, perhaps." He nudged him toward another row of bolts.

"Why are you bothering with all this?" Domhnall grumbled. "They're not looking."

"Because I've decided to assume," Mr. Fletcher said, pulling some fabric from a bolt of deep blue and holding it up to him, "that you are desperate for my advice as to how to dress yourself since you sorely need it. But I'm certain you'll disabuse me of the notion soon enough."

"I have money."

"I certainly didn't miss that," he said, pulling from another bolt, a lighter blue, "what with you waving your purse about like a barker at an auction."

"I mean that—"

"I know what you mean," he said, now prodding Domhnall toward some shelves along the other end of the store. "And I'm afraid you'll find no help from me there. I'm not one to share tittle tattle on my employers, no matter the bribe. My position is more valuable to me than that."

"Then why bother even—"

"What I will offer you is my time and my advice, which will prove to be of more value than whatever else you're after. And your money would be better spent as well." He pulled a jar from the shelf. "This is hair pomade. Only a small amount is necessary as a man doesn't want to look oily. If you plan to keep it at this length, I would also suggest tying it back in a queue as that might keep you from looking as if you'd wandered out of a cave."

His hair was quite long. His grandmother had always cut it. Without her, he simply lopped it off at the ends when it started bothering him.

"Better yet, find a barber and ask for the Bedford Crop. I recommend Rossi on Fleet Street. He does well enough for men without valets of their own. A shave might be in order as well. Now for your clothes..."

Domhnall barely knew how it happened, but somehow he'd walked out of the place with a bag filled with pomades, cologne, cufflinks, stockings, cravats — which he'd been instructed on the tying of, though he was certain he wouldn't remember — and he'd been poked and measured for what was to be two jackets, three waistcoats, two pairs of breeches, two pairs of trousers, and five shirts.

Domhnall had tried to protest that he might need some clothes, as he'd traveled very light, but this amount of finery was surely wasted on him.

"A true gentleman must be impeccably garbed at all times," Mr. Fletcher had answered.

"I'm not a gentleman. I own no land and have no tenants."

"Being a member of the gentry is not the only way to be considered a gentleman of quality. It is found in how a man portrays himself, how he behaves, the impression he makes upon entering a room. And your personal appearance is the first impression you make."

It was the most money he'd ever spent in his life, and that included the purchase of two very overpriced cows that his uncle had complained about every day for several years. The Duchesses of Dung, he'd called them.

But if he thought the earl's valet would reward him with anything more than more advice, he was soon disappointed.

Even now, sitting across from him at the cafe, he was still going on, now making notes in a little book. "Boots will be needed, and slippers for formal occasions. I've got just the man."

Byrne felt restless, so he sipped at more of that coffee, which didn't seem to be helping. Awful stuff, too. Even with cream and more sugar than he'd ever dream of putting in tea, it was bitter. "What kind of formal occasions do you imagine I'll be attending? I told you, I'm not—"

"A member of the gentry. Yes, you said. But that doesn't mean you can't be a part of middle class society, if you acquit yourself well." Fletcher sipped at his own without even grimacing. "You seem to have enough money to make something of yourself, and that's not something all young men start out with. You shall need to make the most of it. You also need to find a bank."

"I don't trust banks none."

"The 'none' is unnecessary. And what nonsense. Some of these banks have been established for hundreds of years. Do you think they've become institutions by swindling their patrons? Or are you planning to walk about London, jangling with coins all the while, like a tinker?"

"Look, enough of this. I know your master is a skinflint. I shall pay you well to tell me—"

"And I shall not accept it. Do you think I would jeopardize a position such as mine? And what do you imagine there is to tell? That a married man fathered a bastard? I assure you, it's not uncommon at all. Even if all of society knew, he's done his duty by providing an heir and a spare. Men of his rank are not expected to be faithful after that. Really, neither are their wives after a suitable—"

"Aye, but I came before, didn't I? If they knew that—"

"It wouldn't matter."

"So it doesn't matter that he lied about being a soldier," Domhnall demanded, "that he tricked an innocent young woman, that he pretended to be dead and left her to—"

"I'm not saying it doesn't matter at all," Fletcher cut in, his eyes meeting Domhnall's with a kindness he'd not seen in another man since he'd left Father Fitz. "I'm saying it wouldn't matter to his peers."

"Yet you would still work for such a man?"

"One does not need to like their employer, something I'm sure you've learned, at your age."

"Never had an employer. I were a sheep farmer."

"I was a sheep farmer," the older man corrected. "And you are not anymore, unless you wish to be. You are young and embarking on a new life. You can buy a property, you can find employment, you can travel the continent."

He sounded like Father Fitz. Both acted as if Domhnall was staring at some wonderful opportunity when all he felt was lost, adrift without anyone to anchor him.

"I would steer clear of France at the moment, obviously. But there are other places to be. You could even travel to America... if you wish to live a life free from gentility, manners, and fashion." Fletcher drank down what was left in his cup and tossed some coins on the table.

"I can pay for—"

"Allow me," the man said, "as a way to welcome you to your new life."

"New life?" Byrne shook his head.

Fletcher stood, ripping some pages from his notebook. "You are young. You have money, or so you keep claiming. You can do whatever you like and, as I've secured that you'll do so dressed impeccably, I think my part is done here." He held out the slips. "Just recommendations, mind you. It is your choice whether you use them."

Domhnall shuffled the notes — a bootmaker, a bank, a barber, and a solicitor, some man named O'Malley on the... "What's the 'change'?"

"The stock exchange. 'Tis only a thought. But if one has enough money to have some sitting about, if one doesn't get robbed first by announcing it to all one meets, then investing is a good way of helping it grow." He held out his hand. "I wish you good luck, Mr. Byrne."

Domhnall stood and took his hand, giving it a firm shake. This had been an exceptionally strange day. "No one calls me that. My name is Domhnall."

"If a man wants to be taken seriously, he is called by his surname, even in service," the man said stiffly. "I might have contended with being called Thomas when I was a footman, but I would not answer to that now because I am due more respect than that. A man of means, if that's what you aim to become, should demand nothing less." He released his hand and stepped back. "Good day, Mr. Byrne."

*********

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

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

"Mr. Byrne? Mr. Byrne... Sir!"

Byrne started, finding Fletcher now holding out his cufflinks, staring down at his dinner jacket and snowy white and much too intricately-tied cravat and wondering when all that had happened.

Probably during all his wool-gathering.

Fletcher was efficient. He'd give him that.

He should also probably give him the benefit of the doubt, he thought as he held out his wrists, letting the man fasten the cufflinks. Fletcher had seemed quite alarmed when he'd greeted him at the door and was probably as surprised as Byrne had been, regarding Oliver Browning's presence.

Fletcher was loyal. Byrne would give him that, too.

It had taken him several tries, throughout several weeks, to persuade Fletcher to leave his skinflint of a boss and work for him. Even after that, Fletcher insisted his code of honor and ethics prevented him from tattling on the earl, and not even a change of employer would sway him. Byrne had hoped that would change with time, but eventually swallowed his annoyance and accepted that all he would get out of Fletcher was his — not inconsiderable — skills as a valet.

Whatever had brought Oliver Browning here, it was not Fletcher. "You said you never wrote to him," Byrne began, "and I believe you. So why has he come?"

Fletcher started, "It could have nothing to do with—"

"You and I both know that's not the case. The roads going to Sculthorpe are a bit out of the way for every Cambridge lad traveling west. He couldn't have been passing by. He came here for me. But how did he know I was here?"

"I know it's a mad thing to suggest, but you could ask him."

Byrne rolled his eyes at Fletcher's arch tone. "I'd sooner put on that yellow waistcoat."

"You young people these days," he tutted, turning Byrne to brush off his coat. "Must everything be needlessly complicated?"

"Says the man who contemplates tying my cravat as if it deserves its own field of study," Byrne quipped as he took the brush and shooed him away with it. "I've been primped enough." But Fletcher might have a point. Though he had no wish to talk to Oliver Browning, he might perhaps ask, during polite dinner conversation, what brought him here, of all places. And then watch to see just how he lied about it.

Oliver couldn't have found out about Byrne's presence from Doctor Allendale as he'd only met the man today, and Byrne hadn't told anyone about his presence at this very house and this very party. So what could have possibly brought him here?

There was nothing for it but to go down to dinner and...

Byrne stilled in the middle of opening the door, seeing Mrs. Stern holding a mug. He tried to close the door, but she stopped him quickly.

"I hear you are sick," she said.

He could smell the contents of that mug. It was as bad as it had been all those years ago. Why had he hired her? She might have been left to torture all those poor souls at the boarding house and left him alone.

"No. No, I'm not actually."

"Don't be ridiculous. You have been out in the damp. This will help."

Hiring her had really been more like a whim. He'd bought a house in town and he needed someone to run it and, for some unknown reason...

"Are you still so foolish that you refuse help?" She held out the mug again.

He hoped Fletcher might help him here, but even he sidled past him, giving no aid.

Yes, Mrs. Stern might be a first-rate housekeeper, but she was not a first-rate nurse. He tried to close the door again.

Mrs. Stern stopped it again. "Do you wish to be confined to this room? Because I can make that happen..."

He took the mug. "Thanks. I'll have this after—"

"You will drink it now," she said, folding her arms and pushing past to door.

He groaned as he gripped it, reminding himself that she was actually a first-rate jailer and that he really had no choice...

Damn it all!

TBC