by Beers, Laura
“I assure you that you did not.”
“The Home Secretary is pleased with the success of this agency, even though it technically does not exist.” Lord Daniel’s lips twitched. “Furthermore, the Crown has successfully prosecuted many rebels over the years due to your investigations.”
Corbyn remained quiet as he let Lord Daniel speak.
“But I’m worried about you, Corbyn.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“All you do is work,” Lord Daniel said.
“I know what is expected of me.”
Lord Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. “We have another problem,” he stated. “A Mr. Bailey came to see me a few days ago. You may not be aware, but he is one of the shareholders at the Bank of England.”
“I see.”
“They have seen a growing number of counterfeit banknotes in the last few months, and it is growing rather worrisome.”
“Forgery is a common crime and can be a capital offense, depending on the circumstances of the crime,” Corbyn said. “Most people arrested for forgery can plea for a lesser offense.”
“They still get transported out of the country for fourteen years.”
“As well they should,” Corbyn said. “They willingly broke the law.”
“Regardless, more of these forged banknotes are making their way through the shops and back into the hands of the bank,” Lord Daniel shared. “The bank hired the Bow Street Runners—”
“That was their first mistake,” Corbyn remarked, cutting him off. “Everyone knows that Bow Street Runners are incompetent at best.”
Lord Daniel gave him a frustrated look. “Not all Bow Street Runners are incompetent.”
“Most are.”
“Your past is blinding you from reality,” Lord Daniel remarked.
Corbyn huffed. “I don’t believe that to be the case,” he contested. “I have had many run-ins with Bow Street Runners over the years, and they have always proven themselves to be utterly useless.”
Lord Daniel frowned. “Regardless, you are to meet with a Mr. Guy Stewart.”
Corbyn groan. “Mr. Stewart is a fine example of a worthless Bow Street Runner.”
“Are you acquainted with him?”
“I am,” Corbyn shared. “One of my agents unwittingly got caught in a trap that was laid by Mr. Stewart.”
“Is that so?”
Corbyn nodded. “Mr. Stewart organized a radical group and enticed a bunch of schoolboys to join. Then, he had them arrested when they attended the meeting and collected the blood money.”
“That is most unfortunate, but Mr. Stewart didn’t do anything illegal.”
“No, but it makes our job of finding radical groups that pose a true threat to the Crown that much harder.”
“I have been told that Mr. Stewart is a competent Runner by the Bow Street magistrate, and I am inclined to believe his word.” Lord Daniel gave him a pointed look. “I just want you to meet with Mr. Stewart and see if they have any leads on the case.”
Realizing he was fighting a losing battle, Corbyn conceded. “As you wish.”
Lord Daniel nodded approvingly. “You are to meet him at Hyde Park today at noon. He will be waiting for you on a bench near Hyde Park Corner.”
“Am I expected to work with him on the case?”
“Yes,” Lord Daniel replied. “It is to be a joint investigation, for now.”
“That is a terrible idea.”
“Do not botch this assignment, Corbyn,” Lord Daniel pressed. “Need I remind you what is at stake?”
“No, you do not.”
“Good, because our entire economy will suffer tremendously if these forged notes continue to arrive at the Bank of England.”
“I understand.”
Lord Daniel seemed to study him for a moment. “Go home and see your father,” he encouraged.
“I will, eventually.”
“You don’t want to wait too long.”
“I am well aware.”
Lord Daniel pressed his lips together in disapproval. “I know there is some animosity between you and your father—”
Corbyn huffed loudly. “That is an understatement.”
“But he is still your father,” Lord Daniel pressed. “He wants what all parents want for their children.”
“Which is?”
“For their children to be better than they were.”
Corbyn shook his head. “My father just wants to control me.”
“But he hasn’t succeeded in that regard,” Lord Daniel remarked, giving him a knowing look, “has he?”
“Thankfully, no.”
Lord Daniel gave him a look that could only be construed as compassion. “Just think on what I said,” he urged. “You don’t want to miss out on your chance to say goodbye.”
Corbyn lowered himself onto the chair as he pondered Lord Daniel’s remarks. It might be time for him to return home to say his final goodbyes.
Lord Daniel tipped his head. “I will see myself out, but I want to be kept abreast of your investigation.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Lord Daniel left his study, Corbyn picked up a missive off the pile of correspondence, but he found he had little interest in reading the paper. His appointment with the Bow Street Runner was in a few hours, allowing him ample time to visit with his father.
Furthermore, he had no doubt that his mother would be pleased to see him, and he had promised her that he would visit soon. He would hate to break that promise.
Coming to a decision, he returned the missive to the pile and rose.
“Rudd!” Corbyn shouted.
A moment later, his steadfast butler appeared in the doorway. “Yes, milord?”
“Will you ensure the coach is brought out front?” he asked. “I intend to visit my father.”
“As you wish,” his butler replied before he departed to do his bidding.
Corbyn stared out the window as the sun slowly rose in the sky, illuminating the morning fog that lingered in the gardens. He hoped it wasn’t too early for him to call. He had no doubt that his mother would be awake. She had always been an early riser, much like him.
He let out a sigh. He would know soon enough if visiting his father was a mistake.
Chapter Nine
Corbyn stared up at his family’s townhouse on Grosvenor Street. He debated about ending this madness and returning to his office. Uneasiness swelled within him at the mere thought of conversing with his father.
“It’s better if I get this over with,” he muttered.
He walked towards the ebony door, which was promptly opened by the short, aging butler. Mott had been with the family for as long as he could remember.
“Good morning, milord,” Mott greeted warmly. “Welcome home.”
Corbyn tipped his head in acknowledgement as he stepped into the expansive entry hall, breathing in the familiar scent. His eyes roamed the black and white tiles that ran the length of the hall and the blue-papered walls. “It’s good to be home,” he lied. “Is my mother available?”
“Yes, she is in the breakfast parlor with Lord Shipston.”
“Very good.”
“Would you care for me to announce you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Corbyn replied, the heel of his boots clipping along the tile floor as he headed towards the parlor.
His brother was sitting at the head of the table, reading a newspaper, his mother sitting to the right of him.
She gasped when she saw him. “Evan!” she said. “You came home.”
“I did,” he acknowledged as he walked further into the room.
Simon lowered a corner of the newspaper and offered him a cynical look. “It’s about time you showed up.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy.”
“Aren’t we all?” Simon scoffed, bringing the paper back up.
His mother smiled tenderly at him. “Would you care for something to eat?” she asked, gesturing towards the buffe
t table.
“I believe I would.” He stepped to the buffet table and a footman extended him a plate. After he served himself, he sat next to his mother.
She shifted in her seat to face him. “How are you this morning?”
“I am well.”
“You picked a good day to visit.”
“Why is that?”
“I checked in on your father this morning, and he was alert and attentive when I spoke to him,” she revealed.
“That is wonderful news,” Corbyn said as he picked up his fork.
Simon spoke over the top of the newspaper. “Have you decided to return home and do your duty?”
“I am doing my duty by working at the Home Office.”
“Bah,” Simon said. “You will never accomplish anything working as a lowly employee.”
“I disagree.”
Simon was about to object when his mother interjected, “Boys, please. I would prefer if you didn’t fight right now.”
“As you wish,” Simon muttered, returning his attention back to the newspaper.
Silence descended over them as Corbyn ate. As he wiped the sides of his mouth with a napkin, his mother asked, “Are you ready to go speak to your father?”
“I suppose I am.”
His mother rose, and he promptly followed suit. “I am so glad you came,” she said, “and I have no doubt that your father will be happy to see you.”
“Frankly, I doubt it, Mother,” he replied. “We have been at odds with each other for quite some time now.”
“But you must forgive each other before it is too late,” she pressed.
Simon huffed. “I don’t see Father forgiving Evan anytime soon for what he has done.”
His mother shot Simon a frustrated look. “It’s different now that your father recognizes he doesn’t have much time left.”
“Is it?” Simon questioned. “If anything, Father has become more set in his ways.”
Corbyn tugged down on his grey jacket. “Regardless, I have come to speak to him.”
“Which I am most grateful for,” his mother declared. “I’ll walk with you to his bedchamber.”
He offered his arm to his mother and led her from the parlor. As they stepped into the hall, his mother lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t give Simon’s words any heed.”
“Why is that?”
“He is under tremendous pressure right now managing the duchy,” she shared.
“I can imagine.”
“All the more reason for you to return home and help him with all his properties and investments.”
“I’m sorry, but that isn’t likely to happen.”
Her voice grew soft, resigned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your reasons, but I must come to accept them.”
“Thank you, Mother.” They started walking up the stairs. “May I ask where Catherine is?”
“She takes a tray in her room every morning.” His mother glanced over her shoulder. “Sadly, Catherine and Simon hardly spend any time together.”
“Is that so?” Corbyn asked.
“Catherine feels immense guilt for not being able to give Simon an heir, and Simon has started spending more time with his mistress across Town.”
Corbyn frowned. “Have you spoken to Simon about his disreputable behavior?”
“I’ve tried, but he doesn’t see his actions as disreputable.”
“How could he not?”
She pressed her lips together. “I daresay your father has had his share of mistresses over the years.”
“That doesn’t make it right, Mother.”
“I know.” She stopped in front of a door. “Would you like me to go in with you?”
“I would prefer to speak to him alone, assuming you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” his mother said, taking a step back. “I wish you luck.”
Corbyn knocked on the door.
“Enter,” he heard his father say.
He gave his mother an encouraging smile before he opened the door. The room was dimly lit, as the drapes were closed, and a musty odor hung in the air. A small fire crackled in the hearth.
When his father saw him, he attempted to sit up in his bed.
“Do not tax yourself on my account, Father,” Corbyn said, stepping closer to the bed.
“Nonsense,” his father replied as he rested his back against the wall, his breathing labored. “It is the least I can do, since you traveled all the way to visit with me.”
Corbyn sat down on a chair next to the bed. “How are you faring?”
“Not well,” he stated. “I am dying, Son.”
Unsure of what to say, he remained silent as his eyes roamed over his father’s thin face, noting how sunken in his cheeks were, and saw the dark circles under his tired eyes.
“I’m afraid that I don’t have much time left, and we don’t have any further time for your games,” his father remarked curtly.
“Games?”
His father nodded. “It is time for you to return home and claim your inheritance.”
“Father…”
His father held up his hand, stilling his words. “You did your duty once when you joined the army, but you squandered that opportunity.”
“I did not squander that opportunity,” Corbyn argued.
“You were only in the army for a few years before you were discharged.”
“I was honorably discharged so I could work for the Home Office.”
His father huffed. “Which is a waste, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you, Father,” he said, his voice rising.
“You are the son of a duke,” his father declared. “You have the responsibility of carrying on our family’s legacy.”
“That is why you have Simon. He is your heir, not me.” Corbyn worked hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
His father harrumphed. “Simon chose poorly, and his wife can’t bear him any children. She has failed him in that regard.”
“There is still time.”
“It has been five years!” His father started coughing and wheezing. He reached for a glass of water on the table next to the bed. After taking a sip, he returned the glass to the table and continued. “Most likely, you will someday become the Duke of Weatherby.”
“That is not a title that I aspire to.”
“And yet, you will inherit it.” His father eyed him closely. “Come home and help Simon with the duchy.”
“He has a man of business for that.”
“That may be true, but Simon is not very clever. He has made some poor decisions these past few months,” his father revealed. “You have a keen intellect and always excelled in your studies. Your brother needs your help.”
“I will be happy to help him in any way that I can, but I will not quit my post at the Home Office.”
“And why is that?”
“I am happy there.”
His father ran a hand over his white hair. “I made some inquiries, and Lord Daniel Bradley informed me that you only hold a lowly position there.”
“That may be true, but—”
His father continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your monthly allowance is more than what you make in a whole year at the Home Office.”
“I don’t work at the Home Office for the money,” Corbyn said. “I am working there to keep England safe.”
“Yet you left the army?”
“I did.”
“Most men of your station make a career out of it, but you couldn’t be bothered to do so,” his father said. “Instead, you embarrassed this family by going to work at the Home Office, like some type of commoner.”
“I assure you that it is not a stain on our family’s legacy.”
“I disagree.”
Corbyn leaned back in his chair. “I did not come here to fight with you, Father.”
“No?” his father asked. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“Frankly, I hoped we could have a civil conversation.�
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His father pursed his lips together. “I just don’t understand why you won’t do your duty to this family.”
Corbyn rose. “It might be best if I depart now.”
“Don’t go yet,” his father said hoarsely.
Corbyn slowly returned to his chair. “And why is that?”
“This may very well be the last time we speak to each other.”
“I hope not.”
“As do I, but I do want you to promise that you will look after your mother when I am gone.”
Corbyn nodded. “That is something I can promise, Father.”
“I am pleased to hear it, because marrying your mother was the only thing I did right in my life.”
“Is that so?”
“I have made some stupid choices over the years, but your mother has always remained by my side,” his father said. “Which is what I want for you.”
Corbyn frowned at the direction this conversation was heading. “I have no designs for matrimony at this time.”
“You need to change that.”
“I have yet to meet someone who has piqued my interest,” Corbyn lied. He held a fondness for Lady Jane, but he couldn’t very well admit that to his father.
“You will, someday, and it is important that you choose wisely, especially since this woman will most likely become your duchess and bear your children.”
“Catherine is still young and has many childbearing years ahead of her,” Corbyn attempted.
His father waved his hand dismissively. “I do not wish to speak about Catherine anymore. She has failed this family, as you are doing.”
Corbyn rose. “And with that sentiment, I feel it is time for me to depart.”
“Will you return soon to speak to me?” his father asked hopefully.
It was on the tip of Corbyn’s tongue to refuse him, but he knew he couldn’t deny his father this simple request. “Yes. I will come by at my earliest convenience.”
His father offered him a strained smile, looking somewhat vulnerable. “That pleases me.”
“Goodbye, Father.”
“Goodbye, Son.”
Corbyn walked over to the door. As he stepped into the hallway, he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving his father in his condition. But he had work that he needed to see to.
Jane turned a page of her book and attempted to ignore her mother chatting with Madalene and Emmeline. She had no desire to speak about Percy, but her mother was rather insistent on the subject.