a moment to recognize Paul Fines. The
younger man removed his fashionable tall hat as he entered the room, his golden
hair gleaming like a new guinea. As usual, Paul wore impeccably tailored
clothes, with not a wrinkle to be found on his dove-grey coat and trousers. A
complicated cravat grazed his chin. His waistcoat was yellow, and a bloom of that
same shade bobbed cheerfully in his buttonhole.
"I
thought I would find you here, Morgan," Paul said. "Working too hard
as usual. Can't be a good sign that you're conversing with yourself."
Nicholas
gathered his wits behind a mocking expression. "I'm surprised to see you,
Fines. It is not yet noon. I thought you fashionable fellows refused to rise
during the light of day."
"Oh,
I haven't risen yet," Paul responded, "for I haven't yet to bed."
Nicholas
grunted. He loved Paul like a brother (albeit a younger, spoiled sibling), but
he would never understand how the man could live the way he did, sleeping all
day, carousing all night. He and Paul could not be more different. As Jeremiah's
only son, Paul had been doted upon since birth. He lived the life of rich,
middle class leisure—that is to say, he lived idly and with considerable
indulgence.
Paul flicked
a glance over the utilitarian room. "I see not much has changed since my
last visit. More's the pity." Picking a stack of ledgers up off a chair, he
deposited the papers unceremoniously upon the threadbare carpet. He shuddered
when a puff of dust rose in reply. "Good God, man, now that you're the Marquess
of such and such, shouldn't your office befit your title? Where are the velvet
pillows with the embroidered crests? The gilded cherubs? The droves of footmen
bearing champagne?"
"It
is the footmen's year off." Nicholas went to the washstand. The icy splash
of water felt good, purifying, and returned him fully to the present. Feeling
the rough growth of his morning beard, he reached for shaving implements. "Unlike
you, I have obligations in life and greater concerns than the decoration of my office."
Paul's
expression turned knowing. "Ah, the obligations of a newlywed."
The
iniquities he'd performed with the harlot assailed Nicholas, spilled acid over
his insides. All you've done is prove that you're not good enough for Helena — that
you never were. Looking into the cracked mirror above the washstand, he
forced himself to continue shaving.
"That
is not what I meant." He cut through the soap in quick, economic strokes. "I
have simply been busy. We had a large shipment in yesterday."
Paul
withdrew a large handkerchief and placed it carefully upon the chair before
seating himself. "Shouldn't you have your valet doing that for you? You
might cut a vein, and you know how I abhor the sight of blood."
"If
you're afraid of bloodshed, I take it you wouldn't care to join me in the ring?"
Nicholas raised a brow in challenge. To his mind, there was no better way to blow
off steam than with his fists. He'd had a boxing ring custom built in the
adjoining antechamber—the one luxury he'd allowed himself since taking the reins
of Fines and Co. "How about going a round or two, eh?"
"Good
God, Morgan, at this uncivilized hour?" Paul rolled his eyes. "I have
a better idea. I am headed to Long Meg's, and you shall join me."
Sighing,
Nicholas wiped off his jaw. He finished dressing with the efficiency of a man
who'd seen to his own needs for most his life. As he was already behind
schedule, it was on his tongue to refuse Paul's invitation, but his stomach
growled. "A cup of coffee wouldn't hurt, I suppose."
"Excellent.
No one brews the stuff like Long Meg." Paul eyed Nicholas' completed
ensemble with something akin to horror. "Do tell me you are not prepared
to leave the room dressed like that."
"We
do not all aspire to be dandies," Nicholas said, scowling. "Some of
us have more pressing matters to attend to than the style of our cravat. Like
the running of a business, for example."
Since
this was a running source of banter between
younger man removed his fashionable tall hat as he entered the room, his golden
hair gleaming like a new guinea. As usual, Paul wore impeccably tailored
clothes, with not a wrinkle to be found on his dove-grey coat and trousers. A
complicated cravat grazed his chin. His waistcoat was yellow, and a bloom of that
same shade bobbed cheerfully in his buttonhole.
"I
thought I would find you here, Morgan," Paul said. "Working too hard
as usual. Can't be a good sign that you're conversing with yourself."
Nicholas
gathered his wits behind a mocking expression. "I'm surprised to see you,
Fines. It is not yet noon. I thought you fashionable fellows refused to rise
during the light of day."
"Oh,
I haven't risen yet," Paul responded, "for I haven't yet to bed."
Nicholas
grunted. He loved Paul like a brother (albeit a younger, spoiled sibling), but
he would never understand how the man could live the way he did, sleeping all
day, carousing all night. He and Paul could not be more different. As Jeremiah's
only son, Paul had been doted upon since birth. He lived the life of rich,
middle class leisure—that is to say, he lived idly and with considerable
indulgence.
Paul flicked
a glance over the utilitarian room. "I see not much has changed since my
last visit. More's the pity." Picking a stack of ledgers up off a chair, he
deposited the papers unceremoniously upon the threadbare carpet. He shuddered
when a puff of dust rose in reply. "Good God, man, now that you're the Marquess
of such and such, shouldn't your office befit your title? Where are the velvet
pillows with the embroidered crests? The gilded cherubs? The droves of footmen
bearing champagne?"
"It
is the footmen's year off." Nicholas went to the washstand. The icy splash
of water felt good, purifying, and returned him fully to the present. Feeling
the rough growth of his morning beard, he reached for shaving implements. "Unlike
you, I have obligations in life and greater concerns than the decoration of my office."
Paul's
expression turned knowing. "Ah, the obligations of a newlywed."
The
iniquities he'd performed with the harlot assailed Nicholas, spilled acid over
his insides. All you've done is prove that you're not good enough for Helena — that
you never were. Looking into the cracked mirror above the washstand, he
forced himself to continue shaving.
"That
is not what I meant." He cut through the soap in quick, economic strokes. "I
have simply been busy. We had a large shipment in yesterday."
Paul
withdrew a large handkerchief and placed it carefully upon the chair before
seating himself. "Shouldn't you have your valet doing that for you? You
might cut a vein, and you know how I abhor the sight of blood."
"If
you're afraid of bloodshed, I take it you wouldn't care to join me in the ring?"
Nicholas raised a brow in challenge. To his mind, there was no better way to blow
off steam than with his fists. He'd had a boxing ring custom built in the
adjoining antechamber—the one luxury he'd allowed himself since taking the reins
of Fines and Co. "How about going a round or two, eh?"
"Good
God, Morgan, at this uncivilized hour?" Paul rolled his eyes. "I have
a better idea. I am headed to Long Meg's, and you shall join me."
Sighing,
Nicholas wiped off his jaw. He finished dressing with the efficiency of a man
who'd seen to his own needs for most his life. As he was already behind
schedule, it was on his tongue to refuse Paul's invitation, but his stomach
growled. "A cup of coffee wouldn't hurt, I suppose."
"Excellent.
No one brews the stuff like Long Meg." Paul eyed Nicholas' completed
ensemble with something akin to horror. "Do tell me you are not prepared
to leave the room dressed like that."
"We
do not all aspire to be dandies," Nicholas said, scowling. "Some of
us have more pressing matters to attend to than the style of our cravat. Like
the running of a business, for example."
Since
this was a running source of banter between
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