“However,” the older man went on with a tenacity that even Malcom was hard-pressed not to admire, “there are certain responsibilities that come with your new station that cannot simply be left undecided, my lord.”
Shoving himself up with one arm, Malcom looped himself around, facing the opposite direction, giving both men his back. “And why not?”
That question was met with a shock of silence. And he could all but see the gears of the old servant’s mind as they came to a grinding halt. “Because . . . well . . . because you are the—”
Malcom swung himself around and leveled Sanders with a single dark look that brought him to silence once more.
Sanders set his folder down and stood. “Because you are the earl, Lord Maxwell. Whether you wish it or not . . .”
Not. He wished not, because in short . . . he wasn’t. He didn’t give a fucking damn what some detective with the same rotten birthright as himself had to say. He didn’t give a shite what the world wanted to believe—a story they craved as a diversion from their own miserable lives. The ton, bored with their tedious fucking lives. And the people here, dreaming of a way out. And then there was Malcom, who didn’t give a rot either way, because his life was his and he was content with it.
Malcom let himself drop; his feet hit the floor, and every muscle in his arms rejoiced at the cessation of his earlier efforts. “You indicated that you would see to everything.” When Sanders remained tight-lipped, only a guilty flush suffusing his cheeks, Malcom arched a brow. “Did you not?”
“Yes, and I’m quite capable of seeing after your affairs,” Sanders said stiffly. “All the ones that I am able. And yet, I’ve not the ability to make decisions for you. Now . . .” The stubborn servant picked up that stack of belongings he’d come in with and held them aloft. His arm wavered, and he let it drop to his side. “Unless you . . . cannot? In which case I’d be—”
Cursing, Malcom stomped over. He yanked the leather folio from his fingers.
Sanders hurriedly backed away.
Flipping open the file, he raked his gaze over the words there. A name jumped out, familiar. “Who the hell is Bolingbroke?” he snapped. Good God, what had become of his existence? His hours and days now spent sifting through details and information about some fancy lords.
“Bolingbroke . . . was in possession of your title before you were . . . found.”
“Found,” he muttered.
“Per your advice, I enacted the paperwork to begin securing all debts accrued while he’d been in possession, along with interest on items he purchased in your absence.”
He read through the neatly written notes about the gent. “And?” he prodded, increasingly impatient.
“And he’s recently married. As such, I expect we might collect sooner than anticipated. In which case, I require guidance on what you’d have me do with the collected funds.”
He caught the glint in the servant’s eyes and could almost pity Maxwell or Bolingbroke, or whatever the hell his name was, for having failed to see the ruthlessness that had been greater than any loyalty possessed by his servant. Trust was something Malcom would never give this man . . . or anyone. But the plan Sanders had hatched for collecting interest on top of everything else Bolingbroke had been required to turn over was a plan that made sense. If another tosher had come onto his territory and stolen from him, he’d do the same—take the stolen goods and then some for good measure. Taking in order to build a fortune and security was something he understood . . . and respected. And in short, it was why Malcom suffered through the servant’s company. He’d resumed reading when his gaze snagged on the lines in the middle of the page.
Country manor . . . Kent estate . . .
A throbbing pulsed at his temples.
Another echo.
Laughter. Whispering in his mind. Haunting.
“My . . . lord?” Sanders ventured, jarring Malcom to the present.
He snapped the file shut and tossed it to the servant, who caught the packet with a surprising alacrity. “Do you have the funds?”
“Do . . . I?”
Malcom swiped his hands down his face. Good God, the man was a damned parrot. Returning to the wood parallel bars, Malcom drew himself up and swung his legs forward. “Do. You. Have. The Funds. From Bolingbroke?” he added.
Understanding dawned in the older man’s eyes. “No. Not yet.”
“Then see me when you do, and I’ll determine what to do with them then. In the meantime, get the hell out.”
Scrambling, Sanders hastily gathered up his things and beat a retreat from the room.
As soon as he’d gone, Giles chuckled. Laughter. It was foreign in the Dials, and yet somehow the other man had retained the ability to do so. Unlike Malcom. The sound of mirth grated and marked a weakness in a person. “You’re fucking mad,” the other man called as Malcom brought his body in line with the parallel bars. Every muscle in his body quivered and screamed at the strain. “Do you know that?”
Given Malcom’s partner well knew the rules on interrupting his sessions, the charge could have been easily flipped. As it was, after ten years of working alongside one another, Giles had granted himself far greater familiarity and freedoms than any person unfortunate enough to have dealings with Malcom.
Maintaining his posture, Malcom kept his gaze fixated on the circular window that overlooked the streets of the Dials. Alas, he didn’t want that fortune Steele had come in here and dangled. He was content enough and didn’t need a single bit of what Connor Steele had said awaited him: not the land, not the fancy Mayfair townhouse.
His life was his own.
Resting a shoulder against the wall, the bastard watched on with entirely too much amusement in his eyes. “You’re the only bloody person in the whole of England to be sitting on a damned fortune and content to let it languish.”
“You know the rules on interrupting me.”
“Aye.” Giles flashed a wide grin. “And you know I don’t care.”
No, he didn’t.
It was an insolence Malcom didn’t tolerate in anyone else. Likely because there was an obstinacy to the other man he could relate to, and had since he’d come upon him nearly dead in the sewers of London.
“Answer me this . . . ,” the other man said, dropping into a chair and kicking his legs out.
“No.” He didn’t answer questions about himself. And not simply because there was no need for a person to know anything about him, which did hold true as well . . . Rather, it was because much of Malcom’s life was a mystery . . . even to him, and he preferred it that way.
“If you’ve no interest in that title or that life, why’ve you gone and hired yourself that bootlicker to see to those riches? To take more from the blighter who’s now out a title?”
Riches.
It was the correct word to describe the several hundred thousand pounds he’d inherited. And the countless pounds more sitting there in properties . . . properties all over England. Places he’d never been . . . and more . . . places he had no desire to be . . . Please, don’t. God, don’t . . . His own cries of long ago ricocheted in his mind until vomit churned in his belly. “What do you want?” he asked impatiently. “Don’t you have a sewer to see to?”