But pride didn’t see a belly filled or a family cared for. And since he’d taken on this venture, he’d had to rely on his brother Vail, the Baron Basingstoke, to help care for Catriona.
“Are you ready to talk about it?”
Colin stiffened. There it was, the debate his partner had raised a year ago. One that Colin had been resistant to engage in.
O’Toole dragged a chair closer to Colin’s desk and sat. “Birmingham,” he simply said.
He was already shaking his head. “We’ve already talked about Birmingham.” Ad nauseam. “We decided—”
“You decided London had more opportunities because of the population of the nobility, yes, yes. But I’m not talking Babcary, I’m talking Birmingham.” O’Toole spoke in a lower voice, placing a slight emphasis on that place in question. He didn’t allow Colin a chance to edge a word in. “There’s an investor there who wishes to meet you about the prospect of our moving our venture there.”
“No.”
O’Toole went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s the second-largest city in England. A metropolis defined by its large population and shopping and theater and arts—”
“What are you? A damned Oxford instructor or an investigator?” Colin shut the journal Catriona had purchased for him for his last birthday.
His partner—and friend—flashed a wry grin. “I’m a man of reason who is trying to convince you to, if not at least consider the decision, to see logic in it.”
“I have seen the logic,” he said, “in staying here. To leave now would be to quit before we’ve really given ourselves the time to succeed.” How could the other man not see as much?
“It’s all that makes sense, Colin,” his partner went on, returning to that same quiet insistence. “We cannot compete here.”
“That’s not true,” Colin said through tight teeth. “We are the best at what we do.” They had been. And they still would be. If they were presented with assignments where their skills could be properly put to use, then they’d gain the foothold they’d been trying to secure for the past three years now.
A sound of frustration left the other man. “Our skills don’t matter if we aren’t afforded the opportunities to use them. Just as our business can never have the fair shake because of our competition here.” O’Toole dragged the chair closer and rested an elbow on the side of the desk. “We cannot have it the both ways you want it—money and the cases you seek for our business. Sometimes you have to choose.”
And they were nearing the point where they had to.
O’Toole might as well have spoken the words out loud.
And yet, to leave would be to also leave behind the sister for whom he’d been responsible. The sister he’d had to leave in the care of his brother Vail, all while he’d set up his own business. If he left, he’d be leaving Catriona, as well as his found family, behind.
Leaving, as his father had done to pursue his own self-interests.
Wordlessly, O’Toole pushed Lady Holderness’s file across the desk.
Tamping down a growl, he swiped the folder up and came to his feet. Colin started across the room.
“I’m not saying you have to take on her assignments,” O’Toole called after him.
Connor yanked his cloak from the hook on the back of his door.
“I’m merely saying if you are unwilling to entertain moving our enterprise to Birmingham, well, then I can’t really see an alternative other than taking on the lady’s case.”
No, the options were limited and the choices even fewer.
And he knew it. He didn’t need O’Toole’s reminder for it either.
They had to come to a decision about their agency… and it was one he wasn’t yet ready to make.
Chapter 3
When Gillian Farendale had been a young girl, some of the village boys had called her trash and predicted she’d find herself in trouble for the company she kept.
And she discovered all these years later that Layton Langley, ironically, had been correct. Well, not about the trash part. She still didn’t, wouldn’t, and would never believe herself trash. But she had found herself in trouble.
Which was why she also found herself where she was now, where she’d been waiting for the better part of forty-five minutes. Pulling the deep hood of her cloak back a fraction, she consulted the clock hanging above the clerk’s desk. Nearly an hour now.
The young, bespectacled man at work must have sensed her focus on that timepiece. “I’ve told you before, ma’am,” he said, without bothering to pick up his head, “Mr. Lockhart is not expected to leave his office—”
“That is fine,” she interrupted, drawing her hood back into back into place. “I’ll wait.” Or continue to wait, as the case might be.
With a grunt, the clerk resumed scribbling away in his book. Folding her hands, Gillian looked around at Colin Lockhart’s sparse offices. But for the handful of row benches and chairs and the clerk’s chair, there was a sterility to the rooms. Not that she much considered herself one for decorating and redecorating, but she could do a deal better than this.
As if he felt her assessing stare, the clerk lifted a disapproving frown.
She met that scowl with a smile.
“Hmph,” he muttered and returned to his work.
Alas, if the annoyed young man wished to run her off with a disapproving look, he was destined to be disappointed. Between her mother and father, censorious glances were something Gillian had grown well accustomed to.
Of course, all their previous disappointments, however, would pale when presented with… this latest scandal.
Her stomach twisted, and she gripped the fabric of her black cloak.
Only… Was it really a scandal if no one knew about it? A panicky little giggle gurgled in her throat, earning yet another look from Mr. Angry Clerk. But she could not stifle the swarm of emotion. Scandals invariably came to light, and this was destined to be no different.
And in Gillian’s case, there was nowhere else for her to turn. Not at this time, anyway.
She had a sister and brother-in-law away in the country, suffering through a complicated confinement. A friend in Phoebe, the Marchioness of Rutland who was abroad with her family. Another friend, newly married, Francesca, who would never turn Gillian away, but she certainly didn’t need Gillian underfoot.
And there was of course, Honoria Fairfax. Honoria who’d been with her that night and whom Gillian had not been able to bring herself to face since. Because of the regret she carried. Because her friend had reservations before Gillian had convinced her to attend the masquerade…only to learn how very right the other woman had been.
And because of the shame. There was that, too.
Yes, she had those friends and knew they could and would listen and support her in anything and everything, but she couldn’t go to them.
Gillian troubled her lower lip. Of course, Colin Lockhart was a friend, too. Granted, she’d not seen him in twelve years, and they’d both been children at the time, but it was easier not to think of the years between them. Nay, it was a good deal better to remember their friendship, which if one wished to be truly precise, had in fact been longer than all the other ones she had with the ladies she’d met and become closest with in London.