Devon did not answer that pointless question.
George grunted. “Course he is, Art. Why else would he be asking?”
“But he’s… Devon.”
Devon leaned forward, every muscle taut. “What does that mean, Brother?”
“You’ve never asked before. Didn’t know you had an interest.”
“Oh.” Wasn’t as bad as Devon had thought it might be. No insult intended. Arthur spoke truth. “I’m showing an interest now. Which ones do I make, how do I make them, and how long does it take to pay out?”
“If you need money, you know—”
“No.”
“Of course not.” Arthur snapped the words like brittle twigs between his teeth. “You’ll have a wife, Devon. In a month’s time, apparently. What will you do with her? Will she live with you in that dingy one-room affair I know you keep?”
Devon turned to the window. He couldn’t take Lillian there, no. Damn. Another expense.
“Just use your inheritance.” Arthur’s voice had softened. “You’ve not touched it once, and it’s accruing money. You’re very well off.”
“No.”
George stood and waved a footman over. “Tea.”
“And coffee,” Devon added.
The footman set off, and George sat back down. “Listen, Devon, I have a fellow who invests for me. Reliable and intelligent. Trustworthy. I can introduce the two of you.”
“You are a gentleman among swine, my dear friend.” Devon cut his eyes to his brother at the porcine part of the sentence to make it clear what he thought of his brother.
“There’s always the funds,” Arthur added, apparently deciding to be helpful and deciding to ignore Devon’s insult. “But you must invest a hefty amount in order to see results.” He narrowed his eyes. “Which you would be able to do if you only—”
“No.” Devon made sure the single word held a wealth of merriment and cheer.
“The problem is,” George said, “that if you hope to make a significant amount of money in a month’s time, you’re likely to be disappointed. Especially if you do not have much to invest to begin with.”
“What do you want it for, anyway?” Arthur asked. “Why this sudden interest?”
This is where he was supposed to reveal his plans for Frederick’s, but the words caught in his throat. No, they never got that high. He held his secret tight in his fists, and he could not open his hands, palm up, to his perfect brother, and show him all. Arthur would not understand. He would think Devon was playing some game, pretending, after a lark, like the ladies in Hatchard’s thought.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
“I just… do.” Nothing he’d ever said had sounded as flighty “second son” as that. He slouched into his chair, brought low with a growl of frustration. “You know I wish to make my own way, but it’s deuced difficult doing so. And now I will have a wife to care for. Living on a hundred pounds a year of what I am able to earn myself has never proved an issue, but now…” Now he had a fiancée who was used to more, and he wanted to give it to her.
“Devon.” Arthur leaned toward Devon, propping his elbows on his knees. “I admire your desire to live by your own means. I do. But it is no shame to accept help. If you will not use your inheritance, what if I offer you a loan? You can pay me back.”
George slapped his knee. “Excellent idea, Art.”
Devon stood. “No. Thank you, Arthur, but no. Thank you both for your insight. I’ll figure it out.” He wandered away from them with no clear direction. He’d told Lillian he’d visit today and speak with her father about moving the date of the wedding up.
One month.
He needed more time. He’d been thinking with his cock last night and not his brain. Now that he had put some cold distance between himself and Lillian, his brain had taken back over, and Arthur and George had knocked some sense into him.
The long hallway he walked down was abandoned, though on either side of him he heard the echoes of muffled voices. Not alone but alone, how he often felt. His steps stopped, and he leaned against a wall, his back hitting it with a rattle and a huff leaving his lungs. He reached into his jacket pocket, the one inside his waistcoat close to his heart, and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper there. He read the letter once more. It was tearing apart at the edge where it had been folded and refolded, and he unfolded it carefully. Soon it would be bits and pieces. He did not need the actual document to know the words written there. Yet, he set his eyes on the parchment once more. There was something about the loopy scrawl he liked. Some days it inflamed him, and others it comforted.
This entire mess was her fault, and so he decided to be a bit inflamed by the words. However, try as he might, he could not see the ones that usually stroked his ire. All he saw were the ones that made him feel like a man with potential, like a man worth the world’s attention.
