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Garrison took his large leather seat behind his large leather-inlaid desk, both poised before the large picture windows looking out onto the mews, and grinned like it was Christmas. He opened a drawer and pulled out a document on rich vellum. He slapped it onto the desktop, twisted it around, and slid it with steepled fingers toward Grant.

Garrison had more dramatic flourish in the nail of his littlest finger than most folks possessed in their entire bodies. And he always deployed it, no matter the occasion.

Grant leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. He whistled. “That’s a fancy bit of paper there. What is it? You being knighted?”

“Pick it up, son. Read it.”

Grant didn’t want to. Something in the thick parchment winked at him like a knife point, hissed at him like a waiting snake. He reached for it, though, caution in every muscle. The vellum, smooth between his fingers, didn’t bite or prick.

Harmless. It let the words bled in black ink across its surface deliver the killing blow. He stood slowly, reading it through again, each word building a brick wall in his brain. By the time he’d reached the end of a third read through, he could barely feel the fingers that held the vellum tightly.

He waved it between them. “What is this?”

“You read as well as me, Grant.”

“It seems to be a business agreement. And my name is on it.”

“You always have been sharp, my boy.” A hint of sarcasm and a deluge of pride. “It’s time for this.” He flicked a pair of wire spectacles across the table. “Can’t see like I used to. Still creative as ever. But I need help with the other bits these days. Can’t trust anyone to understand this place the way I do. Except for you.”

Grant sank back into his chair, tossing the contract to the desk. “Me? I’m nothing more than a body. A pair of legs on top of a horse. A mane of golden hair to swish about. A cock to—”

“Don’t be vulgar.” Garrison sniffed like a dowager.

“I wasn’t born for more than that. Vulgarity, the baseness of the body. Not a one of my bones is knit for business.” They were knit to be broken, just like every other performer here. Some suffered lightly—aches and pains until they retired, a dislocated shoulder here, a broken leg there. Others paid higher prices—broken necks and skulls trampled by horse hooves. He’d been lucky so far, but if his father, the greatest trick rider in history, hadn’t survived his trade, why would Grant?

Garrison slammed his fist on the desktop. “Nonsense! Absolute hogwash. I had you educated just as well as any toff. Better because I showed you the business world, too, how to stay flush and do better for yourself, for all those who rely on ya.” He turned away from Grant. “Bah. No one thinks you incapable of this but you.”

“I’m sorry, Garrison, but—”

“What would your father say, Grant?”

Unfair blow, that.

Grant tipped his chair onto its back legs and balanced there. “He’s been dead these last thirty years, so I couldn’t say.” Broken neck. Trampled skull.

“And he died refusing to listen to his body when it told him to stop. Will you do the same? I saw you wobble tonight. Last night, you couldn’t stop rolling your shoulder after the second act. Last week, you monopolized Dr. Monroe because of your knee. If you’re a body only, Grant, you’re near the end of your usefulness.”

Grant shrugged. He’d go down the same way his father had, in the ring, doing what he did best, doing the only thing he was good for—performing.

“Sorry, Garrison. I’ve no interest in a partnership. Ask Max.”

“Max is a viscount with a wife to tend to. Likely a babe soon enough. He writes articles for the sports pages. Has too much to do already. No.” Garrison stood and shuffled around the desk. “I refuse to hear a rejection from you. Not yet. You’re perfect for the position. You’ve independent funds to invest in improvements if you like, and those inventor friends of yours to think up new gadgets for training, staging, lighting, sleight of hand. You name it.”

“I can access those things without accepting your offer.”

“That’s not the point. You have the type of mind perfect for this work. Trust me. I’d not offer you the position if I didn’t think you could do it. I’ll not accept your ‘no’ today. You think on it.” He opened the door, stood to the side. No expectation other than that Grant leave. And think on it.

“Very well.” With one last glance at the vellum laying on the desk like a hunting trap waiting to snap its jaws around Grant’s leg, he rose and left the room. Too bad Garrison used his money and friends against him. Not his fault he was an orphan and a bastard. Not his fault his father had left him a large inheritance. And not his fault he’d amassed a collection of science-minded friends. He should never have brought them round to fashion Max’s elevated stage used in the final act of the show.

Garrison’s office door banged closed behind him like a gunshot, and Grant grumbled down the hallways until he found his dressing room.

Found it crowded, too.

He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. “Damn, Max. You take up all the space.”

Max laid on the small settee in the corner, his knees bending over the edge. “You should get bigger furniture. When do I get my own dressing room? Or one for Nora and I to share?” He pushed his body upward until he sat.

“As soon as you outearn me, my friend. Soon by the looks of it.” Max grinned, rubbed his hands together. “You have plans for this dressing room.”