Chapter 1
“They said we’d find him at the sign of the barber’s pole.”
“The barber’s pole with two wash balls at the bottom? An appropriate sign for his line of work.”
The two men guffawed like schoolboys and gripped their trousers. They hovered at the entrance of the barber’s shop on Fetter Lane as if terrified that coming any further would cause the forfeiture of a good molar to the tooth-pulling prowess of Mr. Rymer, said barber.
From his rented office in the back of the barber shop, Lord Edward Richard Stone watched the men. He turned the pages of the gazette he’d been reading and sipped his weak tea, obscured from view by a fabric panel that marked the boundaries of his very modest place of business.
What business did a Marquess’s second son have with business, you ask? It was a long tale, and one he preferred not to dwell on — although he seemed to be the only one in London with those sentiments.
“They say he refused to execute a lad for desertion on the eve of Waterloo. Was saved from the firing line himself by his Papa,” said one of the young blades, making his way towards the back of the shop.
“Imagine if every army captain was that soft-hearted. We’d likely be under the heel of Boney now!”
Lord Edward rose from his seat, preparing to greet the fops.
“If I were on the battlefield with Wellington, I’d have been a true asset, never questioning—”
The young man ran into a solid wall, which turned out to be Lord Edward’s chest.
“Beg your pardon. We’re looking for Dick Stone,” he said.
“Are you now?” drawled Lord Edward, not so removed from his aristocratic upbringing that he couldn’t sneer with the best of them.
“Oh, I hope you aren’t sore about what we said on the way back here,” said the other man, his eyes widening when he caught sight of Lord Edward’s face. “What he said.” The gent gestured to his friend, ready to betray him after just one raised eyebrow.
“What brings you here, lads?” asked Edward.
“See here, we’re not lads,” said the first gent, puffing up with his own importance.
His mate grabbed him by the sleeve. “Hold on there, Jack. We’re here to plead our case.”
The young buck quickly reconsidered and took a different tack. “You’re Lord Edward Stone. Is it true what they say about you?”
Edward reflected on all that could be said about him, true and untrue, and merely stared at the young man.
“Well, it’s just that our good mate—”
“Our best mate—”
“Yes, our best mate, Charley, got saddled with a bride. Quite a bad business.”
“Drunk for days. Despairing.”
“Yes, so he finally agreed to the marriage to wrap up the whole wretched mess, and what does his father do next?”
“Demands an heir of the cursed union.”
Lord Edward let them talk. He estimated they were in their early twenties and Lord Something or Honorable Something by their general air of entitlement.
They were running out of their entitlement to his time.
“I wish him luck,” said Lord Edward, gesturing to the main area of the barbershop so they could leave his small office and get on with talking elsewhere. He had lonely heart ads to review.
“Well, that’s the thing. He’s going to need more than luck, our Charley. He’s going to need a baby.”
Edward froze. Ahh. Now they were coming to the crux of the matter.
“And why are you here rather than perusing the stock at the local orphanage?” asked Edward.
“We obviously can’t just drop off a brat. His father would never go for that, and he needs that income to support his household! And his racehorses!”
“His Papa has always been a real rigid sort. So I think you know what we’re asking?”
Edward tapped his fingers on the gazette, waiting for these young fools to stop wasting his time.
The fools exchanged glances. The bolder of the two said, “We were hoping you might fuck his wife.”
The other drew forth a bag of what sounded like coins. “We can pay.”