Chapter 3 - William
CHAPTER THREE- WILLIAM
ONE YEAR PRIOR
William Isaac Preston sat on a balcony overlooking the shimmering sea.
He wore loose linen trousers tied at the waist, covered only by a cotton robe.
Perhaps such a casual ensemble would have been shocking, even in the privacy of his former home in London.
However, he was a world away from Mayfair, and though it was still early morning, the sun had just completed its rise.
It now bore down on the landscape like a bulldog-faced governess.
William always woke early, a persistent habit that lingered from his days as a lowly sailor. Not even the most luxurious of feather beds could pamper the routine from him. Thankfully, his view—and the smell—had much improved since he’d shared a cramped berth with seven other sailors.
His home faced the water, but it was far from the port where his fortunes ebbed and flowed along with the tide.
Mirya Bay was a natural inlet approximately one hundred miles south of Bombay.
The water shimmered as if a thousand gold coins floated just below the surface.
The landscape was lush and vibrant, with steep green hills that plunged to meet the water.
If it weren’t for the Coucals sounding their low call over the water and the balmy humidity cast into his face like a lover’s exhale, he might have imagined he was in Ireland.
His manservant, Abeer, stepped out onto the patio behind him and set a tray at his side. “Breakfast and news, my lord.”
As was customary in the mornings, William consumed tea, eggs, and some kind of meat.
This morning, it looked to be a thick slice of ham.
Along with that, he was to digest the news, both of the world in the form of whatever newspaper Abeer could scrounge, or, as it appeared today, news of his business, which had arrived in various letters and correspondence.
William blinked at the single plate upon the tray. “You aren’t joining me this morning?”
Abeer shook his dark head and poured William’s tea, adding cream and sugar as he preferred. “Some of us have real jobs, my lord, where we have actual work to do. Not that scribbling upon parchment that you like to call business.”
William chuckled. “It’s that scribbling that pays your wages.”
“Then I’d encourage you to scribble more, my lord.”
He grinned. “Do I not pay you enough?”
“I fear I’ve fallen in love again. And you know the old saying—you always pay more for beauty.”
“One might argue that if it’s love, you shouldn’t be paying at all.”
“A figure of speech, as you well know. I’m handsome enough that I’ve never had to stoop to that.”
William thought Abeer was handsome enough, though he wouldn’t consider himself an expert on the subject.
He was shorter than William, and lither, but he had a thick head of dark hair and intelligent brown eyes and skin as tan and smooth as the tea in William’s cup.
He’d kept his trim figure from all those years of climbing the rigging, and he certainly never had difficulty finding a lady to spend time with.
“I thought love was supposed to be a little more constant.” William chuckled into his tea cup. “How many has it been this year? Three? Four?”
Abeer set to organizing the stack of papers and letters he’d brought with him. “At least I have the courage to search, my lord.”
“Which is why you find so many.”
“I’m a romantic. I’m looking for my one true love. As you should.”
“Why would I look for something I don’t want? I wish for a wife like I wish for an endless monsoon.”
“You say that now. But you know as well as I that you could marry within the month if you wished. I have to use my charm and intelligence to attract the ladies; I cannot rely on a grand home and an endless bank account to do the lion’s share of the wooing for me.”
“And yet, you’re asking for a raise—from me—to help lure the ladies in, are you not? So perhaps this new flower of yours is being wooed by my bank account, after all.”
“I deserve a raise just to put up with you, my lord.”
William chuckled. This was a regular, comfortable exchange between them.
They’d been friends since they’d worked together on a pattamar off the Indian coast many years ago.
When William started his company, he’d asked Abeer to join him.
Even though he was nearly broke and his future uncertain, Abeer had agreed.
“You make an excellent wage, and you know it,” William argued. “Especially considering the amount of your abuse I take.”
“Are you saying you’d pay me better if I offered you honeyed words?” Abeer turned toward the door. “Because if that’s the case, you’re looking very robust and handsome today, my lord. Your skin isn’t nearly as pale and sickly as usual.”
“I’m English!” William called after him, but Abeer had retreated through the doorway, a rude noise his only retort.
William shook his head, then tucked into his breakfast with a ruthless efficiency that spoke of the many times he’d been called from a meal by the bells which ruled a sailor’s life at sea. Then he turned toward his mail.
Abeer had sorted them in William's preferred manner, from least interesting to most, so that William might have some incentive to get through the stack. William read his letters one by one, neatly slicing them open with a jade knife that had been a gift from the Raja of Ramnad several years before.
The first few were weekly reports, and they said much of what William expected.
Business was progressing nicely. Granted, there were always problems—a riot in a distant city disrupted the supply line.
A worker's strike on a foreign dock required them to find a new route.
But all in all, things were precisely as they should be.
The last letter, however, was an odd one. William picked it up and frowned. He could easily see why Abeer had saved it as the most interesting. The handwriting was distinctly feminine, and it was addressed to William without his title, which suggested a personal connection.
Yet the letter itself had been routed by accident to his last address, a place he had not lived in well over a year—his last address in Bombay. Therefore, it had taken quite some time to reach him. There was a date on the exterior of nearly six months prior.
William sat forward, a thrum of tension rolling through his person.
After all this time, could it be that one of his sisters was finally reaching a hand of peace out to him?
For it wasn't his brother's handwriting on the front of the envelope, and William had no personal attachment to any other lady.
William tore open the envelope, took a deep breath, and began to read. Halfway through the first paragraph, he bellowed for Abeer.
"Pack my trunks," he said when his friend appeared in the doorway. "And ready my fastest ship. We are headed to London immediately."
Then William sat and read the whole thing through once more.
Present Day-
Abeer dropped him at the door to the Black Raven, a venerable gentleman's club in one of the most fashionable neighborhoods in London.
From the outside, it appeared to be a brick townhouse, a brass plaque the only indicator of what lay inside.
If discretion was the better part of valor, the Black Raven was gallant, indeed.
Just inside the front door, William shucked off his wool overcoat and handed it to the care of the butler.
"Good evening, Lord Cavendish," the host, a distinguished gentleman, said. "Lord Beaufort said that you would be joining him shortly. Right this way."
He led William through the main hall, where masculine laughter warred with the whirr of the roulette wheel and the gentle clink of ceramic betting chips. William wasn’t surprised that Beaufort had chosen a private room. The man was trying to keep a low profile—for both their sakes.
Even still, William saw Lord Graham’s sneer as he passed. He found he couldn't help himself.
"Good evening, Lord Graham.” He nodded regally at the man, even while noting the small pile of chips sitting before him.
There were many who looked down on William, who thought that the instant the title of baron had passed to him, he should have given up his trade altogether.
William had no use for such men—men who thought it would have been more honorable for him to let his sisters go hungry than to refurbish the family seat with money earned through honest work.
The room that the Marquess of Beaufort had chosen was small but elegant. Polished wood wainscoting covered the lower half, while the upper was wallpapered in a gold leaf and green damask. Gas lamps lit the space, casting pools of warm light over elegantly carved tables and chairs.
Thomas rose to greet him. He was tall, with thick, dark hair that William had always envied in their youth. When he was younger, William had thought his own sandy-brown hair unremarkable and undistinguished. Perhaps it was true, but it hadn't held him back.
"William," Thomas said, "glad you could make it."
Two tumblers of whiskey already waited on the table between the two wingback chairs that faced the marble fireplace. A low fire crackled, not so much for heat as for ambiance.
This was one of the reasons William and so many other gentlemen preferred the Black Raven.
It was a gambling den, yes, but it was also a place of leisure, a place to conduct business.
The piano player in the main hall didn't pound at the keys, as in some establishments.
Instead, the gentle strains of Moonlight Sonata filtered in the background, lending a cultured air to what might have otherwise been vulgar.
William plucked the velvet cushion off one leather wingback and sat.
Thomas grinned at him. "You never were one for extra cushions."
"Never saw the point unless the chair is lacking. How are you?"
Thomas winced. "I suppose that ‘relieved’ is an accurate answer."