Chapter Two #3
Sol gave a thoughtful nod. “True. And that could be an issue for certain families. But fortunately, you have those famous Berab instincts, not to mention a sharp mind of your own to easily overcome the same.”
Roger rolled his eyes. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”
A large grin brightened Sol’s face. “See?” He wagged a finger at Roger. “You can’t be fooled.” As if such proved his point.
Or made any difference. “I don’t have time for that, not in the slightest,” Roger muttered.
“Perhaps you should make time,” his friend said, his voice quiet but firm. And ominous.
Roger swallowed. “What do you know?”
“Just an overheard conversation.” Sol pressed his lips together. “As I said, Strauss has recently become friends with Ricardo, who you know is close to dei Rossi and Nieto, who is close to Almosnino and Teres, and—”
“Sol?” he asked, interrupting the rapid torrent of words. Excuses, really.
His friend sighed. “They’re a touch disquieted by the messiness with your broth—”
“This has nothing to do with Louis,” Roger snapped in frustration.
He tugged at the collar of his heavy coat as his body heated with annoyance.
“This was an accident. A single accident. Which could’ve happened to anyone.
” And it was nothing that anyone, let alone the Commission of Delegates, should be concerned about.
There were a far greater number of their people who, due to desperate circumstances, poor choices, and often foolish pride, found themselves in more dangerous situations.
Ones which could cost both their individual lives and the community’s good name, especially given the rise of poverty in the gentile communities and the search for blame such situations always caused.
“The role you seek is demanding. There’s concern that you might not be able to manage its requirements along with those of your family now that you’re a widower.” Sol’s voice was almost apologetic. “Especially after your brother—”
“This has nothing to do with Louis,” Roger snapped once more. He counted in his head before taking another breath and smoothing the front of his coat. “Nor with Lucy’s death. All I require is a decent nurse.”
“There’s another issue,” his friend said, breaking his thoughts once more.
“What else?” Roger asked, attempting not to snap at the younger man in frustration.
“While the house is still standing, there’s some concern regarding support beams,” his friend started. “Mrs. Adler is visiting Brighton, so she doesn’t require lodging, but there are four servants and, of course, Miss Adler.”
Roger wrinkled his nose. That was all? Not such a hardship.
“I shall pay for an inn,” he replied immediately. Yes, there were limited choices, as not every inn was open to or safe for their kind, but there were quarters available.
“You could,” the younger man returned. “However, you might recall that Miss Adler has important allies, and there might be other opinions regarding lodging.”
Hurle, hurles, hurle, hurlons, hurlez, hurlent… as numbers were doing him no good, he moved on to conjugation.
“ ‘Might be other opinions’?” he repeated. “Who precisely holds these opinions?”
“Isabelle,” Sol affirmed, his voice sheepish. “She’s on the scene.”
Roger closed his eyes at the mention of his brother’s business partner. “You jest.”
“No.” Sol shook his head. “Ellenberg was at minyan.”
Ellenberg. Isabelle’s husband. His least favorite person—which was saying quite a bit considering the amount of imbeciles he’d encountered in the ballrooms of the titled and pompous—and probably the true source of his problems with the Commission.
How the prudish former synagogue custodian had managed to marry one of the most celebrated women from his side of the community, he had no idea.
God, he hated the man. And the feeling was mutual.
Especially after the whole Louis attempting to kidnap him business.
Which the bloody glorified servant continued to hold over his family’s head despite his brother’s banishment.
Totally unreasonable and arguably in contradiction to Jewish law.
Not that the man was clever enough to truly understand, no matter how pretentiously pious he behaved.
Absolutely the worst.
And yet, for some inexplicable reason, Sol was friendly with the man.
“He fetched her with surprising speed,” his friend remarked.
“Of course he did.” Roger shook his head in disgust. Just what he needed.
Ellenberg was powerful in his own right, but combined with his wife…
Wrestling control of the situation was going to be difficult, to say the least. Closing his eyes for a moment, he prepared himself for the task ahead and the headache it would cause.
“Where exactly was this house?” he asked finally.
“Mitre Street,” Sol said, then added, “Lopez is readying your carriage. I have to get home. Hannah, and all. Good luck, though. I’m sure you’ll resolve matters flawlessly. You’re skilled at that sort of thing.”
Then his friend rushed out the door, leaving Roger alone to dig himself out of the mess.