Jeffrey did not want Joachim going back to that trailer tonight, but he knew his feelings paled in comparison to Joachim’s courage. It took real guts to ignore everything that had happened and turn Jeffrey’s offer down.
The taxi cab was quiet, a box for Jeffrey’s thoughts. This is the wrong choice, he realized. He thought it’d been the right one, given how badly he wanted just minutes ago to make a different bad decision. But whether this was truly the right wrong choice or merely a diversion, well—Jeffrey didn’t have the confidence in his own ability to tell.
As it so happened, the thing Jeffrey couldn’t tell a soul had been discovered entirely without his knowledge.
I see. One of those situations, Jeffrey thought as he quietly absorbed this new reality that didn’t feel real at all. His secretary, the very person who had assisted him in numerous covert operations in the wake of Richard’s flight, was a turncoat who’d betrayed his master without a second thought. He sold out Jeffrey’s secrets to the Claremont servants planning their insurrection.
After receiving a long video addressed to him from a girl named Octavia, and, for good measure, acquiring the ones she sent to Henry and Richard, it dawned on him that Octavia’s song-and-dance of a revenge plot was all part of the servants’ bigger scheme. Maybe Octavia even knew that. Maybe she was happy to let them pull her strings.
Every time he watched his video, he drew the same conclusion: Octavia didn’t hate Richard. Not truly.
“I understand you care for Mr. Richard dearly. Therefore, you sided with your elder brother so that you would be hurt worse than either of them. What self-serving rubbish! You got what you wanted, but what good has this done for Mr. Richard? Or his health? His emotional state? Moving to Japan and making new friends may have finally solved the problems you caused, but you’ve still left him with a wounded soul that will never heal for as long as he lives.”
A spot-on assessment, Jeffrey thought. Now that it was all over, he could finally see the light. Maybe his decision had been about what he wanted all along.
He no longer knew if, deep inside his mind, his eyes were open or shut.
Laurent, the butler who had played back the videos for Jeffrey’s benefit, had contacted him while Henry was too busy working through Leah’s old files to pay much attention to what the butler was up to. As Jeffrey was the one to suggest they meet face-to-face, Laurent complied with a servant’s stately nod, neither a refusal nor an acceptance. It was so blatantly an act that Jeffrey snorted in amusement.
He reclined on the leather sofa as the aging butler, his salt-and-pepper hair more salt than pepper these days, came in.
“I wish to speak with you about the matter of the heir,” Laurent said. “A necessary requirement to lay our current, ah, situation to rest. Of the young masters, Richard has shown no sign of seeking a wife since his student days, and we are a tad worried Henry’s current medication may affect his fertility.”
“Watch your tongue, Laurent. That’s my brother you’re talking about.”
Laurent, the chief butler of the household, was a man of few words who could find his tongue when the situation required it. He peered at Jeffrey like an insect in a specimen box.
“I’m afraid, sir, that no one retains their youth forever. It is vital that we have an heir, and fast.”
“Well, run down to the supermarket and buy one. They’re on sale.”
“Young master, please.”
Jeffrey’s skin crawled. He was already in his thirties, but whenever Laurent called him by that title, he felt like a good twenty years had been stripped away.
Laurent’s eyes were calm but authoritative, matching his tone. “If I might submit a question—a question, not a suggestion or a warning: How do you intend to live the rest of your life? It is not my place to pry, as I am only a servant, but I do wonder—should your secret come to light, are you not all but guaranteed to be a plaything of the tabloids until your death?”
“Probably. They’d probably heckle me just like you’re heckling me right now.”
“No, sir. I am not heckling. I am merely asking questions.”
Jeffrey’s mouth formed the shape of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. He waved his hand, an imperious command to carry on, and the butler bowed before skipping further questions in favor of an actual proposal.
“If you would, I would recommend starting by taking a woman to wife. From there you may live however you please. Consider married life in the nineteenth century. As Balzac espouses in Letters of Two Young Brides, true love forms after marriage.”
“Please spare me the sales pitch. You just want a child from our bloodline.”
“Am I correct in assuming, then, that we have an understanding?”
Jeffrey’s smile was wan. As far as this agreement went, Laurent was the one calling the shots. After all, Jeffrey feared nothing more than the possibility that Henry and Richard would discover his sexual orientation, and the pressure to get married would instead come to rest on their gentle shoulders. Henry had only just begun recovering from his illness, all while attempting to balance the weighty responsibilities of his imminent earldom. Richard, on the other hand, was in Japan and finally enjoying the youth that had been robbed from him via the diamond affair. They were both happy, but that happiness was as fragile as their own gentle kindness—a fact Laurent knew just as well as Jeffrey did, and as such, Jeffrey had no bargaining chips.
He fell silent, prompting Laurent to remark in an offhand fashion, “You look quite sharp today, young master. You’ve developed the most impeccable taste in clothes since moving to America. A superficial affair at best, I’m sure. The heart is what matters most. No doubt such superficial things can soon be replaced.”
“Are you really going to go that far in meddling with my personal affairs? Now that’s what I call bad taste.”
“Taste is a subjective matter. It cannot be the determining factor for such negotiations. Of course, I only bring this matter up incidentally…but one cannot know what a scrupulous seventeen-year-old young lady may choose to do with such knowledge.”
Jeffrey knew who Laurent was alluding to. Octavia. The girl Richard used to tutor.
“How curious, Laurent. It almost sounds like you think I’m in love. Think, please. Do I really seem like I would need the warmth of another human being around the clock? Any ‘love’ between my employee and me is all in your head.”
“Forgive me, young master, but I have been in your service for over twenty years, and I have a not-insignificant knowledge of how you treat those you care about.”
Jeffrey laughed. “Brilliant! You understand how I love, Laurent?”
“Understand is a strong word, sir. Yet it is quite possible that I can make an informed hypothesis.”
“And what hypothesis is that?”
“In frank terms, you never tell the objects of your affection how much they mean to you. Those you treat in the most rotten fashion—why, as if you don’t care a whit about them—are those you hold most dear.”
Jeffrey scowled at the elderly butler, who merely offered an unperturbed smile in response. After what felt like an eternity, Jeffrey smiled at him. If only everything could be brushed away with a smile, he thought. “Very well. I accept.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I do not know what you are agreeing to.”
“Anything. I’ll do whatever you want. You must have some inkling of what’s going on, but to be honest, I just don’t care anymore. All I need at this point is to keep on living.”
“A splendid attitude. Your loved ones will be most pleased.”
“So, what’s next? I won’t settle for just any woman. I’m not that nice. Make sure you pick someone good.”
“I shall. Let us speak of this again once the current situation has resolved.”
“Sure. Can’t wait.”
The moment Laurent left, Jeffrey’s thoughts began to race. He felt like he had just signed his life away.