2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

The bell over the door jingled, but the pharmacist did not look at Rowland when he walked in. The man behind the counter was deep in a dispute with the woman on the other side of it, who was managing the argument well. Especially considering her young daughter kept trying to escape, and the boy on her hip kept groaning. The boy sniffled and turned his head, his tired brown eyes finding Rowland still by the door. Rowland puffed on his cigarette and stared back. The child quickly buried his face in his mother’s neck.

“I don’t have time to send to London for other medicine. My son is sick now,” she pleaded.

“Then pay the five pounds for my recommendation.”

“I can’t afford that.”

“There’s nothing else I can do for you.”

“That stuff will only sit on the shelf at your prices. No one could afford that.”

“I assure you there are plenty who can.”

The woman muttered something under her breath, and the pharmacist, Mr. Morley, whipped around.

“Excuse me?”

“If I wanted you to hear it, I’d have spoken at volume,” the woman shot back. “If you can live with yourself, letting a child suffer in illness, then let it be on your conscience.”

Rowland cleared his throat and stepped toward them. All eyes turned on him. Even the daughter stopped moving to watch the scene unfold. Rowland studied the woman, but didn’t recognize her. She was attractive, in her own way, with soft brown hair rolled up at the nape of her neck, and big brown eyes that reminded him of a doe. He spotted a wedding ring on her left hand, and he might have thought her a war widow if not for the swelling in her abdomen. Her husband was one of the lucky ones. She raised an eyebrow, but he turned his attention on Mr. Morley, whose face had lost all its color. His lips shook, making his handlebar mustache quiver.

“M-Mr. Sinclair,” he stammered. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“That much is obvious,” Rowland replied. “What’s the problem here, eh?”

“It’s nothing. She simply can’t afford—”

“He’s refusing to sell medicine for my sick son to me because his items are overpriced,” the woman cut across the pharmacist. The fire went out of her eyes as she gazed at her boy. “This is the third pharmacy I’ve been to.”

“What’s your name, love?” Rowland asked.

“Sybil Percy,” she answered.

“Well, Mrs. Percy, perhaps I can be of assistance.”

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Oh, God, please no!” Mr. Morley yelped, and ducked behind the counter.

Sybil blinked and took a step back, shielding her daughter behind her hand and turning her body to put her son halfway behind her. Rowland only laughed.

“Relax, Mr. Morley, this isn’t that kind of visit,” he said, and pulled out his wallet.

Mr. Morley slowly rose back to his normal height, though he was still trembling. Rowland held his cigarette between his teeth and counted out five pounds, placing each on the counter as he did.

“There’s your five quid. Now give her what she needs.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Morley replied, and scurried over to the back wall to pull the medicine.

Sybil approached, her mouth turned down into a wary frown. “That’s kind of you.”

“What can I say? I’m a charitable man.”

“I can pay you back. My husband gets home next week, and—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured her, tucking his wallet away. He turned to Mr. Morley. “And get the usual for my sister-in-law, Bernie. She’s just had another baby.”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair,” Mr. Morley said.

Sybil watched him, her skeptical eyes becoming curious. He could see the question of Morley’s fear all over her face, but it was clear she wasn’t going to ask. Clever of her.

Mr. Morley gave Rowland his bag first and then shuffled over to Sybil, handing her the medicine for her son. He leaned over the counter to whisper, but Rowland overheard anyway.

“Pay him back if you know what’s good for you. The last thing you want is to be indebted to the likes of him.”

Sybil’s brow furrowed as she glanced back at him. Rowland smirked.

“You forgot something about me, Mr. Morley,” he said, and they all looked at him again. He opened the right side of his jacket, opposite of where he’d reached for his wallet, to reveal the revolver in his shoulder holster. “I’m left handed.”

Mr. Morley shrunk back, and Sybil’s eyes went wide. Rowland closed his jacket, tipped his hat to her, and left.

***

Black boot met gray gravel and Rowland Sinclair stepped out of the car in front of Buckland Hall. Even the grandiose ancestral home of the Earl of Manfax didn’t make him feel small. Hugh Pembleton was not the first earl Rowland had ever dealt with, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Rowland raked his gaze over the large oak front door with its wrought iron hardware and reached into his pocket for a cigarette, which he promptly lit and took a long drag from.

“What do we even do at a house like this?” Ezra asked to his right. “Knock? Ring a bell?”

“Not to worry, little brother,” Rowland replied. “His lordship is expecting us.”

As if on cue, the door swung open, and a slim, elderly butler greeted them. “Good afternoon. Messrs. Sinclair, yes?”

“That’s us,” Rowland answered.

“Very good. I am Mr. Oliver, his lordship’s butler. Do come in.”

Oliver stepped aside. Ezra cast a sidelong smirk at Rowland, who winked back. Rowland led the way past Oliver and into the ornate entryway. It was all classic paintings and expensive furniture—the only truly welcoming part was a fire crackling in the hearth.

“May I—”

Mr. Oliver didn’t get the words out before the earl himself arrived, appearing rather winded as he wrung his hands together. The earl was everything an English lord should be—tall, handsome features of dark blond hair and blue eyes; elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit, but not extravagant. The corners of his thin lips twitched upward, as if he couldn’t decide whether this was a smiling occasion, but ultimately concluded a more serious, straight face was more suitable. He glanced over his shoulder before facing his visitors again.

“Ah, the brothers Sinclair,” he said with a clap of his hands before he rubbed them together again. A gold signet ring gleamed from his pinky finger. “Thank you for coming. Right this way, to my study, please.”

He turned to go, but Mr. Oliver spoke again. “My lord, Lady Iris will be home shortly. Shall I tell the cook to have dinner prepared for her along with our guests?”

“Don’t bother, we aren’t staying for dinner,” Rowland answered, smoke billowing from his mouth as he spoke. “His lordship wouldn’t want any of our lot around his fancy table.”

Ezra snickered, and Lord Pembleton blanched. He said nothing, turned on his heel, and strode down the corridor. Rowland tipped his flat cap toward the butler before following the earl further into the house, Ezra on his heels.

They entered the study, a dark, masculine room, with a large, mahogany desk, hand carved chairs with shining leather upholstery, and shelves lined with books. Rowland perused, scanning the spines for anything interesting, but found only histories of English aristocratic families and old law books. A photograph on one of the shelves caught his eye—of a pretty blonde girl he recognized as the earl’s sister, Lady Iris.

Rowland first saw Lady Iris in the papers, as she was one of the most notable survivors of the sinking of the Titanic . After the disaster, she made headlines for her divorce from some American railway tycoon, and then again when she spearheaded the suffragette movement in Yorkshire. She was arrested at a few rallies in the bigger cities such as London, Manchester, and even his own city of Liverpool. He was in the crowd fetching his sister the first time he saw Lady Iris in person. Even as she was handcuffed, she remained dignified, and was quite possibly the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. She carried herself like an empress.

It was his admiration of her that prompted him to allow her brother to place bets on their races in the first place. He’d hoped to meet her, but hadn’t gotten the opportunity.

Turning away, he inhaled another puff of his cigarette, and without prompting, Hugh offered an ashtray by sliding it across his desk.

“Well, Pembleton, you know why we’re here,” Rowland said, snuffing out the cigarette and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Time’s come to pay up.”

Somehow, Hugh’s color drained even further. He was beginning to resemble a ghost.

“I don’t have it,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. Not to worry, though, I’ve tripled the rent for our farmers to make some extra, and I should have the money for you by the end of the year.”

Rowland’s brows went up. “Is that a fucking joke?”

“I told you, I’m sorry, but we’re still recovering from the war, and I used my wife’s dowry to place these bets. I need more time.”

“You’re out of time,” Ezra said. “We’ve held off six months already.”

“And I appreciate that more than you know, but I—”

Rowland stepped closer, and even though there was a desk between them, Hugh stepped back.

“You don’t know how this works, do you, my lord? ” he said, stressing the sarcasm of the title. “You think you can just dip your toes into our world and get your way because of your position? Your title means shit to us. We’re men of business, and we always get paid.”

“I don’t have the money,” Hugh said, desperation in his voice.

Rowland looked at his brother and nodded. In the blink of an eye, Ezra hurtled the desk and had the earl’s arms pinned behind his back. Hugh cried out, and Ezra gave an extra tug before putting him on his knees, making the earl wince. Rowland reached under his coat for his revolver. He pressed the muzzle into Hugh’s temple. The earl squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please!” he cried. “I don’t have the money, but if you kill me, you’ll never get paid!”

“If we don’t kill you, it marks us soft,” Ezra growled back. “So write the check or say your goodbyes.”

“If you pull that trigger, the police will know exactly—”

“We’ve got enough coppers on our payroll that we aren’t concerned,” Rowland cut across him. “I don’t want to kill you, Pembleton, but circumstances being what they are…”

He cocked the hammer.

“I’ll give you collateral. There are hundreds of valuables in this house. Jewels, art, whatever you want.”

“I’ve got no use for jewels and paintings.”

“Surely, there’s something I can offer you.”

Rowland raised his finger to the trigger, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the photograph of Lady Iris again. He relaxed his hand and lowered his weapon.

“Row?” Ezra asked.

Rowland walked slowly over and looked at the picture, admiring the shape of her eyes and barely there smile on her lips. She was stunning.

“Actually, you do have something I want,” Rowland said, facing Hugh again. “Here’s my offer—I’ll cut your debt in half for one hour alone with your sister.”

Hugh blanched. “I beg your pardon!”

“You heard me, Pembleton.”

“I can’t offer you Iris! She’s my sister!”

“And?”

“She’s not a whore!”

“Welcome to our world, Lord Pembleton. Everyone’s a whore in one way or another.”

Hugh narrowed his eyes, some color returning to his cheeks. “I can’t do that to my sister.”

“These are my terms.” He raised his gun again. “Your sister or your life. What’ll it be?”

Just then, the door burst open and Iris herself stormed in. Her golden blonde hair was chopped short into the new bob style, but it flattered her angular face. A hint of a flush colored her cheeks, and her dark blue eyes blazed.

“Hugh, there’s a crowd of farmers outside demanding to know why the rent has gone up at the rate it has, and I have to say I agree with them,” she said.

She came to an abrupt halt as she took in the scene of her brother on his knees between two men she didn’t know, one with a gun raised. To Rowland’s surprise, she didn’t scream or call for help or order them out. Lady Iris heaved a sigh, pinched the bridge of her nose, and scowled at her brother.

“What have you done now?”