Chapter 4

“Have a good evening,” Brody told Mr. Hudson as they parted ways around nine. He’d longed to return home earlier, but instinct had stopped him. If he was to earn Mr. Hudson’s respect and make the man listen to him when he pitched the book he wanted to print, he had to prove himself worthy and gain his trust.

Part of this involved working hard enough to impress him. Beyond that, Brody had decided to put in the effort required to get to know the man. Friendship, of a sort, could be extremely beneficial. So he’d asked Mr. Hudson a few leading questions about Hudson Co., how he’d started it and what he believed the future of printing might look like.

Thankfully, the publisher was happy to talk. And to be honest, Brody had found the information compelling. The history of printing in general had fascinated him, and Mr. Hudson’s story-telling abilities were captivating. Three hours had flown by with no trouble at all.

In fact, he actually looked forward to meeting for work again the next day and helping Mr. Hudson increase his earnings by finding the sort of bestselling novel he sought.

Happy with his decision to take the job, he started his homeward trek. None of the manuscripts he’d read today had captured his interest, but this was, according to what he’d been told, to be expected.

Another interesting point in the day had been meeting Mr. Michaels. Funny that, how life sometimes worked. Who’d have thought he’d run into the same lad he’d bumped into once on the street?

Mr. Michaels probably thought him an oaf with two left feet, knocking into everyone in his path. He smiled despite his embarrassment over the situation since it was, if not funny, per se, then at least somewhat farcical. Though he wasn’t sure Mr. Michaels saw it that way. He’d seemed rather put out by Brody’s clumsiness. And who could blame him?

Brody had not just banged the door into the young man’s shoulder and made him stumble but had caused him to spill two tray-like items with all of those neatly arranged letters in them. A lot of hard work gone to waste.

Brody took a deep breath and expelled it. Some of those letters were very tiny. He couldn’t imagine the skill it required to line them up snuggly against one another. And it had to be done fast too, according to what Mr. Hudson had told him.

The man had actually praised Mr. Michaels as one of the best compositors he’d ever known, remarking that his slim and delicate fingers were likely to blame. Brody had noticed those fingers when he and Mr. Michaels had cleaned up the spill. He’d noticed a great many things. Too many, for his peace of mind.

Quickening his pace, he crossed the street behind a passing carriage and stepped onto the pavement. He turned left, the heels of his shoes clicking loudly against the stone tiles. A man should not consider the length of another man’s eyelashes or the delicate nature of his jawline. He definitely shouldn’t feel a response to his touch, besides a brotherly connection if one were close friends.

Brody wasn’t the least bit close to Mr. Michaels. They’d only just met. So the flash of heat he’d experienced when their fingers touched the first time and the leap of his pulse when they’d shaken hands alarmed him a little.

Although, to be fair, Mr. Michaels was unusually petite for a man. Physically, he was more of a boy really, but age-wise, he looked like he was at least eighteen. Which was probably what had caught his attention. As for the heat, it had been quite warm in that room, and his increased heart rate could be due to how foolish he’d felt in the moment. Generally speaking.

He was a duke for heaven’s sake. Yet rather than come across with the sense of authority he was used to exerting, he’d appeared a bumbling idiot.

Tomorrow he’d have to do better, he decided. No more rushing about. He’d take care when rounding a corner or entering a room, to be sure Mr. Michaels wouldn’t be in his path. And then he’d ask the fellow if he’d like to go for a drink after work. That ought to smooth things over.

Satisfied, and not the least bit concerned over why Mr. Michaels’s opinion mattered so greatly, Brody returned home to find an anxious Rhys waiting.

“Thank goodness you’re well,” said the butler. He took Brody’s hat and gloves and set them aside. “I was preparing to call Bow Street.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because it’s almost ten o’clock.” Rhys said this as though no additional explanation were required. When Brody merely stared at him, Rhys added, “You always eat dinner at home at precisely seven o’clock.”

“Oh dear.” Brody had been so caught up in his new sense of purpose, he’d forgotten everything else. “I’m terribly sorry. Is Cook very angry with me?”

“She was, but I think she’ll be fine by morning when she finds out you haven’t been murdered. Truth is, we were all quite worried, your brother included.”

“Forgive me, Rhys, but something came up – a project of sorts – so I do believe keeping late hours will be the norm for some time. You mentioned my brother. Is Losturn at home?”

“He is indeed, Your Grace.”

Brody was not just surprised. He was extremely pleased. “Excellent. I’ll have a word with him then.”

“Very good, Your Grace. He’s in your study.”

“Perfect.”

Brody turned, prepared to head in that direction when Rhys quietly told him, “I’m happy to know all is well.”

It wasn’t yet, but Brody had no intention of bringing that up with his butler. So he merely dipped his head and offered his thanks before continuing on his way. Tomorrow morning, he’d dispatch notes to Anthony and Callum, informing them that he too was working on getting their novel published.

In case Ada’s efforts failed.