Brendan Losinski

Chapter One

The carriage raced through the driving rain as thunder boomed overhead. It was the sort of dark and stormy night that began so many of the penny novels that had absorbed Giles Northbridge in his youth, yet the storms in those books usually marked the beginnings of great adventures or hair-raising horrors.

Meanwhile, tonight was entirely ordinary for him. The late hour was a bit uncommon, but one doesn’t turn down an audience with Lord Stuart Kittridge, especially if that audience meant the prospect of lucrative payment. Besides, he was perfectly comfortable in the cab. He pitied the poor driver, though, who had to spend hours in the downpour atop the carriage between London and the manor house. Giles knew his three seconds of pity did nothing for the man, but it was three more seconds of thought for the coachman’s well-being than he reckoned Lord Kittridge had spent before sending the driver out into the rain.

Glancing out of the windows of the lavish cabin, he saw a few lights shining through the gloom. They had arrived at their destination. Miss Lille, his associate and the cab’s only other occupant, had presumably seen the lights as well. She’d opened her eyes from her state of half-sleep and peered out the window too.

“How long do you wager it’ll take him to say it?” she asked in her common London accent, a coy grin on her lips.

Giles looked over at her with a set of pale, gray eyes. He wore a smart-looking tailored suit that was the most expensive thing he owned, despite the cheap watch hanging out of his pocket. He had a mouth that looked unused to smiling and all too used to worrying. His hair was dark and straight with every strand in place. He didn’t like leaving even something as innocuous as his hair up to chance—he got his fill of that from his work.

“Before our meeting is done, certainly,” he answered in his more posh and proper manner.

Lille leaned back into her seat and removed a pocket mirror from her small clutch. Her dress, gloves, and boots were both stylish and brightly colored, yet anyone who knew anything about clothing could see they were not finely made or expensive. Lille’s hair was a dark and dirty blonde, her eyes a rich blue, and she had the sort of button nose and perfect lips that made men fall head over heels in an instant.

“I doubt he’ll let you get a dozen words out before he says it,” she said, looking over her face to ensure she hadn’t smudged her makeup on the ride over. “The word is like a bloody prayer to them.”

Giles knew exactly what word she referred to, and although he didn’t say so, he expected she was right. The word in question was the entire basis of his profession. He doubted he had ever gotten through an entire meeting with a client without them uttering it.

The word was “discretion.”

In the world of his clients, it meant survival and success. To them, the smallest secret in the wrong hands might mean death and humiliation, while the secrets of their rivals could be the most powerful of weapons. That was why they hired him. His was a profession without a name, but for those in power it was a most necessary one. Every dirty secret, every embarrassing family member, and every mistake that could come back one day to haunt them was his purview. Giles cleaned it up and made it all disappear. For a fee, of course.

The ironic bit was that the individuals who held such great influence in society often had their hands tied by the very power they wielded. If the son of a member of Parliament had a nasty habit of visiting prostitutes, such a respectable politician might have no idea where to find such a place, let alone know how to prevent his son from returning there. What was more, in the process of trying to stop his son, that politician might be followed, and the truth would become known. That was the service that Giles truly provided; traveling where his clients could not, knowing the things that they were too proper to learn, and not only eliminating embarrassing situations, but making them seem as if they had never happened at all.

The carriage drove past thick stone columns and tall, skinny windows and pulled up to the rear door of the manor house. The front door would be too obvious, and the servant’s entrance would have too many prying eyes. A man, the butler Giles presumed, stood by the small doorway, holding an umbrella. He strode out into the rain and opened the door of the cab.

“Sir, madam,” he spoke curtly.

The butler ushered them one at a time to the door under the umbrella. He introduced himself as “Fife” and instructed them to never leave his side until allowed, his tone allowing no argument. Fife was a tall, gaunt man, whose voice held not a single note of humor. Every step he took exuded a professional tone. The expression on his face betrayed that he looked down on them as help—after all, no one of any importance would ever be dragged out in the middle of the night—and as though he were not an employee himself. Giles had seen such rigid, condescending men in the homes of half the clients he had worked for.

Somewhere in England, he thought, there must be a factory where they make men like him.

They walked down a tiny hallway, with only a small light at the end of the hall and Fife’s candle for illumination. He made note of the electric lamps. Giles Northbridge took it all in. He saw and listened to everything and remembered all of it—he had ever since he was a child. What he saw at that moment was one of the finest manor homes he had ever encountered. Until only a few years ago, it was still common for such houses to be without power because most were so far from the cities. It was now 1910, however—the new modern world, or so everyone kept saying—and even the most reluctant to move into the future were having lines run to their homes from some nearby village. Electricity was swiftly turning from a luxury to a necessity.

The rest of the house looked almost unaltered from how it would have a century ago. The styles, of course, changed, but little else of the grandiose nature of the aristocracy did. The pristine nature of the house signified that below their feet slept a full staff of maids, footmen, cooks, and other staff who worked diligently and gave the place an aura of near sanctity. A single speck of dust would be considered a hostile intruder in such a house.

Fife led them into a gallery and told them that Lord Kittridge would be with them shortly. He didn’t offer either of them a seat. He left to fetch his master, giving them one last grim look, as though he feared they would make off with the silver.

At least Fife didn’t insist that we wait in the dark, Giles mused, mentally rolling his eyes.

The brightly lit gallery was sparse; only a few pieces of furniture occupied the room. They faced the windows and had obviously been placed so the family and their guests could enjoy sunny days and idle conversation. Across the room was a fireplace over which hung a painting of a man who could only be a particularly ugly ancestor of Lord Kittridge. Giles gazed at the painting while they waited, and the more he looked at the hideous man, the more he wondered if this was the reason the furniture all faced the opposite direction.

He reached into his pocket for his watch. It was late, but unless Lord Kittridge kept them waiting unduly long, it should be more than enough time for the two of them to return home without being particularly tired the next morning. Putting the watch back, he felt the revolver he kept inside his pocket. He hadn’t fired a shot in anger in years, but that didn’t mean the people he dealt with had the same reluctance. It was a precautionary measure he hoped he would never have to employ. Sometimes his work left some very angry people in his wake. Most problems he solved using his wits. He wanted to be prepared if a situation arose where that wasn’t enough.

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps echoing through the dark hallways. Fife entered the room accompanied by a portly man in his fifties. The man wore a finely made smoking jacket appropriate for after-dinner conversations—the sort usually accompanied by cigar smoke and brandy.

“Lord Stuart Kittridge,” Fife announced.

Kittridge eyed them warily, although not with the disdain that Fife had. Giles saw a man hiding frayed nerves under a healthy coating of confidence and bravado. There was a hint of anger as well, but he didn’t direct it at the two visitors. Giles had seen many other men wear such a look before. This was a gentleman who was used to having control—a man who, even when he was not in control, always knew how to act. His world had rules and protocols. Now he was in uncharted waters and had no notion how to proceed.

Kittridge leaned close and extended his hand. “You must be Mr. Northbridge,” he said in a voice that somehow both boomed and quavered.

“Indeed, Lord Kittridge. Thank you for the invitation,” said Giles. “May I introduce you to my secretary? Miss Lille.”

Lille gave a polite half-curtsy that Kittridge barely acknowledged.

“A pleasure. I must apologize for the late hour,” said their host.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Giles said. “In matters such as this, I find it’s better if we begin as soon as possible.”

“Yes, good,” said Kittridge, anxiously tugging at his cuffs. “Perhaps we might speak in private?”

“Certainly.”

As the two of them moved to leave, Lille demurely interjected.

“Pardon me, Lord Kittridge, but the ride over was quite taxing. Might I take a few minutes to compose myself? Perhaps in the servant’s quarters?”

There are only so many ways a woman can politely ask to take a piss, Giles smirked.

Normally she wouldn’t speak to the lord of the manor at all, but finding an excuse to wander a bit was a necessary part of their job; and Giles got the distinct feeling that if she had asked Fife, he might make her go outside. Kittridge gave his consent without sparing Lille a second thought and then led Giles from the room. Nearing the door, Giles glanced over at Lille. She looked back, smiling wickedly.

Lord, she always looks best when she wears that smile.

Her eyes spoke plainly what her mouth did not. She knew exactly how her part was played. He grinned.

How else would we get the entire story?

The very people who hired Giles loathed surrendering every detail of the sordid little affairs they tasked him with cleaning up. It was these details that Lille was an expert at uncovering. He was always amazed at the efforts the rich and powerful took hiding their intimate secrets from the world, despite them never thinking twice about discussing those same secrets while a maid moved through the room silently cleaning. Perhaps some didn't think of their own employees as a threat, perhaps others believed them loyal, but he couldn’t count the number of clients who had been threatened with humiliation by a former member of their staff. Kittridge clearly had his blind spots. The driver he had sent out to freeze in the rain must know that something was amiss, and Fife … well, Fife might appear loyal—to an almost fanatical extent—but what would happen if that loyalty, at least in the mind of the humorless butler, was not returned?

Such disregard of the help was a grievous mistake, but it was one that kept Giles in business—and it could be extremely useful in cases such as this one. Lord Kittridge surely believed the issue at hand had thus far been kept within the family, but half-formed rumors and tales of outrageous scandals found their way to the ears of cooks and footmen swifter than flies found their way to garbage. Lille, as a woman, and a stranger at that, allowed herself to be led away and disregarded as well; brushed under the rug so she was free to discover who else had been brushed under with her and what exactly they knew.

Giles had been in business for nearly five years before he and Lille had found each other, but since then she had become integral to his schemes. Her skill at casually extracting information was matched only by her skill at liberating watches and pocketbooks from their owners. That was the line of work she had been in before the two of them had entered into their partnership. Since then, they each found it much easier, and more lucrative, working together in their current arrangement.

Confident that she would perform her duties with her usual skill, Giles followed Kittridge into his study. The master of the house quickly shut the door and poured himself a drink from a decanter sitting on the table.

"Brandy?" said Kittridge, an anxious warble in his voice.

"Certainly," Giles said with his unctuous smile.

The ability to force a convincing smile was critical to his work. It was a cardinal rule when dealing with clients, especially upon first meeting them: always make them comfortable, always make them feel safe, and always make them think you are working for them. Men with power need to be in control. Take that away and they either retreat or attack. Either of those two results might mean the loss of a job, or an infinitely more difficult time at accomplishing it. While his host poured, Giles took in the room. It was small and cozy. A fireplace gave it a comfortable glow, several bookshelves were filled with all the proper selections, and some large leather upholstered chairs sat in the corner. After taking a prodigious gulp of his brandy, Kittridge handed Giles a glass and invited him to sit. They sat there for a moment in silence while Kittridge stared at his drink, obviously deciding what to say.

"I'm not sure how we … that is to say, I'm not entirely sure what you can do," Kittridge stammered.

"You have heard I am well versed in solving sensitive problems," Giles said in a soothing tone, "and I can only assume you have such a problem."

“Yes,” said Kittridge. “You see, I confided this all to a friend of mine. Sir Frederick Summers?”

“Yes, I know Sir Frederick quite well,” Giles said. Well, I know the gentlemen Sir Frederick pretends, in public, not to know.

 “He gave me your name,” said Kittridge. “He said that you assisted him in a similar matter.”

“I did. Nothing I can go into any detail about, I’m afraid.”

If I went around talking about it, bribing all of those handsome young lads Summers wanted kept silent would have been for naught.

"It's nothing of a … legal matter or anything dreadful like that," Kittridge quickly assured him. "It's more of a family issue."

It always is, thought Giles. "It’s an issue you would like mediated without any other outside parties being brought in?"

"Of a sort," Kittridge said, staring once more at his ever-shrinking drink. "It regards my son. I-I have been at my wits’ end finding a way to eliminate—that is to say, I would like you to see if there is a way to, perhaps, remedy a certain situation?”

“I have been told I am a very creative man.”

“It’s just … it will require a good bit of …”

“Yes?” Giles smiled.

“Discretion.”

Every time.

“You see, my-my son George has entered into a … relationship with a woman. A Black woman.”

“And you believe that this would have a negative effect on your family?” Giles said, striking a balance between bluntness and cordiality.

“Indeed. The Lord only knows what people would say if they knew … but it’s more than that. What about his future? If this were just—” Kittridge stopped, as though searching for something to say. Instead of finding it, he walked back toward the liquor cabinet and poured himself another glass. Giles watched him cross the room, not saying a word. Kittridge finally spoke after taking another healthy gulp.

“If this were just some tryst, perhaps merely convincing him to keep it all quiet would suffice, but he is professing love for this girl. When I told him he was being ridiculous, and that she was only pursuing him for his inheritance, he stormed out. The next time we spoke he said that he intends to marry her!” Kittridge snorted. “I assure you, it’s all to spite me.”

Not everything is done on your account, sir, Giles thought, but obviously kept the notion to himself. To be fair, he had seen children both rich and poor go to enormous lengths simply to anger their parents, but his instincts told him that it was not so in this case. He took a sip of his own drink, taking half a moment to admit that, if nothing else, Lord Kittridge had good taste in spirits.

“So, you wish me to see that this relationship is brought to an end?” Giles nodded.

Kittridge shook his head and sat back down, a death-grip on his brandy.

“If only it were that simple,” the lord said, looking at his shoes. “I tried reasoning with him, I tried pleading with him, I even tried bribing him; my own son! Even then, he wouldn’t hear me.”

“Have you tried any of these measures with this woman he has been involved with?”

It would be the simplest way. There’s always a chance Kittridge’s concerns are valid, and she’s only with George for his money.

“If I knew how to find her, I would,” Kittridge said. “And I assure you, I have no ill will toward the Blacks, but this would end us! Our family would be written off as … as extremists, and it would destroy all chances of George having any sort of a respectable future!”

Kittridge stomped over to the desk.

“There was a plan! I had arranged a marriage for him to a girl from a decent family, I have been introducing him to the right people in London, I’ve poured time and effort into ensuring his good name, and he throws it all away for some damned trollop!”

He slammed his palm into the desk. Then he took a deep breath and calmed himself, seeming to recall there was another person in the room with him. “I apologize, Mr. Northbridge,” he said, his ears turning red. “That was … improper of me.”

Giles sat there and observed each word and action from Kittridge. “It’s quite understandable under the circumstances, sir,” he calmly told his host. “Might I ask, how old is George?”

“Oh … he is twenty-three,” Kittridge muttered, recovering from his short outburst.

“And he recently completed his time at university, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“It’s your wish for him to run for political office?” said Giles.

“Naturally. Why?”

Giles took a sip from his glass. “I simply want a full understanding of the situation.”

The truth of the matter began taking shape. This wasn’t a personal issue for Kittridge, it was a professional one. Because of his station, Lord Kittridge would have been sitting in the House of Lords for several years. If he had ever had a chance of getting a seat at the prime minister’s side, it would have happened long ago. His career was effectively over. George’s career, however, was just beginning.

It was no secret that Lord Kittridge numbered himself among the Conservative Party, yet as high-minded as even the Liberals claimed to be, none of them were lining up to wed their children to some Caribbean beauty either. The old blood within the House of Lords would never accept the sort of man who would marry a Black woman. George would be labeled as a radical, ignored, and ostracized. Every initiative he supported would become tainted with his supposed extremism. It would be even worse if George ran for election in the House of Commons, where he could begin his political career at a young age instead of waiting for his father’s death—which would likely be a necessity if his goal was rising high in the government. The scandal from such a relationship, let alone a marriage, would end his political career before it even began. Giles doubted Lord Kittridge gave half a fig about George’s romantic entanglements—the future of his family name, however, was likely a different matter entirely.

“Well,” Giles said, after thinking for a moment. “There are a number of ways to approach this problem. It’s all a matter of convincing either your son or this paramour of his that this is not what they want.”

“But I’ve tried everything!” Kittridge said, running a hand through his thinning hair.

“Oh, believe me, sir, you have not tried everything,” Giles laughed amicably. “You would be surprised how these issues can resolve themselves with the correct nudge.”

“No,” Kittridge said, shooting back up from his chair, a frantic tone creeping into his voice. “A mere ‘nudge’ won’t be enough.”

I’m losing him, thought Giles. He stood up, sat his glass down on the table, and approached Kittridge.

“Lord Kittridge, you’ve never seen me nudge. Simply give me one week, and I can promise you results.”

“But if they’re found out before then—”

“I would not allow that to happen; that’s included in the services I provide,” he said, easing the nobleman back into his seat. “In a few days, the woman will be on her way elsewhere, and your son will be living the bachelor’s life once more.”

Kittridge immediately took another drink. Then he spoke again, barely whispering.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be better to … eliminate the problem entirely?”

Good Lord, what did Sir Frederick tell him I do?

“I assure you, that course of action would create more problems than it would solve. If you think a scandal regarding your son’s personal life is something to fear, you should stay far astern of that sort of trouble.”

“If-if you say so,” Kittridge said, raising a shaky hand back up to his mouth to finish his second glass.

Of course, the job would be nowhere near as easy as he promised Kittridge. However, making it seem effortless was part of his sales pitch.

I had best lay on the confidence or else this man will do something stupid, with or without me.

“You shouldn’t worry about any of this,” Giles said, pasting on his most dashing smile. “You pay me to do that.”

“I-I’ll try,” Kittridge said.

“I have done this sort of thing dozens of times. The situation is well in hand.”

The two men spent a few more minutes hammering out the details of Giles’ fee, while he subtly pressed the man for any more details he might have about his son’s relationship. It was little enough. The boy had been courting the daughter of some higher up in the Conservative Party, as Lord Kittridge had said. At first, George had simply put off the party member’s daughter. Then, one day, he unexpectedly broke off their budding relationship altogether. George had stayed at the family’s townhouse for a month after that until Lord Kittridge had finally sent his nephew to follow George in order to ascertain the truth. Once he had, that was when Lord Kittridge had told his son that he was aware of the Black woman, and they’d had their falling out. He confronted his son three more times before, in desperation, he had confessed everything to Sir Frederick.

Giles also requested a photograph of George from Lord Kittridge that he might take with him. With the details of their arrangement clarified—half of the payment received immediately, the rest upon completion of the assignment—the pair concluded their business. Kittridge rose unsteadily to his feet. Clearly the two drinks he’d had during their conversation were not his first of the night. Kittridge led Giles back the way they had come, and Fife soon intercepted them.

“Ah Fife,” said a now visibly inebriated Kittridge, “Please show Mr. Northbridge the door. We’ve concluded our business for the evening.”

“Of course, sir,” said the butler, who turned on his heel to lead Giles away.

“Thank you, Mr. Northbridge, you are doing me a great service,” Kittridge slurred.

“Of course, Lord Kittridge. I’m happy to oblige.”

He turned to leave, but then Kittridge spoke once more, to himself as much to Giles.

“It’s just a shame it came to this. All this trouble for some girl of no importance.”

For the briefest of moments, Giles’ mask of collected confidence faltered. Kittridge’s words had struck something deep inside of him, something he had forgotten was there … It was like a slap in the face. It was only for a moment, and he doubted the drunken Kittridge had even noticed, but the strength of the emotion shocked him. He immediately regained his composure and replied with the same self-congratulatory attitude he had presented throughout the rest of the evening.

“Indeed, Lord Kittridge. Good evening.”

Giles turned and followed Fife down the hall. He couldn’t dwell on the past; especially not while there was work to do. After a few silent steps he spoke to the butler.

“Where has Miss Lille gotten off to now?”

“She informed me that she believed she had left something in the carriage,” Fife said, pursing his lips. “I showed her to the garage. She will meet you in the carriage for your departure.”

Your eagerly anticipated departure, he knew he meant. The butler’s hostility toward them, while not unexpected, did feel particularly pointed. He must know that Giles’ presence here was indicative of a threat to the house he had sworn to serve, yet it seemed more personal than that. Perhaps he believed that Giles was somehow the cause of the family’s strife, rather than a solution.

Or perhaps the cause for his negative attitude is that very lack of knowledge?

It was certainly possible that a man who lived his whole life for a rich and noble family like this would come to think of himself as one of them; as part of that family. It was easy imagining his pain at being reminded that he was merely an employee; that a man like Giles was more privy to his family’s secrets while he was delegated to listening to the whispers and rumors of maids and footmen.

If that’s the way he thinks, then he’s a fool, said a nasty, angry voice that came from that same mostly forgotten corner of his mind. He may have been called “a friend in low places” on more than one occasion, but he had no illusions that any of his clients actually considered him a friend. He was simply another employee to them, a man who provided a service; and, unlike Fife, one who they hired with the greatest reluctance. Behind all of the polite smiles and kind words of his clients lurked a revulsion he knew was ever-present. He had confessed as much to Lille more than once. She told him he was imagining things, but he saw the truth. The rich and powerful put on a pretty mask, but nearly a decade of cleaning up their messes had taught him just how much ugliness that mask hid. He tried focusing on work and putting it all out of his mind, but he never forgot the cold-eyed, empty grins they gave him.

Although spending their money sometimes helped.

Fife led him back to the side door. Lille already waited inside the carriage. The butler walked him out under the umbrella and wished him a gruff good night.

“Good night, Fife,” Giles said, more kindly than he probably had cause for.

Then he took his seat and the carriage started off back toward the city.