Page 121 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“No, thank you. I’ll wait here.”

The butler only kept him waiting a moment before he returned and handed him a note written on the same expensive parchment as Arlington’s other letters, and sealed with the same red wax embossed with the twin of the ring Connor wore.

Connor waited until he’d seated himself inside a pub before he broke the seal and read,

My son. Words cannot express my delight at your reply. If convenient, please come to White’s this evening at ten o’clock. I’ll tell the doorman that I’m expecting you.

Your errant but ever-loving father

A

Son. Loving. Father. Did he mean those words?

Having a few hours before his appointment with his father, he went on the hunt, as Grant had called it—prowling the streets in search of suspicious characters bent on mischief. Half-heartedly, he made his usual circuit through the streets, asking his contacts for any news on the Finches and watching out for ne’er-do-wells. By eight, he’d dragged a would-be burglar and two pickpockets to the holding place to await meeting the magistrate. He should have felt a sense of satisfaction, but it all seemed empty. Meaningless. The wheels of crime continued to roll over the weak and defenseless whether or not Connor worked. Nothing seemed to have purpose any longer. Still, Connor continued working as if his life depended on it, never quite escaping the aching sorrow left by his distance from Meg.

As he finished processing his latest arrests, a note arrived at Bow Street addressed to Officer Connor Jackson, in fluid, feminine calligraphy. Odd. He hadn’t had so many missives in one day in… well, ever. Connor tore it open and read,

Mr. Jackson,

Thank you for returning my bracelet. Enclosed is more than the amount the pawnshop owner asked for it. If this is inadequate to cover your travel expenses, send me a bill, and I’ll see that you are reimbursed. If I’ve overpaid, please keep the rest for your time and trouble.

Lady Margaret

Connor winced. It appeared he’d burned all his bridges back to her.

He crumpled up the message, banknote and all, and hugged it. What had he done? At the time, telling her they had no future had seemed the best possible course of action for them both. But the pain of their separation had not diminished; rather, it had grown like a festering wound. How could he face the rest of his life without her?

After returning home, Connor bathed and dressed in his only formal suit, the same one he wore to his mother’s funeral, and polished his boots. Really, why did he bother? He was a working man. He should appear thusly. But he couldn’t bring himself to thumb his nose at the man who’d sired him, if for no other reason than because his mother would not have approved of Connor failing to present himself well, nor had she ever condoned any sort of rudeness, the circumstances of his birth, notwithstanding.

Five minutes before the appointed hour, Connor presented himself at White’s, his father’s gentleman’s club. Outside, he looked up at the grand columns gracing the second floor, the black wrought iron fence, the famous bow window. Though he’d walked past many times, he’d never had the desire to cross the threshold into White’s where gentry coves gathered in stuffy exclusivity to make ridiculous bets and other attempts to relieve boredom while appearing sophisticated.

What was he doing here? He had no desire to join this class even for a few minutes.

Inside waited his only relative, his only connection, however tattered, to his mother. To family. And to be fair, his father had reached out to him numerous times, paying for his education and his commission in the Army, and all those letters Connor had refused to read for years. It was time to meet the man, if for no other reason than to assuage his conscience. His mother had wanted him to meet his father, as had Meg. It would be healing, she had said. Perhaps it would be.

Connor entered the club, gave his name to the doorman, and was directed to a private room. Along the way, he glanced about casually, moving nothing but his eyes lest he appear to gawk at the Georgian décor and the fashionable gentlemen gathered chatting or eating. Others sat alone reading. An elderly gent dozed in a red velvet armchair drawn up next to a marble fireplace. A few doorways opened onto lavish dining rooms, libraries, and billiard rooms. The place was more crowded than Connor had expected, considering that this time of year most of the upper crust fled London for their country homes.

When Connor entered the masculine sitting room with dark panels on the walls and rich green furniture, a tall gentleman with an athletic build stood. Behind him, tall windows silhouetted his form, making it difficult to make out his features.

“’pon my word,” the gentleman said in an awed voice.

Connor strode to the man who must surely be Lord Arlington and stopped within arms’ length. An eerily familiar, though older, face and deep blue eyes met him. It was like looking through a distorted mirror at an older version of himself. Standing the same height, they each took a good look at one another.

A wobbly smile curved the older man’s mouth. “Connor. My son.” He swallowed. Then chuckled. “There’s no mistaking the resemblance, is there?”

It might have been cold, considering the man’s barely controlled emotions, but Connor simply said, “You wanted to see me, sir? Or should I address you as my lord?”

Lord Arlington pushed out a breath. “I’m so happy you’re here that you may call me anything you wish.” He gestured to a pair of armchairs drawn up close to one another.

Connor took a seat. Lord Arlington sat almost close enough that if he moved, their knees would have touched. Connor resisted the urge to shift further away.

“It’s clear that you have no fondness for me,” Lord Arlington said. “And I don’t blame you. I wasn’t much of a father to you.”

Connor softened. “I apologize for rejecting your attempts to reach out to me.”

“I deserved it. I did, after all, give you up. But neither you nor your mother were ever far from my thoughts.”

Connor gave him a patently disbelieving look.