Stephen had been eight when John James Wentworth had finally perished from too much gin and not enough decency. Quinn hoped that his brother’s childhood memories were dim and few, though nobody could forget what having a monster for a father had been like.

“Naylor rings a bell,” Stephen said, sipping his drink. “I recall an old chap with a white beard, ink-stained hands. Not a bad sort. Mrs. Naylor once gave me a slice of bread with jam. I knew from that moment on that should I survive to adulthood, I would enjoy bread and jam three times a day if I had to commit hanging felonies to have it.”

So much for dim memories. “The Naylors were no more respectable than we were, but Mr. Naylor certainly lacked our father’s violent nature.”

“Hard to be less respectable than we were, Quinn.”

What to say? “We were destitute, Stephen, but we weren’t criminals. Papa was a lazy, mean drunk. I never regarded that as an excuse for his children to break the law.”

Stephen shot Quinn a wry glance. “Just the opposite. You once spanked my lame little backside for stealing a currant bun.”

He would recall that. “The only time I raised a hand to you. You could have been transported for stealing that bun, Stephen. At least give me credit for waiting until you’d finished eating the damned thing.”

No matter how wealthy Quinn became—he was scandalously wealthy—the sheer terror of being a poor lad in the back alleys of York would never entirely leave him. For a younger brother with a bad leg, transportation would have been a death sentence, and at the time, Quinn would have been powerless to intervene.

“You watched me eat that whole bun before you dressed me down, Quinn?”

“The treat would be just as stolen if you ate it or not, and you were starving.” Too proud to beg, too infirm to work, Stephen’s lot as a child had been heartbreaking. How hungry had he been, to risk thieving when he could never have outrun pursuit?

Stephen shifted in his chair, pulled a pillow out from behind him and laid it on a hassock, then propped his foot on the pillow.

“I wish to hell it would just damned snow,” he said. “This rain is a misery.”

“You’ll stay in London for the winter?” Quinn put the question casually, but Jane fretted over Stephen, and preferred to have him near when winter set in.

Stephen traveled for months at a time, then circled back through London for long, unannounced visits. He no longer bided in the Wentworth town house when he was in Town, which was a blessing—mostly.

“I have to remain long enough to look over the bank books, don’t I?” Stephen replied. “Mrs. Hatfield has spoken, and I reject the great honor of being her understudy at peril to my well-being.”