“Don’t be ridiculous, Jackson Naylor. Home is home. You go there when you please. London isn’t home. Clyde has been talking about moving up to Edinburgh. He knows people there, and the port is booming. They don’t mind if a man has a bit of a burr, provided he works hard.”

She made a sandwich of two slices and passed it to Jack. Her own portion was the single piece made into a half sandwich.

“Maybe I should go north with you. Mick could join us when he’s done larking about.” English laws didn’t reach across the Scottish border, which was ever a source of comfort when a man contemplated travel.

Pamela resumed her seat and took a bite of her bread and jam. “Talk to Clyde.”

In other words, maybe Jack should stay in London, while his family scattered to the four winds. “Mick was thinking about going someplace warm.”

“He’ll end up someplace very warm, if he doesn’t watch his step.”

Jack wanted to wash his hands before he ate, a clerk’s habit. An honest clerk. “You agree with Ellie, then. Work yourself to death for a pittance, go to church for a weekly scolding, die sober and broke with a sore back.”

“Ellie isn’t broke, she’s not working for a pittance, and I’m fairly certain she doesn’t bother with services or disdain good liquor. Eat your bread.”

“Ellie was lucky, Pamela. How many times do I have to say it? She was living hand to mouth along with the rest of us, and then she got lucky.”

Pamela took another bite of her sandwich, chewed slowly, and set the remaining portion on the bare table.

“You are lucky too, Jack. You are a handsome man and a quick study. You could do what Ellie does—the fancy bookkeeping. You know all the rigs, you see what others miss, but you’re always on the lookout for the easy swindle. You could paint portraits, do sketches, teach the young ladies their watercolors. All of that comes naturally to you.”

I want to wash my hands. I want to wash my damned hands so everything I eat doesn’t taste like coal. “I wasn’t swindling the sodding squire.”

“Not yet, you weren’t.”

“Six months I worked for him, Pamela. Kept his books, told him when Cook was helping herself to the sherry and padding the marketing. For that I get three sentences and good luck.”

“This baby is falling asleep,” Pamela said, which probably meant Jack should shut his gob. “Will you go to the agencies?”