And I could love Eleanora Hatfield. What a bloody inconvenient revelation for all concerned. Rex took the wrapped meat from the table and left the lady some privacy. He could not bear that he’d made her cry, but he withdrew to feed the cat, because he too had miscalculated.

Badly.

*  *  *

“I know something you don’t know.”

The old taunt shouldn’t have bothered Howell, but lately, everything bothered him. “Indeed, Eddie. you know how to arrive late to the bank without getting sacked. You know how to chew enough parsley to choke a horse, a skill I have yet to acquire. You know how to cozen old Ballentyre into joining you for a pint at noon while the rest of us remain at our desks, ciphering by the hour. You still haven’t learned to dress with quite the understated good taste Elsmore displays, but I have faith in your aspirations.”

Eddie leaned over Howell’s desk. “The skill you have yet to acquire is the ability to enjoy yourself.” His breath bore the foul under-note of one dedicated to over-imbibing.

“While you lack discretion, among other virtues.”

The clerks across the room pretended to ignore this exchange. On Saturdays, the bank closed two hours early, and the clerks were dismissed while the supervisors did weekly tallies. Howell liked those two hours best—or he had—because of the peace and quiet, and also because with the clerks away, he needn’t guard every word.

Lately though, James and Eddie had been leaving the bank together more and more often, and the sense of rejection stung. They’d always been a trio—two brothers who got along better when James’s mild temperament and good humor buffered fraternal competition. The aunties and cousins referred to them as the beautiful bachelors, because all three had a fair complement of Dorset good looks.

Eddie brought a bit of flair to his wardrobe—probably trying to outshine Elsmore, which was hopeless—while James had enough dry wit and flirtation to make Byron envious. The pair of them could make a hardworking fellow not given to fashion feel more than a tad overlooked, except that had never been the case previously. Howell had flattered himself that he was the sensible one, the one making slow and steady progress in the right direction.

His confidence in that conclusion had wavered lately.

“All right, lads,” Ballentyre called from his desk at the front of the room. “Be off with you, and we’ll have a look at those books. Enjoy your Sabbath rest, and we’ll see you back here Monday morning at eight of the clock sharpish.”

The clerks, a good lot of fellows, were off their stools and piling ledgers on Ballentyre’s desk in the next instant. Amid a general chorus of “See you Monday,” and “Regards to the missus,” the room emptied out.