Maisie gave him a long, assessing look. “You aren’t normally afraid of things.”

“I’m not afraid. I just don’t see how I can promise something like that. How do I know what might happen? Or what it’ll be like for us if Chingford hangs?”

“You don’t. He’s not asking you to predict where you’ll be in ten years, you idiot. He’s just telling you he wants you to be with him—you, with your grammar school manners and working hands and punching people when you oughtn’t—and asking if you want it too. That’s all a future is.”

“It’s not, though. There’s all the things that could happen—”

“That’s called being alive, Will! Honestly, maybe you oughtn’t think about things. You aren’t very good at it.”

“Ouch.” Will took another biscuit. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s a lot easier with you to talk to.”

“That’s because I’ve got common sense,” Maisie said. “Only I’m taking it back to Paris next week, so you’d better hurry up and sort yourself out.”

Chapter Thirteen

Maisie’s visit was a tonic, as well as a valuable distraction from wondering how things were going for Kim with DS and the Private Bureau. That became harder after she left. Will did some unnecessary sweeping, made himself an early lunch for something to do, and snatched up the phone as soon as it rang. “Kim?”

“Is that Darling’s?”

“Yes. Sorry. Darling’s Used and Antiquarian, can I help you?”

“Ah, Mr. Darling. I’m calling—behalf—” It was a dreadful line, crackly and faint. Will caught ‘Aveston’, and managed to decipher that there was some sort of issue with the library sale, and could he come to see Lord Aveston at the Beresford Hotel as quickly as possible, because his lordship had to catch a train.

“Of course. With you as soon as possible.”

At least it was something to do. Will headed to the Beresford on foot, since it was just up on Southampton Row, wondering what the problem was. Probably Deansbrook hadn’t paid up yet: it was like getting blood out of a stone with book dealers.

He asked at the desk for Lord Aveston, and was greeted with a blank look. “I’m afraid his lordship isn’t staying here.”

“His man just called me. Told me to come here.”

“There must be a mistake. We have no gentleman of that name here, sir. Might you mean the Belgravia Hotel? Or the Berkeley? Or the Perivale, perhaps? We get that sometimes. I suppose it sounds a bit like over the telephone, doesn’t it? Beresford, Perivale—”