Randall’s mouth thinned into a hard line, an indignant flush creeping up from the ridiculously elaborate knot of his stark white cravat. Gray could practically see the urge to scream, Bugger off, you bastard, raging within the man, demanding to be set free.
Careful to keep the façade of casual indifference firmly in place, Gray picked up his teacup and took a sip. Randall certainly didn’t spend his money on decent quality tea leaves. He likely purchased them on the East Side, not far from where he did his own buggering.
Gray hadn’t wanted to resort to bringing forth that particular bit of information Stevens had unearthed during his investigation. What a man did behind a closed door, even if he paid for it—frequently—was none of Gray’s concern. He definitely wouldn’t let the information leave this drawing room, but Randall didn’t know that, nor did he suspect he had a sympathetic soul in Gray.
Yet Randall hadn’t batted an eye when Gray had revealed Stevens’s other findings. The gambling debts to unsavory individuals, the association with a known smuggler along the Devon coast, the suspected involvement with a certain young miss who had abruptly left London five months ago to visit an aunt in Lincolnshire. A young miss who would likely reappear back in Town in four months. With a wave of his soft pale hand, Randall had cast aside those thinly veiled threats as inconsequential, leaving Gray with no other option but to bring out the one that would garner the result he sought. Or at least he hoped it would.
Randall wouldn’t be so imprudent as to believe his new title would protect him from such a serious claim, would he? While Gray hated to admit it, his chances of prevailing for his client by relying solely on the law in this instance were extremely thin. Too thin. Hence why he’d called on Stevens. The law was on Gray’s side—Airth’s will was clear. But Randall had a duke’s title now and circumstances that could sway a judge to his side.
“All right,” Randall spat, as though he had to shove through his reluctance. “I will stop contesting the will.”
“How very kind of you. No gentleman would wish to beggar a lady, after all. I will be sure to put it about my acquaintances that the bit of trouble over the will was simply an unfortunate misunderstanding. I would suggest you do the same.” Grabbing his leather bag, he got to his feet. After giving Randall his best impression of a deferential half bow, Gray left the drawing room.
Her Grace was very pleased when Gray paid her an unexpected call, a relieved smile spreading across her pretty face. “Thank you, Lord Grayson. I am forever indebted to you.”
To which Gray respectfully brushed aside her thanks. “It was a pleasure to have been able to be of service to you, Your Grace.”
She would not need to relocate to a small cottage on a relative’s country estate. She would not need to accept the next man who offered for her hand just to be able to afford to remain in London. She could continue on with her life as she knew it, at least as well as one could after losing a beloved husband.
Once outside of the duchess’s townhouse, he checked his pocket watch. Half past four. His afternoon appointments had taken longer than anticipated. Rather than walk back, he found a hackney cab and gave the jarvey the direction to the office.
He stared out the window as the neat rows of townhouses gave way to elegant shops. The rush of accomplishment he usually felt when he succeeded for a client was completely absent. Even prevailing for Her Grace against Randall hadn’t been able to nudge aside the sense of discontent, of disappointment, that had been weighing him down since yesterday morning. He was well accustomed to waking to an empty bed. It shouldn’t bother him so much, but he’d thought Edward would be different than the others. Wanted him to be different than the others. And he’d been so careful with Edward.
That part stung the most. He hadn’t invited him to his apartments until he had been certain Edward wasn’t intimidated by him and had wanted the invitation. He had spent time with him outside of a bedchamber, had truly enjoyed spending that time with him, and he had planned every aspect of their evening to align with Edward’s particular likes.
Edward’s pleasure, his enjoyment, had been Gray’s own. He had bloody well felt the connection between them, and to wake to an empty bed…
A damned punch to the gut.
And to have found Edward staring at Mr. Perfect Barrington again? To have to face the proof that Gray had only been good enough for a fuck?
Gray scrubbed a hand across his face. Why had he even bothered to hope? He should have known better. He had known a week ago who Edward truly preferred at the office, and it wasn’t himself.
The hackney jerked to a stop. Gray paid the driver then went into his building, trudging up the steps.
He walked into the office to find Edward’s desk empty, no sign of him in the anteroom. Hell, he’d already left for the day. Maybe it was for the best. By tomorrow, Gray wouldn’t feel so off balance, the sting of rejection would have faded, and he could return to working with Edward as if they were—and had only been—merely employer and employee.
Letting out a sigh, he sat behind his desk. Leather bag on his lap, he made to unbuckle the flap, but stopped.
Situated between two stacks of documents was a note. No postage mark, no address. Just Lord Grayson Holloway.
Edward’s handwriting?
As he picked up the note, his stomach balled into a fist. Somehow he knew what he would find before he unfolded the paper.
Lord Grayson,
Effective immediately, I hereby offer my resignation.
Regards—Edward Fenton
The air whooshed out of Gray’s lungs. A harsh wince crossed his brow, pain jabbing him square in the chest. He wasn’t even good enough for Edward to want to work for him anymore.
As he sat there staring at Edward’s neat handwriting, one thought rose above the mass of desolation—Edward had left him a letter.
No conversation. No explanation. Just one bloody line. That was all the consideration Gray deserved?
The hell with that.
He focused on the outrage. Fed it, stoked the indignation until it flared brighter than the heartache. Until it pounded through his veins, turned into pure determination.
He’d never been one to wallow in self-pity. Had never allowed circumstance to pull him down. Never allowed taunts to leave visible wounds. Never showed his opponents a drop of weakness. He wasn’t about to roll over now and allow Edward to walk away from him—not once, but twice—without an explanation.
Edward didn’t have the ballocks to speak to him in person? That was unfortunate for him, because Gray was going to force him to explain himself.
Dumping his bag to the floor, he stuffed the letter into a pocket and got to his feet.
Within a handful of minutes, a hackney was taking him east, winding around carriages and men on horseback, navigating the busy streets.
“Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. You had no hand in your parentage.”
Goddamn liar. Gray had the proof in his pocket.
And really, how unprofessional to have left without giving Gray some sort of notice. If nothing else, Edward should have had the courtesy to allow Gray time to find a replacement.
Jaw set, he was reaching for the door’s lever before the hackney had even fully stopped at Edward’s building. And then he was standing before Edward’s door, the sound of his sharp knock reverberating in the narrow corridor.
A knock that went answered.
Gray tried again.
Nothing.
Bloody hell.
He had the correct door. He was certain of it. Not a few days ago, he’d stood at this very spot and brushed his lips across Edward’s. Edward had kissed him back, soft lips slanting across Gray’s, eagerness drenching the kiss.
And today, Edward had left him a damned one-line letter.
Wherever Edward had gone, he couldn’t be gone indefinitely. He lived in the apartments on the other side of that door. He would eventually return, and when he did, Gray would demand answers.
Positioning himself so he could keep his attention on the stairs, Gray crossed his arms over his chest and settled in to wait.
Floorboards creaked from overhead as other inhabitants in the building moved about their rooms. The faint scent of roasted beef wafted down the corridor. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. He could grab supper after he’d spoken with Edward.
As the minutes slipped by with nothing to occupy him, his mind began to wander. Why exactly hadn’t Edward given him any notice? To leave thusly was a guarantee an employer would not provide a letter of recommendation. Without such a letter, Edward would have little hope of procuring another position as a secretary. How was Edward to reach a level where he could one day become a solicitor if he wasn’t able to gain additional experience?
He wouldn’t. It was as simple as that.
Had he wanted to leave Gray so badly as to sabotage his future prospects?
“It’s no coincidence he gave you—and not Wilson—to me. He didn’t want you.” Gray’s own words sounded in his head.
The last words he’d spoken to Edward.
Edward hadn’t cringed, hadn’t recoiled in shame, hadn’t even dropped his gaze. With steel in his voice, he’d met Gray’s fury and then some. “My apologies you’ve had to make do with his castoffs.”
In an odd sort of way, Gray had been impressed. He’d been angry, quite upset and also impressed Edward had so forcefully stood his ground with him. Any lingering concern Edward might still be a tad intimidated by him had been put to rest.
Yet a few hours later, Edward had left his employ.
Perhaps that wasn’t a coincidence.
But Gray hadn’t done anything but speak the truth…though in a not-very-kind fashion. He had caught Edward staring at Barrington yet again, and Edward had snuck out of his bed without a word to him.
Yet Edward had told him he needed to meet his family in the morning for Sunday services. Gray had told him he’d wake him…but had he actually asked Edward to stay until the morning?
No.
He’d thought they had an understanding, but maybe the understanding had only been on Gray’s end. That was perhaps a possibility.
Edward hadn’t behaved like an ex-lover intent on avoiding him when he’d arrived at the office. He’d bid Gray good morning.
Gray’s reply?
Rather short.
He passed his mind over the day, over each interaction with Edward. By the time he reached their last conversation—if it could be deemed such—he was cringing.
Oh hell. Maybe his brother, Richard, was correct. Maybe Gray was an arse.
Had he been the one to push Edward away?
The answer required no thought at all.