Jean-Jacques’s expression was scornful, the veneer of politeness ripped away. “No? What would you call it?”
“How could I throw him out of his own house? It was his. I made it over to him after—” After he left for Wiltshire with Caroline, in those first awful weeks of the worst year of his life. He shook his head, dislodging the memory and turned his attention back to Jean-Jacques. “Please,” he said. “Can’t you tell me where Christopher is? I have to speak to him.”
But the black eyes that met his own were hard and unyielding. “I cannot,” Jean-Jacques said. “Kit does not want to meet with you. And now, your grace, I think it is time you were on your way.”
After leaving Mercier’s, Henry stood on the street outside for several minutes, his mind racing. At length, he decided to call on Simon Reid, the solicitor who dealt with his personal business—and who had handled the chaos of the Parkinson debacle.
Reid’s offices were at Serjeant’s Inn, just off Fleet Street. Since it wasn’t very far, and Henry needed to walk off some of his agitation, he dismissed his carriage and made his way by foot.
The walk did nothing to calm him, though. By the time he arrived, he had worked himself up even more. He barrelled into the office, barely pausing to glance at the two clerks sitting at their desks and strode past, making for Reid’s office.
One of the clerks followed him.
“Excuse me, your grace, Mr. Reid is presently busy—”
“He won’t mind me interrupting.” Henry absently cast the words over his shoulder just as he thrust the door open.
“Reid,” he said urgently. “I have to speak to you! I’ve discovered something that—” He broke off. Reid was not alone. He was standing by his desk with two men. One was tall and dark and somewhat familiar, though Henry could not place him. The other was red-haired and slender. “Oh,” Henry said, brought up short. “I do beg your pardon.”
Reid blinked, surprised, but quickly collected himself. “Your grace—” he began, then glanced at the two men with an apologetic expression.
The red-haired man smiled. “It’s no trouble,” he said in a pleasant Scottish burr. “We were just about to leave anyway.” He glanced at the taller man who smiled his agreement, and they began to move towards the door. Henry stood aside to let them pass.
“I’ll see you out,” Reid said to the two men, then, glancing at Henry, added, “I’ll be back momentarily.”
Henry paced the rug in front of the fireplace till Reid returned, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Has something happened, your grace?” Reid asked worriedly. “You seem very anxious.”
“I need you to check something for me,” Henry said. “Right away—without delay—it’s of the utmost importance.”
Reid’s brow wrinkled with concern, and he moved towards his desk. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need. Won't you sit down?”
Henry felt some of the tension inside him ease. He could confide fully in Reid—Reid was not only Henry’s solicitor, he shared Henry’s inclinations and they had certain mutual acquaintances. Indeed, it was Henry’s oldest and must trusted friend, Viscount Corbett, who had introduced them.
“Do you want a drink?” Reid asked now, frowning. “You look like you’ve had a shock.”
Henry nodded, sinking into the chair on the other side of Reid’s desk, while Reid fetched him a glass of brandy. He took a deep breath, rubbing the tense spot between his brows as he tried to collect himself.
When Reid set the brandy down in front of him, he immediately reached for it, taking a deep swallow and flinching at the burn in his throat.
“So,” Reid said. “Tell me what you need me to help you with.”
“I need you to check the title of a property I once owned in Paddington Green. I gifted it to someone a number of years ago—eighteen to be precise— but it seems it may not have reached the intended recipient.”
Reid met Henry’s gaze. “Given the timing, I have to wonder if this is another Parkinson matter.”
Henry nodded miserably. “I think so. I’m hoping not, but I can’t think of any other explanation, and his name’s already been mentioned.”
“I thought we’d got to the bottom of everything.” Reid frowned, thinking, then looked up. “A missing house would be new though. It is not an easy thing to remove from a man’s estate without him noticing.”
“No,” Henry agreed, “but if anyone had the sheer gall to try, it would be him.”
Silas Parkinson had been Henry’s father’s man of business,