Neil gazed out of the moving window, not really looking at anything in particular. Outside, the city of London rolled past, bouncing along the flagstone streets. Neil could see all ranges of life, from other elegant coaches passing him to the barefoot industrial workers, bustling to and fro incessantly.

“People are so dirty,” he remarked, catching the eye of a child through his coal-covered face. In the background, tall smokestack towers blasted dark clouds into the grey sky, blanketing the city. “How one could choose this place over a country home baffles me, Thomas. How could one ever live in such a place?”

“People live in all manner of places, Your Grace” Thomas said, sitting across from Neil in the carriage. “I suppose the city is just another place.”

“I suppose,” Neil said. “Although what a wretched place it is.”

“I remember you used to quite enjoy a time in town, Your Grace,” Thomas said, unsure whether he should finish his thought. “What with the wife.”

“Perhaps ‘enjoy’ is rather far from the shore,” Neil said, his eyes falling down from the window to his lap. “I tolerated it, for her sake,” Neil said as he became suddenly gloomy.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas blushed, looking down. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I only meant that you should not forget the fine times you experienced with her.”

“It is alright, Thomas,” Neil sighed. “You are the only person it seems I can talk to anymore.”

“If I may, Your Grace, Mr. Bastable seemed a jolly gentleman,” Thomas said, changing the subject. He turned his head away for a pause to wipe a small tear from his eye while Neil was not looking. “Perhaps in time, you could find a friend in him.”

“Perhaps,” Neil said, turning again to stare out the window at the factory workers pouring out for their mid-day break, which was only a five-minute interruption to their ten-hour workday. “Although I should say, he seems rather crass. Like a book that has its spine restored, but the pages are still water damaged.”

“Are you to try your hand at poetry, Your Grace?” Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Come now, Thomas,” Neil said, smiling ever so faintly. “I am not sure my participation in that contest would be all together fair.”

They rolled and bounced for some time as they skirted some of the factories, crossed the river, and arrived finally at the offices of Neil’s solicitor. Thomas paid the coachman to wait for them, and they entered through a grand, marbled room, where they were met by one of the firm’s footmen.

He escorted them to the second floor, where after knocking thrice on a large, oaken door, he showed them to a small waiting room.

“Mr. Carter shall see you shortly, Your Grace. May I offer you anything while you wait? Some tea and sandwiches, perhaps?” the footman asked.

“No, that will be all.” Neil waved the footman away.

After no more than five minutes, another set of large doors swung open into an elegant office, with wide windows overlooking what seemed half of London.

“Your Grace,” a man called out from within. He was a heavy man, thick in the face, arms, legs, and gut. He wore delicate spectacles around his short nose, but his eyes held a glow of warmth and cordiality. He was surrounded by writing desks, scribbling between stacks of papers. “It is so good to see you again, it has been too long.”

“Mr. Carter,” Neil said. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“You have come about the wool contract, have you not? I recall you wrote to me some time ago.”

“Yes,” Neil said, crossing to the solicitor and shaking his hand. “It seems the past few years have treated you rather well,” Neil waved his hands around to encompass the artfully-decorated office, pausing at an ornate, curved knife that rested on a display stand.

“Ah, the prize of my collection,” Mr. Carter said, excitement welling up in his voice. He came around his desks to show Neil the weapon more closely. “It belonged to the Sultan Tipu, or so I must believe, for I spent enough on it,” he said, turning it over in his hands.

“From India?” Neil asked.

“Yes, from Wellington’s campaign.”

“I was not aware you went away to India.”

“Oh no, not I,” Mr. Carter said, placing the dagger back on its stand. “I bought this at an auction house, possessions of a disgraced officer, I believe, around the corner from Whitehall.”

“What was the charge?” Neil asked as they both made their way back to the desks, no longer holding the conversation out of interest, but courtesy.

“Striking a superior, if I am not mistaken.”

“Well,” Neil said, sitting down at the desk. “At least justice was done.”

“At least,” Mr. Carter smiled, planting himself firmly across from the Duke. “So, you have the documents?”

“Thomas, the contract,” Neil said. Thomas revealed the relevant papers and placed them neatly before Mr. Carter.

“Right then.” Mr. Carter grumbled with a grunt, leaning over the fine print and adjusting his glasses. “Let us take an amble, shall we?”

They sat together and reviewed the contracts for some time, while Thomas sat idly, yet always at attention. Finally, it seemed as if Mr. Carter had made all the necessary footnotes and scribbles, and he handed the papers to the Duke.

“Well his paperwork seems to be in order,” Mr. Carter said. “If I may, Your Grace, on paper this has the makings of a great enterprise; the wool market worldwide is a large one, and we both know that there is great demand for wool locally since it seems every bale comes from Australia today, but are you sure you can trust this man? I have never worked with him before, nor even heard of his business until a year or two ago.”

“He is of new money, ‘tis true,” the Duke said, shuffling the papers. “But he has raised himself up from nothing, and I have much respect for that. What’s more, I cannot find any instance of his betrayal of contracts. In fact, when inquiring about his former practices, it seems everyone speaks very highly of him, and of his ability to generate income.”

“Well, it is inevitably, your decision, Your Grace, Mr. Carter said, sucking in air through his nose. “Although it seems a lucrative avenue.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carter, for your time as always,” Neil said, signing on the appropriate lines and handing the papers back to the solicitor. “I presume you capable of filing these?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Very well,” Neil rose to his feet. “I shall wait to hear news of its confirmation.”

“Your Grace, you are leaving already?” Mr. Carter jumped to his feet after the Duke. “I had hoped to speak to you somewhat further.”

The Duke lowered his voice an octave. “About what, Mr. Carter?” He already knew what it was his solicitor would tell him, and he would have none of it.

“How is your daughter, Kaitlin? She must be at least four years old by now.”

“She is well, five years old now, in fact.”

“Your Grace,” Mr. Carter came around the desk. “I implore you to listen to me on these matters. Your Grace is now a man of three and thirty, surely with a long and fruitful life ahead of you, but we must take attention to your will. You have not revised it since the accident and as it stands now—”

“Mr. Carter,” Neil snapped back, anger flooding into his voice and heat to his temples. “I thought that I had made it very clear that you were never to speak to me of such matters. If I wish to address it, then I will notify you, or even perhaps, a new solicitor. Good day,” and with a final stomp of his boot, Neil turned and left the law office, wringing his hands together as he rushed down the stairs.

“Your Grace!” Thomas called out after him. “Your Grace!” he caught up to him at the carriage, huffing a bit from the sprint.

“Say nothing Thomas,” Neil growled. “Or I shall leave you here among the crawling foulness of poverty. Driver! Onward!” Neil slammed against the roof of the carriage with his fist, and it began to roll; Thomas slunk silently into his seat, feeling dreadfully sorry for the Duke, but wishing desperately that Neil could face the events of his past.