20 July 1891
Maximilian stood on the doorstep of Redmond Flynn's house, unsure of whether he should knock on the door or wait for the man's butler to open it. Despite the small amounts of time he had spent in the presence of nobility thanks to his time in London working for the Wakefield's, he still felt uneasy around the upper classes. Thus, in his hands was a bottle of good quality mulled ale, to ensure that his presence as a guest would be welcomed if only for what he brought to the table, quite literally.
He raked his fingers through his hair, wishing he had one of those small mirrors that fine ladies carried around so he could ensure his appearance was not too similar to that of a street ruffian. Finally, he pulled the knocker, which was shaped like a wolf's head, not one with snarling jaws but calm yet formidable. It rapped heavily against the door once, then twice. After a moment, he heard the scurry of footsteps as someone rushed to the door.
"Welcome to the Flynn household," said a man clad in fine livery, a silvery handlebar mustache protruding from both sides of his thin face. "I am Redmond Flynn's butler, Fitzpatrick. You must be our esteemed guest–Maximilian Walker, correct?"
"Yes," he said, then, remembering the bottle of ale, thrust it outward awkwardly. "I brought a gift, for the host."
"Ah," the man said. If he felt Max had committed a faux pas, it did not show on his face, which somehow made Maximilian feel worse than if he had been openly contemptuous. "I am sure Mrs. Flynn will appreciate the addition to her meal. Allow me to take your coat, Mr. Walker."
Straightening, he shrugged out of the light outerwear and passed it to Fitzpatrick. "Thank you."
After he had hung up the garment in a coat closet, Fitzpatrick gave Maximilian a tour of Redmond Flynn's house. They passed by the hothouse, filled with lilies and azaleas, which Fitzpatrick pointed out had plenty of flowers at this time of year. Then, for Fitzpatrick to give the bottle of ale to the cook, they made their way briefly by the kitchen, from which many delicious aromas emanated, making his mouth water. Finally, he followed Fitzpatrick into a small but well-furnished room.
"And here is the parlour, where the guests will be entertained until the supper bell is rung." Fitzpatrick opened the door, gesturing for Maximilian to enter.
Before Maximilian could speak or thank him for the tour, or even ask him where Redmond Flynn was, the man had vanished, likely disappearing into a servants' corridor. To be invited as a fine guest into a good home was odd. He felt as though he ought to be in the lower halls, averting his gaze when the manor's lord looked at him, not lounging on the expensive furniture and tracking dirt onto the man's Persian carpets. A small crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, two floral-patterned sofas situated next to one another. The wallpaper glimmered faintly with gold jacquard, the ceiling vaulted and the furniture made of ornately carved oak.
"Ah, Maximilian! Thank you for choosing to accept my invitation to dinner," came Redmond's booming voice. He walked slowly into the parlour, dressed in a well-tailored suit that made Maximilian feel underdressed.
He had worn one of the few sets of attire he owned that would count as dinner wear: a three-piece suit that Edgar had reluctantly purchased for him so that he could fit in at balls where they lifted money and jewelry alike from the patrons. Though he doubted he could regale the dinner party with such stories. "Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Flynn."
"Oh, such formalities are far too stiff, don't you think!" Redmond chuckled. The chain of a monocle disappeared into the breast pocket of his vest, where a neat little pocket square in deep red had been tucked in. "Please, call me Redmond."
He nodded, trying not to allow his gaze to dart around the room as though appraising the cost of each item. Such habits, once formed, were difficult to break after almost a year in Edgar's employ. "If you insist, Redmond."
"Though I do hope you'll forgive me–I have invited my colleague to sup with us as well, and I do hope the selection of guests will be conducive to good conversation," he said cheerily. "A British lord and a very noble man, Lord Winthrop."
Maximilian froze at the name. All his limbs felt stiff, wooden, as though he'd magically turned into a marble statue in one of those museums. "I beg your pardon, Redmond, but did you say Lord Winthrop?"
"Why, yes, I did. Are you at all acquainted with the man?" Redmond said nonchalantly, taking a seat on the loveseat. It was intricately wrought with chinoiserie, and he recognized the style from when he had worked in the fine antiquities shop with Gideon. "He is, I assure you, a very upstanding gentleman."
"Oh, I... Does this upstanding man have a daughter? About my age?" he said, his heart beginning to beat once more, this time at a very rapid pace. Surely the prudent thing to do would be to mention nothing of it, to inquire no further, but yet... the hope of seeing Rosalie and her father again won out over prudence. "And is Lord Winthrop's Christian name Samuel?"
"Why, I believe so," responded Redmond. "Are you an acquaintance of his daughter?"
"We lost contact, a year or so ago," he said, recalling how he had stolen away on the ship in an attempt to escape from the press-ganger. "But we met in Hong Kong. It's quite... quite a story."
"Well, I should love to hear all about it over dinner," Redmond said. "There is the bell now! Come, let me introduce you to my wife..."
***
Maximilian sat staring at his pork roast under the watchful eye of Lord Winthrop. What a coincidence of coincidences was tonight shaping up to be! He had bumped into a complete stranger, in a crowd of dozens of people, in a city of hundreds, who had turned out to have connections to a man whom he had avoided for the past year. Beneath his hair which kept falling into his eyes–he would need to visit the barber soon–he tried to gauge Lord Winthrop's expression. Was the man angry with him? Upset? Merely shocked?
His blue eyes were not cold or fiery, his mouth not set into a harsh line but rather neutral. It was impossible to tell whether the man felt anything at all.
"Would you like some more potatoes, Maximilian?" Redmond Flynn's wife, Patricia, asked. She reminded him a great deal of Aunt Caro. She was, however, unlike Aunt Caro, a redhead, whose wit and temperament seemed to match the colour of her hair. He had noticed, after meeting her, her immediate chastisement of her husband for inviting too many guests to possibly get along with one another. This had been immediately before he assured her that Lord Winthrop and Maximilian had already been acquainted.
"Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. The food is quite delicious." As she scooped the potatoes onto his plate, Max chewed his pot roast slowly before swallowing.
She beamed, clearly taking pride in her cooking or at the very least her overseeing of the servants' cooking. "Thank you, Maximilian."
"So, tell me, Lord Winthrop, was your daughter unable to join you for supper? I do know how much she enjoyed playing with Flora last time that we visited," said Redmond, oblivious to the tension that hung in the air. Maximilian took a sip of mulled wine, letting the spices calm his nerves.
"No, she is away at school," Samuel Winthrop responded, cutting into his slice of roast. "Truly an unfortunate coincidence, as I know you were also quite taken with her, Maximilian."
Something devious lit up in Mrs. Patricia Flynn's green eyes as they darted around the table. "Really? Rosalie is such a lovely girl, it is not hard to imagine how any young man might find himself besotted with her."
The implication being, of course, that there was no instance in which Rosalie would not already be taken with some other young man as well. The thought made the rump roast sit in his stomach, heavy as a stone volleyed through a plate window. "How is she faring at Sherborne? Has she made any friends?"
Lord Winthrop's wise blue eyes met his and there was no bitterness in them, only understanding. His shoulders dropped only a smidgen in relief before the man spoke. "Oh, she has settled in there very well. She writes to me often. As much as I wish I could have her by my side, I know it is best for young girls to be surrounded by those of a similar age."
Patricia clucked her tongue. "You could remarry, you know. It isn't as though you are some doddering, decrepit widower."
His eyes widened. Lord Winthrop must have been very familiar with Redmond Flynn and his family in order for Patricia Flynn to dare to speak to a member of the aristocracy in such a manner.
"I would hate to subject my daughter to such a drastic change," was all he said. His blue eyes grew sad, his gaze lowering to his plate. "Especially when she is away at school so often these days."
Maximilian felt bad for Lord Winthrop. The man had been something like a father to him, as much as Gideon had ever been. "Mr. Flynn, may I ask you a question?"
Redmond motioned for him to speak freely.
"You mentioned that you and Lord Winthrop are colleagues, but I wonder what line of work the two of you happen to be acquainted in," he said, hoping the topic of conversation was now a safe one.
"To be entirely honest with you, Mr. Walker, Lord Winthrop is actually my client. He hired me to help him with an affair that was very important to him, some years back... nearly a decade now, in fact. Now, we have recently renewed our business contract," he said.
"What work do you do?" Max asked, feeling dissatisfied by the answer and only left with more questions. He recalled seeing the title Esq. beside Redmond Flynn's name, so was he a lawyer?
"I am in the business of working with a detective agency," Redmond responded, and immediately conjured up visions of Sherlock Holmes from Conan Doyle's novels. "In particular, I work discreetly to help my clients find missing persons, particularly when the clients in question are... of a higher profile than most, I suppose you could call it."
"Really? That sounds extremely fascinating," he said.
As Redmond launched into a description of a case he had worked on, Maximilian sank in his seat and hoped the time had passed for difficult conversations. However, as Lord Winthrop leaned forward with a knowing light in his eye, he knew it was not the case.