“Oh my God.” I grimaced through a smile and raised a hand to my head. “We’re both going to be a wreck in the morning. How many shots was that?”
“I lost count somewhere after the eighth time O’Brien glowered at that other maid.” The Professor smirked at me while massaging his temples. “That was brutal. Who knew British costume dramas were the gateway to a life of indulgence and sin?”
“I know, right?” I said, “We’d better stop here for the night, or we’re liable to end up in the streets, begging for biscuits and tea.”
“But dressed elegantly, mind you. Tails and tasteful gowns. Aristocratic beggars must maintain higher standards of course, lest they become the target of gossip and vicious speculation.” He smiled at me, and winked. But there was something in his expression, some hint of discomfort around the edges of his eyes, that struck me.
“You sound as if you speak from experience,” I prompted, curious what was on his mind.
“A little.” He nodded. “My family isn’t nobility but I come from a version of that life. Private schools and dressing for dinner, chauffeurs, and polo and entertaining dignitaries.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Not entirely.”
“Aw, you don’t like entertaining dignitaries?” I teased.
“No, not particularly. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been very fortunate. But I’d much rather succeed or fail in this life on my own merits, and not those of my…. ”
“Your father?” I said, finishing the sentence for him.
“Yes.” He nodded, his mouth twisting into a cynical smirk.
“But you have succeeded on your own merits. You’re a respected scholar with a doctorate in your field.”
“Ah, but you see,” he said, reaching for the bottle of Jameson, “that worthy accomplishment is about to be usurped.”
“That bad, huh?” I asked as I watched him fill the shot glass.
“Worse,” he said, tossing it back.
The quality of his voice was lower now, and a little slurred. “My father was made a baronet this year. An honor bestowed upon him by a grateful queen.”
“Wow.” Why exactly is that bad? I wondered. “What was she grateful for?”
“My father,” he said, pouring another shot, “is the foremost importer and manufacturer of luxury furniture and textiles in all of Great Britain. The houses of the aristocracy are full of his wares.” He stretched his arms, gesturing wildly. “The queen’s houses are full of his wares.”
“Wow,” I said again, stunned. “Grayson Interiors? That’s your family?”
“You know it,” he said blandly.
“I do,” I said, and shifting in my seat, I lifted the laptop so he could catch a glimpse of the ornate cherry side-table next to the sofa.
“Oh dear God, it isn’t.”
“It’s a Grayson,” I said. “Mind you I only know this because my parents fought over it during their divorce. Apparently they bought it on their honeymoon.”
“Your mother should consider it cursed and throw it in the fireplace.”
“Never happen; she loves it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, waving a hand in surrender. “My great-great-great-grandfather was the one who started the company you know. Imports. Tea, textiles, gems.” He filled his shot glass yet again.
“Easy there, tiger, you’re working on a world-class hangover.”
“My great-grandfather,” he continued, ignoring my warning, “was the one who had the idea to start manufacturing furniture. But my father,” —he raised the shot glass in mock salute— “my illustrious father, he is the one who expanded the business, made it a worldwide brand, and raised the family fortune into the billions.”
“Billions?” I said.
“Billions.” He slammed the shot back and set the glass down hard, then swiped a hand across his mouth. “Not that that has ever mattered to dear old Dad,” he muttered, and I noticed that he was massaging his right hand distractedly with the other. His fingers traced the dark line of the tattoo that circled his wrist, raising a flush in the skin. “Because what my father really wants is power. And to him a title is just more power. It’s fucking stupid, meaningless nonsense. But you can be sure he’ll bandy it about as if a simple ‘Sir’ in front of his name suddenly infuses the entire family bloodline with magic and respectability. As if it erases every sin he’s ever committed. As if anything could.”
“I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. He was on a tear, exorcising a few demons, and I had no idea what to say.
“Thank you,” he said, his sad liquid eyes growing large and haunted. “Thank you. It’s sad you know. I’ve worked so hard for everything I have, to separate myself from him, to become my own man. And now, it hardly matters, because the minute that bastard dies, his title goes to me.”
“Oh,” I said. “And that’s bad?” I asked cautiously.