“I beg your pardon?” Joseph said, blinking at him.
“I saw the whole thing,” the man said. There was sympathy in his voice. His accent was decidedly lower-class, but the way he held himself was grander than the queen. “I know exactly how it feels being dismissed for petty reasons when you actually know more than the man doing the dismissing.”
Joseph wondered how long the strange man had been watching him. He wondered how much he had heard, if he’d heard the bit about Montrose.
The man took his hands from his pockets and offered one for Joseph to shake. “Danny Long,” he introduced himself. “At your service.”
“Joseph Rathborne-Paxton,” Joseph introduced himself.
The pieces fell into place so swiftly that Joseph could almost hear a click. He knew of Mr. Danny Long by reputation. He might even have seen the man at a party now and then. Mr. Danny Long was the other man who was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in England, right along with the Duke of Westminster. And he’d earned his fortune in much the same way, though land speculation. But Long had been born working-class. Or rather, his father had. His family had started the journey to wealth through land speculation two generations ago or more, but Long had finished that journey.
“Come on,” Long said, nodding his head down the street. “One of my pubs is just around the corner. Let me buy you a drink.”
“It’s barely past nine in the morning,” Joseph said, a bit dazed.
Long laughed. “I never said what the drink was. You can have tea, if you’d like. Come along.”
Joseph was too flummoxed by the way he’d just been dismissed by Westminster to say no to Long. He let out a quick, sighing breath, then walked at Long’s side down toward Oxford Street.
“Westminster can be a bit hoity-toity,” Long said as they walked, “but once you get to know him, he’s alright.”
Joseph stared at the man. He didn’t think anyone had ever spoken so casually about a duke before.
“Are you and he friends?” he asked.
Long shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. We’re in the same business, he and I.”
“Yes, I know,” Joseph said. He sucked in a quick breath as his thoughts sped up again, taking him right back to the project they were walking away from. “Do you happen to know who Montrose is?” he asked.
Long laughed humorlessly. “He’s a right arsehole, that’s who he is.”
For some reason, Joseph found the man’s crude language and affable manner engaging. “He is, and he nearly ruined my family.”
Long turned to him with a lopsided grin. “I know.”
Another wave of shame washed over Joseph as they reached a cozy and well-appointed pub called The Watchman. Long stepped forward to hold the door, which seemed slightly backwards.
As soon as they stepped into the pub, Joseph had the distinct feeling that he’d been invited into Long’s den. The pub was quiet so early in the morning, but the few patrons sitting at the counter and the barmaid cleaning tables all glanced up at him right away and smiled.
“Morning, Mr. Long,” the barmaid said in a manner that sounded far too casual to Joseph.
“Morning, Nora,” Long called out to the young woman in return. Now that they were indoors, Joseph noted how loud Long’s voice was. “Bring me and Mr. Rathborne-Paxton here a pot of tea and some of those scones, love, would you?”
“Right away, sir,” Nora said with a smile, heading off to the back.
“Have a seat.” Long walked to one of the tables right in the center of the pub and pulled out a chair before walking around to the other side and taking off his coat. Once Joseph did the same—out of sheer bafflement more than anything else, because he felt completely out of his depth—and he and Long were both seated, Long leaned toward him, arms braced on the table, and said, “Now, tell me all about it.”
Joseph hesitated, then asked, “Tell you all about what?”
“About what has you looking so downtrodden, of course,” Long said with a smile.
“I never said I was downtrodden,” Joseph said, leaning back a bit.
Long made a scoffing sound. “I’ve been a pub owner most of my life. I can spot a man who feels downtrodden from a mile away. And they always end up pouring it all out to me. So come on, lad, tell me all about it.”
Joseph gaped for a moment. Long was right. There was something about the man that made Joseph want to spill his soul. And after the rejection he’d just had from Westminster, it couldn’t hurt to vent.
“I’m tired of being called ‘lad’ or ‘boy’ or even ‘young man’ for one,” he said with a little too much force. “I’m a grown man, for pity’s sake. It’s about time I be treated as one.”