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Nobbie wasn’t sure if he wanted to snort with laughter or annoyance. He’d just discovered how lovely it was to rest with another man and kiss him, and now that very same man wanted to march across London to talk about a fucking ancient watch. Nobbie still didn’t know if he wanted to know why he’d been abandoned with the bloody thing. Or why he was about to get abandoned for it again...

“Do you ever stop thinking about that damned watch?”

Lawndry smirked. “Sometimes I think about other watches.”

“Let’s do it then.” Nobbie discovered he wasn’t inclined to say no to Lawndry. He wanted him stay with him and kiss him more, and perhaps if they did this, then they could return here for more of time together. Oh fuck, was this why Earnest chased after love so hard? It made some sense because the way his body was relaxed was better than any of the times he’d ever paid for this. Lying on top of Lawndry with their sated bodies warmly wrapped together gave Nobbie something he’d never had and didn’t know he’d needed. He kissed Lawndry again, unable to help himself. Lawndry kissed him back. Time disappeared as Nobbie learned more about kissing; the give and take of it, the way he could almost communicate with the different strokes of his tongue against Lawndry’s tongue, the feeling of belonging. Damn it. He pushed against Lawndry’s shoulders and jumped to his feet with a gasp. How many times had he listened to Earnest wailing because his latest lover hadn’t wanted more than sex? How many times had he consoled his friend over misbegotten feelings? And now he was falling into the same trap. He barely knew Lawndry, and if he was completely honest, he knew—deep down—that he still wondered if Lawndry was trying to con him somehow.

“Mr Gilbert?” Lawndry’s use of his formal name confirmed it.

“We have a task to do.” He tried to sound harsh, but of course Lawndry’s eyes lit up at the prospect of hunting down information about his fucking watch.

“We’d better get dressed.” Lawndry stood, tugging his trousers with him—Nobbie had forgotten that Lawndry hadn’t been completely undressed, not like himself—and then Lawndry wriggled. Nobbie got up, grabbed the cloth, and cleaned up Lawndry, who then fixed himself up and pulled a watch out of his fob pocket.

“It is only two in the afternoon. Sotheby’s closes at six during the season, unless there is an auction on when, obviously, they are open much later.”

“Great.” He hadn’t really needed all that information, and it added to his worry that this was all a big scam. He often used that technique; giving someone a lot of sensible sounding but bland information to prove that he knew what he was talking about. It gave the other person confidence in him which was infinitely useful. Having the same idea deployed against him tied his stomach in knots. Lord Lawndry was either the most unusual man in London, or he was playing a long game that Nobbie might just fall for if he wasn’t careful. For some reason—kisses—Nobbie couldn’t resist Lawndry.

It was almost an hour later when they walked into Sotheby’s. Traffic in London during the season was abysmal with every bloody aristocrat in town for parliament and requiring their own carriage, and it’d taken ages for their hackney cab to navigate through all the chaos. Lawndry was nearly vibrating as they walked inside the esteemed auction house, and Nobbie wished he could do something to help ease his nerves. What a slippery slope he was on, sliding into becoming as sappy as Earnest. So no, he wasn’t going to place his hand on the small of Lawndry’s back. He would simply hang back and see if he could work out how this scam was supposed to function. What was Lawndry’s end game? He made a mental note to write to Adam and ask him to investigate Lawndry.

“My lord, are you here to inspect items for tomorrow’s auction?” The butler asked.

“No thanks. Is Mr Milton in? I have some questions for him.”

The butler nodded. “I will enquire.” He rang a bell and a servant appeared from somewhere. Nobbie was impressed by the level of service. When he’d left the orphanage, he’d worked for an institute like this, but they’d skimped on clerks, and he’d often ended up doing a lot of his own errands. They all stood around until the servant arrived back with an affirmative answer.

“Perhaps your guest would like to wait in our drawing room while you meet Mr Milton?”

“No. He’s with me.” Lawndry managed to make that sound salacious. He didn’t wait for anyone but marched up the impressive staircase leaving Nobbie to almost jog to catch up. Fuck. He tried not to look out of place; damn it, he’d spent years perfecting his society manners, even changing his accent, so he’d fit in well enough to charm money out of the toffs. One handsome, keen horologist had him reverting to his orphanage ways. It wasn’t good.

“Mr Milson’s office is on the second floor. Sotheby’s employs a variety of experts to assess the different items that they auction, and he is their horologist.”

“There are more people like you?” Nobbie regretted it as soon as he saw the way Lawndry glanced over his shoulder at Nobbie with a scowl. He swallowed.

“There are three competing societies of horologists in England. I am a member at all three, although mostly I’m involved with the Worshipful Company of Clockmakers, and often represent my mother’s family’s interests in London via them.”

He cringed, knowing he was out of line and out of his depth. It wasn’t a great combination as he’d gained all his advantages through ensuring he knew as much information as possible.

“And this Mr Milson?”

“I trust his opinion.” As if that were enough for Lawndry. Well, call Nobbie cynical, but he hadn’t survived an orphanage, being a bank clerk, and now becoming a financial advisor to the ton without a good dose of caution. Lawndry pushed open a door and walked inside with a quick greeting. Nobbie wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t a young dark-skinned man who looked like he’d walked right out of Gentleman Jack’s boxing ring. The man was almost as broad as he was tall, and he took up plenty of space in his office as he walked towards Lawndry.

“Lord Lawndry. What a pleasure.” Mr Milson had a hint of a foreign accent, perhaps from the Africas, mixed with a very posh local accent, as if he’d been educated with the ton. Nothing like Nobbie’s accent; he’d worked hard to soften out his orphanage lower-class London origins with reasonable success.

“Milson.” Lawndry smiled. “I have a rather interesting puzzle for you.”

Mr Milson smiled as if this were exceedingly pleasing to him. “Do tell, but first, please have a seat and I will ring for some tea.” The huge man was light on his feet as he walked over to pull the bell. Nobbie would definitely punt on him in the ring. Lawndry sat and waved at Nobbie, so he sat too.

“This is Mr Gilbert. He is in possession of a rather fine Hobart watch.”

Mr Milson returned to his office chair and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “May I see it?”

Nobbie wanted to say, ‘oh that old thing’ or something dismissive. It was very disconcerting to have two apparent experts so keen to see his watch. “Yes.” He half-stood to unbuckle the fob chain, and then placed the watch and chain on Mr Milson’s desk.

A servant knocked on the door and tea was ordered, then Mr Milson very carefully examined Nobbie’s watch. Mr Milson’s wide thick fingers held the watch delicately and Nobbie tried to relax. He kept discovering that this watch meant something to him, and he had to remind himself that no one in this room was going to steal the damned thing.

“Have you checked it for a maker’s mark?”

“Yes. And it is numbered.”

Mr Milson’s eyes widened. “Please tell me it is number 79.”

“How did you know?” Lawndry leaned forward in his seat, perched on the edge.

“This is Hobart number 79?”

“Yes. It is.”

Mr Milson put the watch down carefully on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “I have always wondered about this watch.”

“What do you mean?” Nobbie needed to know what these two supposed experts weren’t saying. His breath burned in the back of his throat with an acidic aftertaste. He’d always known that the only risk in life was ignorance, and this entire meeting had reminded him of his lack of knowledge in this arena. No wonder his hackles were up.

“Every year for thirty-six years, Hobart offered between three and five watches for auction. Each was numbered. Sotheby’s have sold every single watch Hobart ever made, except number 79.”

The world become cold, ice surrounding him. Fuck, fuck. If this was true, then his watch mattered. He had been abandoned, left as a baby, by someone who mattered.

“Are you sure?” Lawndry asked.

“Yes.” Mr Milson leaned forward again. “I am absolutely sure.”

“Please explain.” Lawndry, bless him, said what Nobbie should have been thinking. His mind couldn’t quite catch up to what was happening because the idea that he might matter clanged like a church bell in his skull.

“Six years ago, the Duke of Winchester died.”

What the fuck had this story got to do with some random Duke? Nobbie realised he was shaking his head and he forced himself to be still. Every muscle in his body strained with the effort of not moving. He must not react until he had more information.

“And?”

“At the time, his heir, the seventh Duke, asked Sotheby’s to value his watch collection. I had just joined Sotheby’s as my first clerking job after a scholarship at Harrow, and my boss decided that this would be a good job for a young clerk, because these collections tend to be less exciting than they sound. I travelled to Winchester to create a catalogue without much of an expectation that I’d find anything of interest.” Mr Milson swallowed. “I did not expect to find almost every Hobart watch ever made.”

Lawndry made an odd noise, a splutter that choked on a gasp. “What?”

“The sixth Duke of Winchester had every Hobart numbered one to sixty-five, then approximately one-third of the remaining watches. I catalogued them all, then came back here and went through the archives of our sale results to double check.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t so simple. Several of them had been purchased through agents, and I spent a lot of time tracking down the provenance. Eventually I had a list of all 126 Hobart’s barring number 79. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find any evidence that it had ever existed. Until now.” Mr Milson gently touched the edge of Nobbie’s watch with his blunt finger and Nobbie wanted to slap his finger away. He tried to slow his breathing, in and out through his nose.

“Why was the Duke of Winchester so obsessed with Hobart watches?” Nobbie’s voice broke. He really hoped there was a good answer that wasn’t ... that he was the son of a fucking Duke. No. No. No. It couldn’t be. He didn’t want to be related to an asshole Duke who’d forced his poor mother to abandon him at an orphanage. This was why he hadn’t wanted to know why he’d been left with this cursed watch. He’d made a life for himself. He didn’t need this type of nonsense messing everything up ... although ... common sense snuck in as he breathed, and he realised that being a Duke’s by-blow might just be useful. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. He needed to talk to Adam about it. Thinking about the potential advantages settled his stomach a fraction.

“Perhaps the Duke simply liked them. Hobart’s watches are truly exquisite workmanship. If I had the funds to collect every Hobart in existence, I would.” Lawndry made it sound so simple. “Some people collect art, others jewellery by their favourite creators, how is this any different?”

When he put it like that... Nobbie cursed his over-active imagination. He blamed Earnest who had always played these silly games when they were children; imagine if you were the son of man who left you here while he went to seek his fortune, and then he’ll come back for you one day and feed you proper food and dress you in the newest styles. Earnest, whose father had dropped him off at age ten when he’d been a hopeless blacksmith, had a fertile imagination. At least Nobbie had been abandoned as a baby with no knowledge of his family. Earnest had been old enough to understand that his father definitely didn’t want him. It was horrific behaviour if one thought about it too hard, which was why Earnest spent his time inventing other fun stories instead.

“For a long time, I had a theory, but I think this watch disproves it.” Mr Milson broke the silence, or perhaps him and Lawndry had been talking while Nobbie had been lost in thought and he’d missed something important.

“Tell me your theory.” Nobbie hoped it would distract him from weird combination of calculation and panic swirling in his chest, as if he’d been asked to face someone as big as Mr Milson in the boxing ring, and not in a very boring clerk’s office at an auction house.

“My theory is that the Duke of Winchester commissioned Hobart specifically to create watch number 79. Did you know that the Winchester Cathedral was built in 1079? It’s one of the oldest in the country and the numbers can’t be a coincidence.”

Nobbie shook his head at the fanciful notion. “If that was true, then he’d have the watch in his collection. How do you explain that he didn’t have it?”

“Perhaps he didn’t like it, and had it destroyed. I’ve seen people do worse.”

It was true. The toffs had too much money and they were often foolish with it—to Nobbie’s advantage.

“Now that we have seen that watch 79 exists, I wonder if the cathedral date is pure coincidence and that Mr Gilbert’s possession of the watch has more to do with Hobart than the Duke of Winchester, who may simply be an enthusiastic collector.”

“What do you know about Hobart?” Lawndry asked. Finally, some common sense prevailed. Naturally, Nobbie would have nothing to do with a Dukedom. The very idea was absurd. Dukes didn’t leave their babies, especially boys, at orphanages. They had local villagers raise their by-blows, then offered them jobs around the estate.

“It is more likely that someone stole the watch from whomever, then left it with their baby so the baby would have something to sell when they were grown.” Nobbie was the king of the financial scam. It’s what he would’ve done if he’d ... needed to abandon a baby? He growled. He would never do such a thing; couldn’t understand why someone would. He should’ve sold the damned watch a decade ago when he’d first been given it because thinking too hard about his origins hurt. It hurt his heart and it hurt his stomach and it gave him a pain behind his temples.

“You are correct. We have no evidence that the Duke of Winchester owned watch 79 as it is not in our auction records, nor was it in his collection. Until today, I had no evidence that it existed at all.” Mr Milson shared a glance with Lawndry like they were plotting something together.

“I suppose that makes it much more plausible that someone stole it from Hobart.” Lawndry’s logic made sense and Nobbie’s limbs finally started to warm up again. The only thing that mattered in his life was his own sense of drive and success. He’d come from nowhere and built himself up alone. Was he destined to always be alone?