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T he knock on the door that arrived that morning was all Abraham Murphy had been wanting for the last month. Finally, at long last, a fancy, titled person was arrived at his door, marking the start of the High Season, and hopefully, ready to shell out his hiring fee.

Whatever it was, be it a missing dog or a wayward heir or a rival family attempting to foil prospects for a newly debuted daughter, Abe was here to help.

It wasn’t the career he’d envisaged for himself, but hell, it kept the coffers full, and that was all that really mattered at the end of the day, wasn’t it?

He checked his appearance in the foyer mirror, smoothing down the wayward strands of sandy hair that had a tendency to stick out at all angles, and straightened his shoulders.

Silently, he congratulated himself on the forethought he’d had to freshen the paint on the window, where it read Murphy Investigations in bright, looping green letters next to the brass door knocker, and he took a breath, bracing himself to meet the first well-paying prospective client he’d had since the ton had fled London last summer for greener, colder pastures in the country.

Bonanza! he thought, smiling widely at the lady standing on the opposite side of his threshold, whose blue silk reticule alone must have been worth at least three months’ rent.

She was of middle age, elegant and obviously monied, with pale hair piled into a fashionable roll atop her head. She had light blue eyes that were currently narrowed rather suspiciously upon Abe.

“Good morning, Madam,” he said, in his most polite voice. “How may I assist you?”

Rather than greeting him in the usual way, she tilted her head at him, her squint narrowing further, and observed, “You are not my son.”

“I … er.” He had to stifle a nervous chuckle. “I’m indeed not. Though I’m sure I’d be honored if I were. Do you perhaps have the wrong door?”

She frowned at him and took a step back, leaning to the left to examine the brass numbers nailed to the doorframe, and then returned to her rigid posture. “No, this is the correct address, I’m afraid.”

“Mother?” A very startled, very posh male voice came from the staircase behind them. “What the devil?”

Abe sighed.

“Ah,” said the woman, brushing past Abe as though he had never been there at all with a brisk sense of purpose. “Freddy.”

“Of course,” Abe muttered, swinging the door shut behind the woman and throwing his weight back against it to watch the touching reunion unfold. He crossed his arms across his chest, likely looking just as petulant as he felt. “Come right in.”

The woman cupped Freddy Hightower’s face with her slender hand, turning it one way, then the other, before dropping it, evidently satisfied with what she saw. “Well,” she said expectantly. “Aren’t you going to offer me some tea?”

“I …” Freddy croaked, alarm very clear in his face as he looked over the woman’s shoulder at Abe for help. “Yes?”

“Yes,” agreed Abe. “Settle yourselves. I’ll put the kettle on. Lady Bentley, I presume?”

“Mother, this is Mr. Murphy, my housemate,” Freddy spat out in a rather unnecessarily self-conscious staccato. “He is the investigator advertised on the door and a former Bow Street Runner.”

“Oh,” she said, remembering Abe’s existence as she turned over her shoulder.

“How fascinating. I am certain the story of how the two of you came to be entangled is one I shall wish to hear at length when there is time. You must excuse my abruptness, Mr. Murphy, but I have urgent business with my son. I have only just learned of his whereabouts after several years of concern and confusion.”

“I’ll just”—Abe attempted to smile, giving wooden looks from one Hightower to the other—“I’ll put the tea on.

” And he made his escape, stepping around them and listening with half an ear as they resumed conversation in sharp whispers and ascending footsteps back up to the apartments at the top of the building.

Mercifully, the offices had their own kitchen, and a kettle besides, for Abe to busy himself in while Freddy explained himself to what appeared to be the type of mother you did not simply disappear on without explanation.

But that was the flippant Lord Bentley for you.

If Abe had learned anything about Frederick Octavius Hightower the Third in over a year as his reluctant housemate, it was that he was an expert at sidestepping responsibility, and of course, the easiest way to do that was to avoid confrontation altogether.

Though, while Abe was quick to pass harsh judgment on Freddy in most circumstances, in this one, he was able to dredge up a kernel of sympathy.

He’d hidden from his own mother’s wrath enough times to understand the instinct, or at least the temptation.

Abigail Winterville Murphy was not a woman to be trifled with, and Abe, sadly, had a terrible habit of trifling.

He frowned, arranging a spray of the good biscuits he had just bought for prospective clientele onto a tray as the kettle heated, alongside his painted teacup set.

If anyone showed up now, he’d have to serve them mismatched china, wouldn’t he?

But he couldn’t rightly give a dowager countess the standby crockery.

Freddy was always ruining things, whether he intended to or not. It was his natural talent.

Lady Bentley might have been putting on ironic airs when she expressed interest in how her son had come to share quarters with the likes of Abe, but as far as he was concerned, it was a story worth hearing.

If anyone had come out on the lucky end of it, it wasn’t the respectable, business-owning Scotsman who was currently arranging tea for the layabout, disgraced earl who’d spent the last two years hiding from his mummy, thank you very much.

He grumbled to himself all the way up the stairs, taking care to prevent the steaming teacups from clattering against one another on their saucers, and kept an ear turned toward the front door as he made his way to deliver the refreshment to Freddy and the dowager like a good little maid.

Their voices were no longer hushed. Perhaps they had forgotten he was coming.

“I’m all right, though, really,” Freddy was saying, sounding more exasperated than cowed. “She wants nothing to do with me.”

“Well, if you’d only let me help you,” his mother returned, in the way mothers do.

“No. You mustn’t get involved. Are you going to move into the dower house now that Claire has taken residence?”

“With Tommy?” the dowager scoffed. “I think not! I’d sooner move into the village pub.”

Freddy released a sharp breath. “Now, that I’d like to see.”

“Your tea!” Abe announced, louder than was necessary and a few steps before he rounded the corner.

Freddy’s face was flushed pink, though with embarrassment or exasperation, it was hard to say.

The dowager was completely unabashed and staring at him in expectation as though his serving them was the most natural thing in the world. Though when her eyes fell to the two cups on the tray, she raised her brows.

“Are you not joining us for refreshment, Mr. Murphy?”

Abe hesitated, blinking at her for a moment before remembering what he was about and setting the tray down. “I’m afraid not. I’m open for business downstairs at present.”

“Pity,” she said, lifting her hand as though she expected a good, sturdy shake. “We will have to become acquainted some other time, then.”

Abe did not know whether to kiss her hand or squeeze it, and hesitated so long that she simply dropped it back into her lap with a shrug and a trace of amusement on her face.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “Yes, I would like that. Until then!”

And he trotted out of the room feeling like a particularly large idiot.

He parked himself behind his desk and dug out his sole outstanding case file from last Season, hoping for a distraction while he waited, and praying for a new knock on the door.

This case had been brought to him by one of his former colleagues at the Runners, a bounty case for a jewel thief who’d been skimming the high and mighty at fancy ballroom events last spring and summer, though he’d gotten the file so late into the Season that there had scarce been time to begin to look into it.

The payout would be a good one, if he could solve it, but of course it would require said thief to begin his antics again for a second year.

A smart thief would have moved onto a new hunting ground by now, and Abe thought anyone this skilled was likely also smart.

But of course, depending on who it was, there was also the possibility that leaving the city was impossible.

So maybe there was a chance still. Maybe it was worthwhile to review the file, just in case.

Since no one was knocking down his door, anyhow.

Yet? he thought in a feeble, hopeful little voice.

Truth was, for the last couple of years, most of his income had been through Silas Cain and his rapidly growing law practice.

He had established the investigative agency at Cain’s encouragement, and while he had taken on a fair few independent clients in addition to Cain, there had been no question of where his central source of income had sprung.

However, Cain’s firm had been offered something massive and career-defining in these last weeks, and while the particulars were being hashed out, it was becoming more and more evident that Abe needed to ensure his business was sustainable as an independent prospect.

Because if Silas was off in the country or else embedded in legal intrigue for the indeterminate future, his livelihood was going to have to come from somewhere else.

Mercifully, for the time being, sharing room and board with Lord Bentley meant a generous allowance from the earl’s lady wife that would stave off destitution for a time, but Abe liked being on equal footing with Freddy.

Better, he liked Freddy being in his debt.

So falling back on that safety net would not do.

In summary, this jewel thief needed to either be stupid or have a life that would restrict him to London for this year’s thieving.

For Abe’s sake.

The bell on the door alerted him to the dowager’s departure, so when Freddy entered his office, he was able to look a bit more composed than he strictly felt, thumbing through the jewel thief file as though it were no great matter if he solved the case or not.

As if it were just one of many, my boy, and all that.

“She is up to something,” Freddy announced with no preamble as he collapsed into one of the chairs opposite Abe, freshly reupholstered, and meant for needy clients, not whiny lords.

“She’s your mother,” Abe said with a shrug. “Mothers are always up to something.”

Freddy shook his head. “I always got the impression that she hated London. She never wanted to come here for the Season when my father was alive.”

“Well, it sounds like you forced her hand, from the little I heard.”

“No, she isn’t here for me. My presence was just a convenient side benefit,” Freddy muttered, flicking a speck of dust from the surface of Abe’s desk. “Something else is going on.”

Abe made a noise as though he were interested, which he wasn’t.

The clock ticked twice. A pair of ladies passed promisingly close to the window but did not stop and knock at the door.

Abe sighed.

“I want you to follow her,” announced Freddy.

For a moment, Abe was certain he hadn’t heard correctly.

There was a stretch of silence in the room while Freddy chewed on his own discontent and then his head snapped up, eyes boring into the other man with impatient expectation, and he exclaimed, “Well?!”

“Oh,” Abe replied, genuinely startled. “I didn’t think you were serious. No. I’m not going to do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I think the more pertinent question would be why the hell would I?” Abe pointed out with a raise of his brows. “It’s a mad suggestion. I don’t want to stalk your mother, Bentley. Besides, I’m busy.”

“You’re an investigator,” Freddy persisted, annoyance in his tone. “Investigate! Consider me a client.”

Abe scratched his jaw, considering this. “Clients pay me,” he said. “Are you paying?”

“Yes, fine,” Freddy conceded, though he was clearly not happy about it, his blue eyes narrowed into resentful slits. “Consider yourself hired. Find out what she’s up to and I’ll pay your fee with what little I have.”

It took a moment of consideration. Abe wanted to decline outright, just on principle, but he had been sitting here, wishing for a shiny new client, after all, and furthermore, he was prone to choices that some might think of as trifling. Antagonizing Freddy was too tempting to pass up.

“Good,” he said with a grin. “You can start by dashing out and replacing those biscuits you just ate. D’you know where she’s staying? Where to start?”

Freddy flexed his jaw, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a cleansing breath as though he were clearing his body of the desire to retort in the usual bickering way he often did when Abe riled him. When he opened them again, he gave an alarmingly pleasant smile and said, “I do, in fact.”

“Oh, well, wonderful! Where am I off to?”

Freddy leaned back and laced his fingers behind his blond head, a smug little smile playing about his lips. “Somewhere you’ll hate,” he said pleasantly. “You’ll need to borrow my tails. You, my dear man, are going to the opera.”