Connor Edge had bided his time. His dismissal as the land agent of the Burnley Abbey estate had been a bitter blow. Connor was bitter, but he had put his anger and resentment to good use, at least, in his own eyes. He was now a tutor and had overseen the education of several boys in London, most notably the son of the Earl of Horwich, who was destined for high office, and to whom Connor had taught Latin, Greek, rhetoric, and mathematics. He was an accomplished scholar, and had prided himself on the education he had given to his young charges. But his actions had been directed towards one thing, and one thing alone – revenge.

Despite having been sent away from Lancashire – the threat the duke had made being very real – Connor had not allowed himself to go uninformed of the goings on at the Burnley Abbey estate. He had kept in discreet contact with the butler, Mr. Gregson, whose disgruntledness towards his employer, Connor had put to good use. In this way – and without revealing the truth about Teresa’s baby, Connor knew precisely the goings on surrounding the child and his cousin, Max.

“My dear Mr. Gregson, I write to thank you for the most recent information you have sent me. I enclose a small payment for your trouble, and ask you to furnish me with any further particulars as to the intention of the duke to send the son of his former maid to London. Yours, in anticipation, Connor,” Connor had written, for the butler had informed him of the duke’s intention to send the boy to London for an apprenticeship.

It had been twenty years since Connor had left Lancashire for London. He was well respected there, and had just been engaged as tutor to the young son of Sir Harvey Guthrie, a member of parliament, and favorite to succeed the current prime minister, Robert Jenkinson. He had rooms at Sir Harvey’s London lodgings and tutored the boy – who was not particularly bright – each morning. His afternoons were his own, and Connor was making plans for the arrival of William in London – an arrival he intended to take advantage of.

“Et tu Brute? And you, too, Brutus. Lines from Shakespeare’s play, Julius Caesar. At his death, Caesar gasps, staggering backwards, as he sees the man he believed to be trustworthy, betray him by joining his assassination. Anyway, I can tell you’re not listening. We’ll finish there for now. But when your father tests you, don’t blame me if he gives you the rod,” Connor said, closing the book in front of him and rising to his feet.

The boy, too, rose to his feet, looking sullen, and Connor dismissed him, glad to have the rest of the day to himself. He crossed to the window and looked down at the bustling street below. The house was in Mayfair, but Mr. Gregson had written to inform Connor of William’s arrival at an inn lying in the shadow of Saint Paul’s. Connor smiled to himself. This was his opportunity. The boy knew nothing of his lineage, and whilst Connor knew Ralph’s threats against him remained, he had every intention of playing a long game against him.

“The boy knows nothing of me. He’ll think I’m merely an interested party acting in his best interests. He’ll be naïve – just like that fool of a mother of his,” Connor told himself, and putting on his outdoor cloak – for it was autumn, and the chill of winter was not far away – he hurried out of the house.

Connor had grown used to London during his exile. He knew all its streets, its inns and coffee houses. He had made many influential friends, and all with the same object in mind – revenge. Connor doubted the Duke of Lancaster ever gave him a second thought, and this would be to his advantage in his dealings with William. Mr. Gregson had furnished Connor with a great deal of information over the years, and whilst Connor had never set eyes on the boy – now stepping out into the world as a man – he knew him well enough to know how he might take advantage of him. William knew nothing of his lineage, for if he did, he would know himself the rightful heir of the dukedom.

“And what a problem that would be,” Connor told himself, smiling, as he made his way towards The Spaniards Inn, where Mr. Gregson had informed him William would be lodging.

“I’m looking for a young man named William Baker,” Connor said, leaning against the counter in the taproom, where several men sat drinking, and large, tapped, barrels lined the walls behind.

The landlord – a large man, his face ruddy and bearded – nodded.

“He arrived at noon, but he’s gone out. You can wait for him, if you like. What name should I tell him?” he asked, but Connor shook his head.

“Don’t tell him any name. I’ll wait for him. Bring me something to eat and drink. I’ll sit over there in the corner. I’ll know him when he arrives,” he said, smiling to himself at the thought of waiting for the unsuspecting youth.

Despite the landlord’s brusque appearance, the inn was a comfortable one, and the taproom pleasantly furnished. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, and the walls were lined with paintings of ancient sea battles. Connor sat down at a table in the corner, which commanded a view of the doorway, and was presented with a dish of steamed suet pudding, with beef and oysters, along with a draught of beer.

“Are you an uncle of his? He seemed a fine young man – he’s here to seek an apprenticeship, I think. His lodgings are being paid for by none less than the Duke of Lancaster, though he doesn’t seem of noble birth,” the landlord said, as he set the plate of food down on the table.

Connor shook his head.

“I’m just a friend of his – an interested party, if you like. I’ve known the Duke for many years, and I want to help the boy find his feet in London. It can be quite an overwhelming sort of place, can’t it?” Connor replied.

The landlord nodded.

“It can, sir. And I’m sure he’ll be glad of your assistance – in whatever form it takes,” he replied.

Connor smiled and nodded, taking up his knife and fork and digging into the suet pudding with gusto. He was looking forward to making the acquaintance of William – the baby for whom so much trouble had been caused twenty years ago. He was a man now – or becoming one – but the legacy of that event lived on, at least for Connor. It was because of William he had been sent away, and he harbored a resentment towards the boy, as well as to his family.

“But at first, I’ll gain his trust,” Connor thought, mulling over the mater, as he scraped the last remnants of the suet pudding from his plate.

He had just finished his draught of beer, when the door of the taproom opened, and a young man, around twenty years of age, entered. Connor knew immediately who he was – he had Teresa’s dark hair, and the look of his father, of Max, about him. Strongly built, handsome, and athletic. As he looked around him, Connor rose to his feet, and stepped forward with a smile.

“Ah, young man, I understand you’ve just arrived in London. Might I buy you a drink?” he asked.