Betina Krahn Read Free Page B

that residual bit of “Barrow” was omitted on occasion, depending on his audience.
    Now the Barrow side was reaching out to him in the person of this green kid, who was at the moment sizing him up with what Connor recognized as the fabled Barrow squint. That expression, perfected by his iron-willed grandfather, was seen by the rest of the world as evidence of great sagacity and superiority, when in fact, it was simply the result of the Barrows’ dogged refusal to wear spectacles, no matter how poor their eyesight.
    “What can I do for you?” Connor asked.
    “I would like a few minutes of your time,” Jeffrey Granton said, looking defensively at the others. “In private.”
    Connor very nearly told him to get lost. Curiosity, however, got the better of him. He rose and waved the young man over to an unoccupied table in the corner.
    As they settled into chairs opposite each other, he realized the boy was younger than he had first supposed. There was a fine blond fuzz on his upper lip.
    “Something to drink?” Connor asked, beckoning to an apron-clad waiter.
    “No … thank you.”
    Apparently Jeffrey wasn’t a shaving man or a drinking man.
    “How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in—oh—ten years at least.”
    “She is fine.” The youth tugged at his collar as if the mention of his mother had somehow made it contract. “Busy. Her charities, you know.” Connor didn’t know, but it made sense. All women of social standing had
charities.
“She’s taking my sister on a tour of the capitals this fall. London in September, Paris in October, and November in Venice, of course.”
    Connor smiled. It had been years since anyone from society’s vaunted Four Hundred had “of coursed” him. The kid was buttering him up.
    “What can I do for you, Jeffrey Granton?”
    “I’ve come to ask … to see if you can put me in touch with some people who might be willing to … um … work for me.”
    “Work?” Connor frowned. “You’re in business?”
    “Well, it’s not so much
work
as it is”—Jeffrey squirmed—“a
job.
”
    “A job,” Connor mused, taking in the boy’s guilty flush. “And you’ve come to me because …”
    “You know people. And I need a certain sort of man for this job. Someone with experience … and …”
    “Muscle,” Connor offered.
    The youth wilted slightly. “Yes. And a bit of …”
    “Daring?”
    “Exactly.”
    Connor stiffened. It was now clear why the kid had sought out the Barrows’ black sheep. He needed help with something dangerous, disreputable, or at the very least, distasteful. He was tempted to tell Precious Jeffrey what he could do with his dirty little “job.” But curiosity again got the better of him.
    “What kind of trouble are you in?” he demanded. “Gambling debts? An insult that cannot go unanswered? A servant girl in the family way?”
    “Nothing like that!” Jeffrey’s voice cracked. “It’s just … a romantic matter.”
    “Romantic?” Connor nearly choked on the word. It was so improbable it just might be true.
    “The young lady and I wish to marry, but there is some interference.” Jeffrey lowered his voice. “I simply wish to … to …” He paused as if gathering the courage to say it.
    “Elope.”
    Jeffrey’s eyes widened then, after a moment, he nodded again.
    “Yes, that’s it. I have to elope.”
    Connor studied him, deciding that the situation must be desperate indeed for the youth to risk approaching a scapegrace of a cousin he’d never laid eyes on.
    “There must be at least a dozen ways to arrange an elopement, none of which involve burly henchmen.” Unless the “delicate situation” involved more than just the garden variety of parental disapproval, he realized. “Who is this young lady you have your heart set on?”
    Jeffrey looked away. “Someone from a wealthy and powerful family.”
    “
Your
family is wealthy and powerful,” Connor observed.
    “Yes, but … she is young.”
    “How