“They’ll be lining up from here to Bishopsgate if you keep giving them half a crown for a pudding,” said Bel.
“How do you know it was half a crown?”
“Please! I can tell exactly which coin and exactly how far down the bucket was. I have a knack for these things.”
“Pointless things,” Uriel huffed.
“You’ll be financing her move to Pimlico. Then who will make your puddings?”
“The boy needs new shoes. If he doesn’t have them within the week, you and I are going shopping.”
“You can buy my new boots while you’re at it.”
Uriel threw the newspaper at Bel. “Christ, it’s still warm.”
Bel let out a long sigh. “These rooms are stifling, and the sun’s barely up.”
“Yesterday you complained about the rain.”
“Why must the British weather try to fit in every meteorological phenomenon in a single month? It’s supposed to be spring.”
Uriel did not respond.
“I hate it here,” Bel tried.
Uriel remained silent. There were only so many times he could listen to his brother beg to open the Mayfair house before he gave in. Of all his brothers, Bel was the most persuasive and his favourite, two factors which, when combined, usually had Uriel giving in quickly. Just this once, he was determined to stand his ground.
He settled by the window, his breakfast bowl already waiting on the small mahogany table. He carved himself a portion of the steaming pudding with a giant spoon and doused it in custard.
Bel waited for Uriel’s first moan of delight before giving him the news. “There have been twelve reports of missing persons over the last two days.”
