LURK, THOMAS

Thomas Barrow listened outside the parlor door. The upstairs maid, on her way to dust the sitting room, scowled at him. Thomas smiled grimly at her. Fotherington's idiot son had written Elspeth love letters...and Thomas had them now. Fourpence a week wasn't much to ensure that m'lord didn't discover his maid had corrupted his idiot scion.

It was funny, because Cecil was also in debt to Thomas-never play penny nap with an innocent twelve year old whose uncle was a Cheapside card sharp I'll have a Wellington every time, you overprivileged lout. Ah, the game of Napoleon, like banker, never failed to clean their pockets. Thomas would have to get Cecil to play bridge, some day...

Damn the thick oaken door. Thomas liked to know things. He knew from cruel experience that Lord Fotherington was a pederast, the worst sort of Oscar Wilde, and that Thomas, now in his thirteenth summer had outgrown the lord's interest...there was a nine year old pageboy who had been called to bring the voting representative of Pembrooke, Kent his breakfast in bed these days...

Thomas also knew that Lady Fotherington was dropping more than a calling card when she visited Abram Cohn-fornication with a filthy Jew-Thomas was unsure how to use this knowledge, but her Ladyship's bloomers rested along with Nettie's love letters in Thomas's secret place.

Thomas wondered what it might've been like-how different it might have become if Lord Fotherington had prosecuted for the theft of his silver snuffbox...instead of employing the light-fingered newsboy-at first Thomas had found the household stifling, but he'd soon learned the various behaviors, and how to get someone else to black the boots left outside Fotheringon's door, and sharpen the knives, that sort of thing.

But Fotherington seemed to have grown shy of Thomas's antics as of late, and of course he no longer wanted his youthful valet's company in the bedchamber. Thomas was actually enjoying himself with Nigel Hawker, the scullery maid's brute of a brother-he didn't miss the old patrician fossil at all, but what did it mean? Who was Lord Grantham, the codger in the parlor with the derelict baronet, anyway?

This might have been about the diamond tie-pin. Thomas had happily popped it at Margolie's hockshop, and then by Jove, the Lord had seen it in the window, probably when he was visiting the painted boys in the East End, and bought it from the pawnbroker, giving Thomas a savage look upon his return.

But you know, you've got to be nice to your help, particularly the especially helpful help, Thomas sneered inwardly. He'd brought Fotherington the coal-boy, and the rat-catcher's apprentice, any little nipper who could be bought for a half-crown...

But Thomas didn't like this Grantham...he looked a bit like the owner of the pub that Da had sipped at...back when Thomas had been called Angus O'Leary...Old Murchison, the taproom landlord had always looked on Thomas as if he could read the child's mind, and of course even then, little Angus had Lucifer's intentions.

Thomas leaned his ear against the door again, and bit his lip.

ROBERT DOES HIS BALLOIL FELLOW A FAVOR.

"Well, we can always use another set of hands at Downton" Robert Crawley said, peering at his old classmate. Aubrey had been a peculiar sort at Harrow, and even stranger at university, though he seemed to have married well.

Robert actually had little interest in staffing his house-Carson usually saw to that with village urchins and the like-but Aubrey had lent Robert more than a bit of cash, now that Cora's money was spent. If Aubrey wanted the smirking little bastard in the hallway gone, Robert could arrange it.

"Robert, I do appreciate your attention on this matter." Aubrey said, blowing through his thick moustache to cool the tea. "Thomas is a fine lad, but a bit worldly, and although I've taken a paternal interest in him-"

Like you did with Pomerance minor behind the Piggeries? Robert bit the inside of his lip. Other people's money seemed to be his master.

"Say no more, Aubrey. I do hope that you understand I might be a bit late with-"

"The shekels, as they say" Aubrey Wilkinson, Duke of Fotherington bared his yellow teeth in an attempt at a smile. "Take the boy, and you can move the next payment to mid-September."

Both men were relieved, though it would be hard to say who was the greater at ease now.