Word of Honour

'Ah, Aubrey. Good to see you. You've recovered from the events at Clear Haven?'

'I have, sir.' In a way. 'And you?'

'Quite. Thank you.'

Sir Darius contemplated the red leather cover of the book in front of him. 'Aubrey. You're seventeen now.'

For a moment, Aubrey thought he heard the appalling klaxon again. He's stating the obvious, he thought. Something's very wrong. 'Eighteen in December,' he said, carefully.

'Close the door, there's a good chap.'

Closed door. It's even worse than I thought.

By now Aubrey's imagination had conjured up a number of ghastly scenarios. A deadly disease. A scandal from the past. Blackmail. Financial mismanagement. 'What is it, sir? Is anything wrong?'

'Sit, Aubrey. There's something I need to talk to you about.'

He didn't answer the question, Aubrey thought as he perched on the edge of one of the heavy leather chairs. It's worse than worse.

His father took a seat on the other side of the table. Suddenly, it felt awkwardly like an interview.

Sir Darius was dressed in black. His tie was silver-grey. His shoes glowed with the sort of shine that only comes from truly dedicated – and well-paid – servants. He was every inch the modern Prime Minister.

Yet Aubrey saw that his father was immensely uncomfortable.

'Now, Aubrey. You're an only child.'

Aubrey's face fell. 'Mother isn't expecting, is she?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I'm not going to have a baby brother. Or sister. Am I?' Aubrey pressed both his hands together and studied them. 'Well, I suppose I can live with that, if that's all that's wrong. Thousands do, I know. Have baby siblings, that is. Which I wouldn't be. Having it, that is. Him. Or her. Not it.'

Sir Darius waited until Aubrey had wound down. 'Are you finished?'

'I just wanted to reassure you, sir, that I'm happy to be an older brother. I'm aware of the responsibilities and I look forward to them.'

'I see.' A hint of a smile. 'A pity, then, that nothing of that kind is planned. And I should know, after all.'

'Of course. Sir. Yes, you would. Naturally.'

Sir Darius coughed and looked out of the window. Aubrey was grateful to follow his gaze and saw that Hobbs, the gardener, was turning the daffodils or declumping the rhododendron or some other mysterious, earthy pursuit.

After he'd sufficiently gathered himself, Sir Darius started again. 'Aubrey, you are my only heir.'

Aubrey nodded. It seemed safest not to talk.

'You would have become Duke of Brayshire after me, had I not renounced my title.'

Another nod.

'While you won't have the title, I do have something to pass on to you. I believe now is the time.'

'Now?' One word. Safe enough.

'You are a young man. You are studying at university. You are beginning to chart the course of your own life.' Sir Darius measured his words. 'Aubrey, you are a fine individual, with many gifts. Your conduct on the Electra was exemplary.'

Aubrey swallowed. 'Thank you, sir.'

'It is difficult, being a parent. Especially a father.'

'Sir.'

'I feared my father, Aubrey. He believed, as did all men of his generation, in discipline as the way to raise children. There was nothing gentle about him. He was fair, but stern, distant and judgemental.'

Aubrey was fascinated – and embarrassed. His father had never spoken to him this way. The old Duke of Brayshire was a dim memory to Aubrey, the grandfather who gave piggy-backs. The man must have softened in his old age. 'I . . .'

'Don't say anything, Aubrey. I realise this must be awkward for you, and talking is your first reaction in all circumstances. Listen this time, there's a good chap.'

Aubrey subsided.

'I vowed I wouldn't raise my son as my father raised his.' Sir Darius found an interesting piece of lint on his lapel. 'I dare say that's a promise that's been made more than once in history, but it was the best I could do. I may have been harsh with you, Aubrey. Difficult. It was with the best of intentions.' Sir Darius stood. 'I want you to come with me.'

'Where?'

'To the Bank of Albion.'

The landau was waiting at the front door. The weather being fine, Aubrey thought the open carriage a splendid choice, but his mind was racing. His father was being mysterious, but clumsily so. This was no clever joke or elaborate charade – there was something endearingly uncomfortable about the whole affair. It showed a side of his father that he'd rarely seen.

The driver eased the matched greys out of the gates of Maidstone. With Sir Darius sitting in reflective silence and Aubrey unwilling to spoil the moment, the carriage clip-clopped along Highton Street towards the city. The black motorcar following closely was a sign of the increased diligence of the Special Services bodyguards.

Approaching noon, the streets were busy. Sir Darius drummed his fingers impatiently on the rail until a policeman, passing on a bicycle, stopped. 'Care for some help, Prime Minister?'

'Constable, you are a veritable lifesaver. If you would.'

The policeman saluted, grinned, then proceeded to lead the carriage through intersection after intersection, with the connivance of his colleagues who were on point duty. Each of them saluted Sir Darius, who shouted his thanks as they trotted past.

'Two birds, Aubrey. One stone,' Sir Darius said abruptly as they passed the Gallery of the Arts.

Aubrey twisted this cryptic utterance around until he thought he had an answer. 'You're meeting someone at the bank?'

'Indeed.' Sir Darius took out his pocket watch. 'Clive Rokeby-Taylor. That's why I don't want to be late.'

'Meeting at the bank? Odd, isn't it?'

'Rokeby-Taylor and money were never far apart,' Sir Darius said dryly. 'Especially other people's money.'

With the help of the friendly police constable, the landau drew up right outside the Bank of Albion, with the Special Services motorcar right behind. Aubrey had never been inside the Grand Dame of Woolcroft Street, but knew the imposing edifice by sight. Grimy from city smoke, the bank still managed to look both stately and intimidating. This was an institution that was serious about money, its architecture announced, and it took such a long, steady, safe view of investment that it regarded glaciers as reckless daredevils of speed.

One of the bank's managers, grandees or high potentates marched out as Sir Darius alighted. He was stout, with a pointy beard, and a cutaway coat in a style that was forty years out of date, even though it looked as if it had been made that morning. 'Prime Minister. We have a special room ready for you.'

'Sir Norman. I wasn't expecting the chief governor to meet us.'

'It's the least we could do. I'm happy to see to your needs.'