Luck of Henri

Although Arnaud wasn’t the only one who was quite willing to give Bertie succor, he was the first one to the table. He sat down by the young man and put a reassuring palm on his shoulder. “There, there, are you all right, young man? Have you lost someone? Nothing is worth those tears on such a handsome face. Anything I can do to help? May I stand you a drink at least?”

“You’re too kind, Monsieur,” Bertie responded in a weak little voice. He placed a hand on Arnaud’s knee. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Maybe a small sherry—or a beer. So that I can think about what is to become of me.”

Arnaud signaled to the bartender, who didn’t need to be told what Bertie liked to drink. He took only the best Scotch, and he took it neat.

Arnaud was running his fingers through the thick, blond curls of Bertie’s head. He’d wanted to do this for weeks, ever since the young man and his self-possessed sponsor had arrived.

“My . . . friend has been called home—back to England. He is in grief over his father’s death. And when he was in that condition, I couldn’t possibly tell him that my own funds haven’t arrived as scheduled. Oh, I don’t know what I’m to do.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Arnaud murmured. “You could stay in my rooms if you wish . . . just until your funds arrive, of course.”

“Oh, Monsieur, I couldn’t possibly―”