Free When Shadows Fall by Paul Reid Page B

own position. If Duncan was the undisputed heir and natural successor to their father, Allister could not accept why he shouldn’t be second in command.
    “Thanks, Allister. So how have you been?” Adam asked.
    “Good, good. And you? How were your travels?”
    My travels? Adam blinked. “Oh, just fine. So I hear you’re working for Duncan now, Quentin tells me.” Duncan had taken over Bowen & Associates some years before, the law firm founded by Hunter Bowen.
    “Working with Duncan, I should say,” Allister corrected. “It’s a family firm, after all. We make a good team too. Me and Duncan.”
    There it was. The first warning shot fired across his bows. A subtle reminder of the order of things.
    “I don’t doubt it. Well, I wish you every success,” Adam said. “Say, Quentin, any more of that fine claret going round?”

    They went into dinner at six, the mahogany table set with a fine array of crystal and candelabra, everything polished and glittering. Quentin moved about with nervous energy, trying to ensure that everybody was having a good time. He pulled back Marjorie’s chair, and she lowered herself imperiously into it. He went to sit himself but then hopped up in embarrassment, realising that he had forgotten Sarah. Once Sarah was seated he again went for his own seat, but Duncan, the official head of the family, was still standing. Quentin hesitated, managing to frown, smile, and blush all in one go.
    “Quentin dear, do stop prancing about,” Marjorie sighed. “Adam, will you sit next to me, please?”
    Adam did as told. Allister sat next to him and blew his nose on a handkerchief. Sarah and Quentin were sitting opposite, and Quentin winked at him.
    “Smell that, eh, Adam? You must have missed the smell of good, honest home-cooking.”
    “Makes a change from boiled rat.”
    “Adam.” Marjorie flashed him a glare.
    “Only joking,” he smiled. The glass of wine on an empty stomach had made him feel light-headed and vaguely reckless. 1918 pinot noir from Burgundy, Quentin helpfully told them. Stout bodied. Notes of black cherry and lime.
    “I’m starving,” Duncan grumbled.
    “No need for a press advert, darling,” Sarah advised him.
    Lizzie handed round the starters—mushroom soup, salad, and seasoned foie gras inside crab shells. Duncan set to it like he was leading a cavalry charge. Quentin, Marjorie, and Sarah ate with a little more decorum. Allister blew his nose once more.
    “So tell us, Adam,” Duncan bit off a hunk of bread and continued to talk, “when are you going to be ready to rejoin the living?”
    “When am I what?”
    “I was thinking, now that you’ve left the army, you’d care to take up a position with myself and Allister.”
    Allister almost spat his soup across the table. He gaped at Duncan. “But—”
    “Well, it’s the obvious course, isn’t it? Adam will be at something of a loose end, and after all, his rightful place is in the family firm. Father would have wanted it that way.”
    Marjorie nodded assent.
    “But,” Allister stammered, “but he never passed the exams.”
    “He can re-sit the curriculum, and serve out his articles with us while he does so.”
    “But he has no experience!”
    Adam turned his head politely to follow the conversation about him. Then he looked at Allister. “Experience, Allie boyo , is something I’m not short on. I can assure you.”
    “I mean legal experience,” Allister blustered. “And don’t call me Allie boyo.”
    “Boys, boys.” Marjorie raised a hand. “It’s merely something to consider at a later date. But for now, let’s leave business aside, shall we? This is a family celebration.”
    “Hear, hear. Right as always, Mother.” Duncan guffawed round the table and helped himself to a glazed fig hors d’oeuvre.
    They finished the starters, and Lizzie cleared the plates before bringing out the creamed potatoes and vegetables and the main dish, roast Angus beef, cooked in its own juices and flavoured