Lord Basil York looked up as his son entered the study. With neatly cropped hair and a trimmed moustache, he was everything the wild and immature Rembrandt Payne was not.
“What is it this time?” he asked, dipping his pen in a well of ink and returning his attention to his work. He words were like the crack of a whip, always sharp, always impatient, always ready for the next strike. “I have a busy schedule, so make it quick.”