Treasured

40)

Third Person P. O. V.

The office was silent and somber, reflecting the mood of the man within it's walls. Edward Price sat in his chair, staring somberly at the wall, his mind far, far, away. He knew he had to wait, to do things legally, but he did not want to. He wanted to storm into Lord Beckham's home, demand that Wren be released into his care, and have the court notified that he, Mr. Edward Price would be Wren's new guardian. However, he had to prove that the boy's family was unfit, and that would be difficult.

The Beckham's were a respectable family, with wealth and political ties. Going up against them would be foolhardy unless he was prepared. He knew he had to play it smart, but his heart ached at the thought of delay.

He had already lost one of his boys. Wren's hasty removal was another grievous wound to his battered soul, and the prospect of the assassin getting his grubby fingers on him...well, it infuriated him beyond measure.

Sir John had left to meet with an informant, and Edward was trying to curb his impatience. But he couldn't help but think of the possibilities Wren might at that moment be enduring. Cruel, unfeeling words from his Aunt? Illness? Pain? He sighed bitterly. What he wouldn't give to have the little one in his arms!

A knock on the door roused him, pulling him from the dark thoughts he had spiraled down into. He cleared his throat, shaking his clothes out, and bending over the desk to appear busy, rather than despondent.

"You may enter," He stated, his composure pulling together to conceal his fears and worries.

He glanced up, surprised to see Branson gently closing the door. He had supposed it to be anyone else, really. Branson was quiet and did not interact as much. With everything going on, he had been more present, but he did not seek out small tasks like Sal, or the company of others like Robin. June and Fletcher were in common communication with Eddie, of course, and Cedar sometimes sent messages through them. But Branson simply did his portion of work, and disappeared into the shadows, preferring to deal with his emotions alone.

Thus, Mr. Price was taken back. Still, he controlled himself, and only offered the man a chair with a wave of his hand. He finished writing his monthly account, and blotted his page, before settling back as he had been just moments before.

"Branson, how can I aid you today?" Mr. Price calmly inquired, meeting the burning gaze of the green eyed man.

"Wren needs help," Branson did not hesitate, speaking in his usual curt manner.

"Yes, I am aware, Branson. I am endeavoring to acquire proof of his guardian's failure to properly nurture him, but I must be careful. Making an enemy of the Beckham's is not advisable. I have to make sure that the case is air tight," Edward acknowledged, keeping his voice low and calm, although he inwardly wanted to yell and scream about the injustices of the world.

"No. Richard hurts him," Branson revealed, tone dark and angry, like a thundercloud rolling in.

Edward paused, mind blanking as he registered those words. The implications were endless, and he had to take control of his thoughts before he assumed the worst.

"In what way?" He inquired, voice steady, although his hand shook beneath the desk.

Branson simply slid a scrap of paper across the surface of the desk, his face hard and unreadable. Mr. Price exhaled slowly, praying that his hands would cease their trembling for a moment. He unraveled the torn piece of writing, eyes scanning over them with speed. His breath hitched, his eyes moistened, a hard lump formed in his throat.

If it were just my Aunt, I wouldn't be this way. But my cousin, Richard...

He hurts me, Branson. I can't defend myself against me, and he knows that. He threatens me and...the kind of pain he inflicts is so cruel I'd rather die than endure it anymore.