The afternoon wore on. Grey skies threatened rain that never quite materialised. The landscape gradually transformed from rolling countryside to the outskirts of London—more houses, busier roads, the particular smell of coal smoke, and humanity packed too closely together.
Home. Or what passed for home before Redmond Park had rewritten his understanding of that word entirely.
His townhouse stood in Mayfair, an elegant four-storey edifice that had always felt too large for one dissolute bachelor. Now it seemed cavernous. Empty. His housekeeper, Mrs. Wickham, greeted him at the door with obvious surprise.
“My lord! We had not expected—that is, your letter mentioned several months hence before?—”
“Plans changed.” He handed her his greatcoat, unable to muster his usual charm. “I trust everything is in order?”
“Of course, my lord. Though we’ve had no time to prepare your chambers properly, or stock the larder with?—”
“Whatever is available will suffice.” He moved toward the study, suddenly desperate for the sanctuary of walls and books and brandy. “I am not to be disturbed under any circumstance.”
Mrs. Wickham’s brow furrowed with concern, but she bobbed a curtsey and withdrew.
Tobias closed the study door and leaned against it, releasing a breath that felt torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
The room was exactly as he had left it months ago—before Edward’s death, before Redmond Park, before everything changed. His desk sat buried beneath correspondence he had abandoned. The decanter of brandy waited precisely where he had left it, likely gathering dust.
It should have felt comforting. Familiar. Instead, it felt like walking into a mausoleum.
This is what you wanted,he reminded himself savagely.London. Your old life. Freedom from responsibility.
He poured three fingers of brandy and downed it in a single swallow that burned all the way down. Then poured another.
Somewhere in this house lived the man who had gambled until dawn, who had cultivated a reputation as the ton’s most charming scoundrel, who had prided himself on avoiding anything resembling genuine feeling or commitment.
That man seemed a stranger now. Someone, Tobias had merely played at being, a role performed with such dedication he had convinced even himself.
But two months at Redmond Park—two months of estate management and household concerns and a woman who looked at him as though he might be something more than his reputation—had stripped away the performance entirely.
He was not that careless rake anymore. Could not force himself back into that particular cage even if he wished it.
Which left the uncomfortable question: who was he now?
A knock at the door interrupted this spiral into melancholy. Tobias set down his glass with more force than intended.
“I said I was not to be disturbed?—”
“Even by an old friend bearing excellent whisky and atrocious gossip?”
Daniel Harcourt pushed open the door without waiting for permission, a bottle tucked under one arm and that insufferable grin plastered across his handsome face. He stopped short upon seeing Tobias, his expression shifting to genuine surprise.
“Goodness me, you look absolutely wretched. What happened? Is… your brother’s widow well? The child?”
“They’re both perfectly well.” Tobias turned away, retrieving his glass. “I’ve simply returned to Town earlier than anticipated.”
“Earlier than—Tobias, you’ve been gone barely two months. Last I heard, you were establishing yourself at that pile in Kent, learning how to be a proper viscount or something like that.”
“And now I’ve learnt it sufficiently.” He gestured to the opposing chair with his glass. “Did you actually bring decent whisky, or was that merely bait to gain entry?”
Daniel studied him with that penetrating gaze that had made him both an excellent friend and an occasionally intolerable one. Then he moved to the desk, uncorked the bottle, and poured them both generous measures.
“Macallan. Twelve years. Cost me a small fortune at auction.” He raised his glass. “To returning heroes and mysterious retreats from duty?”
Tobias clinked glasses without enthusiasm and took a drink. The whisky was indeed excellent—smooth and complex with notes of honey and oak. Wasted entirely on his current mood.
“So.” Daniel settled into the chair with characteristic ease. “Are you going to tell me what’s actually troubling you, or shall we engage in meaningless pleasantries until I expire from boredom?”
