“Dashfield?” A voice carried through the door, followed by a sharp knock.
Henry’s shoulders tensed.Dashfield.Not Henry. Not even Mr. Dashfield, as if the mister were too common for what he’d become.
Six weeks ago, no one called for him unless they wanted money he didn’t have. Now men expected him to answer to a dead man’s name as though he’d been born to it.
“Enter,” he called, arranging his face into something that might pass for ducal composure.
The door opened. Lord Cavendish stepped inside, every inch the aristocrat in dark wool and an expression of polite curiosity. Henry’s only true friend in this world of titles and expectations. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d made a run for it.”
Henry’s mouth twitched despite himself. “The thought crossed my mind.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.” Cavendish’s eyes held warmth. “These affairs are dreadful even when you know what you’re doing. But you’ll survive. I’ll make sure of it.”
Something in Henry’s chest loosened. “Is that what you’ve come to tell me? That I won’t humiliate myself tonight?”
“I’ve come to fortify you before the onslaught.” Cavendish gestured toward the door. “Pre-soirée smoke and aperitif. My orangery. It’s the only civilized way to face a charity dinner full of grieving widows and society matrons waiting to judge your every move—and repeat it, improved upon, before the first course is cleared.”
Henry huffed. At least Cavendish was honest.
“Besides,” Cavendish continued, “you look like you could use a friend. Or at least, an ally who knows which fork to use.”
“I know which fork to use,” Henry said.
“Do you?” Cavendish’s brow rose. “They will serve seven courses tonight. Seven forks. Three spoons. A knife specifically for fish that looks alarmingly like a weapon. I’ve seen grown men weep.”
This time, Henry’s laugh was genuine. “You’re trying to terrify me with death by mundane humiliation?” Worse hadn’t killed him but this just might.
“I’m trying to prepare you. There’s a difference.” Cavendish’s expression softened. “Look, Dashfield—argh! I shall call you Dash—I’ve heard that’s what you prefer.”
“I'd prefer that, thank you.”
“Good. Then, Dash, let me be blunt. You didn’t ask for this life. You didn’t want it. But you have it now, and half of London is waiting to see you fail—preferably in public—so they can dine out on it for a month and decide what sort of duke you are before you’ve spoken ten words.”
Henry studied him. Tried to find the lie. The angle. The inevitable catch.
He found none of it.
“Why?” Henry asked quietly. “Why help me?”
Cavendish shrugged. “Because I remember what it’s like to feel out of place in my own skin. Because you’re managing tutors and poets instead of estates, and that means you actually think. And thinking men are in short supply among our set.” He smiled. “Also, my sister asked me to make sure you didn’t bolt before dinner. She’s orchestrated this entire event, and she’ll have my head if the guest of honor disappears.”
Henry’s shoulders dropped. “Your sister sounds formidable.”
“Terrifying,” Cavendish agreed cheerfully. “Which is why we’re going to the orangery right now. Cigars, claret, and I’ll teach you everything you need to know to survive the next four hours.”
Henry glanced at the desk. Letters from relatives who’d never written to him before. Invitations from people who’d never acknowledged his existence. Charities begging for his name, his money, his influence—everything except his actual self. And, tucked beneath the lot, a note in unfamiliar handwriting—polite as a knife—inviting him to “make an appearance” where “all of London would be in attendance,” as if his life were already a spectacle and scandal were simply a matter of scheduling.
“Lead on,” Henry said.
They walked in silence through corridors so vast Henry still got lost. Cavendish moved with the easy confidence of a man who belonged. Henry tried to match his stride, but felt like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes.
The orangery hit him like a wall of summer. Humid air made him instantly wish he could ditch at least his silk waistcoat and velvet coat. The scent of citrus was so thick he could taste it. Potted trees lined a meandering path. Somewhere nearby, water trickled over stone.
“This,” Henry said, stopping to take it in, “is extraordinary.”
Cavendish glanced back. Pleasure flickered across his face. “My grandfather designed it. Spent a fortune importing trees from Italy. My father always called it a frivolous waste of money.”
“Your father was wrong.”
