CHAPTER 1
Archibald Manners was in the agreeable position of having finished his report and having yet to be discovered by anyone who wished to give him more work. He had thus settled himself at the small escritoire near the south window, the morning light falling obligingly upon his papers, when a footman in his family’s livery appeared with the careful gravity that always presaged interruption.
“Sir,” the young man said with apologetic firmness, “I have a message from his lordship. He requests your presence at Upton Place at once.”
Arch closed his eyes.
“Has my father said why?” he asked mildly.
“No, sir. I know only that Sir Percival Lockmore is with him.”
Arch opened his eyes again.
“Well,” he said, rising, “that explains everything and nothing in equal measure.”
The footman, who, it seemed, had learned prudence early in his career, said nothing.
Arch took up his hat with a short, irritated breath and made for the mews. He accepted his horse’s reins with more force thanstrictly necessary, muttering under his breath as he swung into the saddle and set off for Upton Place.
As Arch crossed the hall on arrival at his family home, his steps slowed—not from reluctance exactly, but from the practised caution of a man who had survived too many summonses delivered with such solemnity. His father’s study was the chamber where alliances were forged, inconveniences disguised as honours, and one’s life redirected under the guise of familial concern.
Sir Percival’s presence made matters worse. Sir Percival was not merely his father’s contemporary and ally but Arch’s godfather, a relationship which, in Sir Percival’s view, entitled him to Arch’s loyalty, obedience, and moral availability in perpetuity. He was a man of unimpeachable respectability, great consequence in the Commons, and possessed of a talent for persuasion that had undone stronger men than Arch Manners.
Arch paused outside the door, inhaled once, and entered.
His father stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, his posture relaxed but attentive. Sir Percival sat in the armchair nearest the desk, perfectly at ease, one leg balanced across his knee, his expression benevolent in the way that suggested danger.
“Ah, my son,” Lord Upton said with measured warmth. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”
“As summoned,” Arch replied. He inclined his head to Sir Percival. “Godfather.”
“Archibald,” Sir Percival said fondly. “You look well.”
“I have had the advantage of uninterrupted mornings,” Arch replied, leavinguntil nowunsaid but implied. “I recommend them to all men for agreeability.”
Lord Upton’s mouth twitched. Sir Percival’s smile widened.
“Will you be seated?” Sir Percival said, gesturing. “We have a matter to discuss.”
Arch remained standing. “First, I would know what this is about—a habit I have acquired, when the phrasea matter to discussis employed,” he said evenly.
Sir Percival laughed. “Still cautious, I see. Good. It will serve you.”
Lord Upton cleared his throat. “Arch?—”
“Before either of you proceed,” Arch said calmly, “may I ask whether this matter involves Parliament, propriety, or personal sacrifice?”
Sir Percival’s eyes gleamed. “All three.”
Arch sighed and sat down.
Sir Percival leaned forward, clasping his hands atop the stick he used for walking assistance. “You are aware, I presume, of my niece and god-daughter?”
Arch searched his memory. “Miss Vale, I believe? I met her once, when she was fourteen. She looked at me as though I had personally offended her by existing.”
Sir Percival beamed. “Ah. Then you remember her.”
“I remember,” Arch said dryly, “that she told me soldiers were an abomination and that she intended to run her father’s estate one day.”
