“What about my duties to the Crown?”
“Renforth has already given his consent,” Upton answered.
“So this is to be a duty as well.” A thoroughly inconvenient one too, he thought grimly.
Sir Percival cleared his throat with the air of a man who had resolved to make the unpleasant portion of his speech as brief as possible. “I shall be very plain with you, Archibald.”
“Plainness is often the mask of something worse,” Arch returned, because it was safer to be sarcastic than to invite the full gravity of his godfather’s earnestness.
“It is not my habit to threaten,” Sir Percival said.
Arch regarded him sceptically. “Yet?”
Lord Upton gave a short cough that might have been laughter suppressed out of respect for the occasion.
Sir Percival continued, unruffled. “Yet I will say this. If Francesca enters the Season unguarded, she will be surrounded by men who have perfected the art of appearing honourable. They will flatter her judgement while undermining it. They will praise her independence while arranging to control it.”
Arch’s expression sobered.
“You make a poor case for Society,” Arch said, more quietly.
“I make an accurate one,” Sir Percival replied. “Francesca is not ignorant: that is the difficulty. A foolish girl is easily managed by rules. A clever one believes she has no need of them.”
Arch glanced to his father. “Is it your belief, then, that Miss Vale is in immediate peril?”
Lord Upton’s gaze sharpened with that particular expression of discomfort gentlemen wore when obliged to discuss the private mechanisms of another gentleman’s house. “Hersolicitor,” he said slowly, “one Thomas Kendall, esquire, has likely entangled her affairs.”
Sir Percival frowned with distaste. “He calls it ‘modernizing’. He speaks of ‘efficiency’ and ‘moral investment’.”
Arch’s brows rose. “Moral investment?”
“A euphemism,” Sir Percival said, with distaste, “for funding radical groups.”
Arch exhaled. “Then it is not merely her fortune which is at stake.”
“The Crown takes an interest in Mr. Kendall as well as Miss Vale’s safety,” Lord Upton added.
Sir Percival sat down again, looking older suddenly, and Arch realized with a jolt that his godfather’s insistence was not merely political manoeuvring. There was anxiety beneath it, and grief too, worn thin by responsibility.
“She is my niece,” Sir Percival said, with controlled emotion. “I promised her mother I would see her safe. Her mother died believing Francesca would be protected. If I fail, I will not be able to call myself an honourable man.”
Arch’s resolve weakened in spite of his intended resistance to sentiment. “When did Mrs. Vale die?”
Sir Percival’s gaze flickered, as though he had hoped Arch might never ask. “Just over a year ago.”
“And her father?”
“Soon after,” Lord Upton said. “A fever. Then a fall. She is just out of mourning.”
Sir Percival softened his tone. “I would not ask if I were not truly afraid for her.”
Arch looked away again because the sight of Sir Percival’s fear irritated him; it was far easier to defend oneself against manipulation than sincerity.
“Is Miss Vale aware of the threat?”
His godfather shook his head. “I thought it best not to raise her bristles until you investigate.”
“She is aware that your mother will be her patron, so it will not be unnatural for you to be present.”
