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The admission did not surprise Arthur. His friend had grown increasingly restless, and Winworth, for all its comforts, had never been able to hold Laurence's attention for long.

"Was debasing my mother's maids not enough to satisfy you?" Arthur replied dryly.

Laurence rolled his eyes, though for once he made no effort to return the jest.

Arthur had never truly feared for the virtue of the women under his roof. Not only did the household at Winworth conduct itself with the utmost professionalism, but he knew Laurence's moral compass better than most. His friend would never compromise a woman's future for the sake of his own amusement, nor would he purchase affection or beg for it. Exactly where Laurence found willing companionship was, Arthur had long since decided, a mystery best left unsolved.

"I have to return to my father," Laurence said, his humour fading.

Laurence’s father, the Marquess of Bexford, sat in the Cabinet and was one of the very few men in government whom Arthur held in genuine esteem. But as age began to catch up with him, the Marquess had grown increasingly reliant upon his youngest son to navigate the ever-shifting currents of Parliament.

"I trust you will continue playing nursemaid to our dear friend."

Arthur almost scoffed. He had no talent for nursing anyone. Yet he understood precisely what Laurence meant.

Radnor still refused to leave his room, and once Laurence departed in a week, Arthur would have little choice but to take his place. Between Laurence, the physicians, and the servants, they had quietly ensured Radnor spent very little of each day alone, hoping their constant company would keep his thoughts from darker places.

Later that evening, he adjusted his schedule to account for Laurence’s absence and spent a final few hours with him in Arthur’s study, sifting through the familiar mountain of correspondence. Little had changed. Corn prices continued to rise. Tenant farmers complained of rabbits stripping the young crops. Invoices awaited his signature. The estate, indifferent to everything else that had occurred, continued to demand his attention.

He had not noticed the time slipping by before a gentle knock sounded against the door, followed by the distinct, unhurried patter of footsteps he had grown accustomed to.

"There you are," Eliza smiled, stepping inside and meeting Arthur’s eyes.

Eliza wore a pale pink nightdress that fell modestly to her ankles. Her dark curls had been freed from their pins and tumbled over her shoulders, framing eyes that seemed just as bright now as they had been that morning.

"I was beginning to wonder what had become of you," Eliza added.

She wandered around the desk without invitation, pausing first to look at the whisky glass that stood tall in its place on Arthur’s desk before her attention drifted to the scattered estate papers covering the polished oak. Without a word, Arthur opened one arm towards her.

It was an invitation, and she accepted it immediately. Settling herself sideways upon his lap with complete confidence, she tucked her legs over the arm of his chair as though she had occupied that position for years, as she felt his hand at the small of her back.

Arthur’s thumb began absent-minded circles against the fabric of her gown whilst his other hand reclaimed his quill. He realised, not for the first time, that she had quietly become woven into his routine, and into his thoughts.

He found himself listening for her light footsteps in the corridor or the cheerful stream of observations she narrated to absolutely no one in particular. He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of her breathing beside him at night and the thoughtful murmurs she made whilst reading in the day.

"Crops..." she murmured, peering over the first ledger. "Geese...oh!" Her eyes brightened. "Rabbits!"

Arthur continued writing with little more than a grunt of an acknowledgement.

She frowned thoughtfully at another page.

"Arthur..."

"Yes, Duchess?"

"Why are you purchasing ducks when we already have geese?" She looked up at him with complete sincerity, and he replied: "Because ducks eat the slugs before the slugs eat the vegetables.”

He heard her mutter thoughtfully to herself as she examined another ledger, and it reminded him of an almost identical expression she had worn only a few days before.

The three of them had been gathered in his study; Eliza sat curled beside the window with her sketchbook balanced upon her knees, whilst he and Laurence discussed a matter concerning Radnor's estate. She had not appeared to be listening in the slightest until one particular word had caught her attention.

"Why do we keep geese?" she had asked with complete sincerity.

Arthur had looked at her for a long moment before replying, "For eggs, feathers, meat...and because they are remarkably effective at informing the entire estate when a stranger appears."

Her brow had furrowed.

"So they're guards?"