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“Apparently, I had received an invitation...”

“Apparently?”

I gesture with my chin toward the gazebo, toward the bulk of mahogany and brass.

“I would not have imagined such novelties would entice you.”

“It is progress.”

We walk a few paces together.

“The fever,” he resumes, without looking at me, “has it vanished entirely?”

I nod. “Oh, yes. I thank you.”

He casts a quick glance at me, checking for himself.

“I saw you earlier, arm in arm with Mademoiselle Fairfax.”

I run a hand through my hair.

He hints at a half-smile. “She is a beautiful woman.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Nathaniel’s eyes settle on mine. “But you do not like her.”

“Is Richard here?” I ask, changing the subject.

His face hardens. “Yes. He will be entertaining himself with someone.”

I adjust the collar of my overcoat.

“Do you not think you are being too severe with him?”

He stops walking, keeping his hands behind his back.

“Certain things are not permitted. And besides... my brother is very emotional. I am not sure he would emerge unscathed, in the end.”

“It is still for him to decide, is it not?” I press, looking him straight in the eye.

“Obviously, I cannot compel him.”

Between the hedges, leaning against a column, René Saint-Clair stands with a scowling face, hands inside his gloves, his gaze fixed beyond us.

“Monsieur Saint-Clair,” I greet him.

He barely lifts his hand, without breaking his stare.

“Are you already acquainted with Monsieur René Saint-Clair?” I ask Nathaniel.

“I have not had the pleasure,” he replies with composure. René shifts his eyes toward Nathaniel and extends his hand.

He shakes it. “Lord Nathaniel Brownell.”

“Son of the Marquess of Houghton, I imagine.”

I follow René’s gaze. “What troubles you?”