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They were shown into a study that bore the scent of ink and aged parchment. Books crammed the shelves in unruly abundance, and several overstuffed chairs crowded the small room. Vestments hung behind the door, ceremonial and worn, while the man himself stood by the hearth. Reverend Stone’s form was clad in a long dark gray coat with tails, his breeches a deeper charcoal, and his calves sheathed in well-stretched black stockings. The vestments were, in Julius’s estimation, a kindness. They would forgive a portly girth.

Stone was a man in his early fifties with a wide, fleshy face, a bulbous nose, and a thick shock of white hair. Julius studied him carefully, noting how the clergyman’s expression remained calm—perhaps puzzled, but not alarmed. If the man had something to hide, particularly something as horrific as murder, he would be on his guard at the sight of two titled men arriving unannounced.

Instead, Stone bobbed a few short bows, polite if bemused. “Lord Filminster, Lord Trafford, welcome.”

“Reverend Stone,” Brendan replied, his tone amiable. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Julius studied the vicar as they settled into the stiff-backed chairs positioned before his desk. The man was hearty, full-faced, and bore the contented look of someone who had accepted every biscuit and slice of cake offered on his parish rounds. But more importantly, he showed no signs of discomfort at their visit. No tension in the shoulders, no shiftiness of gaze. Just mild curiosity and easy geniality.

After several minutes of polite preamble about the architecture of the church and the weather, Julius leaned forward, folding his gloved hands with deliberate ease.

“We have been most impressed with what we hear about your parish. Lord Filminster and I are here to make a donation to your church.”

Brendan offered a warm smile. “Indeed. I have instructed my man of business to see to the particulars.”

Reverend Stone blinked in surprise before clapping his hands together in clear delight. “That is wonderful news, milords. The church is always in need of repairs. We are most grateful.”

Julius nodded, though his focus remained keen. “We hear you have a rather esteemed connection. Is it true that your brother is Lord Harlyn?”

Stone beamed, revealing a full set of slightly yellowed but well-kept teeth. “Indeed, Lord Harlyn is a loyal patron of our humble church here in London.”

Brendan allowed the conversation to meander through family origins and Cornish heritage before gently steering it to the matter at hand.

“Were you so fortunate as to attend the coronation in July with your brother?” he asked with an air of idle curiosity.

The vicar shook his head, his expression faintly wistful. “Oh, no. That would have been a fine occasion to witness, but alas, my brother could not secure an extra invitation. In any event, there was a bereaved family in our parish that day. My wife and I sat with them well into the night. Sad business.”

Julius composed his features into sympathetic lines, though a flicker of quiet triumph stirred within. The information matched what they had hoped to uncover. With this account in hand, it would be easy to verify Stone’s whereabouts and eliminate him and Montague as suspects. That would allow them to turn their full attention toward Simon Scott.

“That is dreadful news,” Julius murmured. “Is there anything we might do to assist?”

Stone proceeded to recount the passing of a local merchant and the grief of the widow and her children. As he had said, it was, indeed, a sad affair.

Brendan responded with suitable compassion. “We should like to pay our respects personally. Might we visit the family?”

The vicar offered the name and address, which Brendan recorded with discreet efficiency. After further assurances that the promised donation would arrive in the coming days, the two lords rose to take their leave, offering final pleasantries as they stepped back out into the gray light of day.

They returned to the waiting carriage and resumed their journey. This time to pay a call upon Montague. Once seated, Brendan removed his beaver and placed it on the bench beside him. He peeled off a glove and ran his fingers through his hair, a habitual gesture Julius recognized at once. It meant Brendan had something on his mind and was uneasy about voicing it.

“Julius …” Brendan began, his voice cautious. “Are you certain about this arrangement with Miss Gideon? She is a beautiful and capable young lady. Considering you will be wed, might she not make a good wife?”

Julius kept his gaze fixed on the window, watching the bustle of London rush past in a blur of mud-spattered wheels and umbrellas. He had hoped Brendan would not revisit the subject. Private matters were rarely discussed between them, especially matters of the heart. But Brendan was a changed man since his marriage to the delicate and brilliant Lily—besotted, settled, transformed.

“I do not wish to be wed,” Julius said flatly.

Brendan sighed. “Then why are you marrying her? Surely, you care about what happens to her?”

He could not answer the question, not to Brendan and not even to himself. The very idea of marriage filled him with dread, as though shackles were being fastened about his ankles. And yet, the thought of Audrey leaving England, sailing away into some unknown future without him, made him want to howl.

Reconciling those two truths, his fear and his longing, was proving impossible.

“I must protect her,” he said at last, his voice low and firm.

That was all he could offer. And with that, silence settled between them like a shroud. Outside the carriage, the city surged on—iron-rimmed wheels striking the rutted earth, street cries rising and fading, horses snorting and hooves clattering—but inside, neither man spoke again until they reached their destination.

Montague was, fortunately, at home. He received them with a puzzled smile and a cordial greeting, and they made their excuses for the visit without trouble. But this time, it was not so easy to determine where he had been on the night of the coronation.

Montague grew evasive when questioned, his answers vague and meandering. There was no flash of fear in his eyes, only an awkward reluctance to offer detail. When they left, it was without resolution.