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Lord Moreland stood before them, a handsome man in his fifties with silver threading through his brown hair and a build that still commanded a room. But not even his stature could preserve his dignity in the garments required of him.

Thanks to King George IV’s whimsical tastes and formal declarations for the coronation, the College of Arms had imposed a sartorial horror upon the peers of the realm. Lord Moreland had been forced into antique dress that had not graced a living man’s body since the last century.

He wore a tight-fitting doublet of ivory silk, the buttons glinting like coins in the gaslight. His gold-and-white breeches ballooned absurdly at the thigh, ending high above white silk stockings that clung to his muscular legs like clotted cream. The heeled shoes clicked faintly on the tiled floor. A long cloak of crimson velvet, lined in pristine ermine, swept behind him like a banner, and at his throat, an elaborate ruff framed his face in theatrical absurdity.

“Faugh! I have never been so happy that I am a mere heir and not the holder of the title!” Aidan cried.

Lily’s laughter burst free, her chest shaking with mirth as her father turned a rich, mottled red and cast a rueful look at his audience.

“The other options were worse, in my estimation. My tailor insisted this would suit me best.”

“That is hard to believe,” Lily wheezed, struggling for air.

Lord Moreland’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps he advised me for his own amusement.”

At last, Lady Moreland composed herself enough to speak again, smoothing her gown of sapphire silk with both hands as if to re-anchor her dignity. “Aidan, we shall be out late. You must remain home and keep Lily company.”

Aidan nodded with exaggerated solemnity. “I promise to keep an eye on my little sister and ensure no harm befalls her, Mother.”

Lily’s heart warmed. Since his return, Aidan had been constantly in demand by friends and acquaintances, flitting from ball to club as easily as she moved between fittings and musicales. She missed him. She longed to hear the stories he had promised—the rise of the sun over Roman rooftops, the glow of candlelight in Venetian palazzos, and the scent of lavender fields in Provence. But he had been swept up in London society since the moment he had set foot back on English soil.

Their childhood closeness, once unmarred by propriety or separate spheres, had faded like an old watercolor. Now, every shared moment was a small treasure.

“I expect you to keep that promise, young man!” their mother said, her voice sharp with playfulness, her eyes soft.

The entire Abbott household had rejoiced at Aidan’s return. For Lily, tonight offered a rare reprieve from social maneuvering, from the artifice of presentation. An evening with her brother, laughing by the pianoforte or reminiscing over slices of currant cake, was a balm to her heart.

Brendan drew a deep breath, the heaviness of it sitting beneath his ribs, then reached out and opened the door to his rooms. He could put it off no longer.

Lord Filminster had arrived two days earlier—his first visit to London in as much as two decades—and demanded Brendan’s presence downstairs today. The baron had sent word of his imminent arrival, but Brendan had been certain he would cancel the trip. He had wagered on the man’s cowardice, and so the fact of his arrival, despite the warning, still had the power to surprise him.

Most of Brendan’s acquaintances would describe him as an affable young man who always had a friendly word for everyone he met. If he were honest, he caroused too frequently with his friends—not to mention, his days were decidedly idle. But he took the time to lift the spirits of those around him, and he enjoyed visiting his sister and brother-in-law, the Duke of Halmesbury, as well as his nephew, Jasper.

Yet seeing Lord Filminster for the first time in some years had reminded him of the wrenching anxiety that his uncle stirred in the region of his gut, which was currently twisting and writhing as he began his reluctant walk down the hall. That cold tension had never quite gone; it merely slept until roused, and now it stirred with every step.

Fortunately, he had not seen the baron much, but today, he was to meet with him in his study. The baron’s study.

Deuce it! It is my study!

Brendan had been working out of it since leaving Filminster on his twenty-first birthday, and it was rotten luck that his uncle-father had finally found the courage to leave his estate. The only explanation for showing such fortitude was that the baron was a vainglorious buffoon whose craving to attend the prestigious coronation had finally outweighed his fear of travel.

Lucky me.

With an increasing sense of dread, he began his descent, the worn carpet beneath his boots speaking to how long it had been since the townhouse had been renovated, while the wide wooden boards creaked in protest at his weight.

Why would the old man bother to keep the townhouse properly maintained?

It was a source of irritation to Brendan, one of many. That he was beholden to the baron, a mean-spirited old goat, was galling. Had events transpired as they should have, Brendan’s own father would be Lord Filminster, and Brendan himself would be a valued heir. Instead, he was an orphan and obligated to obey his uncle so he could access his allowance.

As he reached the front hall, Brendan’s thoughts flittered to the last time he and the baron had corresponded. Three years earlier, Brendan had fancied himself in love with a lovely young woman, until Lord Filminster had written to her father and informed him that Brendan would be cut off if a match was made. The baron had deemed the young woman unsuitable, being from a wealthy but untitled family.

Brendan would have proceeded despite the baron’s interference, for he would eventually inherit the title, and it would restore his finances. But her father had abruptly ended their courtship, with a formality that left no opening for hope. Brendan had buried his sorrows in the arms of a friendly widow, who had been flirting with him for some time, and subsequently vowed to never make a match that his uncle approved of. Unfortunately, he feared their conversation today was to address this subject, for he knew of no other reason for the baron to require his presence.

The scent of beeswax and aged plaster lingered in the corridor, faint and dry. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Brendan noticed he had arrived at the study. The carved paneling of the door bore scratches that had not been polished out, and the brass knob was dulled from age and use. He raised a heavy hand to rap his knuckles on the door.

“Come,” intoned a disinterested voice.

Brendan entered and closed the door behind him, before finding his uncle standing by the fireplace. The room smelled faintly of lavender water, the sort a valet might splash on linens. He choked back a laugh when he saw how the old man was dressed, raising a hand to cover his mouth as though suppressing a cough.