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“Before I raise my concerns, I must ask … Would your father have answered the door himself?”

Frowning, Brendan gave his head a weary shake. “Never. The baron would not lower himself to fulfill the duties of a servant. He was … a vain man.”

Briggs exhaled slowly. “I was afraid of that.”

From his armchair, Halmesbury leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. “What are you thinking, Briggs?”

“Lord Filminster”—the runner inclined his head respectfully toward Brendan for clarity—“spoke of being let in early in the morning. None of the servants admitted to being the one who opened the door for him. That is suspicious in itself, but …”

Brendan’s nerves, already frayed to threads, snapped taut. Sleep deprivation and mounting dread had stripped away his tolerance. His voice emerged clipped, roughened at the edges.

“But?”

Briggs tugged thoughtfully at his mustache, the motion slow and deliberate, betraying his reluctance to speak aloud the conclusion. “The baron was murdered by one of the servants, or a servant knows who killed him, because they provided the killer access to your home.”

Brendan groaned and dropped his face into his hands, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids as if physical pressure might forestall the rising tide of dread. Of course. He had been so consumed by scandal, guilt, and exhaustion, he had failed to apply the most basic logic. Yes, the murder had to be solved, but he had not considered that the guilty party might still be under his roof. Or worse, that betrayal had flourished among those who served him.

“Blazes,” Richard muttered under his breath, jaw clenched. “We have been contending with family pressures, so we did not stop to think about the implications.”

The duke sighed, long and measured, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I, on the other hand, have had time to consider it. That is why I insisted we meet with Briggs. Annabel reached the same conclusion. The baron would never deign to open the front door himself. Michaels also confirmed that the door had been locked and checked, given recent reports of break-ins in the area.”

Briggs nodded. “I do not wish to cause panic, but I believe it is imperative that the servants be questioned again. With Grimes overseeing the investigation, I was not free to act independently. However, now that he is preoccupied with the inquest and displeased with how things have unfolded, I may proceed without his supervision. I wish to interview the household quietly and compile a list of suspects.”

Brendan drew a slow breath, his hands falling back to his lap, palms open in surrender. “What of Grimes? Is he likely to pursue me further?”

Halmesbury shook his head slowly. “Fortunately, since Miss Abbott has provided you with an alibi, I was able to persuade the Home Secretary to intercede with Grimes about pursuing proper lines of inquiry.”

A breath Brendan had not realized he was holding escaped him in a rush. The anxious knot in his chest began to loosen, and for the first time in days, a flicker of control returned to him. “Briggs, you may have whatever you need. The safety of my household must be secured.”

He made swift arrangements with the runner, offering him double his usual fee along with a generous bonus so he might turn over his other cases. The matter of the baron’s murder could no longer be deferred or shared. It required singular focus.

Once Michaels returned and escorted Briggs away to see to his needs, Brendan found himself once again alone with the duke and the earl. Silence fell like a weight across the room. It was an expectant hush, the air thick with the shift in subject, the unspoken name hanging there between them.

Miss Abbott.

Brendan resumed his seat with a low sigh, rubbing at his burning eyes. He waited, knowing what must come next.

“When is the wedding?” Richard’s voice cut through the quiet like a whipcrack—sharp, accusing.

“There is not to be one.”

The earl’s expression darkened instantly, his features twisting into a scowl. A low growl escaped him, primal and dangerous. Brendan rose, moving behind his chair, bracing as if for a second attack, though this time it would be made with words, not fists.

“What happened?” The voice came not from the storm, but from its calm center.

Brendan turned, startled anew by the duke’s quiet interjection. He had nearly forgotten Halmesbury’s presence, so focused had he been on Richard’s fury. But the steadiness of the duke’s tone was a balm, cooling, stabilizing.

“There was a misunderstanding. I … may have … accused the young woman of deliberately trapping me,” Brendan admitted, voice low, eyes trained on a knot in the wall paneling.

Silence followed. A silence broken only by the unmistakable sound of a snarl from Richard’s direction.

Halmesbury sighed deeply, long-suffering but not without sympathy. “What do you plan to do?”

“I do not know. Miss Abbott refused my offer.” Brendan hesitated, shame curling like smoke in his lungs. “I must confess I was relieved. I am not ready to marry a child.”

“You are the child, Ridley! And it is time for you to grow up!” The words were thunder as Richard’s voice rose with fury.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.