"No." Oscar turned, unwilling to grant the man even that much power over him. He let himself out, drawing a long, icy breath on the street. The city was cold and restless. He felt the same.
He directed his driver to Adrian's townhouse off Brook Street, a place designed to look unassuming but built on a foundation of family arrogance and cash. Oscar mounted the steps two at a time, pounded the knocker once, twice.
The butler—tall, drier than last year’s toast—opened the door a precise width. "His Lordship is not at home."
Oscar planted a hand on the jamb. "You’re certain?"
The butler's chin did not move. "He departed for the country this evening, on urgent family business. We do not expect his return for some days."
Oscar stared, weighing the odds. If Adrian was running, it was not from a debt. It was from him. The thought did not soothe.
"Tell him," Oscar said, "that the Duke of Scarfield called. Tell him I require an answer before the week is out."
The butler did not blink. "I shall relay the message, Your Grace."
Oscar allowed himself a single moment of indulgence, imagining the words being delivered, the color draining from Adrian’s cheeks. He stepped back into the night, savoring the clean snap of air and the silence that followed him down the steps.
How convenient, he thought. How perfectly, infuriatingly convenient.
He climbed into his waiting carriage. "Home," he said, and the door slammed with a sound that could have been a period, or a starting gun.
Oscar could have retired to his study, where the brandy was always at hand and the clock’s loud tick might bully his mind toward distraction. Instead, when he entered Scarfield Manor, he found himself pulled not left but right, past the cold marble of the foyer and into the drawing room.
He told himself it was because the room was empty, and because Nancy would not be awake after such a day. The real reason was the thing against the far wall: a grand pianoforte, shut and shrouded, its keys untouched for years.
He dropped his coat on a settee, poured himself a shallow glass from the sideboard, and stared at the instrument. For a long time, he did nothing but stare. Then, with the deliberation of a man placing the first stone on his own grave, he crossed the room, lifted the lid, and sat.
The bench creaked, and the hammers muttered a small protest as he pressed down the first note. He began to play, something mindless at first—a simple melody, the kind you use to warm up the fingers or clear a room of guests. But soon the music came stronger, deeper. His hands remembered what his heart had long denied.
He lost himself in the flow. The world shrank: no more scandal, no Adrian, no talk of honor or betrayal. Only the keys, and the feel of each note blooming under his touch, and a long distant memory.
Oscar, darling, you’re rushing again. Don’t strangle the poor notes—let them breathe.
He was seven, perched atop the bench, feet not yet reaching the floor. His mother’s hands hovered above his, sometimes ghosting over the same keys, sometimes redirecting with a gentle tap.
“Why must we repeat it?” he asked, petulant but not defiant.
She smiled, hair falling from its knot in a way that no lady of society would approve. “Because music is a spiral, Oscar. You keep coming round and round, and every time you see the landscape a bit differently.”
Peter, who at five had never met a rule he could not break, was under the bench, tugging at Oscar’s stockinged ankles. “He’s not playing it right,” Peter announced, as if he were the world’s foremost authority.
“He’s playing it beautifully,” their mother said. “But even beautiful things can become more beautiful with work.”
Peter rose and mashed his palms onto the highest, shrillest notes he could reach. “Like this?”
Oscar scowled, and his mother gave Peter a look—a gentle warning, never more. Peter subsided, content to dangle his legs and hum along, off-key but happy.
Oscar played the piece through, slower this time, letting his mother’s hand rest atop his. The warmth of her was everything: safety, approval, love that had never needed a single word.
“Excellent,” she said, and kissed the top of his head. “When you are Duke, remember to play for yourself, not just for the room.”
Oscar’s hands trembled, and the music faltered. He swallowed, his jaw clenched against the hollow ache that came with the memory.
A sound behind him announced a presence. He tensed, expecting Nancy, maybe even hoping for her. But when he looked down, it was Clara.
She wore a nightdress, bare feet silent on the carpet, hair wild as though she’d tried to braid it herself and given up. She did not speak, did not ask permission. She climbed onto the bench beside him, knees drawn up.
Oscar regarded her. “Do you need something?” he asked, bracing for a demand, or perhaps a demand disguised as a question.
