Carter folded his hands before him. “I’m afraid it is already being discussed, Your Grace.”
Andrew gave a short, humorless breath. “Of course it is. That is its purpose.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned back to the window, with the paper still in his hand. Outside, the grounds lay quiet beneath a pale sky, with the early spring air carrying none of the tension now coiled within the walls of his house.
He had seen such things before, not about himself, but about others. Names dragged through ink, reputations reshaped by implication and suggestion. It was the favorite pastime of a society that professed refinement while delighting in destruction.
He had always dismissed it. He intended to dismiss this as well.
“It is nonsense,” he scoffed.
Carter did not immediately respond.
Andrew glanced back at him. “You do not agree?”
“I have no opinion on its truth, Your Grace,” the butler replied carefully. “Only on its effect.”
Andrew’s mouth tightened slightly. “Which is?”
“It has already begun to spread.”
Andrew looked down at the page again, his eyes skimming the lines with growing irritation. The language was calculated. He could see that plainly enough. It was not a direct accusation so much as a slow tightening of implication. Still, it was enough to provoke curiosity and to invite speculation. By evening, half of London would be repeating it as fact.
“Let them talk.” He waved a dismissive hand.
Carter inclined his head, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Andrew moved to his writing table and set the paper down among his correspondence, though the act felt faintly inadequate, as if he were attempting to bury something that refused to remain still.
“This is precisely the sort of idle invention that thrives for a week and is forgotten the next,” he continued. “A new scandal will appear, and this one will fade with it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“There is nothing in it worth addressing, despite the fact that it is rather specific. But that only makes it more entertaining, and therefore, more profitable for whoever chose to write it.”
Carter gave a small nod. “That is often the case.”
Andrew leaned back slightly against the edge of his writing table, folding his arms. He had no intention of allowing such nonsense to disrupt his morning, much less his affairs. There were matters of actual consequence awaiting him, such as tenants to consider, accounts to review, and decisions that affected lives in ways far more real than ink upon paper.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Andrew called out.
Carter opened the door, and Philip Ashwell, the Duke of Thorne, entered without ceremony.
Even before he spoke, he altered the air of the room. Philip always did. He carried silence with him like a second coat, like something dark, heavy, and close-fitted. He was still in travellingdress, with gloves in one hand, and another folded paper in the other.
“Your Grace,” Carter said quietly.
Andrew gave a brief nod. “That will be all, Carter.”
The butler withdrew at once, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, Philip said nothing. He only looked at Andrew. Then he lifted the paper in his hand.
“Is it true?”
Andrew’s brows drew together. “Is what true?”
