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"I for one make a habit of seeing my obligations through."

Arthur gave him a rare but empty smile, inclining his head and accepting that parting shot.

"I shall return to Winworth after the ball," Laurence continued as he settled into the carriage.

"God alone knows you lack both the wit and good sense to navigate the catastrophe you have created without my assistance."

Against all reason, this time Arthur’s smile was almost genuine.

"Though I shall, naturally, be forwarding an invoice for my services," Laurence called out as the carriage began to roll.

Some bonds were forged over shared laughter. Theirs had been forged beneath the transition from boyhood to manhood, from being pupils at Eton to men of society. And on that note, Arthur watched the carriage disappear beyond the gates until it became little more than a shadow upon the horizon.

Then he had returned to Winworth.

To the silence.

The two weeks since had passed in a tedious procession of identical days, each bleeding so thoroughly into the next that Arthur sometimes struggled to distinguish one from another.

He finished reviewing the latest evening’s invoices and glanced at the clock.

Eight o’clock.

In only a few days, they would follow Laurence to London.

The thought should have reassured him.

Instead he found himself dreading it. He knew London. Its whispers. Its remarkable ability to strip a person bare beneath the pretence of civility. Society could forgive almost anything except innocence. Eliza possessed that in abundance. She believed the best of everyone she met. She smiled freely, spoke honestly and had yet to learn that compliments amongst the ton were often sharpened into weapons the moment one turned one's back.

As much as London unsettled him, he found himself almost impatient for it to arrive because he had not seen his wife in the better part of a fortnight. The reports on his desk painted a picture he wished desperately were exaggerated. She left her chambers only to visit Radnor. Occasionally she ventured to the stables, where, according to the stable master, she spent an inordinate amount of time speaking to the young stable boy named John, who appeared rather delighted to have acquired the friendship of a duchess.

Arthur had almost smiled when reading that particular report. He also knew she had grown increasingly close to her lady's maid and a cot had been brought into her room so they could have sleepovers. That, at least, brought him a small measure of comfort.

His wife deserved companionship. He had promised she would want for nothing. If he could no longer offer her his affection, then he would ensure every other comfort imaginable was placed at her disposal.

It was why he now found himself standing before the large bay window of his study, one hand resting behind his back whilst the other slowly rotated a fresh whisky within an entirely unremarkable crystal tumbler.

His attention remained fixed upon the dancing trees that spanned the sides of the drive stretching towards the gates.

The evening marked the arrival of an exceedingly expensive addition to his household.

Or, more accurately, the arrival of the one person he hoped might persuade his wife to smile again. Almost as if summoned by the thought itself, the distant rhythm of horses' hooves danced through the evening breeze and a carriage emerged slowly between the oak trees.

Arthur emptied the last of his whisky in one measured swallow before setting the glass aside.

By the time he reached the front entrance, Ellis, Mrs Clapton and half a dozen footmen had already assembled with the practised efficiency expected of Winworth.

The carriage rolled to a gentle halt. One of the stable boys stepped forward to open the door.

The first gentleman to descend was tall and lean, though age had begun to announce itself in the silver woven generously through dark hair at his temples. Grey eyes surveyed Winworth with quiet intelligence.

The Earl of Danbury.

Arthur had learned a surprising amount about the Earl in recent months. Very little of it inspired confidence. Some suggested poor judgement. Others hinted at desperation.

Nevertheless, needs must. The Earl inclined his head, his expression a concoction of fear and awe.

"Your Grace," Danbury greeted him.