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“Michael Jephson.” Mabeldon waited, and when Anthony said nothing he frowned. “Don’t be coy,” he said. “He’s the superintendent of the Putney Asylum. Before that, he was the superintendent of Normand Park.”

Anthony’s jaw slackened.

“The Duke of Weston,” Mabeldon said, raising an arm like a newspaper seller. “Mounting a campaign that targets the doctor who committed his mother! Read all about it!”

He dropped his arm, shaking his head.

Anthony felt a fullness in his chest, redness surging in from the corners of his eyes. Mabeldon pressed his advantage.

“Think, Your Grace,” he said. “It would be painful, that history circulating again, not to mention damaging to your credibility. I owed your father tremendously, and so I’m happy to advise you now. You’re better off leaving this alone.”

Despite the wave of emotion crashing over him, Anthony’s mouth quirked sardonically. His father had played an instrumental role in elevating Mabeldon to the peerage. In exchange for what, he didn’t dare to guess.

He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t let the mention of his mother divert him from his course.

“Who applied for the lease?” He leveled the question, which at first Mabeldon pretended not to hear as he fetched his watch from his pocket and made a show of noting the time.

“I’m late,” he said.

“The lease,” repeated Anthony.

“Joseph Statham tendered for the site. He built the Albany Road estate in Camberwell, a fine fellow,” said Mabeldon impatiently, rising. “Archie will get dull waiting.”

Joseph Statham. The name meant nothing to Anthony, but then again, neither had the name Jephson. He’d never considered the man who diagnosed his mother. In his mind, he’d been nameless, faceless, part of the edifice that had swallowed his mother whole. The diagnosis—defending his mother from it with his fists—was what had consumed him. Certainly, his father had never spoken to him of the doctor involved.

He’d only known his mother died at Normand Park because the schoolchildren mentioned it in one of their vicious rhymes.

Mabeldon’s face looked even longer and more equine from this angle. He wouldn’t allow the man to see through his exterior, to glimpse the welter beneath.

Christ, he was a mess of wounds.

He stood smoothly. “Don’t let Archie get dull,” he said with a laugh, picking invisible lint from his shirtsleeve.

Archibald, dull. He’d never been one to let moss grow under his feet. Too busy trying to climb to the top of every pile. Grasping bastard.

“We’ll walk out together. I’m late, too, to meet with Samuel Lawford.”

“Lawford!” Mabeldon gaped and Anthony hid his smile. He’d been choosing his friends wisely.

“Yes, Lawford,” he said airily. “He agrees it’s high time that a committee form to investigate board practices. How does this strike you? Lawford will be the one to move in the House. The press won’t find a story there. Lawford has no axe to grind with Jephson. Glad that’s settled. And I thank you for the advice. My advice to you? Deal with Charlotte Road.”

He tipped his head. “And don’t be long about it.”

Mabeldon blinked rapidly. Anthony relished the look on his face. Surprise. Dawning terror.

He had just realized the young idiot was a formidable adversary.

Anthony shook Mabeldon by the shoulder as they parted ways.

“I’m looking forward to seeing more of you, and of Archie. Send him my warmest regards.”

Back in the coach, he flung his limbs angrily, struggling to master his breathing. The lancing pain stabbed again, behind his right eye. He could count on liquor to dull this feeling, but he was realizing there was utility in his discomfort. The pain and need honed him. He was alert, restless, all corners.

The day wasn’t over. He would visit Lawford. He would go by the frame maker’s studio to see if he’d finished his job on schedule. Later, the veterinarian was coming to the stables to check Snap’s fetlocks, to ensure the sesamoid bones were still whole. Afterward, Anthony would still have time to work in the glasshouse, sanding the oval he’d planed from the board, rubbing it with linseed oil. And Cecil might call.

He could fill a life even without Lucy Coover.

Because of Lucy Coover, something inside him whispered. Her determination, industriousness, audacity—a lesson. A goad.