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“I’m coming with you,” Emma said.

They galloped through the streets of London towards Sumhall, winding between the carriages and pedestrians, some of whom shrieked as the two riders flashed by them. It must have taken them fifteen minutes or so, and the news was slowly sinking in. Sebastian’s stomach was twisting with anger, with the unfairness of the loss of someone so young and so loved.

They ran into Sumhall, and Sebastian was immediately shown to the study while Emma was led to the sitting room.

Sebastian entered the study, where Preston stood by the fireplace, supporting himself with one arm lying on the stonework, staring at the fire. A letter was clutched in his other hand.

“Preston,” said Sebastian, closing the door behind him.

Preston looked at him, his eyes glistening, deep lines of sorrow around his mouth. He was pale, grayish even.

“Is it true?” asked Sebastian, slowly walking to Preston.

Preston exhaled sharply and stood straight.

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

Sebastian squeezed his shoulder. “I am ever so sorry. What happened?”

Preston shook his head slightly. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I never wanted this. I was always supposed to be the spare. I do not want to be duke.”

Sebastian knew exactly how that felt.

“But how is it your fault?” he asked.

Preston showed him to a seat near the writing desk. The room seemed to reflect the somber mood—the long, thick purple curtains were almost fully drawn, casting the room in semidarkness. Shelves with books covered one wall opposite the fireplace, while the other two walls were decorated with oil paintings. On the sideboard, a globe stood next to piles of papers and folders and a round tray with a carafe of transparent liquid.

“Gin?” Preston asked as he went to the sideboard.

“If you’re having any,” said Sebastian.

“Of course I’m having gin,” mumbled Preston as he poured the drink into a carved glass for Sebastian. He handed him the glass, took another one, still full, from the desk and drank it in one go. Sebastian followed his friend’s example, the alcohol burning the back of his throat.

“We argued last night,” said Preston as he laid the letter on the desk and leaned against it.

“What about?”

“What have we been arguing about for months now?”

“Ah…” said Sebastian.

He remembered the argument. Notorious ton rake, the Duke of Grandhampton had shown a consistent interest in Miss Penelope Beckett. Though to anyone else it likely appeared nothing more than an attempt at seduction, something he was famous for, he had confessed to his brother that he actually wanted to marry her.

“That fortune hunter,” muttered Preston, pouring himself and Sebastian two more drinks. “She led him on. She was never interested in him, only his money. He was too blind to see it. So we argued. Again. I was supposed to go with him to Portside, to see him box. But he went alone because he couldn’t stand my company.”

He handed Sebastian the glass.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault, Preston,” said Sebastian, accepting the glass.

“Had I been there, had I gone with him, had it not been for Miss Beckett, he wouldn’t have died!” roared Preston. “We’ve always bickered, but I never wanted any harm to come to my brother.”

Preston threw back the contents of his glass while Sebastian only sipped his. “It cannot be that simple. You cannot take this blame on yourself.”

“I can. And I must. Had I insisted on going with Spencer like I had wanted to, I might have protected him. He was beaten to death.”

Sebastian sat upright. “What? During the match?”

“No. By thugs. Probably for money. Who knows… The coroner sent us his things…the bloodied handkerchief with his initials. His pocket watch.” Preston’s face distorted in a mask of grief and pain, and he cried.