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“Ipresumethat my closest friend is condemning himself to solitude based on a series of faulty assumptions and misplaced guilt,” the Marquess replied, rising to stand beside him at the window. “I presume that a woman of considerable intelligence and a boy of remarkable potential have grown to care for you, despite your best efforts to appear utterly unlovable. And I presume that you, in your infinite wisdom, have stupidly decided that their lives are better served by your absence than your presence.”

Victor’s silence was confirmation enough.

Nathaniel sighed, the sound uncharacteristically weary. “Do you recall Captain Harrison?” he asked suddenly.

The non sequitur caught Victor off guard. “Of course. A fine officer. Lost during the engagement at Algeciras.”

“Indeed,” Nathaniel agreed. “A fine officer and a devoted husband and father. The night before the battle, he showed me a small portrait of his wife and baby girl. Do you know what he said?”

Victor shook his head.

“He said, ‘If anything happens to me tomorrow, I shall regret only the years I will not have with them—never the years I did.’ Harrison understood what you, for all your strategic brilliance, have not: that the possibility of loss is the price we pay for the certainty of love. And that it is a price worth paying.”

“A philosophical observation that provides scant comfort to those left behind,” Victor countered.

“As opposed to the profound comfort of never having loved at all?” Nathaniel challenged. “Tell me, has your determined isolation provided the contentment you sought? Has your grand mansion, with its echoing halls and silent rooms, fulfilled your expectations of a well-lived life?”

Victor did not respond.

Argus whined softly, pressing his warm bulk against his master’s leg.

“Return to the countryside,” Nathaniel urged. “Speak with Lady Cuthbert. Allow her the dignity of making her own assessment of the suitability of your temperament.”

“She has made her assessment perfectly clear,” Victor said firmly. “As have I. The matter is concluded.”

Nathaniel studied his friend’s implacable expression for a long moment, then nodded with reluctant acceptance. “Very well. Though I wonder if you have considered what message your abrupt disappearance conveys to the boy.”

Victor’s hand stilled on Argus’s head. “What do you mean?”

“Simply that the young Earl has already experienced the abandonment of his father,” Nathaniel observed. “Your withdrawal, however nobly intended, might reasonably appear to him as history repeating itself—another man departing without explanation or farewell.”

The observation landed with devastating precision. Victor had not permitted himself to consider Tristan’s perspective on his departure—he had focused entirely on Emma’s reaction and his inner turmoil. The thought that the boy might interpret his absence as rejection, might believe himself somehow at fault, was unexpectedly painful.

“Children understand that adults have obligations that necessitate their attention elsewhere,” Victor said, though the justification sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Foolish, even.

“Of course,” Nathaniel agreed with exaggerated solemnity. “Children are renowned for their rational assessment of adult behavior, particularly when it affects them personally. I’m certain he has not given your absence a moment’s thought, beyond perhaps wondering why his riding instructor has been replaced by a man who, according to Miss Lytton, sits on a horse as though expecting it to explode beneath him at any moment.”

Despite himself, Victor felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Mr. Jenkins’ equestrian deficiencies were indeed pronounced, a fact that Tristan had observed with the merciless accuracy of childhood during their first lesson.

“Your concern for the boy’s horsemanship is touching,” he said dryly.

“My concern,” Nathaniel corrected, “is for the happiness of a friend who has denied himself that state for far too long. And for a woman and child who have evidently penetrated your formidable defenses to a degree that has sent you fleeing to London in abject terror.”

“I do not flee,” Victor objected indignantly.

“No?” His friend raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What would you call this strategic withdrawal to the safety of urban isolation, if not a retreat from the battlefield of genuine emotion?”

“I would call it prudence,” Victor said finally, turning from the window with renewed resolve. “Now, if you have exhausted your repertoire of unsolicited advice, perhaps we might discuss a matter of actual consequence. I understand Harrington has proposed a new budget for the coastal defenses at Portsmouth.”

Nathaniel regarded him for a long moment, the corners of his mouth tightening.

“Very well,” he said quietly, rising from his chair and retrieving his gloves from the side table. “If you’re determined to bury your head in parliamentary nonsense, I won’t stop you.”

Victor’s gaze flicked to him, briefly surprised. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ve said all I can,” Nathaniel replied, donning his gloves with slow deliberation. “You may call it prudence, Victor, but don’t be surprised when others—those who matter—call it cowardice.”