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Stephen picked up a small, brass spyglass, turning it over to read the inscription on one side.

To Stephen, from Mama. Turn your eyes upwards, always, for there are stars to see.

The ache returned to his chest, and he tightened his grip on the spyglass. “Beatrice has gone to bed, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright,” Theodosia remarked. “It’s you I came to see.”

He bit back a sigh. “I’m tired, Mother. Are you staying the night?”

“I haven’t decided. I had a fine time at the opera, by the way.”

“I’m sorry that Beatrice could not accompany you.”

“No, no, not at all. I enjoy doing things alone, you know. Your papa never allowed me to do anything without him. I never went to the opera for years before he died. Or did much of anything at all.”

He swallowed hard. “I know that. He went mad, Mother. I wish you’d realize that.”

Theodosia tilted her head thoughtfully. “Mad? No, I don’t think so. Madness gives him almost an excuse.”

“There was no excuse for anything he did,” Stephen snapped. “I need a drink. Would you like one?”

“A whiskey, I think.”

He blinked. “Awhiskey?”

Theodosia grinned at him. “Oh, yes. I do all sorts of unladylike things these days, my dear. Drinking whiskey and brandy is only the least of it.”

Stephen shook his head and crossed the room to where a glass decanter of whiskey stood, ready to be used. He poured two generous glasses.

“I’ve been spending a good deal of time with your wife since you’ve been gone, you know,” Theodosia said. “More time than you, in fact.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I confess, I had no idea what to expect from her,” Theodosia continued, taking the proffered whiskey glass with a smile. “I was pleasantly surprised. She is kind, and intelligent, and remarkably entertaining. One of the first times she ever spoke to me was to invite me to join her book club. I did join, of course. It’s rather diverting, I must say.”

“I’m glad,” Stephen remarked, smiling wryly. “You seem happy.”

“I am,” Theodosia answered, giving him a wink and swigging back her whiskey with a horrifyingly practiced air.

Stephen winced and sipped his own drink.

“The household adores her, of course,” Theodosia added, delicately dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief. “She is a good duchess, I can tell you that. She is popular with all the right people, well-respected in clever society—by that, I mean bluestockings, which I always thought was a silly name for clever women—and she is a fixture in London. Well-liked and happy, despite what those nonsensical papers say.”

Stephen took a moment to collect himself.

“Why are you here, Mother? Did you come here only to sing Beatrice’s praises?”

Theodosia smiled dryly. “Well, yes, but beyond that, I wanted to talk toyou. I am not happy about your extended absence, Stephen.”

“I would have never guessed.”

“Are you deliberately trying to make yourself unhappy?” Theodosia pressed, leaning forward. “Are you still clinging to that spiteful, poisonous promise you made when he died?”

“Not to continue his line? Yes, I amclingingto that,” he snapped, setting down his glass with aclick. “How could I ever forgive him? No, our name will die out, and good riddance.”

“Holding a grudge, my dear boy, is like drinking poison and waiting for somebody else to die. In this case, of course, it is doubly pointless because your father is already dead. You are destroying yourself, Stephen, and for what?”

“For a principle.”