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As he sat and stewed over it, not giving a toss if he won at Commerce or not, an idea began to form.

Perhaps more could be made of the story of Clara and the fifty pounds.

After all, was it not rather hard to believe that Thorpe would have stolen the money out of the goodness of his heart?

Who ever heard of such a thing? It might be the truth, but it did not sound like the truth.

Surely, another truth might be communicated.

Anonymously, this time.

*

Roland had thought well ahead how he would manage the drawing room after dinner.

He intended to flatter the duke by following his example of bringing the port and brandy into the drawing room.

It also held several other benefits. He would not be long parted from Lady Serenity, which was the whole point of the dinner.

As well, he would not have to spend a tedious amount of time with Charles over port.

Charles, it was becoming apparent, did not understand the duke’s family at all.

His bringing up the story about Clara had flown as well as a butterfly with lead wings, crashing down just as fast. To Charles, staff were barely people and not to be sympathized with as one might with another more elevated person.

In truth, Roland was fairly sure that the only person walking the earth who’d ever garnered Charles’ sympathy was Charles himself.

If one was forever mulling over one’s perceived slights, there was not room for any other consideration.

Roland had wasted no time inquiring if Lady Serenity were willing to engage in a game of piquet. Now, they had sat at a small and round card table he’d had brought in ahead of time for the very purpose.

The only impediment to this plan was that he was rather wretched at piquet. He found the game unnecessarily complicated and tiresome.

Lady Serenity was staring at the cards with a look of something. Was it alarm? Perhaps she imagined she was to be trounced by a card sharp?

“I have an admission,” he said, “I am only glancingly acquainted with the rules of this game.”

Lady Serenity let out a long sigh and then she laughed. “I have a bigger admission. I am not at all acquainted with the game. I tried to learn it once, as my sister Patience likes it. However, it seemed the rules were endless and confusing and she was rushing me, so I gave up.”

Roland shuffled the packs and said, “Perhaps we change our minds to vingt-et-un?”

“Oh yes, that game I know.”

They both rather lackadaisically made attempts to get to twenty-one without going over, though they mostly did go over.

Their conversation was easy-flowing and interesting and resulted in little attention being paid to whether or not a card was picked up.

Roland had just counted up eighteen and foolishly picked up another card.

No surprise it put him over to twenty-eight.

He laid it down and Lady Serenity laughed. “That really is very bad,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” he said laughing himself.

“Will you attend Lady Darlington’s masque on the morrow?” Roland asked.

Lady Serenity nodded. “Indeed, yes.”

“Dare I inquire what costume you wear?”

“I think it should be a surprise,” Lady Serenity said. “I will only say you will probably find it exceedingly silly.”

“You will find my own costume boring, which is a far worse crime.”

“Ah, you wear a domino, then.”

“Exactly.”

As they began the card game again, Roland’s thoughts began drifting far into the future.

He could imagine this very scene taking place at Mariton Hall.

His children would be long abed and he and Lady Serenity would sit nearby one of the massive fireplaces in one of the drawing rooms, playing cards.

Perhaps the snow would whip the windows, roaring out of doors.

For, what need would they have to spend too much time in Town in the winter season?

They must go for his attendance at the House of Lords, but they need not extend their time there unless Lady Serenity wished it.

Perhaps the following morning he would discover that one of his sons had stolen money from him to help somebody in need of it.

He would not be at all cross about it, he hoped.

That afternoon, the family would gather together and walk to the village, stopping by the tavern to see Clara and her children.

Even now, he often stopped by the tavern when he was on the estate.

He knew well enough that his arrival lent a stamp of approval to the couple, despite how late in the day they’d finally wed.

As his thoughts wandered, he saw the village decorated with boughs of greenery on every available surface in anticipation of Christmas. They would walk home, leaving the village as candles were lit in windows, under the dying light of a winter sun.

These ideas were so affecting that he had to whip his thoughts away and force them elsewhere lest he betray himself.

“Are you quite all right, Lord Thorpe?” Lady Serenity asked.

With all the might of the self-control he could muster, he said, “Indeed, yes. I apologize for appearing too solemn for a moment. I was just considering what must be done to rectify an estate matter.”

Had he been right to play it off in such a manner? It was really beginning to disturb him that he appeared to Lady Serenity as one way, when in fact he was another way. He really had to do something about it. And hope she was not disappointed with whatever she discovered.

*

Mrs. Right had felt, for the past several days, as if the Sword of Damocles hung over her head. Each knock at the door had threatened to bring an unwelcome visitor.

She had thought to tell the duke that there was the smallest possibility that he might receive an uncomfortable visit from Bishop Porteus.

And yet, there had never been the right time to casually mention it.

Since Mr. Cremble had left, the duke had seemed to have put the whole butler situation out of his mind.

The housekeeper had taken to looking over the mail as it came in, in case the disaster was to arrive by post. This morning, however, she’d missed it when it came in. Charlie had already moved the letters into the duke’s library.

She supposed she might have told Charlie and Thomas to monitor the mail arriving for the duke, but she did not wish to embroil her boys in any contretemps with a bishop. The local vicar was one thing, and they often did toy with that gentleman’s temper, but a bishop was quite another.

Fortunately, she was the housekeeper and had every right to go into the duke’s library to inspect the maids’ work. And have a look at the post while she happened to be in there.

Letting herself in after the duke had left for his club, she saw the stack on his desk. Some of the letters had already been opened and lay there too.

She casually strolled over and had a look.

And then another look. And then another. She could hardly believe her own eyes.

She picked up a particular letter and read it for the third time.

For the eyes of the Duke of Pelham:

Your Grace, I write this anonymously to alert you to a danger. Believe me, if I had the power and standing to reveal myself I would, but I am only a lowly servant who has had the bad luck to observe certain outrages. I do not have the power and riches to speak aloud, but I must speak nonetheless!

It is my understanding that the sad case of a certain Clara Woodrow, a housemaid in the Duke of Mariton’s household, was communicated to you.

Your Grace, you have not been told the truth of it!

Lord Thorpe was in fact the man who compromised young Clara and then the fifty pounds was used to bribe the local innkeeper to wed her.

As these things often are, it was all hushed up.

This was just one of the outrages that Lord Thorpe has visited on his father’s house.

Having been a long and close observer of the family, I can tell you that it has been a stain on the nobility that Lord Thorpe is the heir rather than Lord Charles.

Beware, Your Grace, of the growing attachment between your daughter and that devil—he is not what he seems!