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Ever since his last interview with Jean-Jacques, he’d been tormented by the thought of Christopher being thrown out of the little house in Paddington Green. They had been so happy there, in the limited time they had spent together.

Well, Henry had been happy.

Perhaps that was all it had ever been. Perhaps Christopher had only ever been performing his duties. Tolerating the attentions of the man who put a roof over his head, paid his bills, and put money in his pocket.

It was a depressing thought, but it was one that Henry could not shake as he stared into the fire and made his way through more of the brandy bottle than was wise.

9

Kit

On Friday afternoon, Kit was writing a letter in his private sitting room, when Tom burst into the room, his eyes wide.

“Kit, you’ll never guess who’s here!” he gasped.

Kit looked up from his writing slope. “Tom,” he said wearily. “Footmen do not enter rooms without knocking. Nor do they—”

He got no further as Tom blurted out, “There’s only a bleeding duke here to see you!”

Kit’s mouth dropped open.Not Henry? Not here?

“Sorry,” Tom said hurriedly, straightening himself up. In a more dignified tone, he added, “His grace, the Duke of Avesbury is here to see you, sir.”

For several long moments, Kit could only stare at Tom, his heart racing, and when his voice came out it was shaky. “I beg your pardon?”

“His grace, the duke—”

“Sorry, no, I heard you—I’m just—just rather shocked.” Kit forced himself to take a deep breath, hating the audible shudder in his exhalation that Tom could not fail to notice.

“Did you show him into the drawing room?” he asked.

“Yes, and I asked if he’d like some tea, but he said no.” Tom paused and bit his lip. “Is that all right? Did I do the wrong thing? He swore he knew you. If he’s a fake, I’ll chuck him out, you just say the word.” Tom didn’t look quite as confident as his words suggested. Tom was a big fellow but Henry was bigger… wasn't he?

Kit frowned. It had been so long, he wasn’t sure how reliable his memories were.

“Kit?” Tom said uncertainly. “Do you—do you want me to ask this cove to leave?”

“No, no,” he said. “I’ll see him.” He offered Tom a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. I know Avesbury—or at least I did, a long time ago. I’m just surprised he came here, that’s all.”

Tom’s expression was pure relief.

“Tell him I’ll be along in just a few minutes, once I’m properly attired.” Kit was wearing a pale-yellow silk banyan, embroidered with tiny blue flowers, and he wouldnotbe receiving Henry in it, thank you very much. If the man was prepared to call on him after eighteen years without so much as sending a note, he could kick his heels for a few minutes while Kit made himself halfway presentable.

Tom nodded and left to deliver the message.

Kit shook his head, remembering how eager he used to be to see Henry. Back then, he’d have run down the stairs in naught but his drawers to have a few more moments with the man.

He shook his head at his own past foolishness. God, he’d thought himself so desperately in love.

Realising his heart was racing, Kit took a deep breath and forced himself to calmly put away his writing slope, before making his way back to his bedchamber to dress.

He selected a cream-and-maroon striped waistcoat and a beautifully tailored coat, tying his neckcloth with great care. He put a little pomade in his hair, used a little of his favourite cologne—a blend of bergamot, orange blossom, and rosemary—and pushed a large topaz and gold ring on his right index finger

He examined himself in the looking glass.

His stomach was in knots, his palms damp.

God damn but he was as nervous as a kitten and hehatedthat. He didn’t want to be nervous. He wanted to be cool and in control. Reserved and unaffected.