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Nocturnis ego somniis

iam captum teneo, iam volucrem sequor

te per gramina Martii

campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis.

—Horace, Odes, Book IV

O n the darkest night of the month, an evening that suitably matched the blackness of his thoughts, Peregrine made a plan to deliberately seat himself in one of the empty armchairs nestled in the bow window at White’s.

It was a brassy move, laying claim to what even he still thought of as Beau Brummell’s chair. But that was the nature of this game. Establishing one's dominance in these circles required a certain penchant for bluffing—especially when one was on their back foot.

Or flat upon their arse, proverbially speaking.

Since his autonomy had already been used to purchase a truce with the others, Peregrine had decided to first try to run his mother’s web of contacts to the ground. Logic dictated prioritizing the enemy who was still actively trying to remove him from the equation.

So far, he was coming up empty-handed.

Perry shoved against the sick, hopeless feeling that threatened to swallow his soul. There was an opportunity here. Tonight. Tonight, he could lay the path to reclaim a little power for himself, and he would do well to remember that.

Brummell’s reign had ended. The titleless, parasitic dandy and the Regent had gone from confidants to strangers with excellent posture after Brummell so neatly cut his own throat at the Devonshire ball last year.

The chair now was vacant. Sometimes it was occupied by one of a few at the pinnacle of the aristocracy. But tonight they were not here.

So, he sat, and the hum of conversation around the gaming tables stuttered. Men looked at one another, then at him. Even Tremayne, standing near another table, gaped at him like a fish.

Their consternation was amusing. Peregrine affected not to notice, keeping his expression bored. He simply crossed his legs, ignoring the twinge in his side, and sipped his brandy, waiting as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

Somewhere out in London, his mother’s invisible machine was still at work. McGrath had called it a clockwork. He knew there were still cogs turning, regulated by her plans. But he couldn’t find a sign of it.

There were things that he knew, that he couldn’t help learning, in the years since his mother showed him what lay beneath her mask. He had tried to remain as ignorant and distant of her unsavoury business as he could, however, and now that was working against him.

Marian had been content to let him stretch the cord as long as he obeyed and was silent.

Mr Grenville’s particular message had not been repeated, but she had asked him for other things to keep her finger on where his loyalties lay.

That was how he had fallen so far that he had become acquainted with the likes of Mr Cameron and McGrath.

So Perry knew of a few other names, other places, other businesses. But only a few, and so far his searching had come up fruitless. Every name he asked for was supposedly gone from London.

And now, Peregrine was feeling sorely pressed. Time was ticking towards the culmination of her design. He could feel an echo of it in his own pulse, like it was counting down to something that would spell disaster for him.

One would think that his mother’s threats and machinations should be the foremost weight upon his mind. If his mother was no longer a threat, then he could turn his attention on the other three women trying to control his life.

The Queen and Selina were grasping creatures. Their intentions to use him had never been a surprise. It had been the third, the golden-haired duchess, who had been the one to throw him on his beam-ends, sealing him into a pact with a proverbial devil.

Charity, the Duchess Atholl. The one whose kiss still haunted his days and nights. Somehow, he had been blind to the possibility of her betrayal. Failed to anticipate the splitting agony of it.

He had spent years hiding his inconvenient emotions away, but since he had crossed paths with her again, sometimes it felt like he could not close the door on them at all. And that was… dreadful.

The familiar dull ache in his chest made Peregrine swallow bitterly before he caught the expression. He readjusted himself in his chair so people would think it was physical discomfort.

You are three steps behind me , he was reprimanded by the voice inside his head. You are without friends, without resources. And even with the reaper breathing on your neck, you cannot bring your thoughts to the most important tasks.

His personal hell was complete, lacking only a fiddle-playing devil in a corner.

Your man missed, mother , he reminded her.

Her spectre gave a vile, knowing chuckle. McGrath might have missed the killing blow, but the festering wound had been nearly fatal anyway.

It was still far from healed. It itched and ached, and sometimes when he was careless, the outer edges of the wound cracked apart and bled. A heavy layer of tight, wide bandages was mostly keeping him together, physically. Any other broken, bleeding parts were his own damned fault.

A pathetic, wraith-ridden mess, the voice of his mother agreed contemptuously.

No smarter than the farmer who showed pity to the viper half frozen in his fields, putting it in his pocket.

Again, you brought the serpent into your arms. You have already taken the actions that will see you dead.

You simply have not yet ceased to breathe.

Do not dare pretend as though you weren’t the first venomous creature close to my skin, Mama , he replied lightly, drinking the last of his brandy in one throat-burning swallow.

There was no peace within the confines of his skull. Not when flanked by his predatory mother and the manipulative duchess.

Jerking his attention back to the gentlemen in the room, he watched as shock waned and their minds worked. They were beginning to remember who Perry had been. Before he had been brought down by the events of last year.

Soon, his first petitioner approached. Thomas Crichton, a third son of a baron, who had a favour to ask. Could Perry have a quiet word with Rowland Hill or the undersecretary to aid him in securing a position, he wanted to know?

Of course he’d do what he could. If Hill took Lord Crichton’s son, then there would be two people well-positioned to aid him in return. And if he didn’t, well at least Thomas would still owe him.

More penitents approached. More small favours granted.

An introduction here, begging for a party invitation there.

More brandy was consumed. After the last week, it nearly felt like a dereliction of some duty—sitting here, drinking and talking—but it was dangerous to forget that Marian Fitzroy had spent decades cultivating people on both sides of the class divide.

Empire builders understood the value in spanning rivers with bridges.

“The chair seems to suit you,” murmured Tremayne, and Peregrine’s head jerked up from pondering his empty snifter.

Seeing he finally had Perry’s attention, the man smiled somewhat impishly, handing him a full glass. “Oh good, you were only busy gathering wool. I was wondering if you might be cutting me.”

“Cutting you? No. My apologies, Tremayne,” Peregrine said, taking the proffered drink with a small smile of appreciation, even though his head was growing muzzy after so many similar offerings. “I collected an entire bale.”

“I mean it, though. You were always good at… this.” Tremayne sat somewhat ungracefully on the edge of the other chair, proving that the chestnut-haired man had also imbibed more than he ought.

“Better than Brummell, really. I’m relieved that the prince’s experiment in upholstery is over with.

You at least have never felt the need to make yourself superior by virtue of pushing others into a ditch. ”

Perry grinned enough to show his teeth, though it wasn’t a real smile.

A few years ago, Brummell had told Tremayne that he dressed as though afraid his valet would outshine him, so there was no love lost between him and the former arbiter of taste.

“I do admire your loyalty to me, especially when it is so transparently self-serving. What do you want? ”

“I want to have a drink with my friend. Why are you accusing me of polishing apples?”

They were on decent terms, but hardly friends. Taking his drink in his hand, Peregrine leaned forward to plant his elbows on his knees, giving Tremayne a scolding look as he did so.

“All right, fine. I did actually have something to ask.” The man slouched backwards some, returning Peregrine’s frank look. “First… how is your side?”

“Healing well,” Perry replied to this non sequitur. It was only barely a lie.

By some miracle, the Crown had managed to conceal the extent of his injury.

For all London knew, he had suffered a minor mishap with a housebreaker at his townhouse.

A nebulous concern for his safety gave him one excuse to recuperate in a room at White’s, and the pedestrian excuses of renovations and tenants at his two other properties had deterred other questions.

You could always leave White’s and hide instead behind the lovely duchess’s skirts , his mother volunteered.

Never , he shot back at the sly voice.

What an unbearable thought, crawling back to Atholl House and the guards stationed at her home. Not only would he despise himself for such an act of cowardice more than he already did, bringing more danger to the Duchess Atholl’s doorstep would completely unman him.

Tremayne let his fingers play on his glass silently, and, irked by his wandering thoughts, Peregrine took another long drink to smother his mama’s hateful presence. “What were you going to ask me?” he prompted.