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Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

— Cassius to Brutus, Julius Caesar

P eregrine slept hard until midafternoon the next day.

Antoine had managed to sneak in and out of his room at least twice.

The fire was burning, his clothes had been retrieved, refreshed, and laid out.

Fresh dressings and a bottle of vinegar to wash the wound had also been left on top of the nightstand beside him as a pointed reminder.

Ravenscroft’s French valet must have been positioned with his ear at the door, listening for the first hint of stirring, because he burst in with a tray even before Peregrine sat upright.

Antoine made straight for a small table set beside the hearth, carrying the tray with both hands.

After he set down the salver, the valet turned to the windows, parting the drapes to let in more light.

Finally, he straightened, turning directly to Perry and giving him a pointed but thorough once-over.

“My timing is very good. You slept through breakfast, but I would say that was for the best, monsieur .”

And then he moved to the bedside, reaching for the coverlet. Peregrine saw his intention and snatched it to his chest.

“You have nothing there I have not already seen before. Let me check your wrapping,” the valet scolded him, and reluctantly, Peregrine allowed him to examine the binding he had done himself before falling asleep.

Antoine’s hands on his flank were deft and gentle, but his face was stern.

“Good enough for now, but I will help you do it again after you eat. Such injuries are hard to bind by oneself. Come.”

Silently, Perry allowed himself to be helped into a robe and led to the table.

Prior to his exile from England, he had employed a fussy valet much like Antoine.

But then he had been sent to war, and no one would assign a batman to the son of a traitor.

From that moment, he had simply learned to do without.

It was strange to be waited upon again so intimately—like old clothing that now hung poorly on his frame.

As he sat, Antoine lifted the cover to reveal a plate of thinly sliced ham, toast, a coddled egg, and stewed apricots. Beside the plate, he could see a folded letter with his name on it.

“A note from Ravenscroft?” Perry asked, lifting it.

Antoine shook his head. “ Non . It arrived for you this morning, monsieur .”

While Antoine poured the tea, Peregrine turned over the letter, seeing that it was sealed with the coat of arms of the Marquess of Normanby. Well, if he had doubts about Ravenscroft’s claim he was being shadowed by Hodges, this laid them neatly to rest.

When leaving St James’s, he had told the duchess he had been going to Selina, but he had never gone.

He didn’t believe he would be able to hold a civil discussion with her, either.

Selina had let him be for two days, finally ordering him to escort her to Carlton House and lay to rest some of the rumours swirling about the status of his life and reputation with the Crown.

Gracious behaviour had been quite beyond him that night, especially after he watched Selina flaunt him like a prize in front of the duchess and other peers.

He had lingered as short a time as was polite—on the opposite side of every room—and he had left early, leaving behind his carriage to take her home.

“ Tsk. Eat while it is still warm,” Antoine told him briskly, snatching the letter out of his hand and laying it on the table.

“Else I shall tell my lord you are fading, and require him to sit beside your bed quoting poetry. I can vouch, the threat of it alone has restorative properties that are quite miraculous.”

Inwardly, Perry winced. “That would make me lose the will to live entirely,” he replied. “But Antoine—” he said, as the valet went to leave. As the slender man turned back to him, Peregrine considered his words. “Thank you. For all your assistance recently.”

Antoine only lifted an eyebrow slightly at the unexpected words, but Peregrine could tell that the servant was pleased.

Turning back to his breakfast, Peregrine broke the seal on Selina’s letter to read the very brief message it contained as he ate.

Perry , I do hope you accepted your invitation to Cavendish’s celebratory soirée at Burlington House tomorrow evening. I have missed having a chance to catch up on all the news.

—S

Drumming his fingers briefly against the back of the letter, Perry deliberated this.

He had seriously considered avoiding the event.

It was expected that the Queen and Prinny were going to attend, and worse, where they were, the duchess was likely to follow.

But on one hand, nursing his bruised ego would only delay an inevitable confrontation.

It would also run the risk of worsening his already ailing social influence .

And on the other hand, it would be uncommonly stupid for him to continue pursuing leads in his mother’s underworld as one man alone. So, he would go. But he needed to find something to wear.

Fashionably late the next evening, and in considerably better shape than he had been days previously, Peregrine made his entrance into the chequered black and white marble foyer of Burlington House. Alone.

He was dressed in one of the brand new outfits that he had commissioned when he first got back to London.

The midnight blue superfine of the coat was a touch looser around the middle than when he had done the fitting, but much to Ravenscroft’s pique, Antoine had cooed over how well it still clung to his shoulders, and how sharp it looked against the pale shade of his hair.

People took note of his solitary arrival as he joined the party on the first floor, which made a statement of its own. He was not afraid to be seen arriving without an entourage of friends—the option most men would take if they weren’t escorting female relatives.

To his right, guests were mingling along the hallway, in the salon, and into the anteroom.

Dozens of London’s most influential and powerful.

And in the midst of the throng, he shoved down every other stray thought as he surveyed the crowd mingling in the space Cavendish’s servants had decorated grandly.

Whig politicians were heavily in attendance, the guest list likely influenced by Cavendish’s own leanings. But there were still many prominent Tories there, including Bathurst and Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister. A few high-ranking families also mingled .

Deciding he needed to fortify himself with something other than wine, Peregrine opted to chance his luck looking for brandy or whisky in the gaming room. Before he got there, however, an unusual guest waiting near the hallway caught his eye.

It was clear the man was not there for the party. He was dressed in a grey suit of plain cut and style more appropriate to the professional class. Perhaps a banker, or a clerk.

Or a secretary in the office of a government leader. Because as Peregrine sidled closer, he could see the man was talking with Eldon, the Lord High Chancellor.

Not in his wildest imaginings could Peregrine conceive what circumstances would cause Lord Eldon to be meeting with his secretary at a social event filled with the upper crust. Whatever it was must be unusual enough to be urgent; Peregrine watched Lord Eldon run a hand through his silvered hair, looking harassed.

With a terse oath, Eldon backed up two steps, preparing to return to the party. “I must tell my wife I am leaving. I will meet you there,” he said by way of farewell.

The secretary nodded and departed. Peregrine, curiosity piqued, waited as inauspiciously as he could to see if the chancellor’s matter involved any others. But Eldon only spoke to his wife before leaving. Liverpool and the other Tories remained behind.

Some personal matter, Peregrine assumed, continuing to survey the guests in attendance. As his eyes passed over the Marchioness of Normanby, easily recognised by her stunning blue-black hair, Peregrine noted that the Order had made a show of strength of their own.

In front of the tall windows, Lord Pembroke was standing next to Selina, and he locked eyes with Peregrine, giving him a polite nod.

Chandros was not far away, participating in an animated discussion with the Prince Regent.

What was surprising to Perry was that he spotted a face that, under normal circumstances, would never have been invited to an event with such an illustrious guest list. He must be mistaken, but…

“Good evening, Lord Fitzroy,” a woman’s voice said by his elbow, and surprised by her nearness, Peregrine turned to look at who had spoken to him.

“Lord and Lady Barbour,” he greeted the couple. He knew the Barbours well enough, and had even been to a few of her salons. “It is good to see you. I heard you went to the continent last year. Did I hear correctly that it was Amsterdam?”

Lady Barbour gave him a serene look. “It was, and it was quite wonderful. I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank… me?” Peregrine hesitated, uncertain what he had done to earn thanks for. “Did I recommend the place to Barbour?”

Beside her, her husband looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Lady Barbour gave him an arch look before turning back to Peregrine with a sweet smile. “I learned that a certain wager you provoked with the Duke of Northumberland funded a most pleasant trip,” she whispered.

He laughed, feeling genuine surprise. “You laid a wager on Percy? Oh, I hope you told him. That would nettle him.”

“I told him at his own wedding, no less.” Barbour smiled at his wife and asked after Peregrine’s health. “I do hope you are still painting.”

“Not recently,” he murmured. He hadn’t painted in over a year. “I imagine my skill with fruit and landscapes remains abominable.”