Page 7

Behind the desk, a high-backed leather chair bore the faint creases of frequent use—the only sign that the duke allowed himself true comfort amidst his responsibilities.

The true marvel of the study, however, was the expansive window overlooking the private garden beyond.

Unlike the manicured precision of a country estate, this London retreat was a carefully cultivated oasis under the pale December sky—a stone pathway winding through bare bushes, leafless vines climbing the trellises, and a wrought-iron bench nestled beneath the shade of an ancient oak.

As the soft golden light of a winter afternoon slanted through the glass, the faint scent of fresh-cut pine and holiday greenery drifted into the room.

To the side of the window, a small sitting area offered respite—two wingback chairs upholstered in deep red velvet flanking a low table, where a silver coffee service gleamed in the light.

Here, matters of state and personal intrigue alike were discussed in hushed tones, a place where whispered secrets could be as vital as formal declarations in Parliament.

A marble fireplace, its mantel adorned with delicately carved cherubs and classical motifs, cast a gentle glow with its cheerful fire, while an exquisite portrait of one of their ancestors surveyed the room with imperious regard.

On a nearby side table, a single vase of winter greenery—an indulgence maintained by the household staff—was the only softness amid the room’s otherwise stately grandeur.

This was a space that balanced duty and retreat, intellect and authority—a place where a duke might command his affairs with the measured precision of a strategist, or sit in rare solitude, gazing out over the garden, contemplating the path ahead.

Philip gestured to the wingback chairs, and Sebastian dutifully took a seat, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of aromatic coffee.

His brother sat opposite, his expression grim, and Sebastian knew they would finally have to clear the air.

This discussion had been inevitable the moment he had decided to return to England.

He only hoped Lorenzo would one day appreciate the lengths to which he was going to assist him, because, given the choice, he would never have left Florence.

“You no longer accept the allowance I have been sending.”

Sebastian could almost detect a note of hurt in his older brother’s tone. But perhaps that was whimsy on his part.

“I have no need. Business in Florence has been good.”

Philip breathed in, his expression stern.

What did His Grace, the lauded Duke of Halmesbury, make of his little brother engaging in commerce? Considering they were not close, Sebastian had no notion of his brother’s thoughts on the matter.

“I am told you trade in art?”

Sebastian nodded. “Renaissance art. My partner, Lorenzo di Bianchi—whom you met at the Scotts’ residence—is quite the expert.”

A shadow of a smile passed Philip’s lips. “You are quite knowledgeable yourself.”

It was a compliment, and the unexpected warmth Sebastian felt on hearing it caught him off guard. Despite their differences, they were still family. Blood.

And for all that they did not see eye to eye on one essential subject, Sebastian respected that Philip was a good man. One who took his responsibilities to heart.

“I mostly provide introductions and credentials. The Markham name carries weight, even in Europe. Lorenzo is the true connoisseur. It runs in his veins. He had a great-great-something uncle who worked in the workshops of both Botticelli and da Vinci.”

Philip nodded.

A handful of years older than Sebastian, the duke shared his features, but his brother’s hair was closely cropped, his manner more serious. A clash of temperament—Philip, ever the duty-bound peer, and Sebastian, who considered the de rigueur customs of high society to be of negligible importance.

That was the prerogative of a spare. Although, with the duke now having an heir, he supposed he was a spare no longer. Just a wayward relation who had left for his Grand Tour and never returned.

Philip nodded again, appearing momentarily at a loss for words as he leaned over to pour his own cup before settling back in his chair.

Sebastian watched closely, noting the subtle tightening of his brother’s broad shoulders.

As if he were bracing for battle.

“Why are you here?”

“I am doing a favor for Lorenzo. Retrieving something. Hopefully, we will depart from London soon.”

Especially if the painting was lost.

Which was when Sebastian realized that, in the heat of his anger, he had stormed out of Harriet’s home without learning whom she had given it to.

Bloody fool.

He wanted to smack himself for his stupidity. Once Lorenzo heard the news, he would be relentless, harassing Sebastian into returning to Harriet for more conclusive information.

Deuce it!

It was as if London had grabbed hold of him in its suffocating embrace, refusing to release him until he drowned in memories and regrets.

After all this time, why had he not found another woman to capture his heart? Was it because he no longer had a heart to give?

“Does it have anything to do with Lady Slight?”

Philip’s baritone interrupted his scattered thoughts, yanking him back to the contentious subject that had severed their affinity years earlier.

Sebastian stiffened, setting down his cup. “Why do you ask?”

“She is why you left. I wondered if she is why you have returned.”

“I think, perhaps, we should not discuss Harriet.”

Philip growled, setting his cup down with a decisive clink before rising sharply to return to the window. “I should never have allowed Lady Hargreaves and her daughter to visit Avonmead as often as they did.”

“We are neighbors. It is the way of things in the country.”

“It was a mistake I have long regretted.”

“But why?” Sebastian’s fist clenched, his carefully maintained equilibrium threatening to shatter.

“Lord Hargreaves. The man is poison. And the water drawn from that well is logically compromised.”

Sebastian ground his teeth in an effort to squash his frustration. More than five years had passed, yet they had resumed this argument as if it had begun only this morning.

“For a nobleman known for his philanthropic works, you have always been most uncharitable toward Harriet, who cannot be blamed for her father’s failings.”

The duke snorted, an uncharacteristic display of ill humor for a man renowned for his composure.

“Failings? The man is evil incarnate. He exploits his tenants, discards his mistresses without recompense, not to mention seducing his servants. If I had known what he was about, I would never have allowed his wife and daughter so much access to Avonmead.”

Sebastian rose, unwilling to hear Philip censure Harriet yet again. Truly, it was as if they had begun this argument only minutes earlier, rather than back in 1815, when Sebastian had first approached him for help in courting Harriet.

“It is not like you to condemn an entire family by mere proximity! I could never understand why you held Harriet accountable for Hargreaves.”

“Because I saw the same weakness of character when you did not. The self-absorption. The disregard of servants. The naked ambition.”

“Harriet is no angel, I will grant you, but she was just a young woman under the influence of a foul parent. And her mother is weak. If she had had the opportunity to walk away—she is intelligent and lively, damn it!”

Sebastian wanted to fall to his knees and howl to the heavens, the despair of a man trapped in an infinite argument.

Was he Sisyphus, the cunning king who repeatedly deceived the gods?

As punishment, Zeus had condemned Sisyphus to push a massive boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down every time he neared the top, forcing him to begin again for all eternity.

What had Sebastian done to deserve such a fate?

Caught between the woman he had once loved and the brother he had once looked up to.

How was it possible that, at thirty years of age, still be engaging in this same endless quarrel?

Yet … he was not attempting to court Harriet now, so this was a pointless battle to revisit.

Philip huffed in rejection. “Not an angel? London has no shortage of tales about her exploits. That apple did not fall far from the tree.”

“And you never gave her the benefit of the doubt, so we will never know what might have happened if she had married me instead of that … that wrinkled old goat, Horace Slight!”

For the second time that day, Sebastian turned on his heel and departed without a farewell.

Seething, he stalked out the front door, ignoring the footman on duty, and grunted in relief when he saw the Scott carriage at the end of the street, moving at a slow, deliberate pace and awaiting his departure, as they had anticipated this would be a short meeting.

He stormed toward it, eager to be free of his past.

What a wretched day this had been.