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T he Earl of Iversley’s London townhome was located along a row of grand houses that rimmed Grosvenor Square’s acres of gardens.

It was not the largest or the most ornate—Taverstons did not believe in ostentation—but, Crispin thought, it would certainly do for a home.

There were three expansive levels, not counting the servants’ attic or the cellars.

The house fronted on the Square and also had its own private garden and stable in the back.

Crispin intended to make use of the rear entrance, as per usual. He had made it a habit, granted, an annoying one, to bookend his visits by sneaking in and slinking out.

He did not mind exuberant “welcome homes.” In fact, he enjoyed them. But he never let his family know exactly when to expect him, or usually not even if they should expect him, because there was inevitably a delay, and he hated to worry them. Besides, he equally enjoyed their delighted surprise.

As for leave-taking, he avoided it. To say he hated goodbyes was a maudlin cliché.

But the tears in his mother’s eyes, Olivia’s frank bawling, Reg’s stoicism, Jasper’s sorry attempts at humor—he couldn’t have borne it, time after time.

The difficulty with going off to war was that loved ones always imagined every goodbye to be the last one.

He was not simply sparing himself, he also spared them.

Seven years of this. How in God’s name had it been seven years?

He’d gone to join the fight against Bonaparte at the callow age of twenty-two, fully intending to die a hero’s death.

Illness had stalked him all his life, and he’d thought it preferable to die on the battlefield rather than in a sick bed.

Yet somehow, it had never happened. While other men died all around him, he’d never even been wounded.

He dismounted at the stable and left Mercury in the hands of a groom, then sauntered across the rear yard, bone weary.

It unsettled him that his mount had also been flagging the last several miles.

At ten years old, Mercury should still be in his prime.

The stallion needed more exercise. He belonged out in the countryside, not in London with its foul air and rutted streets.

Crispin rapped on the back door as though delivering the day’s fish. A plump young kitchen wench opened it. Her face brightened and she squealed, “Major! You’re home!”

“Hullo, Bess.” He smiled at her, and kept smiling as she continued to bob up and down. Finally, he asked, “May I come in?”

With a start, she jumped out of his way. “Yes, Major. Of course. Excuse me.” Then she yelled out, “The major is here!”

Six servants immediately surrounded him, babbling welcomes and congratulations, as if he had won the war all by himself. He nodded greetings, his smile rigidly in place. Thank God Peters, the butler—gray templed, stolid, invaluable—strode up and scattered them.

“Welcome home, Milord,” he said solemnly, but Crispin did not miss the sheen in his eyes.

“Thank you, Peters. Is there any chance I might have a bath before the family descends upon me?”

“I will have one drawn at once. Your rooms are ready.”

“Then I will sneak up the back stairs.”

“I doubt that is necessary.” Peters almost smiled. “Everyone is out, except for the earl.”

“Out?” He felt a moment’s affront, then mocked himself for it. It was a busy time. They wouldn’t be hovering at the door awaiting him.

Peters nodded. “They will be back for tea. They expect you this evening.” His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. Unnecessarily, he added, “Lady Olivia’s wedding is the day after tomorrow.”

Olivia was Peters’s favorite, Crispin knew. And he had just been called to task for cutting his arrival so close. It wasn’t as if he could help it. He had not, not yet, resigned his commission. He was on half pay. Wellington still owned him.

“I’d like my bath water extra hot,” he said.

“And my clothes will need laundering. Boiling, most likely.” He had avoided lice for seven years by dint of meticulous attention to personal cleanliness.

The small fortunes his fellow officers had spent on gambling or on local wines and spirits, he had spent on laundresses.

He thought it unpleasantly ironic that he’d been itching since he left Lizzie’s inn.

“It will be seen to, Milord.”

“Major Taverston!” Cook’s voice boomed as she steered into the back entryway like a ship into port. “You must be hungry. What might I bring you?”

He was starving. And even out here, he could smell the aromas of the kitchen. The staff must have been working doubly hard for days, preparing for the wedding breakfast. But Cook had learned not to push rich foods upon him. His requirements were strict.

“Apples? Nuts?” he asked. Better to fill his stomach before he surrendered and ate something he should not.

He was all the more weak willed having supped twice with Wellington in France—duck, beef in pastry, bread, glass of wine—with no repercussions.

But he felt well and wanted to stay well.

“And a pot of tea? If you would send any or all of that to my chamber, I will feast in the bath.”

She nodded, sour-faced, as though insulted. “Yes, Major.”

With that, he threaded past the servants, deciding upon the main staircase after all.

It would allow him to indulge in quiet appreciation for the home—one of the homes—he had grown up in.

He could no longer call it his home, the way a child would.

It was Jasper’s now. But the memories were his to keep.

He walked through the hallways, pausing to breathe in the familiar.

Jasper had not changed anything, Crispin was grateful to see.

The same countryside landscape paintings covered the same pale-yellow walls.

But it was early days. Jasper and Vanessa had not been married a full year.

No babe yet either. It amused Crispin that Reg, their younger brother, was the first to produce a child.

It was still hard to believe that he’d taken his nose out of his books long enough to notice Georgiana, the stunning young lady his brother had been courting, and steal her away.

Crispin could not wait to lay eyes on Arthur, his nephew. A brand-new Taverston.

He began his ascent of the sweeping central staircase. He thought he was being quiet, but Jasper appeared at the head of the stairs and came running down. Arms outstretched, blond hair like a halo, he looked like Gabriel the Archangel.

Crispin called up, “If you were truly in a hurry, you would come down the banister.” They’d done that as boys, infuriating, or more probably terrifying, their mother. He ducked when Jasper reached him. “Don’t hug me, for Christ sake, I stink.”

They used to make do with handshakes. He blamed Georgiana for the outbreak of hugging among the Taverston males. It had all seemed to begin with her. But it might rather have started with Father’s death.

Jasper ignored his words and embraced him. Then he stepped back, nose wrinkled. “You were not joking. What have you been rolling in?”

“Lizzie.” When Jasper tch’d , Crispin grinned.

Then Jasper stared at him a long moment, and he merely stared back. He would say that married life suited his brother, but Jasper would look the same—tall, broad shouldered, glowing with health, ungodly handsome, sartorially elegant—if he were to emerge from three years in a French prison.

Jasper swatted his shoulder. “You look well.”

That spoke volumes. He answered, “I feel well.” Enough said. “How is Vanessa?”

Jasper hesitated. “Fine. She is fine now.” He shook his head. “We’ve a lot to talk about. I just…well, suffice to say, please don’t jest about…about Arthur being in line for the earldom. Or my laggardness in that regard.”

Crispin squinted a question, then his knapsack slipped from his hand and hit the step. “What happened?”

“A miscarriage. Back in January. I couldn’t put word in a letter.”

“No. Of course not.” He swallowed hard. Vanessa had suffered so much. And bore it all so stoically. “But she is recovered?’

Jasper nodded slowly. “The thing is, I don’t know if you knew, but she lost Henry’s babe back at Corunna.”

Crispin swore under his breath. “I didn’t know.

” He thought back to the army’s retreat from Spain.

Vanessa had been following the drum. Her husband, a soldier under his command, had died in the fighting, and Crispin had helped Vanessa escape back to England.

“She looked like hell in Corunna, but we all did.”

“The doctor says it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“But, of course, you’re concerned.”

“No more than you must be.”

Crispin’s eyebrows rose. “Me?”

Jasper smiled crookedly. “You are still my heir.”

His stomach dipped before he recovered enough to smirk. “I have all faith in your procreative abilities.” He picked up his knapsack. “Thank you for the warning. I won’t say anything insensitive. Not about babies, at any rate.”

He started up the stairs again, with Jasper alongside. “So Olivia will be Mrs. Carroll, eh?”

Jasper groaned. “We need to discuss this, too.” The devil.

Crispin prayed Jasper hadn’t made things difficult for Benjamin, taking his head-of-the-family role too seriously.

He’d probably had twelve peers of the realm lined up to court their sister.

Before he could say anything, Jasper touched his arm and said, head bent as if confessing to a priest, “I may have promised Mercury to Olivia.”

“What!” He started to laugh, but stopped, seeing his brother’s pained expression. He repeated more quietly, “What?”

“I’ll compensate you, naturally—”