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I lean forward slightly, my fingers still brushing the paper. It is not the content that disturbs me; many request private auditions, invitations, and attention, but the choice of words.

Something in them feels already known, a familiar echo I cannot quite place. And that scent makes my stomach churn.

I stand up, letting the letter fall onto the table.

“What does it say?”

“You are bold, Étienne.”

“Forgive me.”

“The usual. They request private performances.”

“He is a duke, he must be important, I imagine.”

“Mm,” I hum without enthusiasm, my fingers drumming on the bureau.

“Will you accept?”

“I must think on it.”

My gaze slides toward the other envelopes. I gesture to my valet, who hands me one.

Dorian Alexei Maximilian Vasiliev Ashford.

Alexei... what expression would that pervert make if I called him that?

I feel it heavy in my hands, I knit my brows and let it drop onto the table without opening it.

Démon, c’est vous qui êtes une peste, not me.

“Give me Richard’s,” I order without turning, and my valet hands it to me.

I open the envelope, inside, there is only a small note. The handwriting is hurried, more graceless than Richard’s usual hand, only a few words.

Nathaniel has returned. We await you at our estate. Richard.

A corner of my mouth lifts. “Étienne.”

“Oui?”

“Richard has been seized by fever, what might I offer him as a courteous gesture?”

“Herbal tea, perhaps. Chamomile, Linden, Mint.”

“Yes, prepare it all.”

He moves toward the door. “Are we going to the Houghton estate?”

“Yes,” I reply, my mind already turned toward the journey. “And prepare some dry biscuits, or some light sweet.”

At the threshold, he hesitates for a moment.

“Does Lord Brownell love sweets?”

“No,” I retort dryly. “The little one, Cecil, also had a fever.”

He makes to leave, but I block him with a wave of my hand.