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When Sophia left, Lily followed her downstairs, trailing one hand lightly along the polished banister for balance. After bidding her cousin goodbye with a soft smile, she turned toward the fateful drawing room, the very room where she had not only seen Mr. Ridley exit Lady Slight’s home, but had also awaited his proposal … and then rejected him.

A chill passed over her shoulders as she entered. Her mother was seated in Lily’s favorite spot by the front window, peering through the lace curtains as if she could will propriety back into their lives. At the sound of Lily’s approaching footfalls, Mama flinched and turned sharply.

“Lily!” she cried, rising so swiftly the hem of her gown tangled about her slippers. She crossed the room and pulled her daughter into an unexpected embrace. Lily froze, her cheek pressed into her mother’s shoulder, her arms stiff at her sides. The floral lavender scent of her mother’s toilette enveloped her, and her heart stumbled in confusion. What was happening?

“We shall find a way through this,” Mama whispered fiercely. “I cannot believe what Mr. Ridley said to you! I was so relieved when Sophia arrived … I would have come upstairs, but I did not know what to say. I thought perhaps she might address it better than I.”

After a long moment, Lily lifted her arms and returned the embrace, pressing her face into the familiar silk of her mother’s bodice as fresh tears prickled at her eyes. The unexpected shift from criticism to comfort was more than welcome. She had feared she would carry this disgrace alone. “Sophia and I had a good talk,” she murmured. “Thank you for … Thank you.”

They broke apart awkwardly, neither quite meeting the other’s gaze.

“Mama, I would prefer not to attend the Townsend dinner this evening. Perhaps you might inform them I have a headache?”

Something flickered across her mother’s face, too swift to read, before she schooled her features. “Our invitation was … rescinded.”

A wave of remorse twisted in Lily’s belly. So the whispers had begun. Sophia had warned her how quickly scandal spread among the ton. “I am sorry.”

Mama shook her head with brisk defiance. “I never liked Lady Townsend that much anyway.”

Lily offered a wan smile, unwilling to contradict the claim. Her mother and Lady Townsend had been thick as thieves for as long as she could recall, but truth would do no good here. “Sophia informs me that I was mentioned in the gossip rags.”

Mama sighed heavily, blowing out her cheeks. “Sophia was minimizing the truth. There was a drawing of you … in an inappropriate state … with Mr. Ridley.”

Lily swallowed hard, mortification washing through her in waves. “I am so sorry, Mama.”

Her mother’s eyes glinted with a mix of grief and steel. “We will prevail. Perhaps Sophia will talk some sense into Mr. Ridley.”

“I hope so,” Lily said quietly. “I truly do.”

“Briggs is here.”

Michaels’s disapproving tone rang out like a cracked bell in the somber stillness of the study. Brendan gritted his teeth. The butler’s animosity remained an enigma, a grievance born not of recent events, but present since Brendan’s very first night in London. That night, just after his twenty-first birthday, he had arrived fresh from Baydon Hall, dismissed without ceremony by the man who was both his uncle and father.

He ought to be immune to Michaels’s disdain by now. And yet, now that he was to inherit the barony, perhaps it was time to consider retiring the supercilious servant altogether.

“Show him in,” Brendan said coolly.

The duke shifted in his seat near the hearth, long legs crossed and gray eyes sharp with thought. Across the room, Richard stood beside a towering stack of musty books, his hands clenched behind his back. The earl had been glaring at those tomes since his arrival, his posture a portrait of barely leashed frustration. Though still seething over Miss Abbott’s plight, Richard had kept his word and joined the meeting with the Bow Street Runner. With Brendan cleared of all suspicion, the identity of the true killer now demanded swift discovery.

Brendan rubbed his temples with slow, deliberate pressure. Each pulse behind his eyes felt like the toll of a bell. He had not slept. His encounters at the Abbotts’ home had drained what little strength remained in him. But this—this inquiry—could not wait. He needed resolution. And soon.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and then the runner appeared in the doorway.

“My lord,” Briggs said with a brief bow.

Apparently, now that Brendan was no longer in custody, the man had resolved how to address him. That, at least, was something.

“Please, have a seat,” Brendan said, gesturing toward a well-worn leather chair across from the library table.

The runner stepped into the room, looking visibly uncomfortable. His eyes darted about before he removed his battered hat and took the proffered seat beside the duke, its leather creaking under his weight.

The duke cleared his throat with quiet command. “We wish to hire you to pursue the matter of the baron’s death.”

Briggs nodded once, firm. “I was hoping you would, because I have concerns for Lord Filminster’s safety.”

Brendan had not been listening closely, his thoughts dulled by fatigue, the unrelenting ache at his temples acting like a vise about his skull, but the runner’s words cut through the fog. He sat up straighter, pulse flickering.

“What?”