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The baron was in heeled court shoes, which did little to raise his diminutive stature, his spindly legs revealed in white stockings while his white-and-gold striped trunk hose—an antiquated style of short, voluminous breeches—ballooned absurdly around his hips. His doublet was form-fitting, which revealed a potbelly spilling over his codpiece, while a velvet and ermine cape was fitted over his shoulders. A ruff around his neck made him appear to be all shoulders and head, while the gilt circlet on his head did nothing to disguise his thinning hair, which was brushed forward in the style of Napoleon. The baron was at once gaudy resplendent and ridiculous in the unbecoming attire.

Lord Filminster’s beady eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he tugged at his doublet with a smugness that belied any awareness of what a humorous figure he cut. But the baron had always had a poor sense of fashion, and no one could accuse him of being a Beau Brummell, so perhaps he thought his attire handsome. Not for the first time, Brendan was grateful that he did not view the world through his uncle-father’s eyes. He did not think he would enjoy the perspective.

“There you are, Ridley.” Brendan grimaced. Was he going to be addressed as a passing acquaintance, then? “Is it customary for you to leave your rooms so late in the day?”

Brendan once again bit back a laugh. The man probably did not know how to pull on his own stockings, but he was to lecture on tardiness? Forcing a pleasant smile, Brendan walked forward to sprawl into an armchair facing his uncle. From past experience, he knew the old man was like a dog with a bone. If Brendan revealed any reaction to one of his vicious nips, the baron would gnaw at the offending subject with relish, seeking further cracks in the armor.

The trick was to keep a friendly face and steadfast composure. Brendan had not missed these biting conversations in the least, not the hollow remarks nor the grating pretense. Even when he had pined for his half-sister, the only family connection he had ever truly cared for, he had not longed for the baron’s company. Fortunately, he and Annabel had reunited after her marriage. Lord Filminster had lost the power to keep them apart once she had gained her autonomy as a duchess.

“While I am in Town, I am arranging for you to meet suitable women.”

Brendan kept the smile on his face, though every muscle ached to twitch. Internally, he cursed.

How long is the baron staying?

“My social calendar is currently filled, with engagements with unsuitable women and whatnot.”

Lord Filminster clenched his jaw at the supercilious tone, and Brendan squashed a kindling of delight at having raised a reaction from the man who loathed him so. “Those types of engagements will have to wait until you marry.”

“You mean I should pursue the type of marriage you were attempting to force on Annabel? Her prospective husband knocking boots on the side while she waits for him in the country?”

The baron’s fists balled at his sides, small and pale with liver spots, his rings glinting in the firelight. For a moment, he looked ready to stomp his foot like the imp from the German tale of Rumpelstiltskin. Brendan might have enjoyed the comparison more had it not been his own future the imp meant to unravel.

“It is the way of high society,” his uncle responded defensively.

“Not according to the man she actually married—the duke.”

“The duke is obsessed with the hoyden for no reason I can fathom. She is a useless girl with no feminine accomplishments.”

“I am not sure about that. My friends seem quite impressed with the duchess.”

Lord Filminster broke eye contact, his mouth tightening in ire. He was not accustomed to having his heir defy him. The last time they had met in person, Brendan had been little more than a green youth, but the years had lent him something more solid beneath his skin, a quiet defiance that no longer trembled.

“We will meet Miss Hartnett with her family tomorrow night for supper. And you are to meet with me first thing tomorrow morning so I can provide you with a list of engagements we will be attending together.”

“Miss Agnes Hartnett? She is seventeen years old!” Brendan knew he should not react, but the exclamation had slipped out before he could contain it.

“And the daughter of a viscount.”

“You mean the child of a viscount?”

The baron smirked, his eyes glittering with triumph. He seemed to relish Brendan’s discomfort. “All the better for your pursuits with merry widows.”

Brendan wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. He had no intention of pursuing the sort of marriage where he and his wife would live as polite strangers, crossing paths like two guests in a wide hallway. When he married, it would be to a woman with wit, warmth, and steel beneath her stays. A true partner. And he would not stray. But this was not the time to speak of ideals.

He needed to meet with the duke. If anyone could help formulate a plan to rid him of the baron, it would be Halmesbury. Annabel and her husband were among the few people who understood Lord Filminster’s particular strain of manipulation. Unfortunately, with coronation obligations consuming them, Brendan would have to endure a few more days of meddling before he could seek their aid.

“When would you like to meet?”

“I expect you to be here at first light.”

Brendan forced an affable grin and stood up. “I will see you first thing, then.”

The baron waved a hand in a lazy gesture of dismissal, his circlet catching the lamplight. Brendan accepted the wave as his opportunity to escape. And to think.

As he left the study, he nearly collided with Michaels, their London butler, who was stationed directly outside the door. The older man straightened to his full height, several inches shy of Brendan’s, and bent his neck back awkwardly to cast a look down his nose with all the theatrical disdain of the little French emperor. With a haughty sniff, Michaels turned and stalked away, the tails of his coat swaying stiffly behind him, leaving Brendan to wonder whether the scornful servant had been eavesdropping.

When Lily came down for supper, she found her brother in the front hall. He was dressed to go out, with a tall-crowned beaver hat perched at a jaunty angle atop his dark hair, a coat slung carelessly over his shoulders, and gloves in hand. The scent of leather and a hint of bay rum clung to him, carried on the faint draft from the opened front door.