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“How bad is it?” Her voice was soft, laced with uncertainty.

Sophia’s smile faded. She glanced away for a moment, then back. “The gossip?”

Lily gave a small nod.

Sophia hesitated only a beat. “Let us say … it is very fortunate that your wedding is near.”

“You need to apply to the Home Secretary for a writ of summons.”

The duke’s announcement halted Brendan mid-stride.

He had secured Miss Abbott’s agreement to marry, thus easing the burden on his conscience. Now his thoughts were consumed with ensuring her safety once she entered his household. Briggs was to brief him later that day regarding the servants’ interviews. Thus far, no one had burst into the library bearing grim news, which at least suggested that if the Bow Street Runner had uncovered anything, it was not urgent enough to herald his immediate demise.

“For what?” Brendan’s tone was not defensive, merely bewildered. He could not imagine what Halmesbury was referring to.

“To take your seat in the House of Lords.” The duke’s tone was pragmatic, his gray eyes trained steadily on Brendan, who blinked at him, trying to comprehend the significance of the statement.

“I do not think this is the time for politics!”

Richard, standing at the window, gave a derisive snort. “Dunderhead! This is not about politics. At this moment, hundreds of tenants and servants are without a landlord. Thousands of constituents lack representation. There is more at stake than your own affairs.”

He stepped forward, his expression stern. “You are a peer now … or will be once the Committee for Privileges confirms your succession. You must authorize funds, sign documents, manage households and lands. Even your own household’s operations are affected. Or do you imagine that your late … benefactor … arranged for the coffers to open from beyond the grave?”

The pressure at his temples pulsed with a dull insistence. Brendan slumped into an ancient damask-covered sofa, its cushions long past their prime, and cast his gaze upward to the faded crown moldings that framed the ceiling. Once cream, they had darkened with age.

“Lawks! We only just buried the baron.”

Across from him, the duke’s lips pinched into a taut line. He began to drum his long fingers —slow, deliberate—against the worn mahogany arm of his chair.

“Annabel wished to attend, but …”

“But women do not attend funerals,” Brendan supplied, voice heavy.

Halmesbury nodded once. And in that pause, Brendan realized how selfishly inward he had turned. The strain upon his brother-in-law had barely registered amid the chaos of his own thoughts. He looked again at the duke’s face and saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes, faint shadows betraying sleepless nights, a weight carried quietly.

“I told her I did not care about convention,” Halmesbury said at last, his voice low. “She should attend if she wished. But she woke this morning unwell. The tension of the past days has done her no good, and she is well along now. She chose rest over the condemnation of men who would stare and judge. I wished her to have an opportunity to say goodbye, but she said her health and our child’s must come first.”

Guilt stirred in Brendan’s chest. He had not asked after his sister. Not once. His mind had been wholly consumed by threat, inheritance, scandal.

“I should pay her a visit,” he murmured.

Richard stepped away from the window, his boots whispering against the polished floorboards, and settled into a nearby chair. “Perhaps we might dine together. Talk a little. Perhaps reminisce about the baron. It might allow her to close this chapter.”

Halmesbury tilted his head slightly, considering. “I would like that. The five of us, then? You and the countess, Brendan, and ourselves?”

Richard nodded. “Yes. I shall cancel our other plans.”

“I appreciate it. A quiet supper among family … more fitting than the posturing dandies the baron kept company with.” Brendan’s fingers traced the embroidery of the sofa arm. “We can speak of old anecdotes. Give her chance to air her memories.”

“Sophia will be glad to assist the duchess,” the earl replied, his tone soft.

Brendan closed his eyes. The filtered light through the mullioned windows pressed too sharply against his temples. Everything ached with new gravity.

A few short days ago, he had been a carefree heir, drinking in the laughter of Town, dancing through life with no thought for consequence. Now, he was a man weighted with responsibility. Not just a wife. An estate. Lives dependent upon his steadiness. Tenants. Servants. The people of his district.

He had never been tutored for this. His estrangement from the baron meant he had learned nothing of stewardship. The steward was a name, the solicitors mere acquaintances.

He rubbed his brow, voice low. “Let us not forget, we have a murder yet unsolved.”