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When the carriage drew to a stop, Sebastian opened his eyes, a small measure of peace returned.

He had traveled so far, yet he had never found another woman who captured his heart as Harriet once had.

But that was the past. A past he suspected he would unfortunately be forced to revisit when he spoke with Philip.

His brother had insisted they meet in private, something Sebastian was reluctant to do. The duke would demand to know why he had returned to London. And he would not like the answer.

Alighting from the carriage, he mounted the steps to Markham House. Best to get it over with. He knocked on the door.

Soon, he was ushered into the study by Clinton. Tall and slim, with a distinguished air and graying hair, the butler had greeted him with a glimmer of humor, likely recalling the many scrapes he had rescued Sebastian from as a boy. Sebastian was dimly aware he was musing to distract himself from the conversation ahead.

Philip stood at the window, staring out at his private garden, hands clasped behind his back. This was Sebastian’s second visit to Markham House, but they had exchanged few words the last time. That visit had been about meeting the new duchess, an intelligent young woman with chestnut hair and brandy eyes, already rounded with their second babe. He had also spent time with his nephew, Jasper, who shared his mother’s coloring. Sebastian had wondered whether the boy would grow to match his father in stature, and then, before he could stop himself, his mind had wandered to another possibility.

What if Harriet had left for Calais with him all those years ago? Would they have had a son or daughter by now? Would their child have shared Harriet’s auburn hair and ice-blue gaze?

Apparently, hopes for the past still endured in the present.

Philip turned, his expression stern as he crossed the room.

He greeted Sebastian with a stiff pat on the upper arm.

“Thank you for coming.”

The corners of Sebastian’s mouth curved into a hollow imitation of a smile.

He and Philip were similar in build, his brother taller by an inch, and looking into each other’s gray eyes was like staring into a mirror. Except staring into a mirror did not usually discomfit him as much as this.

“Of course.”

The duke’s study was lined with towering walnut bookshelves bearing a wealth of leather-bound volumes, the room carried the unmistakable scent of aged parchment, polished wood, and the faintest trace of coffee. African masks were mixed with ormolu clocks and marble statues, speaking to their family’s storied history.

A large, ornately carved desk of dark mahogany commanded the center of the room, its surface immaculately arranged with a heavy silver inkstand, and stacks of correspondence neatly aligned.

Behind the desk, a high-backed leather chair bore the faint creases of frequent use. An expansive window overlooked the private garden beyond. To the side of the window, a small sitting area offered comfort. Two wingback chairs upholstered in deep red velvet flanked a low table, where a silver coffee service gleamed in the light.

Philip gestured to the wingback chairs, and Sebastian dutifully took a seat, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of aromatic coffee.

His brother sat opposite, his expression somber, and Sebastian knew they would finally have to clear the air. This discussion had been inevitable the moment he had decided to return to England. He only hoped Lorenzo would one day appreciate the lengths to which he was going to assist him, because, given the choice, he would never have left Florence.

“You no longer accept the allowance I have been sending.”

Sebastian could almost discern a note of hurt in his older brother’s tone. But perhaps that was whimsy on his part.

“I have no need. Business in Florence has been good.”

Philip breathed in, his expression unreadable.

What did His Grace, the celebrated Duke of Halmesbury, make of his little brother engaging in trade? Considering they were not close, Sebastian had no notion of his brother’s thoughts on the matter.

“I am told you trade in art?”

Sebastian nodded. “Renaissance art. My partner, Lorenzo di Bianchi, whom you met at the Scotts’ residence, is quite the expert.”

A shadow of a smile crossed Philip’s lips. “You are quite knowledgeable yourself.”

It was a compliment, and the unexpected warmth Sebastian felt on hearing it caught him off guard. Despite their differences, they were still family. Blood.

And for all that they did not see eye to eye on one essential subject, Sebastian respected that Philip was a good man, one who took his responsibilities to heart.