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“Forgive me, my lord. I believe I overheard that Lady St. George went out earlier to the assembly hall, but I cannot say for certain.”

“You get on well here, do you, Pickett?” James stepped back to smooth the lapels of his frock coat. There was something in his valet’s voice that compelled him to ask.

“It is of no importance, my lord.” Pickett’s face, as unremarkable as any James had encountered, seemed to drain of all expression as he went on, “Most of the staff here are very loyal to Lady St. George.”

James turned his head so sharply he almost gave himself a crick. “And that is a negative?”

Pickett remained entirely impassive, his expression unchanging. “She is Irish, my lord.”

James blinked. Perhaps his longstanding valet did possess deeper feelings than he revealed. Unfortunately they were close-minded ones.

“She is the lady of Bailey Hall and is due your respect, Pickett,” James noted, drawing himself up to his full stature. While Pickett was a respectable height, he did not loom well over six feet as James did. However, the valet gave no indication of being cowed and merely watched his employer as though he were passing scenery on a locomotive.

“Of course, my lord.”

James dismissed his services and found his way to the breakfast room, still stewing over his valet’s blatant disrespect toward Mariah. Discovering that his wife had evidently told Cook to double the amount of bacon from the previous day, James loaded his plate from the rasher, and sat down to bite into the tender saltiness. Or salty tenderness.

Either one, blast it; he was no poet.

It was only after three pieces of bacon that he realized that Pickett had not apologized for his comments. He had only said, “Of course, my lord.”

James had meant his words to Mariah the previous day. He did not look down upon the Irish, unlike many of his countrymen. And he did not resent her stutter, although perhaps she was right in that he had wished to correct it in the past. Perhaps at the beginning of their marriage, he had been embarrassed that he had needed to wed someone in trade instead of going on his long-dreamed-of Grand Tour. But how could he tell her his behavior stemmed from disappointment in his own crushed dreams rather than embarrassment of her without sounding like a spoiled child?

Oh, hell. Mayhap he was a spoiled child.

Just as that humbling thought entered his mind, Ellis, his family’s long-suffering butler entered with a silver salver of what appeared to be the afternoon post.

On the salver, James discovered an unpleasant reminder of his reasons for returning to Bailey Hall.

Dear Lord St. George,

I write to remind you that your period of redemption expires at the end of this month. As I currently hold the title deeds to Bedford Grange as security against your loan, the moment you default, I shall exercise my power of sale. You will be interested to know that surveyors from the LNWR Company have already placed a highly competitive bid on the property. If I do not receive word that Mr. Monahan has adjusted his wages, I will sign the deeds over to the railway directors on the first of the month.

Yours in business,

J.L. Barrymore

Bedford Grange…reduced to rubble. Damn and blast. James raked his fingers through his locks, which had grown somewhat unruly of late. Mayhap he ought to have requested that Pickett attend to a trim. Yet, judging by the way Mariah’s midnight-blue eyes occasionally lingered upon him, it seemed she harbored a secret appreciation for the length, regardless of her usual composure.

“What is that?” Familiar handwriting drew James’s eye back to the salver, driving the imminent threat of Barrymore to the wayside for the moment.

“This is for Lady St. George, but she has gone—-” Ellis began, before James cut him off.

“I know she has gone out, man, I wish to see the letter.”

Ellis swallowed as if he had been asked to betray his mistress and extended the salver further toward James. He snatched the envelope, bristling at the familiar scrawl of his brother Harrison.

Giving the note a rapid perusal, James rose abruptly. “Have a carriage readied, Ellis.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler exited without a sound as James regarded the remaining bacon on his plate with a twinge of regret as his appetite was completely gone.

An hour later, James entered the Crown and the Loom, though he did not seek the private dining room where he had dined with Mariah the previous day. Instead, he located a familiar blond head at the bar.

As he approached, it gave him the opportunity to take in his brother Harrison. From the side, he almost appeared as that young man in the painting, his profile as noble as his character. While James had utilized charm to breeze through life, Harrison possessed a goodness of spirit and an earnestness that had always endeared him to all he encountered. Even their late brother, Lionel, an unbending paragon of propriety until the cholera claimed him, had held Harrison in high esteem.

As if sensing someone observing him, his younger brother turned his head, revealing the left side of his face, and lead sank within James’s stomach. This was the horror he recalled from Harrison’s arrival in England after he was shipped from a hospital in Scutari back to Portsmouth years earlier. James had desperately raced to the convalescent home where he had been moved, only to find⁠—

“James?”