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been wrapped in Andrew Alexander’s arms, hearing his gentle scolds, and breathing in the clean, dear scent of him.
    Which meant a remove from Town and the temptations thereof was all the more prudent.
    ***
    “Where’s the little widow?” Henry asked after he’d kissed his mother’s cheek.
    Urania Dupres Allen, of the Dorchester Dupres, stifled a sigh as her younger surviving son appropriated her favorite chair.
    “I did not give you leave to sit, Henry, and I do believe your breath smells of spirits.” His breath reeked exactly as his father’s breath had usually reeked, truth be told.
    “Come, Mama, you cannot begrudge me a tot now and then. The Scots prefer to start their day with a wee dram, and they’re a hardier race for it.”
    The Scots were also impoverished, uncouth, and impossible to understand. Urania rang for the tea tray, exacting a small vengeance for the disappointment that was her surviving sons, for Henry—again like his father—despised tea. She took a seat away from the sunlight streaming through the window, a lady’s complexion being one of her most important assets.
    Particularly a lady of a certain age, particularly a lady with a redhead’s fair skin, who used the occasional very light henna treatment on that hair.
    “You asked me about Astrid, but why should I have any notion of her whereabouts? I wasn’t aware she’d started leaving her house yet.” The house that was a deal more comfortable than the pokey establishment Douglas provided for his mother.
    Herbert had promised her better quarters as soon as the lease was up. If only dear Herbert had lived…
    Henry helped himself to the lemon drops in the candy dish on the side table. “I couldn’t imagine Astrid had anywhere to go except to visit you—or perhaps that sister of hers.”
    Astrid had said something about visiting her sister, but hadn’t extended the invitation to include her dear mama-in-law.
    Henry’s tone suggested visiting either one’s sister, the marchioness, or one’s mama-in-law, the dowager viscountess, was a dire fate, though why Astrid’s whereabouts were Henry’s business, Urania did not know.
    “Must you take three lemon drops at once, Henry?”
    He grinned. “First you complain about my breath, then you complain about my efforts to freshen it. How would I go on without your weekly scoldings, dear ma’am?”
    The rascal was going to ask her for money, or an introduction, or some favor or other. He set aside his Tuesday mornings to spend time with her, but of his other comings and goings, Urania maintained a determined ignorance. Though he hardly seemed to use them, he rented rooms closer to the City, and Urania remained in purposeful ignorance of what went on there, too.
    “Without my guidance, you would go straight to perdition,” she said. The housekeeper brought in the tea tray, meaning scoldings—and requests for funds—had to wait a few moments. Henry did not rise to take the heavy tray from the older woman, something Douglas, for all his other shortcomings, would have done.
    “What do you hear from your brother?” Urania asked as she poured out. She did not give Henry a chance to decline his tea, and skimped on his sugar. Douglas was always prosing on about economies, now, wasn’t he?
    “I hear a lament, Mama.” Henry produced a flask from his vest pocket, doctored his tea without so much as a murmured apology, and put the flask away. “I hear from Douglas that the late viscount’s men of business have much to answer for, and that we must be prepared for economies.”
    Urania had raised her sons to have the manners of gentlemen, though Herbert and Douglas had caught on sooner than Henry seemed to. Henry was her baby, though, and a man was entitled to grieve the loss of his favorite brother in his own way.
    “Douglas has a great fondness for sermons regarding economies,” Urania allowed. To her own tea, she added as much sugar as she pleased, but no milk, because a lady must be