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appreciate it if you could tell me what you want so I can be off to bed."
    Robert gripped the chair's wooden arm. His brother had been spoiling for a fight the past two weeks, and he had had just about enough. "Come in and sit down."
    "I'm quite comfortable right here, actually," Tony said, leaning against the doorframe.
    "Come inside!"
    Despite his contrary behavior of late, his brother shut the door and crossed to the great mahogany desk. He dropped into a chair and propped his arm over its shoulder, his expression indifferent.
    Robert hesitated, pondering how to break down the wall Tony had raised around himself. It was strange to sit on this side of the desk. Their father's ghost lingered in every corner of the room—lived and breathed in the heavy, dark furniture, the leather-bound books, and the faint whiff of cigars.
    How would his father have handled the situation? Better than he, surely. Robert heaved a sigh. His hands were more or less tied. Tony was of age and had financial independence, so Robert's only option was to appeal to his brother's reason. It would not be easy, but for his mother's sake—and for Tony's own—he had to try.
    Just as he started to speak, a knock came on the door. "There is a caller, your lordship," his butler proclaimed. "The Duchess of Southwell."
    Surprise overshadowed Robert's frustration, and he checked the clock again. It was, indeed, nine in the morning.
    Bemused, he said, "Show her in." Curiosity aside, he couldn't turn away the duchess. It simply wasn't done.
    They rose when she entered. Robert first thought someone had died, for she was swathed in black and wore a veil that was swept back, revealing an alarmingly pallid face. Then it struck him that she might have dressed that way for the sake of anonymity, and warning bells went off in his head. This was not a social call.
    Tony attempted to excuse himself after the exchange of greetings, but the duchess interposed. "No, do stay, Master Anthony. You might be of help."
    Tony acquiesced, his manners suddenly irreproachable.
    "Be of help with what?" Robert asked when they were all seated.
    "I hate to impose upon you," the duchess said, the corners of her mouth turning down, "but I did not know who else to turn to. You see—oh, you might as well read it for yourself."
    She fished a piece of paper out of her reticule and handed it over. Robert reluctantly accepted the note, his instincts telling him he'd rather not know its contents.
Dear Mamma,
he read.
I am off to Gretna to marry Lord Rossemore. Shall be gone no longer than a fortnight. Please, do not worry. G.
    How could such foolish words be written in such an elegant hand? He scanned the message again, and the full significance of her words hit him like a kick to the stomach.
I intend to tell Father about it this evening
, she had said in Mansell's garden.
I foresee no complications.
She hadn't even blinked. Granted, Robert had not quite believed her, but he damned well had not expected her lie to be of such massive proportions, either.
    He tossed the paper onto the desk. "I see," was all he could think to say.
    "What's going on?" Tony asked.
    "Georgie has eloped with Rossemore."
    "Good God," his brother said in a stunned voice, his eyes widened, eyebrows raised. "Bloody hell." After a moment's hesitation, he frowned and glanced toward the woman at his side. "Beg your pardon, duchess."
    She waved him off. "I can think of no phrase better fit to describe the situation. I simply cannot fathom what possessed her to do such a thing."
    "Perhaps she thought Southwell would not approve of her choice," Robert pretended to guess, though he knew the truth well enough.
    "Then she thought right!" Identical spots of red stained the duchess's cheeks. Robert didn't think he had ever seen her lose her composure before.
    "I'll say," Tony agreed glumly. "I've heard rumors that Rossemore's on his last leg and hoping to marry money."
    "No!" The duchess's eyes widened. "Oh! It is worse than I