Rain pattered against the window panel of Callum’s breakfast room, and the net curtains on the windows did not disguise the gloomy gun-metal sky. Rain had fallen incessantly over the past few weeks, not ceasing when St. George’s was booked, the banns were posted, or when a new suit was ordered from the tailor. Hyde Park emptied, as the unremitting rain halted even the most consistent visitors from making their daily strolls.

Footsteps sounded, and his brother appeared. Callum forced himself to smile, wishing the poor weather had hindered Hamish’s arrival last night from Scotland. Any hope his brother was a mirage Callum had conjured in a nightmare vanished. No mirage could glower with such force.

Hamish wasn’t supposed to be here. Callum hadn’t invited him.

The fewer people who knew about the wedding in advance, the fewer chances someone would convince Callum not to go through with it. Thankfully, Wolfe had remained away, and Lady Isla had left London. The people he did tell were sufficiently shocked. Charlotte had been scarcely groomed to be the wife of a baronet’s son, much less a duchess.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Butterworth, in her enthusiasm, had invited him, and Hamish’s sudden presence was unmistakable. The mirrors in the foyer reflected Hamish’s never ceasing glower.

“You shouldn’t marry that chit,” Hamish growled. “You’re betrothed to someone else. Have you forgotten?”

“Naturally not,” Callum said. “But I desire to marry Miss Butterworth.”

Hamish gave him a hard stare. Sometimes Callum wondered if Hamish had always looked at him with such open abhorrence, or if it had started after they’d moved into Lord McIntyre’s home. The old earl had always been quick to criticize Callum.

“I hope you do not intend to stop the wedding,” Callum said.

Hamish didn’t respond. Blast it, Hamish should respond. Ice swept over Callum, as if he were tumbling down some Swiss mountain in the midst of winter.

“Lord McIntyre took us in,” Hamish said. “How could you break his heart?”

“Our late guardian no longer has a heart to break.”

Hamish winced, and Callum instantly felt guilty. Any urge to tell Hamish more lessened. Hamish had adored the late earl. Could he tarnish their former guardian’s reputation?

At least Callum had the benefit of spending time with Mr. and Mrs. Butterworth. Hamish, on the other hand, only had memories of their late guardian and his wife, and his brother seemed determined to forever color his mind with the most enthusiastic version of the events. Callum supposed that the old earl had been fond of Hamish, and had helped him develop an interest in Scottish architecture.

“And what are Miss Butterworth’s motivations in desiring to marry you?” Hamish continued, moving to a new attack.

“Besides my general attractive appearance?” Callum joked.

Hamish scowled, and Callum bit back his grin. Callum shouldn’t jest. His brother apparently never jested.

“You’re a duke,” Hamish said. “You should be careful. You can tell me, if you’ve been placed in a compromising situation. Is she blackmailing you?”

“What on earth would she have to blackmail me about?”

“You run a gaming hell. Perhaps you’ve done something to warrant blackmailing.”

Callum sighed. The gaming hell had been a method to get revenge on the old earl. When the war was happening, Callum had been occupied with defending Britain, but its completion signified he’d return to defend his family’s honor.

Wolfe was happy to have Callum’s name to attach to the gaming hell, and Callum was happy to have access to Wolfe’s vast collection of papers. Now that Charlotte had given her theory after examining the late earl’s ledgers, Callum only had to prove it.

“You are humiliating Lady Isla,” Hamish said sternly.

“Do you think so?” Callum remembered her behavior to Charlotte at Sir Seymour’s ball and he feared his lips might be ascending upward despite his best efforts.

Hamish fixed a level gaze on him. “You’ve been irresponsible.”

Callum stiffened. His brother had it all wrong.

Blackmail.

As if Charlotte were capable of such a thing.

As if Charlotte would have the least idea what to blackmail him about.

Callum’s indiscretions did not extend to blackmailable offenses, and if they did, nice daughters of vicars would not be the ones to carry it out.

In truth, Callum should have asked her to dance immediately, when he’d first seen her at a ball, no matter the supposed state of his engagement to Lady Isla.

Perhaps he should tell Hamish more after all.

Would he believe me?

Callum’s stomach hurt. Some questions might have unpleasant answers.

Before Callum could decide whether or not to confide in him, the butler announced the carriage was prepared, and they exited the breakfast room.

“You don’t have to come with me to visit the Butterworth family,” Callum told his brother.

“I wouldn’t want to miss meeting your betrothed.” Hamish climbed into the carriage. “I—er—wonder what she looks like.”

“Then you’ll find out,” Callum said.

“Are we going to Kensington?” Hamish pondered. “I wonder where she lives.”

“The edge of Mayfair,” Callum said.

“I’m learning so much,” Hamish said.

Something was off in the man’s naivety. Hamish liked to pride himself on knowing things, even when he didn’t at all, but in this respect, he seemed to differ.

How odd.

Callum resisted the temptation to dwell on the whims of his brother’s arrogance.

Finally, the carriage pulled up at the Butterworth’s London townhome.

Hamish scrutinized the narrow building. “It’s quite small.”

“She only has a sister.”

“Family size has nothing to do with it,” Hamish said.

Callum agreed, silently.

Most people in the ton seemed quite happy to put their family in grand townhomes that stretched over multiple floors whether or not they had the children to fill the rooms.

Callum and Hamish disembarked from the carriage and stepped into the small house. The maid, Flora, flushed when she saw them and hurried them into the drawing room. Mrs. Butterworth had transformed the family’s drawing room. Flowers and herbs lay on every surface, and nobody seemed to mind the competing scents that wafted through the room.

“What horror is this?” Hamish glanced warily about the room.

“No horror,” Callum said, “and remarkably close to happiness.”