Callum strode over the familiar plush carpet of Hades’ Lair. Crystal chandeliers, obtained from Murano, glimmered in their familiar fashion, aided by the newly lit twelve hour candles. Raucous laughter sounded from the next room.

The air seemed thick, as if smoke still wafted from the patrons’ cigars. The red leather chairs were empty. At some point, the club would fill again, but now it was afternoon.

“Ah, you’re back,” Sir Seymour said. “The club isn’t the same without you.”

Callum slowed his pace and gave his best attempt at a smile.

Now he was in public again. Now he had to be proper.

The action of smiling seemed all together unfamiliar, and his lips felt tight. Charlotte had shattered his heart. Sir Seymour, though, gave no indication of anything being amiss, and his smile did not falter.

“Most dull without you. I must let you know there have been the most atrocious rumors about you.”

“Oh?” Callum didn’t bother to raise a brow. His reputation was hardly an issue of concern.

“Oh, indeed.” Sir Seymour beamed. “Most distressing. In fact, I do rather despise sharing the information with you. Still, I feel it is my duty, as a frequent visitor of Hades’ Lair, to inform you that people are saying you’re off in the Channel Islands. With the second daughter of someone in the cloth.”

“Are they?” Callum asked. He leveled his eyes at Sir Seymour. “Her mother used to be friends with your wife.”

“A fact we prefer not to talk about,” Sir Seymour said. “The earl will be most happy to see you. He has been asking about you often.”

Wolfe is here.

Callum’s heart tumbled down farther.

“I will see him now,” Callum said.

“Quite right.” Sir Seymour hesitated. “If you have a pistol, I suggest you bring it.”

Callum braced himself and headed toward Wolfe’s suite. Earlier he might have run away, escaping to the arbory fortifications of Hyde Park, but this time he didn’t hesitate to enter.

A fast-tempo music filled the air, and Callum ignored the queasy feeling of his stomach.

Other people played the piano well, and the club even employed an excellent pianist, but no one could approach the keys with such unrestrained emotion. Normally Callum felt a sliver of pride on Wolfe’s behalf. The man had struggled to read as a child, and his intelligence had been doubted. Perhaps that had been why Wolfe’s father had been so eager to become the guardian of Callum and his brother, and so eager to arrange a marriage between Callum and his only daughter.

Once Wolfe had a tutor who’d succumbed to his frequent demands to be taught the piano, and Wolfe’s skill had become evident, no one had doubted the man’s intelligence any longer.

Callum frowned. He’d imagined this would be his moment of triumph. Sir Seymour had said that Wolfe was upset, and now he could gloat.

And yet the only emotion he felt was disgust at himself.

He was filled with unhappiness. How could he wish it on anyone else?

Wolfe glanced up.

“Callum! You look terrible.” Wolfe halted playing and poured whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He placed the whiskey on the table before Callum.

Callum eyed the amaretto-colored drink. Charlotte was well, was expected to live long, but she’d decided to spend her life without him. No drink would distract him from that, and he pushed it away.

“I’ve had more happy days,” Callum grumbled.

“And you could have had more if you’d only married my sister,” Wolfe said. “What on earth were you thinking? Charlotte Butterworth? Hardly a suitable match for a duke.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I know she’s the daughter of a vicar. Untraveled. Quite unsuitable. Just because women aren’t supposed to work does not mean they have to be devoid of any qualities.”

“You don’t know Miss Charlotte Butterworth at all.”

“You’re being terribly testy about her.”

“I am married to her.”

Wolfe scanned him, and Callum shivered under the intensity of the man’s gaze. “The experience does not seem to have benefited you.”

“That’s not true,” Callum said.

Charlotte had changed him. He’d been cold, callous before.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” Callum said.

“It’s not me you should apologize to,” Wolfe said.

Callum nodded. He knew. “Has she returned to London?”

Wolfe gave a short laugh. “Unfortunately so. She arrived from a country house party to the dreadful news.”

“I hope she wasn’t too offended.”

“At having the man she was betrothed to marry another woman? And one so beneath her?” Wolfe gave a wry laugh.

“I’m sorry.”

Wolfe jerked his head toward Callum. “Don’t pity her. She’ll be fine. Just stay away from her.”

Callum nodded, conscious his stomach felt queasy even though he hadn’t taken a single sip of Wolfe’s whisky.

“How is the marriage?”

“She wants an annulment,” Callum said miserably.

Wolfe chuckled. “That didn’t work for Henry the Eighth.”

“She hasn’t been married to me for a decade.”

“Annulments are never granted,” Wolfe said.

“She’s prepared to say the marriage was never consummated.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Wolfe said.

Callum flushed. He’d tried so hard to be virtuous.

Wolfe stared at him. “Then again, you are a duke. Perhaps the current Archbishop of Canterbury will be easier to convince than the one in Henry the Eighths time.”

“I don’t desire an annulment,” Callum said.

“You mean to say you have fallen for her?” Wolfe chuckled.

“She’s the most wonderful woman in the world,” Callum said.

Wolfe chuckled again.

“We need to talk about Montgomery Castle,” Callum said.

“Oh?”

“Your father was dishonest,” Callum said.

The grin on Wolfe’s face vanished, and Callum told Wolfe about the ledgers, about Lord McIntyre’s words to him and about his own suspicions about his aunt’s death. Charlotte might not want anything to do with him, but it was she who had given him strength. He didn’t need to live in Montgomery Castle, but he would no longer permit anyone to demean his parents’ memory and he would no longer allow his late guardian’s family to profit off of his parents’ demise.

Wolfe tapped his fingers against his desk. “I received a curious letter from a solicitor a week ago stating something similar.”

Callum blinked, and Wolfe smoothed out a letter. “The solicitor seems to have been hired by your wife, and it mentions some ledgers that he has in his possession.”

“Indeed?” Callum felt his eyes widen, and Wolfe gave him a small smile.

“Perhaps she does not desire to remain married to you, but it seems that she was already working to get your estate back. She must have hired quite a clever accountant.  The facts seem clear. My solicitors have already gone over them. I am afraid my father may have misled you and I—er—apologize.”

Callum bowed his head. “Thank you.”

He’d assumed the books had been lost in the shipwreck. It seemed that Charlotte had been working even harder on the project than he expected and had already given them to someone else.

“I expect you will want to return to your estate now. I can’t pay you all the money our father stole from you, but I can give you that.”

“I think I might want to sell it,” Callum admitted. “There are too many memories there.”

“I see.” Wolfe shrugged. “I might be able to help you with that.”

“So you’re not going to fight the claim?” Callum asked.

“I might run a gaming hell, but that doesn’t mean the concept of honor is foreign to me.”

Callum nodded. Wolfe had fought heroically in France.

“You’re a bastard for breaking off the betrothal with Isla, but you were still my best friend,” Wolfe continued. “Besides, I would have a hard time fighting the case. The accountant was damned good.”

“The very best,” Callum said, and his chest swelled as he thought of Charlotte.

*

CHARLOTTE TRIED TO adjust to her new life. She still visited Hyde Park, conscious she should do her best to live her life, even without Callum.

The pain had not dissipated, despite her best efforts.

She strolled through the park with Georgiana. Charlotte tried to find pleasure in the open sky and the feel of the wind on her face. The vast landscape seemed not quite as impressive as before. She was too conscious the park existed because of the whims of the people in London than because of nature. It was too manicured, too perfect, and she sought to dismiss the pang of longing. There was no ocean, no waves to brush against, no rocks to stroll upon, no cliffs on which to watch bright fishing boats bob up and down.

The temperature was higher, and the birds seemed to chirp with rather more vigor than normal, as if optimistic of their chances of drawing a mate.

Hopefully they would be fortunate.

Charlotte knew now the reason so many women pressed marriage on others was not merely so they would not be a bother on parents who would no longer need to provide for her, but because a good marriage was something to aspire to, even if in reality it was something quite rare. Still, her parents had managed to find it, as had, more surprisingly, her sister Georgiana. She was happy for Georgiana, even if it meant she could never entirely forget about Callum.

She would always be conscious if her parents went to Scotland for Christmas, wondering if Callum was there, or if he would rush off to some corner in Europe, pretending to take a sudden interest in French art or Italian wine, when everyone knew it was really just to avoid her.

The trees were no longer pink and lilac. The blossoms had long ago been replaced with thick green leaves that clung firmly to the trees. This was England at its very finest. This was happiness. She knew that. Everyone around her was happy. Every other person was smiling, beaming into the sky as if the only thing they needed was the sun hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of miles above them. I’m happy, she said to herself, but even in her own thoughts, it felt like a lie.

It didn’t matter. The important thing was that Callum was free.

Georgiana stiffened. “Don’t look to the right.”

“Why not?”

“It’s someone unpleasant,” Georgiana said.

“Oh.”

“Ah. Charlotte Butterworth,” a familiar voice said that caused ice to invade Charlotte’s heart. “Or should I say Your Grace?”

Charlotte swallowed hard and turned to see Lady Isla.

“Forgive me,” Lady Isla said, in a confident tone. “Normally etiquette does not elude me, but your status seems unclear. Most duchesses do not live with their parents.”

“I expect you don’t need to call me anything,” Charlotte said. “Since we are not friends.”

Lady Isla frowned and her dark lashes moved over her pale icy eyes. Her steely composure seemed rather less steely. “That is beside the point.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, and Lady Isla departed rapidly.

Georgiana stifled a laugh. Her sister leaned closer to her. “You have changed.”

“I just didn’t know the answer.”

“Nonsense. You would never have addressed Lady Isla like that before.”

“I hope I wasn’t too rude. I forgot you’re her neighbor.”

Georgiana waved her hand dismissively. “I am certain she thought you rude, but sometimes the occasion calls for it.”