They had first-class tickets up to Broughton. The Duke of Ilvar paid for it all.

Alec arrived at Euston in a hackney, and a sweat. A railway station on a hot day was always a little bit like Hell and this was no exception. Whistles screamed and wheels screeched like souls in torment; steam billowed across platforms; the heat radiated out from the great black iron demon-steeds and beat down from the iron-girded roof, which lay suffering under the relentless sun. Ladies’ finery drooped; men’s collar-points wilted; bouquets and buttonholes lost their freshness as quickly as their wearers in the grimy, sweaty streets. Men and women hurried by, craning their necks to catch sight of clocks, platform signs, trains, or loved ones. And in the middle of it, cool, unhurried, in a light summer jacket and a very dashing grey soft hat, was Jerry, with an impassive black-clad clean-shaven attendant by his side. It took Alec a second look to recognise the well-built serving man as Templeton Lane.

“Alec, old man,” Jerry hailed him. “You cut it fine. Let’s take our seats. Leave your bags with Fanshaw, he’ll deal with it all.”

Alec indicated as much to the porter, tipped him, and followed Jerry down the platform. He didn’t dare look at Lane, who would doubtless be travelling third.

The coach was one of the older style, divided into compartments of two facing benches. There were already two suited men in there. Alec nodded politely and seated himself opposite Jerry.

It would be a long journey: two and a half hours to Crewe, then a change to Broughton, where they would use the Castle Speight private line that the Duke had built at heaven knew what expense. He was not sure if he was glad or sorry they couldn’t talk openly.

He’d brought pencils and a sketchpad, but he felt a little self-conscious taking them out in the company of businessmen. He settled with his new book instead, a collection of short stories, read the first three, confused and increasingly disturbed, and looked up to see Jerry watching him.

“Are you enjoying that?”

“I wouldn’t say enjoying, precisely.”

“Your face has suggested as much. What on earth are you reading?”

“It’s a new thing. The King In Yellow. Good in its way, but I don’t know if I like its way. Weird and macabre and feels rather like an opium dream. It’s about a play that induces madness in anyone who reads it.”

Jerry slanted a brow. “Sounds like the author’s been at the St. James’s Theatre recently.”

One of the businessmen guffawed, and added, “I beg your pardon.” Jerry waved a graceful hand.

Alec hid behind his book again, feeling rather self-conscious. Jerry’s remark had been an allusion to The Importance of Being Earnest, a smash hit earlier in the year, until the author had been arrested for gross indecency. Taking his name off the programme and advertising hadn’t saved the box office from the taint of scandal, and the play had closed. Wilde had only been in prison two months, the scandal had yet to fully subside, and Alec was rather conscious that The King in Yellow had a similar sort of atmosphere to Wilde’s work. Perhaps he should have brought something less decadent. Perhaps Jerry was angry he’d given them away.

No, he was being absurd. The book was a legitimately published popular hit that anyone might read, and Jerry wasn’t sniping at The Importance of Being Earnest for any reason other than that he loathed all Wilde’s plays. And yet Alec still felt snubbed, self-conscious, uncomfortable. It was an all-too-familiar sense of nauseous anticipation, dreading the disapproval and rebuke and condemnation he knew would come, and, now he’d recognised it, he knew just why he had it. It was what he’d felt each time he’d come back to Castle Speight—home—from school. He wondered how old he’d be when that dread went away, if it ever did.

The businessmen left the carriage after Tamworth. Nobody else got on. The guard slammed the doors, the train moved off, and Jerry let out a sigh. “Alone at last.”

That they were, since the only access to the compartment was the platform door. They would be entirely free from eavesdropping or interruption until the next stop.

“Is there anything we need to discuss?” Alec asked.

“I don’t think so. Try to relax.”

“Of course. We’re off to a marvellous party. What fun.”

“It will be.” Jerry tipped his head back, eyes narrowing a little. “We’ve a week to play with and a hell of a game to play in it. And I like a challenge.”

“I thought you liked to be in control.”

“That, too, but there has to be something to control, doesn’t there? Something that takes effort to master.” His brow tilted in a very familiar way, sending a shiver through Alec. “Do you know what I regret? That I didn’t have you at Lady Sefton’s soirée.”

“There was hardly an opportunity. Was there?”

“I could have made one. Taken you upstairs into some room.”

“And?” Alec asked, holding his gaze.

“And pushed you against the door,” Jerry said, low. “Pulled your trousers down and your shirt up and had you there and then. No preparation, nothing but spit, and you’d have had to be silent as the grave. Not even a gasp, far less a cry, while I had you as I pleased.”

“Have you had this in mind for a while?”

“Since Lady Sefton’s soirée. I’ve had you on my mind since Euston.”

“The next stop isn’t till—”

“Stafford. That seems to me long enough for one of us to have his cock sucked.”

Alec went down onto his knees, between Jerry’s legs. Jerry shifted to make room, and Alec ran his hands over the grey cloth of his light suit, the hard-muscled legs.

“Forward,” Jerry said softly.

He wasn’t sure if it was an observation of his behaviour or an order. He leaned forward anyway, pushing his face between Jerry’s legs, mouthing him through the cloth, and felt a hand in his hair. Jerry’s fingers drove down to the nape of his neck, and stroked up against the grain of the small hairs, making Alec shiver.

He dealt with the buttons, fingers a little clumsy, freed Jerry’s stand. He’d had that in his mouth a few times now, on order, but not had much chance to explore for himself. He stroked the length of it, ridged, smooth under his fingers, a little curved, and felt Jerry’s hand tighten.

“Right, Your Graceling. I want you to pleasure me like you’re getting paid for it.”

Good God. Alec leaned in and gently closed his mouth over the head.

“Yes.” Jerry’s fingers were moving, pressing into Alec’s scalp, not quite pulling his hair but certainly holding it tight. “Oh, yes. We were discussing you getting fucked at the most inconvenient possible juncture, weren’t we? So that you’d have to clean yourself off and rejoin the party with your arse aching and your prick throbbing. I wasn’t planning to let you come, you understand. Are you hard now?” Alec grunted affirmatively. “Good. Don’t touch yourself. Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Alec looked up sharply. Jerry’s eyes were wide and startled, as if he was shocked by his own words, then his lips curled deliberately. “With a cock in your mouth, I meant to say. I’m not sure if I prefer making you whimper or not letting you make a sound. Yes, like that. Deeper.”

Alec worked his hands into Jerry’s clothing. Skin on skin, feeling, caressing, stroking as best he could given the constriction of cloth, using his tongue the way Jerry liked, swaying with the movement of the train. Jerry’s hands were moving urgently in his hair. “Dear God, Alec, my noble plaything. I will have you unrelentingly when we next fuck.”

Alec made a noise around his mouthful that sounded in his own ears like a sob. He leaned in, taking Jerry as deep as he could, his cheeks and jaw burning from the movements, and felt strong fingers tighten on his scalp.

“Oh God, the feel of you, the way you suck me. The way you want me— Alec!” Jerry came, gasping, in his throat, pulsed once, twice, jerked Alec’s head back, and let the last spurt hit his face.

Alec knelt, mouth open. The spend was wet on his cheek.

Jerry leaned forward and wiped it up with one finger. He pressed it to Alec’s open mouth, and Alec closed his lips around it as though it were a sacrament.

They stayed like that for a long silent moment, eyes locked, then Jerry straightened. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiping Alec’s face first, then tidying himself, all the time watching Alec as he knelt on the jolting floor.

“We’ve a few more minutes to the station, I’d think.” He sounded raspy.

“Yes.”

“Stroke yourself,” Jerry said. “No, don’t touch your buttons. Through your clothes will do.”

Alec moved his hand between his legs. His prick was trapped and painfully needy.

“Lightly. Widen your legs.” Jerry was watching, eyes intent. “Christ, I love watching you pleasure yourself. The look on your face. Rub harder.”

The train lurched slightly. It was slowing. “We’re stopping.”

“Good.”

“Jerry—”

“Don’t stop until I tell you. Keep your hand moving.”

“Jerry!” Alec didn’t know if he was going to come, if he wasn’t, or what he’d do. His arousal was painfully close; so was the next station. “Please!”

“Keep going.”

“I’m going to come.” In his clothing. The humiliation burned.

“Don’t you dare stop touching yourself until I tell you. Now, or I take my pleasure on you tonight and you get nothing. Understand?”

“Yes. Oh God.” He was so close, his own hand’s pressure and Jerry’s words reducing him to nothing but sensation, he was reaching the peak—

“Stop.”

Alec jerked his hand away. The train whistle screeched, the carriage jolted, his prick throbbed with furious need.

“Up.” Jerry looked wild. He shut his eyes, and Alec could see his face smoothing back into a calm mask. “Quick. And brush off your knees.

Alec’s knees weren’t the problem; he could hardly stand. He managed to get his bag on his lap—carefully—before the platform guard pulled open the compartment door with a cry of “Stafford!” The blood was thumping in his ears.

Jerry had brought him to the edge and made him wait before, but this felt different. A new level of the control he used to reduce Alec to helpless wanting, but also, perhaps, a warning. If you knew a man’s desires, you had him in the palm of your hand. Had Jerry given away a little more of himself than he’d intended?

Under other circumstances the very idea would have been a thrill. As it was, the thought gave Alec a slightly sick feeling.

He liked Jerry enormously: he was amusing, intelligent, a good conversationalist, a superb listener. He wanted him physically more than anyone he’d ever known, and not just because he was hopelessly enslaved to dark eyes, absurdly mobile eyebrows, and a wicked mouth. It was the way Jerry fucked that made him irresistible, teasing out Alec’s desires and taking such dark enjoyment in fulfilling them. That intense attention was something Alec tried not to think of, because he wanted it so much. He felt like curling up around it and hoarding it as the Duchess did her jewels.

In fact, Jerry was like nobody else he’d ever known, and Alec would have counted himself absurdly fortunate if all they’d had was the companionship and the fucking. But when the mask slipped, revealing the man underneath; when Jerry cared what Alec thought and wanted him to be happy; most of all when he startled himself with uncalculated truths...

That Jerry could break Alec’s heart. That was the man he barely saw, which was good, because every glimpse of him was a danger. There was no happy ever after to be had with Jerry Crozier, there would be no future, and if Alec ever forgot that and let himself hope, he’d be lost.

He’d known it from the start and if he had any sense he’d have resisted his own treacherous desires—which was about as useful as saying that if a gambler had any sense he wouldn’t have staked every penny he had on the fall of the dice. He’d wanted to play, and by God he’d had value for his stake, but the game didn’t have long left to run.

There were other men in the carriage all the way to Crewe, and on the smaller train to Broughton. Alec tucked himself in the corner and hid in his sketchbook, not caring any more if it looked odd. He’d drawn Jerry’s face in there, over and over, sketches from memory and doodles in odd moments. Images of Jerry laughing, of that cold, remote expression that betrayed fury, of his eyebrows at a dozen angles. Of his face when he’d looked down at Alec after they’d kissed for the first time. He’d worked on that and made it a full-page piece. It was one of the best things he’d ever drawn.

They changed again at Broughton to take the Castle Speight spur. A uniformed man ushered them to the private train, informing them that there was one more passenger to come. It was a single car, so Templeton Lane joined them with the baggage, sitting silent and severe in the black garb of a manservant, which Alec noted was cut to diminish his broad shoulders.

“This is very fine,” Jerry remarked, looking around the upholstered coach with its brass fittings and mahogany. “Is it used for anything but Castle Speight?”

“I don’t know. It’s after my time really. Father started the work about ten years ago.”

“Must have cost a few bob.”

“I expect so. Oh, I think our fellow traveller is here.”

A gentleman who looked to be in his thirties but was almost entirely bald hurried down the platform, holding a large document case. He exchanged a brief word with the railwayman, and sat down with a gasp. “Gentlemen. Please excuse my heat.”

“It’s warm to be hurrying,” Alec said sympathetically.

“Really a matter of some inconvenience,” the man mumbled, mostly to himself as the doors were slammed. “Am I correct in thinking—Lord Alexander?”

“Yes, and this is Mr. Gerald Vane, my guest, Mr.—?”

“Merrow. Frederick Merrow. His Grace’s confidential secretary. I, ah, if I may say so, Lord Alexander, I hope that my role in communicating the Duke’s wishes has been, or will be, understood as merely the obligation of my position and in no way an expression of my own opinions. His Grace prefers me to digest, if I may so put it, and express his wishes, which are phrased and communicated entirely in line with his command. I pray I may be understood.”

Alec shot a look at Jerry, whose face was unhelpfully blank, then worked it out. Merrow, the writer of those casually dismissive letters to the Duke’s children, including the one that had given Cara her death sentence, was feeling uncomfortable at meeting their recipient. That was probably a good sign as to Alec’s increased favour in his father’s eyes.

He made himself smile at the man. Merrow only did what the Duke told him, like everyone else. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Merrow, and don’t worry in the slightest. I quite understand your role. Oh, we’re moving, marvellous,” he added with hearty meaninglessness in the hope of heading off any further conversation.

“What a delightful thing.” Jerry came in over Merrow’s reply, greatly to Alec’s relief. “How convenient to have one’s own private railway.”

“The road down from Castle Speight winds a great deal. I dare say it saves a lot of time.”

“The railway takes twenty minutes, where the road journey is an hour and a half,” Mr. Merrow interjected. “His Grace’s wisdom and foresight in the investment are remarkable.”

“And is it just for the Duke and his guests?”

“There is a goods carriage which His Grace very obligingly permits to be leased for the benefit of the nearby villages if he does not require the line.”

“Most generous,” Jerry murmured.

“May I ask, Mr. Merrow, who will be in residence?” Alec enquired. “I believe my father has a few guests present before the grand dinner.”

“Indeed, Lord Alexander. There is Miss Hackett, the sister of the Duchess. Sir Paul Maitland, chief constable of Cheshire, and Lady Maitland. Two gentleman of industry, Mr. Forbes and his wife, and Mr. Pelham. Tomorrow we also welcome Mr. Ayres, a magistrate and highly respected gentleman of the county and Mrs. Ayres, and Sir William and Lady Cooke.”

“All the dignitaries, in fact.” Clearly his father was throwing crumbs to useful people with this house party, the better to avoid cluttering up his grand dinner with provincials. “Well. That sounds very... I look forward to it.”

Jerry’s eyes hooded, indicating near-fatal boredom. Alec pressed his lips together and looked out to admire the view.

***

THE CASTLE SPEIGHT station was some five minutes’ journey from the castle by cart. That took Templeton Lane, Mr. Merrow, and the luggage; Alec and Jerry agreed they would stretch their legs. It was a warm afternoon but breezy, without London’s heat, and the grey-green-yellow slopes of the Bowland Fells made his breath hitch. He loved the fells, and it had been too long.

“I like the railway line,” Jerry observed. “It’s nice to see a rich man make use of his money. I’d definitely have a private railway line to my castle.”

“It makes the whole business of travelling far more pleasant. It was such a slog back from school for the holidays—you’d get off the train and still have hours to go, and they only ever sent the second-best carriage, not the one with modern springs and proper upholstery. That was reserved for the Duke and Duchess.”

“Naturally. It’s rather bleak round here.”

“It’s beautiful,” Alec said. “Or I think so, at least.”

“Eye of the beholder. I like landscapes where one can’t be seen for miles. I also like houses that one can leave slightly more easily than by a train that belongs to one’s host, or alternatively a two-hour slow passage down a hill where one may expect to find the police waiting to examine one’s pockets.”

“I did tell you it was inaccessible,” Alec said guiltily.

“I already knew, but there’s nothing like sight of the ground to clarify the problem. Don’t worry, I have all sorts of ideas. Are you ready for this?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Mmm.” Jerry didn’t push him. “And is there anything to fear in the guest list?”

“Death by anecdote, I should think,” Alec said, eliciting a bark of laughter that sent birds flying off the fence posts. They walked companionably up the incline, and Castle Speight came into view. Alec heard his companion’s soft hiss.

He’d forgotten what an imposing building it was. One did when one grew up somewhere, but he contemplated the building now with fresh eyes, and found himself rather embarrassed.

“Good Lord,” Jerry said. “How medieval.”

“Gothic Revival, actually. It’s the fourth castle on the site. The first was Norman. The second was destroyed by the Parliamentarians—we were Royalist—and the third more or less fell down. This one was built around 1794.”

“Mid-French Revolution. You have to wonder why our peasants weren’t busy at the guillotine as well. Look at it.”

Castle Speight was, architecturally, something of a monstrosity. The towers on the left of the main hall were broad and squat with stubby crenellations; those on the right resembled a Gothic cathedral with soaring arches, spires, and flying buttresses. Somehow, the heavy side entirely overwhelmed the attempt at grace. The building sat bleakly on the hilltop, glowering out over the valley with grey stone aggression.

“I don’t think it wants to be robbed,” Jerry said. “Well, life is hard. Do we enter by the steps?”

“I suppose we must. I always went in through the gatehouse but you are a guest. So am I, really.”

The great oak door was opened for them by a footman, and the butler was there to greet them with a deep bow. Alec recognised neither, which was no surprise; the Duchess did not retain staff long. He didn’t really recognise the hall, either.

The old threadbare tapestries and weapons had gone, replaced by oil paintings of horses, most of them Stubbs. The rugs were new; the furniture looked like Pugin’s work, finely wrought pieces rendered trivial by the echoing stone hall that demanded great hulking furniture. There had used to be a huge Jacobean carved dresser, and a suit of armour at the foot of the great stair.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s been redecorated.”

“Yes, Lord Alexander,” the butler informed him with a nicely judged inclination of the head. “All the main apartments have been entirely refurbished in the last five years under Her Grace’s direction. John will conduct you to your room.”

Alec wandered upstairs, following the footman like any guest, since his father was not available to be greeted. The busts and their pedestals had gone too, replaced by glass jars of stuffed birds and animals. As with the furniture downstairs they were excellent pieces, the creatures bright and clean and posed with striking beauty, but not quite right where they stood in the stone halls.

“She’s changed everything.” Alec felt numb. It was a peculiar thing to come home and discover so little of it left. He had not thought of Castle Speight with fondness in his years of exile, but he hadn’t wanted it all to be changed.

“It’s delightfully modern,” Jerry said with the faintest note of warning in his voice, and Alec pulled himself together and let the waiting footman show them to their rooms.

They were both in the Upper Corridor West, in adjoining guest bedrooms. The rooms he and his siblings had had as children were probably in holland covers. His bags had already been unpacked and his evening dress laid out, reminding him, rather jarringly, that Templeton Lane was acting as his valet as well.

There was hot water in the jug; it was past six. Alec washed off the smuts of the railway, plus a remaining trace of dried spunk on his cheek, with some relief. He got dressed in his new finery, and had just satisfied himself that he looked respectable when a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

It was Jerry, looking extraordinarily good in evening dress. He shut the door behind him. “All right?”

“Yes. Fine. No, not really. I don’t know why I thought it would be the same. It’s not my house; they can do as they please. But...”

“Why does it bother you?”

Alec wasn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t know. It’s been a certain way for a hundred and fifty years, but you might well think a fresh look was overdue. The history of the family...” He tailed off.

“What?”

“Mother,” Alec said. “That’s what’s gone. She’s gone, and now the place she lived, where I knew her, is gone. He took down the paintings of her long ago when the new Duchess came. There’s nothing left.”

He couldn’t say anything else. Jerry hesitated for a second, then came over. He put a cautious hand on Alec’s shoulder, the barest touch of comfort, and then he gave a very quiet sound of exasperation and pulled him into a one-armed hug. Alec held on, breathing deeply, face in Jerry’s shoulder.

He lifted his head after a moment, feeling rather self-conscious. Jerry was looking at him with a little frown.

“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry. It’s all rather much.”

“I know.” Jerry’s arm tightened slightly. “What’s the programme now?”

“We should go down for drinks soon.” He’d imagined on the train how they might spend the pre-dinner interval, and he wondered if Jerry wanted that. He didn’t in the slightest any more. What he wanted was to be held like this, Jerry’s arm strong and comforting around him, a tiny refuge from the bruising world outside.

“Whenever you’re ready. No hurry.” Jerry brushed a kiss over his cheekbones. “Ah, you poor bastard. This is not right.”

Alec tried for a snort. “Are you really offering sympathy because my father the Duke bought new furniture for his castle?”

“When you put it that way, no.” Jerry didn’t let go, all the same, and they stood together for a moment more until the clock chimed the half hour, and Alec disengaged himself with reluctance.

“We should go.”

Jerry contemplated him, frowned, and smoothed one of his eyebrows with a careful finger. “Tsk. Better.”

“I bet you comb yours.”

“And wax them. Come on, Lord Alexander, we’ve flats to kite.”

“We’ve what?”

Jerry grinned. “We’ve local dignitaries to meet, is what I said. Let’s go.”

“Jerry?” Alec caught his hand. “Thank you. You aren’t obliged to nursemaid me.”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“You’ve been far kinder to me than most people ever are. And, whatever happens, I wanted to tell you now—”

“Don’t,” Jerry said, voice harsh.

“Don’t what?”

“Anything. I’m not a good man, Alec. If I have redeeming features, they are few and far between. You deserve a great deal better than—than you’ve had, but don’t put me on a pedestal because I’m not as shitty as some others. And while I’m giving orders, stop telling yourself you ought to be stronger or more manly or feel less, or whatever it is now.” His fingers tightened on Alec’s. “You don’t need to be different. It would be a crying shame if you were.”

Will you still be saying that in a week? Alec didn’t ask, didn’t press for more. He hadn’t meant to push Jerry into any sort of admission, even a guarded one; he wished he hadn’t, given that any self-betrayal would inevitably be resented later. The thought of what might have been if only they could have met another way, without any of the theft and lies and treachery, was almost unbearably painful.

He released Jerry’s hand. “Let’s go down.”

***

THE DRAWING ROOM HAD been completely refurbished too, this time in French Style, with swags of rich red velvet, ornate decorative scrolls wherever they could be fitted in, and gilt. The mirrors, picture frames, tables, and chairs all gleamed gold; the place looked like a throne room.

“What a magnificent setting,” Jerry murmured. “Fit for kings.”

The Duke and Duchess had not yet descended. The drawing room held two gentlemen in their sixties, one tall and gaunt, the other shorter and giving evidence of a lifetime of good dinners, and a third, slightly younger man with a sun-darkened complexion and a somewhat tense air. There were four women, two dressed with suitable elegance for the setting. The third, in an aggressively plain dark brown gown, had a marked resemblance to the Duchess, and Alec realised she must be the sister, Miss Hackett. The last was an unremarkable woman in her mid-thirties with hair of an intermediate shade between brown and blonde, drably clad in dove-grey with a modest collar. She looked like the Platonic ideal of a single lady’s companion, like boredom on two sensibly-shod feet.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen,” Alec said, deciding he had to take the bull by the horns. “I’m delighted to meet you all. I’m Alexander. His Grace’s second son,” he felt compelled to add, in case none of them had heard his name before. He wondered whether to address Miss Hackett as “Aunt” and decided that would be overdoing the bonhomie.

There was a round of introductions, which identified the tall thin man as the retired Chief Constable Sir Paul Maitland (wife in green), the fat one as the retired businessman Mr. Wykeham Forbes (wife in blue) and the tanned one as Mr. Pelham (no wife). Alec received two fingers and an icy look from the Duchess’s sister, and a small inclination of the head from the younger woman, introduced as her companion Miss Roy.

They chatted awkwardly for a little while. Mr. Forbes was excessively friendly, and took to calling Alec “Lord Alex”. His wife wore what looked like a habitual pleasant smile but said little. Sir Paul clearly had a lifetime’s experience of municipal socialising: he made polite conversation of the kind that kept going for hours without ever veering into the personal or interesting. Jerry was pleasant but not nearly as charming as Alec knew he could be, and apparently happy not to attract attention. Miss Hackett sniffed disapproval whenever she found an opportunity; Miss Roy remained silent, but Alec felt her eyes on his face more than once.

It was awful. The party was too small to be made up of people with nothing to say to one another, and was all too obviously an exercise in ticking necessary guests off a list. Things could have been rescued by a charming hostess, but the Duke and Duchess did not come downstairs until almost half past seven. They greeted their guests with suffocating condescension and the Duke gave Lady Maitland his arm into dinner, causing Miss Hackett’s nostrils to flare a little.

The meal was excellently cooked; the wines well chosen. The conversation dragged on. His Grace pronounced on various political issues of the day and received agreement as no more than his due. When he’d finished, the Duchess observed to the table in general, “You will note that the castle has been much improved in recent years,” and embarked on a lengthy monologue enumerating the renovations. Alec had wondered if Jerry would lead the conversation to topics such as the Duchess’s jewels and the security precautions for the grand dinner. He didn’t, and nobody else mentioned the dinner either, presumably because they were all aware they were not in the group selected for that honour.

After dinner the ladies retired. Jerry asked the Duke about his racehorses, starting a sporting conversation that lasted for what felt like hours, considering that the group was too small for the remaining men to start a conversation of their own. By the end of it, Sir Paul was rather flushed with port, which he had consumed at a startling rate; Mr. Forbes evidently felt snubbed and irritated; Jerry was basking in the Duke’s approval thanks to an impressive body of knowledge about racing; and Alec was glazed with boredom. If he’d actually sacrificed his self-respect and his siblings’ love in order to win a place at this table, he was pretty sure he’d have needed to drink the decanter dry to prevent himself breaking down in tears.

They joined the women for a little more uninteresting chat. At ten o’clock precisely, the Duchess announced she was retiring, very much as though she’d been waiting for the chimes, and bade her guests to stay up and enjoy themselves as long as they chose. The Duke accompanied her out, and Mrs. Forbes let out a long, shallow breath as their hosts departed. “Well. We’ve two fours; would anyone care for a hand of whist?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Maitland said thankfully.

“I do not play cards,” Miss Hackett announced with a freezing look.

“Then we shall make up one four,” Mrs. Forbes returned, still with the pleasant smile. “Mr. Vane? Lord Alexander?”

Jerry glanced at the Maitlands and Mr. Forbes, none of whom looked willing to forego the chance of some entertainment. “I will deny myself the pleasure this time. A game of billiards, Alec?”

Alec accepted, and led the way to the billiards room. Jerry set the game up with swift movements. “One and then bed for me, I think.”

“Very wise. It was a long journey.”

Jerry hit the cue ball with some force, scattering balls. Alec took his shot and missed. Jerry made a winding gesture that clearly said, Hurry up, and potted the next four in a row. Alec didn’t bother trying after that, letting Jerry clear the table and replying at random to his idle chatter as he did so. He was rather more concerned with the icily murderous expression he read in Jerry’s dark eyes.

Jerry sent the last ball to its doom with a stab of the cue that came within a whisker of ripping the baize. “Bad luck, old fellow,” he announced. “Well, I’m for bed. What about a nightcap?”

Alec topped up their tumblers from the whisky decanter and followed him up the stairs. The whist game was still in full swing.

Jerry led the way to his own room, remarking, “Since we’re sharing Fanshaw, you might as well stay for that drink.” He rang the bell as soon as they entered.

Alec had wondered if his peculiar mood would be the precursor to something. To Jerry fulfilling his promise on the train, taking Alec over the billiard table or here, up against the door, whispering obscenities, making him writhe. He wanted that, painfully. He knew he wouldn’t get it.

He sipped whisky for Dutch courage until Templeton Lane arrived, a picture of the respectable upper servant. Lane murmured “Good evening, sir,” and shut the door.

“Anyone in the corridor?” Jerry asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Jerry knocked back a mouthful of whisky. “Gentlemen, I regret to announce that we’re fucked.”