“If I didn’t know better…” William began, warning in his tone, but was interrupted by Nick, who, recognizing the beginning of a political argument that he’d heard hundreds of times before, quickly brought the conversation back to safe ground.

“Well, it appears that London society isn’t nearly as concerned with Napoleon or impending war as they should be. This season is shaping up to be more elaborate than any in recent memory. Judging by the number of invitations I have already received, the mothers are out in full force…husband hunting before the season even begins.” Leaning back in his chair, he looked up at the ceiling. “I, for one, am running out of excuses to avoid the odious events.”

Kit, following his brother’s deft change of conversation, said, “Mmmm. It doesn’t help that Alex is coming out this year. I’ve already given up the idea that I’ll be able to avoid Mother’s nagging.” His tone shifted from resigned to inspired. “I’ve got it! Let’s get Alex married off as quickly as possible. That will make it easier for all of us!”

Nick spoke with dry humor, “I’m not sure it would make it easier for Alex.”

Kit feigned disappointment. “Nor her husband, I suspect.”

“I don’t expect many men will be too thrilled at the prospect of courting Alex, to be honest, what with having us to contend with,” Will said, then added, “I confess, the only thing I am looking forward to is terrifying her potential suitors.”

Kit chuckled. “It’s an additional benefit that, in terrifying them, we shall infuriate her.”

The three laughed, each in turn realizing that Blackmoor was silent, lost in thought and removed from the conversation. One hand propped on the window sash, his view into the dark garden obscured by the candlelight reflected in the glass, the young earl was miles away from his friends, distanced from their world and their conversation.

As the laughter died away, the three brothers looked at each other, and William leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees as he called his old friend’s name. “Blackmoor?” A quiet question, no response. “Blackmoor.” Firmer this time, still no response. “Gavin.” The given name sliced through the room and hit its target.

Blackmoor spun toward his friends, expression clouded and dark, with a curt “What is it?”

In the silence that followed, Nick rose and headed over to the sideboard to pour another glass of port. “You were worlds away from us.” He moved to the young earl, offering the glass. When Blackmoor took the drink, Nick folded his arms and leaned against the window sash, leveling his friend with a look. “‘What is it’ seems like something we should be asking, chap.”

Blackmoor swore silently under his breath and turned back toward the window. “Apologies. I seem to find myself with a great deal on my mind this evening. It makes me rather a rotten host, I’m afraid.”

“I was going to point that out myself, what with the remarkable billiard room and the exceptional port,” Kit spoke wryly from his seat across the room. “You’ll have to improve upon that if you’re going to have any success as an earl.”

In forced appreciation for his friend’s teasing, one side of Blackmoor’s mouth kicked up. “Well, that’s part of the problem, you see…I wasn’t supposed to become the earl just yet.”

Will leaned back in his chair and let out a long exhale. “No, you weren’t. It was insensitive of us not to recognize how difficult it must be for you to come to terms with all that has happened. We should apologize. Not you.”

The new earl looked at his friends and said, “No. You couldn’t have known that I received word this morning…” He paused, then plunged ahead. “The constable in Essex, along with several high-ranking members of the War Office, has concluded that my father’s death was accidental.” He stalked across the room to the desk, lifted a piece of paper from where it lay, and read aloud quickly and without emotion. “The earl was thrown by his horse, which, in the findings of this commission, most likely lost its footing in the rain. There is no indication of any foul play, and the commission finds that the death of Richard Sewell, sixth Earl of Blackmoor, was a tragic mistake borne sadly of inopportune time and location. The investigative team sends its sincere condolences to the late earl’s family, particularly the Dowager Countess and Earl of Blackmoor.”

Blackmoor’s movements were tightly controlled as he returned the letter to the desk. “That last Earl of Blackmoor, one assumes, is I.” He exhaled with what, in other circumstances, might have been described as the beginning of a laugh. “So that’s that, I gather.”

Nick, always the most sensitive of the Stafford sons, spoke cautiously. “Had you expected the findings to be different?”

Blackmoor met his friend’s eyes with a dark look and then redirected his gaze to the ceiling as he leaned against the desk. “To be honest? I don’t know what I had expected. My father was a master horseman. I was there the day he rode out onto the estate—I heard him tell my mother that he was going riding. I heard him explain that he was checking on the drainage system in the rain. I saw his face as he left the house. He was a man on a mission.”

In the silence that followed, William spoke. “Your father was a great man. He took every part of his life seriously. I believe he would have considered even that small task a vital one.”

“Of course, you’re right, Will.” Blackmoor looked down at his hands. “I suppose I just want to believe there was a reason for his death—something more important than a soggy pasture.