think it his professional duty to adopt the tastes and demeanor of a man four decades older.
Colin focused his attention on the letter.
Dearest Brightling,
Life in Cornwall is idyllic. Genevieve is the most marvelous woman in the world, and matrimony is very agreeable. I urge you to join Genevieve and me here. Christmas in Cornwall promises to be magical.
Colin shuddered. There were sufficient references to Christmas these days to not want to happen upon adulations of it in letters. Sandridge had never suffered from sentimentality before, and Colin attributed that change to the change all happily married men seemed to adopt.
Colin refused to visit Cornwall until after Twelfth Night had safely ended, and people were once again eagerly anticipating spring and summer and not filling their homes with greenery and red ribbons.
If he wanted to experience Christmas, he could return to his estate in Devon. Certainly, his sisters-in-law were sufficiently accomplished in the art of flinging red-and-green decorations over every table and sideboard. Even the mirrors and candelabras were not left untouched from their holiday enthusiasm.
Colin returned his attention to his friend’s letter.
I have a favor to ask of you. Genevieve’s father is in a bit of a pickle, and I suspect Sir Seymour is behind it. Would you pop into Sir Seymour’s library and see if there are any financial documents there about Genevieve’s father’s estate?
Sir Seymour is being his typical impossible self but, this time, we’re talking about extortion. I’ll pick up the papers when Genevieve and I return to London next month.
Colin read the rest of the letter quickly. Sandridge was appropriately apologetic about asking Colin for this task. Still, they’d fought in war together. If Sandridge needed help, Colin would give it.
“Niles, I’m going to Sir Seymour’s ball.”
His manservant’s eyebrows jolted up, but he quickly adjusted his expression to its customary indifference. “Very well, Your Grace. Shall I inform Reynolds to prepare the carriage?”
Colin glanced toward the window. The wind rattled against the windows, as if determined to shatter the glass, now it had practiced by stripping the leaves from all the trees. Still, no rain pummeled the glass panes. For England, this was the very best of weather.
“I’ll walk,” Colin said.
Niles grimaced, and his carefully pruned mustache appeared slightly less pristine.
“It’s not raining, after all.”
“I suppose you can take advantage of that anomaly,” Niles said in a grudging manner.
“Yes.”
Niles bowed, then removed Colin’s evening clothes from the wardrobe.
“Oh, better not do that,” Colin said.
“Your Grace?”
Colin joined Niles. “I wouldn’t want Sir Seymour to know I’ve been at the ball. That’s the sort of thing that a man might find curious.”
“Excuse me?” Niles’s eyes goggled.
“I’m anticipating he’ll feel disgruntled tomorrow, and I wouldn’t want him to think of me.”
“So you don’t want to change to evening dress?”
“Just something simple.” Colin removed a plain suit.
“Very well,” Niles said coldly.
Niles fetched Colin’s top hat and frockcoat, and soon, Colin was strolling toward Sir Seymour’s townhouse. The sky had long ago darkened, and the wind continued its ferocious bluster, as if it were determined to make up for the temporary lack of rain or snow. Still, Colin enjoyed the fresh air and the golden light that streamed from the surrounding buildings.
London was the very best place in the world. Colin smiled and imagined blossoms once again adorning the trees, a consistently crisp blue sky, and warm weather that negated the need for greatcoats. The city would be filled with wide-eyed debutantes, and Colin would be happy to introduce them to all the city’s delights.
Colin had never considered himself old, but he was now thirty. His closest friends were all married. They’d done so rapidly this year. Now, only Hammett was left, but it was hard to imagine him marrying. Hammett was too fond of boxing. He was never found at London balls, and he certainly would not make an exception during this, the most unpleasant time of year.
Soon, snow would fall. People who should never sing would go door to door and thrust their untrained, unpolished voices onto perfect strangers. Soon, it would be too cold to even go outside, and Cook would be occupied making strange dishes he only wheeled out for this time of year. All music would change to sentimental German melodies. Finally, someone would drag in a yule log, as if they considered a large, burning piece of wood an improvement to life.
No, Colin was anxious for this dreadful season to be over.
Colin scrutinized Sir Seymour’s townhouse. Unfortunately, the street was filled with carriages and well-adorned