The terrace was too far away from the salon for James to make himself heard by yelling or knocking at the door. After a few minutes experimenting, he determined he could neither climb down to the service lane below, nor slip through a window. There was nothing for it but to wait.

It was a long, long wait. Some two, perhaps three hours later, when James was chilly and tired and sober enough to feel very sorry for himself, a servant entered into the lane below, and he managed to persuade her to rouse Mrs Partridge, who rescued him. When he heard that Benson had driven Emma and Grace home, he knew he had lost a battle, and knowing that, realized he was at war. He took the sleepy horses and his father's coach home and crawled into bed, chill and shivering. Somehow he could not sleep.

Benson's actions meant that he had another possible manner of ridding himself of Grace. Benson, it seemed, was still interested in Grace. Encourage his rivalry, and perhaps they would start it up again and Grace would turn James down. All the same, James did not like the idea. Even if he had been drunk when he met him, he was sure that his impression of Benson as a pompous prat was an accurate one. Besides, Benson had been meeting the opera singer on a balcony — that was low. It was one thing for a man to have a mistress — if the opera singer even merited the title — but it was quite another to meet her during an event under a female friend's roof. An if she were not his mistress, but a mere opportunity — well that was worse.

"I'm not jealous," James told himself. "I don't like Grace, so I've nothing to be jealous of. But the man simply isn't right for her."

He fell asleep to that consoling thought and was woken not many hours later by his mother. He stared blurrily at her through the fog of sleep. Dawn had hardly lightened the room. "What time is it? Is something wrong?"

"I thought you might know," Mrs Redwood said. "Mr Follett sent his coach over. He wants you and your father to attend him immediately." Her upper lip curled in distaste. "It is not yet breakfast."

It was only Mr Follet. Then nothing much was wrong after all, though no doubt James would have some explaining to do about last night.

"That's very bad manners of him," James said soothingly. "I suppose I'd better get dressed then."

He waited for his mother to leave the room, but instead she fixed him with a suspicious glare. James waited.

"Well?" Mrs Redwood demanded, losing patience first, as always, when they played this game.

"Well what?" James asked.

"What on earth is this all about?"

James carefully fixed his blandest look on his face. "I can't imagine."

Mrs Redwood's eyes narrowed but she said nothing and swept from the room. James breathed a sigh of relief; he could not forever put off the consequences of last night, but a cowardly, foolish streak inside him whispered that it was much better to put them off as long as he could.

He dressed and went down to the hall where his father was waiting, dressed in a cloak and carrying his stick. When they got in the carriage, Mr Redwood said drily, "Do you know what this is about, boy?" and James meekly lied, "No, Sir, I don't."

His father could not be kept in ignorance long. When they arrived at the Follett's house, the butler took them directly to Mr Follett's study. James just had time to register with surprise a skull standing in pride of place on the desk before Mr Follett snapped at his father, "What in the blazes have you let your son do?"

That was not how James had expected it to begin. He had not thought Mr Follet would be so angry; indeed, he had had no notion that Mr Follet had a temper.

Mr Redwood gave James a narrow look. "What has he done, Follett? What did he do?"

"He left Grace and Emma alone at Mrs Partridge's musicale last night. He went home — or who knows where — without them. George Benson brought the girls home in his curricle at one in the morning. On no account would I trust any of my daughters with a weasel like Benson! And last night, he had them completely alone with him for a quarter of an hour. Well, Redwood. Why'd he do it?"

Mr Redwood turned to James. "Is this true? Did you leave the musicale last night, and leave the girls alone?"

"No," James said. "It's all rather a..." he trailed off. Exposing that he had followed Benson, interrupted a rendezvous, and then been locked out on the balcony by him would certainly confirm Mr Follet's view that Benson was a weasel, but it would also prove James to be a terrible fool. And besides, even if he had every reason to loathe Benson, it simply wasn't done to expose another man's affairs, let alone besmirch the reputations of the women he had them with.

"James?" prompted Mr Redwood.

"The truth is it's all rather embarrassing," James said. "I went out for some air in the intermission, and somehow the door shut behind me and I couldn't get back in the house again. I was locked out half the night. I didn't mean to put the women in such a position."

Mr Follet narrowed his eyes. "I never suspected you of stupidity before, boy."

"I may have had had a little too much to drink," James said.

"Too much to drink?" Mr Redwood turned on James. "That would explain it! How dare you, young man, get drunk with two young women under your care?"

Too late, James realized he had exposed part of his ruse to his father. He hastily tried to recover. "I... I did not mean to. There was champagne at the musicale and... well, I had a brandy beforehand. Somehow, it got to me."

"Drunk!" Mr Redwood repeated scornfully. "By God, you are my only son, my only living child, and there are times, James, when I am ashamed to say so. And I could be so proud— I want to be proud of you."

Bringing up the ghosts of siblings past always made James feel more resentful than guilty. He set his jaw. "Both girls reached home safely. Did they not, Sir?"

Mr Follett shrugged. "I believe a great deal of harm has been done."

"What?" Alarm intensified the queasiness in James's belly. "But nothing could happen to them in Mrs Partridge's house. And Benson was there to take them home—"

"Exactly the harm," Mr Follet said. "You may not know this, young Redwood, but Grace and that curate were engaged, once upon a time. It was a silly little love affair, conducted by the silly little girl she was at the time. There is yet the danger that she could once more imagine herself in love with him, particularly if you do not treat her the way a woman expects to be treated — to humour her whims, to defer to her temper, to shelter her from the dangers of the world."

"If Grace were to fall in love with Benson, then I'd wish her happy," James said. "Much better that than she marries me without loving."

Some primitive emotion flared in Mr Follet's dark eyes. "It would be the very worst thing that could happen to her."

"Why? What's so weaselly about Benson anyway?" James was quite prepared to accept that Benson was a weasel, after last night, but he did wish to know why Mr Follet thought so too. "I've no reason to like the man, but I'd like to know why he's so odious to you."

"His character is lacking," Mr Follet said primly. "But that is by the by. It is your part, as her future husband, to make sure that she develops a proper affection for you before your marriage. That means remaining by her side when you are together in public. It means not giving men like Benson the opportunity to accost her."

James could see his curiosity was not to be answered. "Well, I see no harm in Benson taking them home last night. They both arrived safely, so the matter, as far as I can see, is over."

"It is not over," Mr Follet said. "I see now that there is a need for Grace to leave Richmond, far from Benson and anything that might remind her of him. She is going to her sister's house in Gloucestershire for the week. You will go with her. Mr Montague is having a hunting party. You will join it."

"Gloucestershire? Sir, I do not hunt."

"You will learn. Besides, in the solitude of the country, Grace will have no distractions from falling in love with you. You will play your part, and make it happen."

James was too taken aback to respond.

Mr Redwood frowned. "When did you come up with this idea, Follet?"

"Last night, when Grace came home with that weasel."

"Leaving James alone with Grace for such a time could be dangerous."

"Not alone. Ellen will let nothing untoward happen. And Mr Montague always has been a very reasonable and staid gentleman. Grace will be quite safe in their company."

"That's not what I mean," Mr Redwood said. "After last night, I'm not sure Grace should be put in a position where she might have to rely upon James. He has proven himself unreliable."

"Grace will have her sister," Mr Follet repeated. "No harm will come to her. And I tell you — she must not be near that man. If he is in London, he may very well attempt to run into her again. For all I know, last night was no coincidence."

Mr Redwood looked doubtful but nodded. "Very well then. And you will apologize to Grace and her sister for your actions last night, James."

"Grace is waiting in the drawing room," Mr Follet said. "I will relay the apology to Emma myself."

It was not much of an apology then, James thought, but he shrugged went downstairs into the drawing room. Grace was sitting by the fire, looking pale and irritable. Perhaps it was meeting Benson that had done it to her. James kicked at the carpet.

"I heard Benson drove you home?" he said.

"Yes." Grace spared him the briefest of glances. "My father has told you about Gloucestershire?"

"He has. I dislike the idea." James could not understand the coldness of her tone. "You arrived home safely? Benson didn't... do anything?"

A thin line appeared between Grace's eyebrows. "A man like Mr Benson does not do things."

James could have told her otherwise, but slandering Benson would only make him look jealous — and besides, it would only needlessly hurt Grace's feelings to hear that about a man she had once been in love with.

"I'm glad you're home safe. I'm really very sorry about last night. I— I made a stupid mistake and—"

"It doesn't matter, Mr Redwood," Grace said icily. "I am busy. I must pack for Gloucestershire. So, I imagine, must you."

She passed him on her way to the door. James caught her hand, surprised. "Grace?"

She shook him off. "Don't talk to me. Don't."

And then she left. James shook his head in bewilderment. After all his efforts over the last few weeks, he had hardly won more than a repressed frown from her. But last night, for something that was not even his fault — not entirely, anyway — she was angry.

Perhaps he would get what he wished after all. Only he did not want to have Benson to thank for it.

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A/N 2021-06-16: Does James's reactions and what he says this chapter make sense? This is another chapter that, thanks to subsequent edits, ended up a bit patchwork and I'm not sure I quite got him right here.