"You choose," Byrne grunted. "I don't bloody care which."

"Well," Fletcher sniffed eyeing the cuff links in either hand. "This is a marked change from last night. I'd thought you were finally taking an interest in your appearance, but I suppose that was a fleeting thing."

Last night, he'd given a damn how he looked. Last night, he had a reason to look his best. That reason was still there and, if their new guest hadn't arrived, he'd be dressing with care for her. This afternoon had its setbacks, but there'd been some forward motion as well. He'd been almost gleeful before Reginald Goddamn Browning arrived.

Now, he felt tempted to have dinner in his room because he was still here. It better not last beyond supper. It was one thing for Tony to invite Oliver Browning to stay to even out the numbers, as he said. But there was no reason for Reginald Browning to stay beyond a meal. Really, there had been no reason to stay beyond a drink, but Tony's damned bred-in manners had interfered.

"What was I to do?" Tony shook his head. "He was here far too close to supper."

"You should have pointed him to the nearest inn or tavern." Byrne had confronted Tony earlier in his adjoining chamber while he shaved.

"I truly don't understand." Tony stared at him, tilting his head, half-covered in shaving soap, like a confused, but rabid dog. "First, you seemed to object to Oliver Browning's presence..."

"I never said I—"

"You didn't have to. Between your early protests, weak as they were, and the way you avoid even looking at him, it's quite obvious there's acrimony there. I thought you might confide the reason to me at some point, but that doesn't seem to be something you do. And now Lord Browning is staying for supper," he sneered as he shaved, "and you are nearly apoplectic."

"I am not... this isn't... You don't like him either." Byrne pointed a finger at Tony. "You're the one who said he was a slimy little bugger and told me all about his—"

"Yes, but it's more than that, isn't it?" Tony wiped his face and turned fully to Byrne. "Perhaps I would have known not to ask him to stay if you'd told me what I needed to know, but you didn't."

"As the host, you don't need to know every—"

"As your friend, I think I should know at least some of the many things you hide if I am to help you."

"I don't need your help with... There's nothing to help with."

"You are so..." Tony trailed off on a groan. "God, even getting you drunk, I barely got a damned thing out of you."

"Was that what you were trying to do the other night?" Byrne scoffed.

"No. I was looking for some company in my misery, but it would be nice — for once — to get back a little of what I give. You know every damned thing about me and I barely know—"

"I don't have time for all this." Byrne started for the door. "I need to dress for dinner, too."

"He asked about you, too, you know."

Byrne stilled. "In what way?"

"In several ways. He wanted to know how long I've known you, how we met, whether you can be trusted..."

"That rat bastard."

"See? I know there's more there," Tony said triumphantly. "Damn it, Byrne, just tell me now and I'll toss him out on his ear."

"There's nothing there. I simply do not like this... stranger questioning me." Byrne composed himself and turned to Tony. "All I know of him is what you told me. And you certainly had nothing good to say about him. I am only surprised that you would ask him to stay, knowing that."

"Perhaps because his brother is already here, it was nearly supper time, and I have manners," Tony sighed.

"Very well, then. It's not as if I care," Byrne said stiffly.

"Wonderful, then. I suppose we'll have a very merry supper," Tony said, just as stiffly.

Byrne would have a much merrier supper in his room. Then again, him requesting that might lead his servants to believe he's ill. And Mrs. Stern would be back to her duties at sunset. She'd surely have a noxious concoction prepared as her very first task.

Byrne stared at the jacket Fletcher was now holding out. It had tails. "Isn't that a little formal for a simple supper?"

"Not at all. A gentleman often puts forth his best on a Saturday evening. Just because I have allowed you to be become so slipshod does not mean I have no standards."

Byrne glanced at the jacket, the waistcoat, the cuff links, the highly polished boots that were nearly new... They were all among his best, locked away and packed in tissue paper, only brought out for the highest of social occasions.

Byrne could only think of one reason Fletcher was bringing them out now. "You know he's here."

"He?" Fletcher pretended to be confused.

"You've been helping dress Oliver. He must have told you. That or the servants—"

"Very well. I might have some idea that we have an extra guest tonight." Fletcher helped him into his jacket, brushing it off with care.

"I don't care what he thinks of me."

"But I do." Fletcher turned him around, lifting his chin and starting on his cravat. "Mind you, I never cared much for Master Reginald's good opinion—"

"Don't you mean Lord Browning?" Byrne sneered.

"And so it was, once his father inherited. Anyhow, his regard was — though I would never say so myself — more like a mark of ill favor."

"Seems like you're sayin' it just fine," Byrne said with a sharp glance. "So why should I dress to impress a man like that?"

"Regardless, I shall give him nothing to say about your attire if I can help it. And the fact that he's in wrinkled traveling clothes while you are dressed properly for supper..." Fletcher smiled. "Well, that's rather satisfying to me."

Byrne didn't quite agree. He truly didn't care what Reginald Browning thought about his attire, his presence here, nor anything else. Though he would rather like to be a fly on the wall when Browning... when all the Brownings found out all he'd done, that didn't mean he cared what they thought of him. He only cared that they would know it was him, that he was the instrument of their fall...

He shouldn't savor the thought, not yet. His work was not nearly done and the business in Coton was not turning out as well as his other endeavors. It still galled him — the way that everything he'd touched had turned to gold except this. And why?

He'd built himself up from a bastard sheep farmer to a man so powerful even the elite who wished to reject him could not. He'd built factories that turned a profit while paying the workers handsomely, built housing they could afford, had inspectors that made certain his managers treated them well. God, he even made sure they had breakfast and lunch on his time. These are things he was told would cut into his earnings, yet it all worked out. Everything he did always worked out.

It galled him he couldn't have this — the reason for it all, the prize at the end of everything.

No, he wasn't giving up. He still had time. He'd go to Coton again on Monday. He'd convince the remaining hold-outs. This, like everything else, would come out in his favor.

That thought gave him a small measure of comfort as he joined the party in the library before supper. He pointedly ignored Lord Browning, who was deigning to converse with Lord Swinton and no one else. Mr. Walford didn't seem to care much, even though he was in their group. He'd add to the conversation here and there, not seeming to notice when Browning cut him off. Perhaps, as a mere mister, and a member of the upper middle class, he was used to such dismissal from the nobility, but Byrne felt rather offended for him... until he remembered that he was supposed to be ignoring Lord Browning.

He turned to find his youngest brother, tucked into the corner, staring into a glass of brandy, but not drinking it. The last two nights he'd been here, Oliver had been rather sociable, much to his annoyance. He wasn't the life of the party, by any means, but he'd at least conversed upon Mrs. Baddeley's health and about the dangers of colds, sharing his thoughts on the new science of germs as the seed of disease and the importance of cleanliness. Yet, with his elder brother here, he seemed to want to fade into the wallpaper.

Turning his attention to Miss Crewe as she entered should have been more pleasant if she did not arrive arm-in-arm with Mary Hartley. Now that she'd finally admitted to him that she didn't consider the girl a friend at all, he had to wonder why she was tolerating her.

Then again, he was entertaining his odious brother at a supper he was paying for, so who could say what was tolerable?

If he wanted to talk to anyone, it would be her... if she weren't attached to Miss Hartley.

Yes, they'd left things on an uncertain note after their little interlude this afternoon, but he was by no means discouraged. Now that he knew her family might be an obstacle, he was determined to remove that obstacle... Well, not remove it. But he could certainly allay any possible fears. That was a task for tomorrow morning, however, and he would think about it then.

Tonight, he simply needed to survive this dinner... if it ever started.

He wasn't one who prattled on much, but he felt it keenly tonight, the lack of anyone to talk to. Lord Browning, as the new guest, had attracted the other gentlemen. The ladies were gathered together. He certainly wasn't equal to a conversation with the chaperons touting their charges. They'd stopped bothering with him after the first few nights anyway, for some reason. And Tony, the one person he could usually depend on to speak to him when no one else did, was still miffed after their earlier conversation.

And he didn't see why. Yes, Tony was his friend, but that didn't mean he should do ridiculous things like tell him every detail of his life, confide his troubles, and ask him what he should do about them. Friends were there for drinks and nights on the town and certainly not for confiding in. Men, especially men of The Ton, were only his friends to a certain point. And though he liked Tony best of the lot, that didn't mean he trusted him with the circumstances of his birth.

It was one thing to be an Irishman, even a rich one. It was another to be one who'd started his life on a sheep farm. But to be a known bastard...

He'd be uninvited to every party that currently sought him. He wouldn't even be welcome at a party such as this.

As he glanced at Reginald Browning again, that seemed more like a blessing than a curse.

***********************

Emilia cursed her luck as Mary took the seat next to her, having switched with Mrs. Fernside. With their new guest, they were seated by rank again, the ladies descending from Sir Anthony and the gentlemen with Mrs. Baddeley. Mary should have been sat next to Miss Poole, but Mary had begged to be near her dear friend Prudence.

Emilia wasn't certain what had gotten into Mary Hartley tonight, but she seemed committed to this pretense that they were fast friends who didn't wish to be parted. She was trying to decide if Mary believed Emilia was some sort of ticket to a closer bond with the other girls, as she'd seemed very miffed about being left out of last night's festivities. Or perhaps Mary was just growing lonely without Miss Marbury hanging upon her every word. Miss Marbury had been glued to Miss Poole and Lady Adele since this morning.

Even coming down the stairs, after dressing, Mary had no harsh words for Emilia about her dress being too ostentatious, her hair being too grand. She didn't even chide Emilia when she rushed ahead down the stairs, saying a real lady didn't walk with such haste. She simply asked her to wait, then took her arm again, asking her if she thought it would be lamb or beef for supper.

"I don't even care which. I am absolutely famished," Mary said. Emilia had, more than once, heard Mary claiming that appetites were for the lower classes.

Yet she was strangely glad to be with Mary and away from Miss Prudence. Hell, she'd even been relieved when Mary interrupted them before.

The look of hurt on Prudence's face after Emilia said they were not friends...

She didn't like to think of that. She didn't even mean to say it so harshly, but it was true. Miss Prudence Crewe had always felt more like an adversary than a friend. She was always the one who gainsaid her, even when Emilia was following Lady Crewe's orders. She made everything difficult whereas Charity...

She wished so much that Charity would visit Yorkshire more often.

Charity respected her. She made Emilia feel like she was important, like her work mattered. She soaked up every bit of knowledge Emilia gave her and asked for more. Even as hard as it was to leave Charity behind in Scotland, Emilia knew she'd taught the girl all she could and that she would remember and respect every bit of it.

Miss Prudence, however, would spend the better part of an hour comparing a necklace to a collar for a slave, trying to argue that she should wear boots rather than slippers for safety, even if they clashed horribly with her dress, and acting as if dressing properly for dinner was the worst torture a person could endure.

How was she supposed to consider such a damned difficult girl a friend?

Yet how was she supposed to forget the hurt look in her eyes when Emilia declared they were not friends?

"So who is this one?" Mary leaned toward her. "This is the real Browning, is it not? The heir?"

Emilia glanced at their new guest. She'd barely noted him, really, with everything else on her mind. But he was Oliver's elder brother, she'd heard. "I suppose he is. I know very little about him."

"Nonsense," Mary chirped. "Did you not spend most of today talking to Mr. Browning?"

"Yes, but Mr. Browning had nothing to say about his brother." Really, the most he'd said of his family, on the whole, was that they had little patience for his passion for medicine.

"Well, he is Lord Browning, and the heir to an earldom," Mary said, staring rather baldly at the man. "He's the best prospect we've seen," she said, as if they were cohorts on the matter. "He's also quite handsome, is he not?"

"I have no ready opinion," Emilia said, once again, wondering why Mary would want her thoughts. But, for her part, she did not think him handsome. His brother, while a portly fellow, which was never in fashion, had a much more open and kindly countenance and she preferred him. Mr. Browning's smiles came easily and seemed genuine. She'd not spent much time studying Lord Browning. They'd not even been formally introduced. But she had yet to see him smile.

She wondered it he was capable of it. His brow seemed to be in a constant state of dissatisfaction. He looked nothing like his brother. He actually looked more like...

Her gaze was drawn to Mr. Byrne, despite her chiding herself for it. She had sworn she would look at him as little as possible tonight. Looking at him might lead to thinking of him, and thinking of him was futile. But it was hard to help. He was very well-dressed tonight, in his black breeches and tailed jacket. She did prefer him in blue, which brought out his eyes, but this look was also very striking.

Despite Mary's insistence that this farce would end at this ridiculous masquerade ball, she wanted to end it sooner. The sooner he knew she was not a proper prospect for marriage, the sooner he would stop tempting her, stop luring her to a life she could not live.

But she could not draw her gaze away from him now, glancing between him and Lord Browning. Their coloring was different, but there was something in their brows, in their noses, that... Well, if she'd only just met them, she'd swear that they were brothers rather than Lord Browning and Mr. Browning.

She shook the ridiculous thought away. Really, didn't most of these men look the same? Their clothes and haircuts were too similar. It was much nicer to be a lady, where there was so much more variety in their clothes, their hair, their accessories and accoutrements. It must be very limiting, being a gentleman. 

Still, while Lord Browning might be the most illustrious at this table in rank, he didn't look it. He wasn't even properly dressed for supper.  A lady would never be accepted at a formal supper in less than formal attire, yet a man could attend in such a disheveled state with no one chiding him.

Miss Prudence often railed against such things. Usually, Emilia rolled her eyes, but perhaps she could see the girl had a point. The difference for Emilia was that she believed everyone should dress properly.

"Are you enjoying the côtelettes de veau, Lord Browning?" Mrs. Baddeley asked.

Considering the man had yet to smile, even when sampling the excellent main course, Emilia expected him to say something awful. She wasn't sure why. There was just something about him that made her expect the worst.

"As fine as I ever had," Lord Browning said, surprising her. "And the sauce pairs with them nicely. You must have a French chef, Sir Anthony."

Tony glanced up, chuckling slightly. "I assure you, I have no Frenchmen hiding away here. But I shall be sure Mrs. Doyle receives your compliments."

"You employ an Irish?" Lord Browning raised a brow.

"An Irish." Even without his incredulous tone, something about that phrasing made the hairs on Emilia's neck stand up.

"Is there something wrong with that?" Tony asked, his smile fading.

"Certainly not. But you must tell your peers the secret," Lord Browning said, smiling as he stuffed another bit of meat in his mean little mouth. "If you can get them to work, then perhaps the rest of us can. They are notoriously lazy."

Emilia glanced at the footmen, also the butler hovering near. With names like Sean and Seamus and Mr. Higgins, she knew they were not enjoying what they heard, yet they didn't flinch. But she could see the offense in their eyes.

She reluctantly tossed a glance to Mr. Byrne as well, wishing he would meet her eyes now. She wasn't sure why or what good it would do, but she wanted him to know that not everyone thought the Irish were...

"Lazy?" Tony laughed, though it seemed forced. "Certainly not. I've never known a house to run more smoothly. And the staff here is more Irish than not."

"Well, perhaps they've been in England long enough to learn... or to un-learn their own ways," Lord Browning said, glancing up from his plate and smiling... at Mr. Byrne across the table. Emilia couldn't help but see the latter grip his knife. "Such a barbaric people. It's a good thing we didn't leave them to rule themselves. Even now, they still keep speaking their nonsense language and worshiping their Catholic idols."

Tony set his fork down and opened his mouth...

"I think the Irish are a very resilient people," Emilia found herself saying before he could speak. "I think it's a sign of strength that they speak and worship as they wish, despite those who try to force them away from it."

Lord Browning glanced up at her now. "Do you have such disdain for your own people?"

"Not at all. I think my own people should be free to live as they wish," Emilia said, "and let others do the same."

"Really, Prudence!" Mary chided. "I'm sure Lord Browning meant no ill toward the Irish."

"I'm certain he did," Emilia said, not playing whatever game Mary had decided upon. This man had nothing but ill intent to anyone, and she had no intention of pretending otherwise.

"Miss Prudence Crewe, aren't you?" he sneered. Lord Browning seemed to have also done away with his pretense at civility. "I heard about you being... opinionated. Shame, that. Such a pretty package to hide such... unpleasantness inside."

"I don't see what's so unpleasant about being a woman of strong opinions," Emilia countered, wishing Prudence Crewe herself was here to see this. She might even be proud.

Mary Hartley laughed then, as if this was no more than dinner table banter. "I'm so sorry, Lord Browning, that you must put up with my very opinionated friend. We quite despair of her!"

Emilia was ready to challenge that claim of friendship when Lord Browning challenged Mary first.

"And who are you?" he asked.

"I... I'm Mary Hartley," she said, as if this answered everything.

"Yes, but who are you?" he asked. "We've actually not been introduced."

That really wasn't Mary's fault. The man had resisted being introduced to most of the party.

"I come from Yorkshire," Mary said, smiling. "From Pickering. My father is a very important man."

"A lord, is he?" Lord browning asked. "Earl, Viscount, Baron?"

"Well... no," Mary answered, her smile faltering.

"Knighted?" he asked.

"No," Mary said, her smile disappearing.

"The gentry, then." Lord Browning laughed and shook his head. "Then why are you speaking to me?"

Emilia would never have imagined a day when she pitied Mary Hartley but, at that moment, she did.

Mary stiffened in her chair. "I was simply attempting to joke about my friend, Miss Crewe. But I believe I quite agree with her. The Irish are... are a very merry people, full of songs and stories. You should not speak of them so."

Emilia was not pleased to have such an ally. Really, if Lord Browning had not belittled her, Mary would have continued to defend him.

Mr. Byrne laughed then, the sound stark and bitter in the silence of the table. "Yes, so very merry. We have to be, don't we? We'd never survive it otherwise." He stood then. "I think I've had my fill tonight," he said, striding from the table.

Emilia stared after him, wishing she could follow.

*******************

More to come! Sorry y'all had to deal with Reginald. He's a grade-A douche!

Thanks for your indulgence, with the last two updates being smaller than normal. I just had limited time to write with my real-life circumstances being so busy. I was glad to get a bit more time this week and, hopefully, I'll have even more next week.

Thanks for sticking by me! Feel free to leave a like or comment... or both if you're feeling sassy!