Byrne considered going into breakfast, but the minute he approached the door and heard Tony laughing loudly about something, he thought better of it. The noise was not appealing. And it wasn't as if any food appealed to him at the moment, either. Even the smells in the kitchen had made him feel as if he might cast up his accounts... until he saw Miss Crewe, that is, and immediately forgot it all.

It was best leave Tony to make his proposal, be summarily rejected, of course, then he could set his sights on another, possibly within the day. Tony was never one to wallow for long.

As much as he believed Tony deserved to have his chance, Miss Crewe seemed no more inclined toward him today than yesterday. He just hoped she wouldn't find herself another closet to hide in. She'd do better to get her refusal out of the way sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, something Miss Crewe said was weighing on his mind. Not that he didn't tend to mull over her every word, but her lamenting over Evie's workload had caused him some concern. She was a good girl. Even from her first interview, when he balked at hiring one so young, she insisted she would work twice as hard as one older and three times as long. And it was true, from what the other servants said. Every bit of work Evie was given, she insisted she wanted more. He knew how that went. People often took advantage. He would not be that sort of employer. If she wanted to learn the skills of a lady's maid, he'd rather pave her way than stand in it.

And the fact that Miss Crewe might be charmed by him taking her words seriously didn't hurt. Perhaps by the time he came back, his own negotiations could begin in earnest. He was certainly looking forward to them.

He signaled Higgins as he entered the hall, feeling rather buoyed. "I'll need the carriage or the cart, whichever can be readied first." He stilled. "No. My horse." Emir was probably as eager for the exercise after all this rain as Byrne was.

Higgins straightened. "Of course. Shall I call Fletcher to get your—"

"No. It's warm enough to forego a coat, I think."

Higgins chuckled. "I'm not sure Mr. Fletcher would agree."

"Whether he agrees or not, I'd rather no pomp and circumstance for a simple trip to the village."

"To Coton?"

Byrne glanced up. That wasn't Higgins. It was Oliver Browning. 

Byrne stiffened, his good mood evaporating immediately. "I don't see any need for you to be apprised of my comings and goings."

Browning drew nearer as Higgins went off, damn him. "I was only wondering. I hear your time there was... not successful so far."

Byrne squinted at him. "And where did you hear that?"

Browning glanced down. "One hears things."

"Well, in case you want to send word to your father, I'm going into Linton to hire a laundress." He moved to the door, deciding he'd rather wait in the drive.

"My father?" Browning followed, of course. "Why would I—"

Byrne turned sharply. "Let's leave the pretense behind. Do you think I don't know the reason you're here?"

Browning shook his head. "My reasons are not—"

"Or am I to believe you did not come here by design?"

Browning's face hardened a little. "Are you not here by design as well? Sir Anthony seems to think you his friend, but you are using this party to—"

"I am his friend." Byrne bristled, moving a bit closer to him. "As for this party, practically every servant here and every morsel of food has been provided by me. Believe me, if anyone is being made use of, it's myself."

Browning glanced down. "I shall admit it. I did come here by design, or rather in hopes I'd be taken in at least for the night. I didn't expect to stay, but this is... it's a good thing," Browning said, lifting his chin. "But what of your reasons for being here, which are not to throw a party at all, are they?"

"Funny, that." Byrne glanced around. "Seems a party is being thrown."

"Very well, then. It's not the sole reason." Browning's expression changed, softened perhaps. "I know why you are here. I know what you are trying to do and I beg you to stop."

"What do you imagine I'm doing?" Byrne kept his own expression studiously blank.

"You can build it somewhere else," Browning said, not answering directly, "away from the village. The smoke polluting the air will—"

Byrne cut him off, "Ah, so you care so deeply for the villagers? And your father's interests have nothing to do with it?"

"I have told my father nothing. If he finds out what you are planning, it won't be from me."

"He sent you to—"

Browning shook his head. "I came here on my own. I haven't told my father anything about your plans. And I do care deeply about Coton and the people in it. I don't think they deserve to be cruelly cast out—"

"They have been given generous offers, whether they take them or not. There's nothing cruel about it," Byrne growled before opening the door, relieved that Emir was saddled and waiting so he could be done with this blasted, very much unwanted conversation.

Yet Browning still dogged his steps. "You are better than this."

"You do not know me," Byrne scoffed.

"But I do. I know more about you than anyone else, save Fletcher. I've kept watch. I've saved the paper when your name appears. I see the good you have done. It is precisely why I think there is hope that—"

"Ah, yes." Byrne turned sharply on the gravel drive. "The good doctor told me all about how you pretended to sing my praises. Whatever your motive for that, I am not so easily flattered."

"I have no motive but—"

Byrne drew back. "You sent him, didn't you?"

"Doctor Allendale?"

"To the meeting yesterday, as your agent," Byrne went on. "You've been seen out and about with him often. Whatever you ordered him to—"

Browning looked close to laughing. "I order Doctor Allendale to do nothing. It's the other way 'round, if you must know. I am his... apprentice of sorts." Browning lowered his gaze, shaking his head. "It's not official, and it certainly doesn't count toward my studies. It's just for my own learning experience. If Father even allows me to study medicine, I'd rather be ahead than behind by the time he might be convinced."

Byrne stared at Browning. He seemed so earnest. Byrne knew by now that becoming a doctor was considered beneath even a second son, but would the Earl truly keep his son from something he truly...

He did not care. Whatever Oliver Browning did had no impact on him. "It seems we both have secrets from our... father," he spat the word. "Let's keep it that way." Byrne got on his horse, ready to leave all this behind.

"It doesn't have to be that way." Oliver grabbed his bridle. Emir took exception and the young man backed away before speaking. "You've rejected me at every turn, sent back my letters and—"

"Pardon me if I have little interest in reading your letters," Byrne said coldly. "With what happened after the first, when you lured me into his—"

"I was a child!" Oliver cried out. "I didn't know what he was planning! I—"

"I will hear no more of your excuses. Good day, Mr. Browning."

Oliver caught Emir's reins again. "Wait! I have something for you!" The horse seemed to allow it, however Byrne protested. "I brought it in the hopes—"

"Enough! I want nothing from you, including your presence here. Do not mistake me. I am tolerating it, but that won't be for long if you do not cease this." Byrne leaned down to meet his eyes. "Do not speak to me. Do not seek me out. I recommend you steer clear of me or you will find yourself out of this house, no matter what Sir Anthony says. Are we understood?"

Oliver Browning stared up at him for a long while, then nodded. "You are a lot like our Father, you know. I rather hoped not."

Byrne stared after him as he turned and stalked back through the front door. That was the last thing he'd ever want to hear, but it was worth it if his supposed brother had left him at last.

Emir started off when he heard a voice... yet another unwelcome one. He stilled his horse.

"Sir! I cannot allow this!" He turned to find Fletcher rushing out the same door, a coat fluttering in his hands. "For you to rush about half-unclothed is—"

"It is warm enough. I am going to the village to hire a laundress, not to tea with the damn vicar!"

"A laundress?" Fletcher drew back, clutching his coat nervously. "From the village?"

"Did I not just say that?"

"Perhaps I should accompany you to be certain her skills are—"

"Oh, no. I've had enough of you," Byrne growled.

"Yes, obviously. You dressed without me this morning," Fletcher sniffed, eyeing Byrne's cravat with dissatisfaction.

"Forgive me if I felt unequal to your presence," Byrne sneered, "after I saw you embracing Mr. Browning last night."

Fletcher lifted his chin. "I see nothing wrong with that. I've known Master Oliver since he was a babe. Such a kind—"

"Yes. So you keep saying. He is a grown man now and in no need of further coddling from you. You will speak no more of him to me. Do we understand each other?"

Fletcher opened his mouth, but then closed it, nodding.

"Good. And hang the coat. I've no need of it." Byrne soothed Emir, who was champing at the bit, as Fletcher gripped his arm.

He turned back, waiting for him the say something else, some ridiculous praise for Master Oliver, but Fletcher only sighed, "Will you wear your gloves, at the very least?"

Byrne took them, if only to make his escape.

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

Emilia had accepted it by now. There was no escaping Sir Anthony today. She had barely placed her fork down when he stood, offering her his arm for their "tour."

Still, she did try, one last time. "Perhaps I should fetch my maid, Miss Finch, to attend us?" It was her dashed proposal, after all.

"I assure you, as your host, you will be quite safe with me," he said merrily, moving her along the main hall.

"But are you certain you are well? Your eye looks very painful. Worse than yesterday."

"Oh, that." He stilled a moment, letting out a shaky laugh. "Another little accident of mine."

She knew that wasn't true, considering what she'd heard last night between him and Miss Marbury. "Perhaps one of the other girls might like to join us? Miss Marbury or—"

"God, no," he said abruptly before lowering his voice with another nervous laugh. "That is, I... Miss Crewe, there are things I wish to say that, perhaps, others might not wish to hear."

He was right about that. She didn't want to hear it. And she was certain the last thing the real Miss Crewe wanted to hear was a man declaring his wish to marry her.

She barely paid any mind as Sir Anthony strolled them through the portrait hall, pointing out this painting and that...

"My great grandfather. Terrifying fellow. As a boy, I imagined he'd leap out at me if I was naughty. Let's pass him quickly."

"That would be my great late Aunt Lilith. Such a fondness for cats, she insisted on being painted with them. Not sure how the painter managed to keep ten of them still."

"My great great Uncle Harrison. Note how his eyes follow as you pass. So do try not to meet them lest they haunt your dreams."

Emilia gave the odd polite laugh, but she was really more preoccupied with crafting her very polite refusal. She couldn't decide how to begin. Should she say she was flattered? No. Miss Prudence found that word condescending. She should be grateful... Or was thankful better? Didn't they mean the same thing? Or was there a subtle difference? Really, Miss Prudence would know better. Which one would be more likely to have this end amiably? Perhaps she should stop and insist her maid attend them after all.

"Here we are," Sir Anthony called out, stopping before a double door at the end of the long hall, pulling keys from his pocket.

Emilia started. "Where?" And why so soon? Had he not missed a few dozen paintings?

"It's a very interesting room, as it's not really a room at all these days." He pushed open the doors, which protested a bit, groaning as they tilted outward.

There was light, which was surprising as it looked like these doors had not been opened for a year at least. The damp smell from inside reminded her of Douglass Hall — or at least the state of it when she and Charity had first arrived.

"You see why I didn't want the other guests exploring this part of the house," Sir Anthony said, gesturing her into the very large room. The floors were sturdy stone, the ceilings high, but the walls and roof were partly crumbled on the far end, light streaming in from several holes, many small, but one large, nearly opening it up to the elements. Moss had grown along the edges and some plants were creeping in among the stones, as if nature was taking the place back again.

She turned to him confused. "I am baffled as to why I should have the... honor," she finished on a slight nervous laugh. As much as she didn't encourage his flirting, she felt mild alarm that they were now alone in partial darkness. She'd never felt unsafe with him. He was their host, after all. Still, she felt slight relief as he stepped into a patch of bright sunlight.

"Because I've decided it's best not to put on a facade, at least not for you." He paced toward the far end, pushing at a bit of stone that gave way and toppled outside. "This was a great dining hall once, when this was a holy place rather than the unholy place it was after." He chuckled. "It was a ballroom after that, for at least a good century or two. I believe the last time it was such was long before I was born. This room, more than any in Sculthorpe Abbey, represents it to me. A crumbling place, taken from those it belonged to, perhaps cursed for that, but..."

He plucked a small flower growing from a large crack.

"But perhaps not without hope," he went on, gesturing around him. "As you can see, it will need repairs to be whole again. I've never had the coin for it. Even if I did, I lacked the motivation. I've spent quite a long time away from this place, only coming back when absolutely necessary. You should have seen the state of this house before Byrne swooped in."

"Byrne?" Emilia started, then composed herself. "What does Mr. Byrne have to do with..."

Sir Anthony shook his head. "Pardon me. I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start again."

She nodded, curious now.

"You see, I grew up in this crumbling house among parents with a marriage in a similar state. Perhaps they loved each other once, but not enough to even pretend as much by the time I came along, and least not in front of me. They pretended to everyone else, of course, but they never spared me from seeing their resentment, their... near vitriol. I would spend my time passing cold messages back and forth between them, longing for the day when I could skip happily off to school." He glanced around, letting out a bitter laugh. "I dare say this ballroom is in a better state than their union was. Still..." He nodded to himself. "It gave me a certain perspective on marriage. A practical, honest one," he glanced up at her, "a perspective I suspect you may share."

Emilia wasn't certain what to say to that. She knew Prudence's opposition to marriage quite well, but she didn't feel equal to speak on it. She'd spent much more time with Charity, who was quite the devotee of love. Perhaps it was Charity's influence that made her wish to convince him such things were possible. "I do not believe that all marriages are... doomed. I have witnessed many loving, happy unions." Ian and Charity, obviously, but even Lord and Lady Crewe were quite affectionate, for all their bickering. Her own parents had loved each other very much, even despite her father's shortcomings.

"Oh, no. I'm not saying that there aren't loving and lasting marriages," he said, his expression softening a moment, "but it is so rare as to be nearly nonexistent. Love can fade," he went on, "love can wither..."

"It can also grow," she found herself saying before she thought better of it. Why was she arguing? She was not Emilia Finch at this moment. And she was certainly not Charity Crewe... or Douglass now. But there was a certain sadness to Sir Anthony that she almost felt moved to alleviate. Still, she was Prudence Crewe in this moment. Who was she to comfort him? "But you are correct in that it is rare."

"Indeed. Even the only love match I ever witnessed ended with one half of it dying."

Yes, that was very true for her own parents. Even if she still knew her father as a man of pretty promises and poor follow-through, her mother had loved him till the end, as he did her. "Whose marriage was that?" she found herself asking.

He smiled just a little. "Dear Aunt Dotty. Who would not love her? She's one of the reasons..." He shook his head. "God, I'm getting ahead of myself again. You should know my inability to stay on a subject is one of my many, many flaws." He took a deep breath. "You see, I started off trying to flatter you, but I can see that you're indifferent to it."

"I... I haven't—"

"Nay, that's not a criticism at all. I truly respect that. I can see you're not one to pretend something you don't truly feel." He rolled his eyes. "You're a much better sort than an old flirt like me."

"I do not wish to–"

"To marry?" he said over her. "That is quite well known. I even understand it. I have no true wish to marry myself. But time is marching on."

She found her hands twisting together. "Sir Anthony, I am flattered... er, I mean, grate... thankful for—"

"Please, Miss Crewe," he broke in, though he did not make a move toward her. "If you would allow me to finish before you make your response, I would be most thankful myself."

She squeezed her eyes shut. There was no point to this. She was to refuse him and that was that. But, she supposed, she could at least grant him the respect of being heard, even if it was not by the real Miss Crewe. She met his eyes and nodded.

"I cannot promise a love for the ages," he went on after a moment. "But I can offer you honesty and, I think, some measure of happiness. And I shall start with honesty..." He stared around the room. "This room is not the only one in disrepair. There are others I've closed off. There are tenants with problems I address as best I can, but not well enough. I have no steward. I've only a groundskeeper and even he only works as hard as what I pay, which is a pittance and a roof, justifies. I confess, I only come here every quarter to be sure the roofs don't cave in and the fences don't fall. But, were I to marry, I would be here every month to... see to things more thoroughly, but," here he put up a hand, "not so much that I would impose upon your time. God! I'm getting ahead again. What was I..."

Emilia cleared her throat. "I think you were talking of your tenants and...servants?"

"There's just the one, really."

Emilia frowned, tilting her head. "But your staff—"

"They are not mine. They are Byrne's." He ducked his head, though she saw his face redden. "Along with nearly every bit of food, furniture, and finery you have seen throughout this party. As I started to say before, this whole place was a lot more like this room. My dearest friend, Mr. Byrne, offered to fund this party and make the necessary repairs to make this unholy place presentable enough. I dare say he didn't know what he was getting himself into." Tony laughed. "But he insisted upon it and I..."

"So every servant here is... Mr. Byrne's?" That actually explained quite a lot, between how much they spoke of him and how freely he spoke to all of them. It was still odd, of course. She'd never seen a master hanging about in the kitchens, arguing with the cook and pretending to give her the sack. He was such a strange...

"...quite thankful for his largesse, but I did not want to continue to let you believe that..."

She shook herself out of her thoughts of Mr. Byrne and nodded at Sir Anthony as if she had been listening.

"... and you see, with some capital, some repairs," he said, pacing back and forth now. "I could attract more tenants and make things better for those I have and restore the abbey. So I am in need of a dowry." He threw up his hands, then held them out. "But even half of yours would suffice. I assure you. I would not abuse it. I am not a gambler as I've become quite used to not having the coin for such things. I am no spendthrift. Even in London I am, though I flatter myself to say so, charming enough to be invited places and bought drinks for my company alone," he finished with a wry smile. "I barely spend a ha'penny."

Emilia found herself smiling, even at his self flattery. She could well believe it.

"I would have my life in London and you would have your life here, filled with whatever pursuits you wish. I would not make demands of you. You could read and paint all day to your heart's delight. The only thing I might ask is..." Here, he raked a hand through his hair. "Well... My Aunt Dotty likes you quite a lot."

"Mrs. Baddeley likes everyone," Emilia put in.

"That is true, but do you... also like her?" he asked, sounding a bit diffident.

"Well, she is a very amiable—"

"She wouldn't be any trouble. She would surely love the company and... No, I have to be honest." He stopped his pacing and straightened. "Aunt Dotty has fallen on some hard times. Yet she would never dare ask me to support her. She will only come to me when she feels she might be of use. And lately she's been talking of a cousin with far too many children who would make her feel quite useful, indeed. I do not want that for her. She was the only bright spot in my youth. I love her, quite a lot more than my own mother, though I should be ashamed to say it. I wish her a quiet retirement in the country... with my wife, who would — I very much hope — convince her she is indispensable to her. And since you don't care for London and society and the season... well... unless I am wrong. Do you?"

"I... I confess, I do not," she said, knowing that much about Miss Prudence. She complained about going to London every time. Though she did tend to go off and occupy herself without Emilia many days, she certainly took little enjoyment in balls or parties.

"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind a life here with Aunt Dotty," he said, sounding almost excited now. "I can keep to my lodgings in town, never bothering you except when necessary. Obviously, I will need to be here on occasion, but I can keep to my own rooms and you to yours and we can be... happy in our own ways." He drew nearer to her then, hesitantly, holding out the tiny flower he'd been toying with. "Best of all, there would be no lies between us, no false promises. We would have an agreement and, I hope, a friendship of sorts."

Emilia tilted her head, taking the tiny flower, trying to take in all he had said. She truly hadn't expected all of this. She had expected more flattery and flirting, not this barrage of... honesty. She had barely wrapped her mind around this new revelation about Mr. Byrne. But that shouldn't concern her. In fact, it didn't.

What did concern her was this proposal and, as Miss Prudence Crewe's proxy, what she should do about it...

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

Byrne was glad he'd done it. Not just the jaunt to the village, but the long ride after. Emir, his flanks slick with sweat, seemed to groan happily as Byrne brushed him down. He preferred to tend to his own stallion rather than let the grooms handle him. Sometimes Emir would kick out if they looked at him sideways. Byrne often suspected it was just a gesture to let them know who was in charge, a play for power.

Byrne rolled his neck with a rather satisfying crack. He was aching a bit himself. He'd not had much exercise himself in all this rain. "You're lucky you get this treatment," he said as he brushed Emir's back. "I've got no one to do this for me."

Emir snorted into the bag of barley strapped to his mouth.

"Aye, laugh all you want, you spoiled little—"

There was a loud yip behind him.

He turned, then rolled his eyes to find the damned dog trotting up to the stables, his rope a chewed fragment trailing after him. "You! Aren't you supposed to be clearing the kitchen of rats?"

Mopsy — as Miss Crewe insisted on calling him — did not look the least bit chastened. He even darted under Emir's legs, the little fool!

"Careful!" Byrne called out. "Do you want to get stomped into the dirt?"

The dog only darted back his way, letting out a little grunt, nosing at Byrne's leg before running back under Emir again.

Emir seemed, surprisingly, unbothered, though he did cast a sidelong glance Mopsy's way. Perhaps he was used to this particular annoyance. The dratted dog had been haunting the barn and stables for some time.

"Off with you!" Byrne waved at him with the brush, but that only seemed to excite Mopsy further, staring at the thing with delight. The dog had made off with several brushes by now and chewed up bridles. He must think everything in here was his to toy with. "No!" Byrne waved the brush again, at which the little mop hunkered down on his front paws, his back half wiggling madly. "This is not a toy."

Mopsy let out another bark, as if in protest, darting away and back again as if expecting Byrne to throw it.

Byrne leaned down, meeting his eyes. "Look, I don't know what Miss Crewe lets you get up to, but I will not tolerate you chewing up my—" He drew back at a very wet lick on his nose. "Agh! You are a menace."

Mopsy didn't seem sorry, not even a little.

"Mopsy? Mopsy!" Someone was yelling for him. It wasn't Miss Crewe, that was all he knew for sure. The little cretin would have bounded right to her.

"He's in here," Byrne called out.

"There you are. You silly little... Oh!" Evie stopped short upon seeing him, dipping a curtsy. "Mr. Byrne, sir, I'm so sorry to—"

"Let's not stand on ceremony," he droned. "I'm brushing a horse. You're chasing a dog. Neither of us need be so formal."

The girl let out a slight laugh. "I am sorry for letting him get away. He does seem to love the stables."

As if to illustrate her point, Mopsy plopped himself into a pile of hay, rolling back and forth on his back. "I suppose he's made some allies here." Emir didn't seem to mind and the milk cow had barely blinked since he'd arrived. "But I do hope he finds something else to chew on besides my best brushes and bridles." Even the one he was holding had suspicious marks along the handle.

"I am trying to keep him in line, sir. It was just the washing was—"

"You won't need to worry about the washing any more," he said lightly. "I've hired a laundress from Linton." The woman, an elderly but sturdy sort, had been eager for the work and able to start immediately.

"A... a laundress?" Evie's voice was not so light. "But I'm perfectly capable of—"

"You are capable of many things, Evie, but not of being in several places at once." He turned to her. "I understand you've taken on other duties, Lady Adele and your," here, he nodded to Mopsy, "furry charge here."

She flushed. "Pardon me, sir. I didn't mean to interrupt my duties with—"

"If you wish to advance your position," he said finishing up with his horse, "then you must allow that some your work must be shared among others."

"I've no complaints, sir. I welcome any work tossed my way."

"I'm certain you do. But I do not wish anyone who works for me to be in a state of exhaustion." He patted Emir's snout and left him to his supper before turning back to her. "I've been assured this laundress is the best in the village, and she will be here within the hour. I trust you can find enough to make it worth her time."

"Aye, sir." She dipped and started away, taking a protesting Mopsy with her, before she turned back. "I should warn you, Mr. Fletcher won't be too keen on—"

"Mr. Fletcher will do as he pleases. He always does."

She nodded. "True, sir." He noted a slight smile as she turned away. Despite her little protests, perhaps this had pleased her. He was glad of it. He'd be even more glad of it if Miss Crewe was also pleased. He'd bathe before seeing her, of course. He smelled of the stables and sweat and that was no way to start a negotiation.

He had been, throughout his ride to the village and a long run after, giving Emir his head, pondering today's negotiation. He'd worked so much of it out already. He'd long had his suspicions that, despite her dowry, Miss Crewe was long used to work. Her hands alone betrayed her. No one gained such callouses with a paintbrush alone. He could offer her a life free of that burden. He could help her family, too, if she wanted. He'd also noticed her dress last night. It had been very plain, even though the previous night she'd worn a gown that sparkled. Perhaps she saved such finery for first impressions.

With him, she could dress as fine as she chose every night. She could wear diamonds and pearls rather than a simple ribbon about her neck. She could wear naught but her skin...

God, he needed to get a hold of himself. She was not his yet. But she would be.

She would have surely refused Tony by now. As he strode the front hall, he heard whistling and stilled. That sounded an awful lot like Tony. It was one of his favorite tunes — some bawdy shanty about sailors and their appreciation for ladies of easy virtue.

Byrne gritted his teeth and stopped his pursuit of a bath in favor of the drawing room. If Tony was in such good spirits, he must have yet to plead his case to Miss Crewe. Byrne stood in the doorway, watching Tony fix himself a drink with far too many embellishments. "Good afternoon."

"Byrne!" He stopped his whistling. "Nearly evening, actually."

"It's barely past four," Byrne said, checking the clock and his pocket watch. Yet Tony was dressed for supper already.

"Ah, so it is." Tony shrugged. "Well, I saw no reason to dilly-dally. We must cut a fine figure for our ladies, must we not? As for the ladies, Miss Poole has taken over my library again. She insists she's nearly done improving it. Little does she know, half the books are yours, but I've assured her of my gratitude. So I find myself in here. Not the best of my liquors, but there's still a few drops to be found." He half-turned Byrne's way and held up his glass. "Can I tempt you?"

Byrne shook his head. "After last night? No."

Tony laughed. "Understandable. I never realized before how ill you hold your liquor. I shall have to take you under my wing more often."

"You seem quite cheerful."

"I am, aren't I?" Tony laughed again.

"I assume you've yet to bring your suit to Miss Crewe then."

"You assume wrongly. Perhaps that's why I'm so cheerful. It's a relief, isn't it?" He turned back to fussing with his drink, shaving an orange rind. "Getting it all out, accomplishing a task. No matter how the task goes, it's good to have it done."

Byrne sighed, realizing that Tony must be putting on a brave face. If his task was done, that meant... "I am sorry, then."

Tony turned fully to him. "Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"If your task is done, then..." Byrne strode further into the room. "Did you or did you not propose to Miss Crewe?"

"Indeed, I did. Quite thoroughly." He sipped his drink.

"And?" Byrne prodded.

"And she took the news about this party very well, despite your protests that no one should know," he finished in a dour tone. "I told you I meant to be honest and..." Here he took another sip, damn him!

"And?" Byrne prodded again through gritted teeth.

"And she is considering my proposal."

"She is... what?"

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

More to come next week!

I'm going to update this one weekly from here on out.

I know I got very tangled up in Bridgerton fanfiction, but it just seemed like such an easy thing to do in comparison to his behemoth. But I'm going to take this one a chapter at a time. I've really missed every character in this and am so excited to get back into this world.

For all of you who've been waiting so long, bless you! Your patience will be rewarded!