I wonder if I can entice him to the town house? I’ve never met a servant who wasn’t keen to improve his situation, and Jarman’s not as young as he was.

And it wasn’t as though Morgan and his dying father led any kind of exciting life…

Reaching an imposing set of closed double doors, bound in polished brass and beautifully carved, Rumm halted and turned. “Am I correct in surmising her ladyship has not enjoyed Lord Danfey’s company for some little time?”

He was taking it upon himself to prepare her? Oh. Morgan, my dear. I am so very sorry. “Yes, Rumm, you’re quite correct.”

Looking discomfited, his washy blue eyes eloquent, the servant closed his fingers on the brass doorknob. “In that case, Lady Martain,” he said, his voice hushed, “I would ask you to… school yourself. It pains me to say that his lordship is very much changed.”

He opened the doors and preceded her, saying in a clear and carrying voice: “Lady Venette Martain to see you, my lord.”

The privy apartment’s outer chamber was a charmingly decorated sitting room. Glancing around, Venette noted the pleasing touches of fresh flowers, a wide bowl of sweet scented herbs, the windows cracked a scarce finger-width to admit a breath of fresh air. In the generously proportioned fireplace a cheerful fire leapt and crackled. Morgan’s father sat propped in a shabbily imposing wingback chair, his feet on a padded rest, wrapped in a dark blue quilted satin dressing gown, his lap and legs draped in an expensive Feenish blanket.

He looked like a living corpse.

School yourself, the servant had told her… but the warning hadn’t been nearly stern enough.

Greve Danfey took one look at her face and barked his amusement. “Justice be thanked you’re not forced to look at me every day, eh, Venette?”

“Greve,” she said faintly, and drifted to a halt.

She’d used him as an excuse to come here, so she could accost Morgan and bully sense into his stubborn head before he brought himself undone. And once here of course she’d had to see Morgan’s ailing father, because Brice would enquire after him and know if she prevaricated. And now that she’d seen him—

“Greve,” she said again. “I am so very sorry. I had no idea.”

“Which is precisely as I planned it,” he replied, and feebly snapped his painfully twisted fingers. “That’ll do, Rumm. There must be a maid somewhere for you to harangue.”

Rumm bowed. “Always, my lord.”

“Morgan’s shut up in his attic, I take it?” Greve added, as the servant retreated to the apartment door.

“Yes, my lord.”

He grunted. “My son,” he said sourly, watching the door close. “Hardly lay eyes on him from dawn to dusk, these days. Got some twittish notion about a new incant. Won’t leave it alone.”