It was a relief when James arrived at the Consul’s house in Grosvenor Square. The place itself was a comfort to him. He had whiled away many happy afternoons there during his life. Not five minutes after he arrived, however, he was already beginning to suspect this was not going to be one of them.

He had intended to head directly to the laboratory, under the assumption that his friends were there. Alas, he found his progress blocked by the flung-open doors of the study, where Matthew was draped across a settee like Cleopatra, blandly regarding his nails as Charlotte paced the floor worriedly. Oscar the dog was asleep in the corner, snuffling as he dreamed.

“The Enclave is putting together a day patrol to search the area Basil Pounceby’s body was found. Your name came up, Matthew, but I took you off the list, explaining that you are not well,” Charlotte said. She sounded less than happy about it.

James would have tried to sneak past unnoticed, but Matthew had seen him. Matthew began gesturing frantically but subtly (the sort of trick really only he could pull off) for James to stay. James glared, but remained.

“Why would you do that?” Matthew demanded. “I’m fit as a fiddle, Mother.”

“I said it because it was true.” Charlotte’s voice shook. “Matthew, you aren’t well. You are always drinking, and when you are not drinking, your hands are shaking. Neither condition is conducive to patrol.”

Matthew rolled his eyes, sitting up a few degrees and rearranging the cushions. “It’s not my fault that you and Father were the most boring people alive when you were adolescents. I’m not like you. I want to enjoy being young. I want to drink and stay up late. There’s nothing wrong with it. You are over-worrying.”

“There is an old saying.” Charlotte’s voice had gone very quiet. “First a man takes a drink, then the drink takes the man.”

James thought of Cordelia’s father and winced. However well intended, Charlotte was taking exactly the wrong tack with Matthew, mistaking his blasé attitude for indifference. He had resettled himself in a position of even more louche inactivity than before; Charlotte might take the gesture for scorn, but James knew that underneath Matthew’s lassitude was fury—the same fury that drove him to brazen the situation out in front of James, as if to say: See how ridiculous this all is, see how foolish they’re being.

“So would you rather I was more like Charles, then?” Matthew demanded. “He wants everyone to know how very important and capable he is. And yet Will and Tessa have had to rush off to Paris to smooth over his latest catastrophe. And if they are successful in preventing war from breaking out over the mess he made, he’ll have to hurry back to his loveless alliance with Grace Blackthorn—”