Patrick nodded. As the others made quick, relieved farewells, Patrick sat back down. His brother also remained in the room.

When the three of them were alone, Breksby succinctly explained the situation in the Ottoman Empire.

“I won’t need the title,” Patrick stated, his tone admitting no argument.

Alex grinned to himself. He had been about to tell Breksby that persuading Parliament to grant Patrick a dukedom wouldn’t make his brother accept the title.

But Breksby did little without extensive research. He knew that Patrick Foakes had more money than almost any other gentleman in London, as much if not more than his brother had. He knew very well that Foakes literally had no interest in or reason to want a title. To the best of his investigators’ knowledge, Foakes had never showed any resentment of his brother’s rank, for example.

But Foakes was also a brilliant tactician, a man who had found himself in many a tight spot while traveling all over the East. If anyone, he would understand Selim III’s passionate lust for Western fripperies—including titles.

“You don’t have to use it,” Breksby said with calculated indifference. “You can even repudiate the title after you return from Turkey. We certainly don’t care. We would, however, prefer that you not jeopardize this ambassadorship by refusing to accept the title in the first place.”

Patrick sat, utterly relaxed in his chair, thinking it through.

Breksby templed his hands and watched the two brothers. They made an arresting picture, the Foakes twins, two long-legged men whose faces were uncanny images of each other’s, both sporting unruly black hair gleaming with streaked silver and eyebrows with a devil’s arch. Carelessly dropped into chairs, their hard muscles relaxed for a moment, they resembled tiger-striped cats caught napping in the shining of a sudden light. And yet, had Breksby the imagination to amend that image, it would have been more accurate to see male tigers: identical, dangerous, exhibiting an ease as picturesque as it was momentary.

When Patrick shrugged, signifying that Breksby could petition for the title, the foreign secretary felt a surge of warm complacency.

“It will take around six months to have your title confirmed. If you would like to travel in late summer or autumn of next year,” he said chattily, “you should arrive in Constantinople in plenty of time to attend the coronation. Our artisans will have finished the king’s gift, a ruby scepter, by April. I do not foresee any difficulties there.”

“I don’t want this made public,” Patrick said shortly. But they both knew that once Patrick Foakes became the Duke of Gisle, London society would talk of little else for months.

Breksby prudently ignored the request. He rose and circled the desk. Alex and Patrick rose as well. At the door, Breksby paused, a plump smile on his lips.

“May I be the first? Your Grace …” He swept a bow, his absurd hair flying wildly off to the right.

Patrick didn’t explode until they were out of the building. “That pompous little ass! He was enjoying that masquerade. Let him send one of the royal dukes to Turkey.”