Patrick Foakes climbed the stairs of Brandenburg House the next morning a trifle wearily. He’d been up half the night. Braddon had taken the news of his confiscated bride very badly indeed. In fact, the vehemence of his reaction stunned Patrick, given Braddon’s easygoing attitude toward most things. He would never forget the moment when Braddon snatched up a port bottle and started smashing the plaster adhesive on his leg. For a second Patrick thought his friend had been driven mad by grief, but in truth Braddon was only royally peeved.

Braddon had always been fidgety when it came to his mother, Patrick thought as he waited to be announced. And Braddon’s marriage was essentially a matter of Braddon’s mother.

The Brandenburg butler returned, bowing magnificently. “The marquis will see you in the library,” he intoned.

Nothing had changed in the library since Patrick’s last visit, one month ago. Except, perhaps, the attitude of the Marquis of Brandenburg. Last time, Brandenburg had greeted him expansively, striding across the floor to meet him. Patrick remembered being faintly surprised that the marquis would be so happy to greet the man who had damaged his daughter’s reputation the night before. But now Sophie’s ruination lay between them, and George’s eyes were as icy cold as a northern glacier.

As Patrick walked into the room, George dismissed Carroll with a brief nod. Neither of them said a word until Carroll had closed the two heavy oak doors of the library, bowing on his way out of the room.

Patrick met the furious eyes of his future father-in-law steadily as he walked over to stand before him. “I’ve come to request the hand of your daughter in marriage,” he said mildly.

George simply raised one of his clenched fists and aimed it at Patrick’s face, striking him with all the rage of a sleepless night. There was a substantial thunk as his fist met Patrick’s hard jaw, bounced upward, and struck him again at the corner of the eye. Patrick lurched back, catching himself on the corner of George’s desk. Then he straightened and looked at the marquis again.

George was panting with exertion. “I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he observed.

Patrick’s response was brief: “I deserved it.”

George was beginning to feel foolish. He was too old for boxing gymnastics in the library. He made his way to a group of chairs by the fireplace and dropped into one, not even glancing at his guest to see whether he would follow. Patrick walked over and sat down.

“I went up that ladder last night to help your daughter elope with the Earl of Slaslow,” Patrick said quietly.

He glanced at the marquis, whose face had grown even redder, if possible.

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”