She shook her head at herself as she finished the tea. This was all theoretical, since she had no idea where Nora’s father was. It wasn’t like her to ponder things that were very unlikely to happen—she was far more likely to consider the things that could happen—her losing her heart to Lord Handsome, or Sarah and her family moving away, or any number of terrible things.

Griffith hadn’t been able to come up with any kind of plan, even though he, Clark, and Hyland had spent hours discussing it. Along with ingesting several rounds of ale.

It was the morning after, and his head bore the ill effects of . . . everything. He was in the dining room staring resentfully at a plate filled with scrambled eggs, a steaming cup of tea to his right.

He did not want to ingest anything at the moment. Well, except for her. And even that would take him a moment to do.

He’d had to admit to Clark and Hyland how he felt about her, which caused at least half an hour of ribaldry (would he get the opportunity to share the word with her?), but then they had set their respective minds to the problem and had come up with—nothing.

Clark had offered to dress up as a highwayman and waylay them, but Griffith had rejected that because he couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t just take his gun and shoot Clark herself.

Same for Hyland’s idea—to serenade her outside her bedroom window. First of all, Griffith couldn’t sing, and she might just shoot him on that basis alone. Second, it wasn’t as though he thought she would agree to be with him on the basis of public humiliation. Because if that were true, she would have just allowed him to punch that blackguard at the party and risk public ostracism.

“My lord?” The butler stood at the door holding a silver salver.

Perhaps that was the answer he was waiting for?

“Yes, come in,” Griffith said.

The butler nodded, then deposited a letter on the table, next to the still-full cup of tea, its lack of steam aligned with how Griffith was feeling.

He pushed the plate away to pick up the envelope, noting the heavy weight of the letter, indicating it came from someone who could afford to spend for good stationery.

He didn’t recognize the seal on the envelope, but that wasn’t surprising. He wasn’t certain he would recognize Frederick’s own seal, even though it would eventually be his.

He slid his finger under the seal to undo the envelope, withdrawing an equally luxurious piece of paper.

My lord:

Please visit me at your earliest convenience.

Yours,

The Duke of Marymount

He stared at it as though it would reveal more information, even though, of course, all that was there was all that was there.