The last place he’d ever wanted to set foot in again was this house. Home to so many bad memories. Where his father had berated him for not paying proper deference to his uncle. Where he’d spent a few holidays being neglected or chastised.

Where he’d seen the merchants banging at the door, clamoring for payment, as the house’s inhabitants mocked them as they drank champagne.

Where he’d seen female servants suddenly discharged because of an unfortunate incident that had been caused by his father or his uncle.

Where he’d grown to hate who he was, and what he was supposed to be, so much so that he had escaped with nothing but a vague urge to head to the sea.

The house itself wasn’t much changed, at least not from the outside. It looked more welcoming, however; was that because Griffith knew his father and uncle were gone? And that Frederick was here?

He took a deep breath as he lifted the massive brass knocker and dropped it down. He heard the clang resonate within, then heard the snick of the door being unlocked. He braced himself for . . . something.

A return to his life, even if it was just for a few moments. Though he had the terrible suspicion that walking into the house, acknowledging the reality, would irrevocably alter his future.

“I’m here to see Fre—the Duke of Northam,” he announced, his gaze sweeping the entranceway. There were more signs that things had changed for the better here—the footmen standing at attention didn’t look as though they were being hunted. More as though they were being treated properly.

A maid holding a huge bouquet of flowers curtseyed on her way through the room. She didn’t look beleaguered either.

And the butler who’d answered the door seemed as though he was in command, not as though he were waiting for some crisis to occur.

“I’m Cap—Viscount Stanbury. Mr. Robson told me the duke wishes to see me.”

And I him, Griffith thought to himself. Even though the prospect of seeing Frederick after all these years felt both wonderful and horrible.

The butler’s brow rose a fraction, but he merely cleared his throat. He nodded at Griffith, gesturing toward a door at the other end of the hall. They walked, their footsteps echoing on the parquet floor.

“Viscount Stanbury, Your Grace,” he announced as he opened the door.

Griffith tensed when he saw Frederick. Robson hadn’t exaggerated. Frederick was clearly ill. How long did he have?

Damn it, he hadn’t asked Robson enough questions. He’d been too busy wondering if he should punch his friend for returning him to this life.

Priorities, Griffith, he reminded himself.

Frederick sat in a Bath chair, a blanket draped over his knees. He looked far thinner than Griff had ever seen him.

You’ve been away far too long, a voice admonished inside his head.