The room was on the ground floor, an office that had clearly been converted into a bedroom. Because Frederick couldn’t walk up the stairs?

Griffith felt the implacable truth of it settling around him like a vise. Fred was ill, and Griffith was the heir. His future was unspooling in front of his eyes, and it felt like a death sentence.

There were throw rugs tossed on the floor, a large bed at one end of the room, an imposing desk at the other end. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a small table holding an array of bottles containing a variety of colored tinctures stood in one corner.

“Griffith!” Frederick’s voice, at least, was still exuberant. “Come here, it has been far too long.” Echoing the voice in Griffith’s own head.

Griffith drew nearer, his gaze searching his cousin’s face. Older, of course. Thinner. His face was nearly gaunt. But his eyes were still smiling, his mouth widened into a delighted grin. He stretched his hand out for Griffith to shake.

The last time Griff had seen his cousin was twelve years ago. Fred had been with him the night he’d left, had pressed a wallet full of bills into his hand, waving Griffith’s protestations away. Back then, Frederick had been a reasonable specimen of the British aristocracy, with wavy blond hair, a medium build, and an easy smile.

Now only the easy smile remained. His hair was darker and thinning, and it was clear his body was wasting away from whatever disease was afflicting him.

“It’s good to see you, Fred,” Griffith said, releasing his cousin’s hand. “Or Your Grace, I should say?”

Frederick waved his hand. “None of that polite stuff here, Griff. I’m still me and you are still you, I see.” He looked him up and down. “A captain in the Royal Navy now?” He looked over at the butler. “Get Lord Stanbury a chair, for goodness’ sake. And not my kind of chair,” he continued, winking toward Griffith.

The butler nodded, then dragged a large armchair over, one that would nearly accommodate Griffith’s size, to Frederick’s side.

“Sit!” Fred commanded.

Griffith seized on the opportunity to lighten the mood. Or his mood, at least. “Always telling me what to do,” he said with a grin, crossing one leg over the other. “And now you’re the duke.”

Frederick nodded. “And you’re my heir.”

“About that,” Griffith replied, his moment of humor receding. “What the hell happened to your brothers?”

Frederick regarded Griffith as though he were stupid. Which, given what he’d just asked, wasn’t that far-fetched. But Griffith had avoided reading the papers from home so he wouldn’t have to stumble across mention of his past, so of course he’d missed this information.

“Daniel died of influenza just soon after you left, and Richard went to India to make his fortune, where he got shot and killed.”