The brutal fact was that Charlotte was bleeding when he left and when he returned she was pregnant. And nothing mattered but those two facts. He ignored the plaintive voice of Treble calling after him, asking whether he wished to spend the night at Selfridge Manor. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep anywhere his brother had been. Alex strode over to his waiting horse and swung up in one swift, muscled lunge. He nodded at the mounted manservant who was leading Bucephalus.

“I’m going to the Fox and Keys, Harry,” he said curtly. “You’d best walk Bucephalus. It’s been a long day.”

Two days later, Alex galloped into the drive of Singleton Manor, one of Braddon Chatwin’s country houses, around nine in the evening. His eyes keenly swept the front of the sprawling stone manor and he felt a glow of satisfaction. He’d finally caught them. The pale gray stone of the manor house was darkened by glowing candlelight shining from many of the house’s windows; Braddon had to be in residence.

Alex threw Bucephalus’s reins to the bowing footman. He paused for a second next to the portly butler as he held open the eight-foot-high door.

“Where is he?” Alex snapped.

“It is an honor to see you again, my lord,” Braddon’s butler Vorset said gently. He was too old to be bullied by young sparks like this one, he thought to himself. “The master and your brother can be found in the library.”

Alex paused for a moment, his stern face cracking into a reluctant smile. “I’m glad you’re still on your feet, Vorset.” Vorset had never snapped at the ill-behaved twins when they visited Braddon during school holidays, years ago. To tell the truth, Alex and Patrick had led Braddon into some of his worst scrapes, which Vorset knew but never revealed to Braddon’s parents.

Vorset nodded slightly, his eyes kind. Like the rest of England, he knew something of Alexander Foakes’s marital problems. “The library is off to the right, my lord,” he murmured, leading the way.

Alex followed the old butler down the well-known, wide passageway to the library. Lord, he hadn’t been in this house for some ten years. After his mother died he and Patrick had been farmed out to whomever was available for holidays. They used to tear about Braddon’s house as if they were wild pigs released indoors by accident.