A knock sounded at the library door. Alfred Chesterfield disliked being disturbed, especially when he’d asked the servants to keep everyone out.

“Enter,” he commanded.

Frustration curled up within him at the sight of his son. He had tried reasoning with Stephen, tried to make his son understand why he could not remain married to Emily Barrow. She knew nothing of the ton, never would, despite her birthright. As a woman who had never been presented before the Queen, she was utterly unsuitable. But Stephen did not grasp the true meaning of duty, not the way he should.

Alfred feared it was too late. The scandal of divorce far outweighed the scandal of wedding someone inappropriate.

His son remained standing, an inconvenient behavior because it forced him to look up. “I came to ask you about the night I left London, several months ago.”

Alfred stood to meet his son eye to eye. He leaned upon the desk, taking some of the weight off his bad leg. “When? The time in February when you ran off to marry an improper young lady? Or when you disappeared from the Carstairs’s ball, two weeks later?” He made no effort to conceal his irritation. His son had a duty to behave in a manner befitting the family name.

“The second time,” Stephen responded. “I have no memory of what else happened that night when I was looking for Hollingford. Did you hear anything about it, after I disappeared?”

“No. Nor do I care about the reasons why you shirked your responsibilities.”

“A man tried to murder me,” Stephen stated. “And unless you help me to understand what happened that night, it could happen again.”

Alfred didn’t believe it. Likely his son had run into thieves, if anything. “Exaggeration does not become you.”

At that, Stephen pulled up his shirtwaist and revealed a deep red scar. “Does this look like an exaggeration?”

The jagged wound struck him silent. Stephen continued talking about theories of what had happened and talk of danger, but Alfred heard none of the words. He saw only the physical evidence that someone had tried to take another son away from him.

The emptiness of loss shadowed him as he thought of William, his firstborn. A father was not meant to outlive his son.

Although Stephen had done a tolerable job as the new heir, Alfred had never been close to his rebellious second son. A part of him wished that it had been William who had disappeared, only to resurface months later.

With effort, he forced his thoughts back to the present.

Stephen added, “I intend to lure him out into the open so I may deal with him. I want your help. And—” he narrowed his gaze “—I expect you not to meddle with my marriage. I would rather concentrate on finding my enemy than worrying about what you’ve done to Emily.”

Steeling himself, Alfred set down his pen. “What do you wish to know?”