“Why don’t we go inside?” I suggested.

“Yeah, this isn’t a conversation I really want to have in the courtyard,” Freddie said.

“You’re making me nervous,” Nick said as we clattered up the steps and into Apartment 1A, as neat as a pin and smelling like cinnamon rolls.

“No, no,” Freddie said. “It’s not bad news! Is there somewhere we can be private? I don’t want the staff to overhear any of this.”

“Of course,” Nick said, shooting me a quizzical glance. The conversation I’d had with Freddie formally asking him for his help had been brief, and kind, and a bit fraught, all adjectives that could describe every chat we’d had since. I had no idea where this was going. Not even a hint.

We stepped into Nick’s office, cozy and warm. Someone, in preparation for our return, had lit a fire in the grate, and it crackled in welcome. Out the window, I could see that it looked like snow.

Freddie closed the door tightly and turned to us.

“You should sit down,” he said.

“Why all the cloak-and-dagger?” Nick said as we took spots on his sofa. “Are you going back into active duty?”

Freddie gave a wry smile. “In a sense.” He picked up a poker and prodded the fire, then hung it up and turned in our direction, without actually looking at either of us. “I wanted you to be the first to know—well, actually, the second and third, or rather, the sixth and seventh, if we’re really being specific about order here, eighth if you include me, which I hadn’t been…”

“Fred!” I clapped my hands. “Get to the point!”

“I’ve asked Daphne to marry me and she’s accepted,” Freddie said, in a rat-a-tat rush.

I felt as if I’d taken leave of my own body and was watching this conversation from somewhere twenty feet above the three of us, next to one of the lions carved into the paneled wood ceiling. Nick said nothing. Freddie looked between us both, back and forth, over and over, and said nothing.

“You’re not kidding,” Nick said. It wasn’t a question.

“Deadly serious, Knickers. It’s my turn to marry the heir,” Freddie said, attempting levity, but faltering at the crushed look on Nick’s face.

“Is this because of Father?” Nick demanded.

Freddie looked taken aback. “What? No. Of course not. Why would it be?”

Nick spread his hands out, as if this should be obvious. “Father started all this, back at the state dinner. I’m sure he’s delighted, but you can’t live your life to impress him, Freddie, he doesn’t care about anybody but—”

“It’s not Father,” Freddie interrupted. “That’s absurd.”

“Then what?” Nick asked, standing up, then sitting down again. “Is it me? Is it this?”

He gestured at me, and I saw his lip tremble.

Freddie paled, but his smile didn’t falter. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not. It’s me. I chose this. It’s what I want. Clive got his scoop after all, in the end.” He laughed, but it was hollow.