Stricklend is unaccustomed to being kept waiting, but if he is forced to linger somewhere, the earl of Winchester’s drawing room is a pleasant enough place to do so. The family home of the Harcourts is a solid affair, its rooms stout and broad, its frontage foreboding, its decor utilitarian. That this is a man’s house is glaringly evident. No woman has softened the edges of the grand wooden furniture with cushions or curlicues, or framed the tall windows with swags or bows. The earl has been a widower for many years, and until his son succeeds in marrying Lady Lilith, there is unlikely to be a female incumbent at Clifton Villas. As Stricklend drifts around the room casting his eye over a fine Louis XIV escritoire, he ponders the extra value the earl must place upon his only offspring, given that he has no wife to distract him and no other heir.

“Ah, Stricklend, forgive me.” The earl strides through the door bringing with him his own enduring energy. “I was detained on business of the House. You know how insistent junior members can be that their cause is of the utmost urgency.”

“Lord Harcourt.” Stricklend offers a stiff bow. “Indeed, even in the Lords I fear there is no escape from the idealistic young.”

The earl stands facing him, holding his gaze, deliberately challenging. “And were we not just such hopeful youths ourselves once?” he asks.

“A very long time ago, perhaps. Happily, the years have cured me.”

Lord Harcourt gestures toward a high-backed Knole sofa and takes a seat in the one opposite. He knows the game well. Outside of Parliament, the two men are in opposition in all things. The Lazarus Coven and the Sentinels are sworn enemies. This is the man who has threatened his son. And yet they will observe the rules of engagement. They will be polite. They will conduct themselves with dignity. Nonetheless, the earl has no desire to drag out the meeting any longer than is necessary.

“I assume you are here to measure progress in my son’s efforts to win over Lilith Montgomery. I can inform you he dined with her not three nights ago.”

“I am aware that he did.” Stricklend pauses to allow this minor triumph of information to rankle, then adds, “However, there is a world of difference between sitting at table with a dozen others and enjoying a more intimate liaison. No wedding date has been announced, I take it?”

“It has not,” the earl concedes. “But—”