Within the hour, the Duke of Embry, brushed, groomed, and buttoned to within an inch of his life, was officially in residence at his house in Mayfair, and judging by the stacks of invitations he’d seen on the mantelpiece in the foyer, just about everyone knew it, too.

Ignoring his valet’s long-suffering look, he tugged at the narrow band of his necktie knotted and held in place with a diamond stickpin. “Must it be so tight, Harlowe?”

Giving one last look in the mirror and barely recognizing himself, he peered at his brother’s old valet. Harlowe had come into his employ after Roland’s death. Rhystan hadn’t had the heart to dismiss the man after he’d been in service for so many decades to the Huntley family. He’d known the man as a boy, and his dedication to the family had never wavered. He’d been tasked with nothing but waiting for the new duke to return to London.

“It must, Your Grace.” Harlowe squinted. “Unless you prefer a bow.”

Rhystan scowled. “The stickpin will do.”

The valet bowed. “Might I say how good it is to see you again and to have you home at last. The years at sea have been kind. You…” His voice broke as he fought to compose himself, the breach in decorum quite abnormal for a valet of Harlowe’s competence. “You look so much like him.”

It took Rhystan a moment to realize that the valet meant his brother, though he might well have meant the former duke, since both brothers favored their father in looks. He and Roland had resembled each other with their tawny hair and blue eyes, while Richard and Ravenna had taken the auburn hair and fair coloring of their mother.

With a trimmed beard and short-clipped hair, he would have been his father’s mirror image. Hence the shave and the overlong mane. He’d much rather look like a dockworker with his sun-streaked hair than see the face of his dead father in the mirror. Not that he didn’t hear the man’s voice in his head, condemning his son’s chosen lifestyle on a daily basis. It was a simple enough act of defiance, he supposed, now that he was the Duke of Embry. The old tyrant had finally gotten his way—Rhystan was well and truly in the ducal fold.

“Where is Lady Sara?” he asked Harlowe.

“She is in the gold room in the north wing, Your Grace.”