“I’ll be there in a moment, Cartwright.”

Cartwright nodded once.

Garrett’s gaze returned to the desktop and the letter that had occupied his attention this morning. He finished sanding it, sealed it, and stamped it with the heated wax in front of him.

Garrett didn’t have much time. The coach was waiting. He hadn’t got much slept last night either, but that was nothing new. The dreams were always there, the nightmares, haunting him.

Garrett stared at the address.

Mrs. Harold Langford

12 Charles Street

London

Every two weeks Garrett sent a similar letter. He’d sent it like clockwork, ever since he’d been a young man of one and twenty, nearly ten years now. While it always included the same contents, conspicuously, there was no mention of Harold, his friend who had died in the war.

Garrett shook his head and pushed out his chair. The dogs scrambled up from their resting spots. He stood and made his way toward the door, the letter in his hand. He’d worked the last fortnight to catch up with his business matters to ensure he could enjoy the time in the countryside. Today, he was off to his friends’ wedding house party in Surrey. The new Earl of Swifdon, Julian Swift, was finally marrying his bride, Lady Cassandra Monroe. The six months of grieving for the earl’s older brother, Donald, had passed.

The wedding would be grand. The house party before the wedding, more intimate. Garrett’s cousin Lucy would be there with her new husband, the Duke of Claringdon. Cassandra and Swifdon would be there, of course. Miss Jane Lowndes. Garrett rolled his eyes. Miss Lowndes usually exasperated him, argued with him, maddened him, or a combination of all three, but he could stand her company for a sennight, he supposed. Why Lucy insisted on remaining such close friends with that know-it-all bluestocking, he’d never understand.

Cartwright remained standing at attention near the door.

“Ensure this goes out today,” Garrett said pointedly to the servant, handing him the letter.

“As you wish,” the butler replied, taking it.

Garrett crossed back over to the large mahogany desk, pulled his coat from the back of his chair, and shrugged into it. The dogs watched him intently. Then he turned and strode out the door. The dogs followed close on his heels. He made his way past the butler, who fell into step behind him. He marched down the corridor and into the foyer. Cartwright scurried to open the front door for him as Garrett turned to pat each of the dogs on the head. Their tails wiggled vigorously.

“Take good care of them, Cartwright.”

Placing his hat on his head, Garrett strode out into the street, where he climbed into the waiting carriage. He settled into the velvet seat and gazed out the window, taking one last look at his London residence.

It was a fine house. Garrett might be the heir presumptive to the Earl of Upbridge, but the town house in Mayfair and its servants and contents were currently paid for by money his mother had brought to her marriage to the second son of an earl, and an inheritance from his maternal grandfather. Garrett was a wealthy man in his own right.