He immediately thought of Sophie. Maybe she’d decided to call off the engagement and cancel tonight’s ball. Maybe she was upset and needed someone to talk to.

He started walking faster and faster until he was jogging, and he didn’t stop until he was sprinting up the steps to his front door, where his butler, Thomas, was waiting. “There you are, my lord,” he said, jowls wagging nervously. Clearly, the staff had become unaccustomed to visitors of any sort.

“Who’s here?” Reese said, handing his hat to the older man. “I didn’t recognize the coach.” But he still hoped against hope it was Sophie’s.

“It’s a gentleman.”

Reese deflated. He was on the verge of asking Thomas to send the visitor away when the butler added, “Lord Singleton.”

Shit. Reese froze. He couldn’t think of a single reason that the marquess would want to see him. They’d never even been formally introduced, and, as far as Reese knew, the only thing that they had in common was … well, Sophie.

“Where is he?” Reese asked.

“In the drawing room,” Thomas intoned. “I informed him that you were out and asked if he’d like to leave his card, but he insisted on waiting.” The butler shuffled his feet nervously. “He seemed rather agitated.”

“Did he?” Reese said, his jaw twitching. If Singleton had somehow found out about him and Sophie, he might have come to Warshire Manor to challenge Reese to a duel. If so, Reese was more than happy to meet him at dawn.

As long as Sophie was not the object of the marquess’s anger. As long as she was safe.

“Shall I send for tea?” Thomas asked.

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Reese said. “The marquess and I don’t have much to say to each other. He won’t be staying long.”

Reese strode up the stairs and into the drawing room, where he found his guest sitting on a long sofa, tapping his knee, and scowling at nothing in particular.

“Singleton,” Reese said, keeping his tone low and even, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The marquess stood and faced Reese, chest to chest, while each man silently took the measure of the other. Reese had to concede that Singleton was an inch taller and twice as polished, from the obviously coiffed hair on his head to the unnatural shine of his boots. “Warshire,” the marquess said at last, extending a hand. “How do you do?”

Reese tried to hide his surprise. Singleton wasn’t stewing with the fury of a man looking for a fight. He was acting rather … civil. Reese decided to play along. “Well enough. Can I interest you in a brandy?”