“All right, all right,” Arthur cut in hastily. “Wesley, thank you for coming to pick us up, although it really wasn’t necessary. Now, we were just heading to the train—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Wesley. “I brought the car. You’re staying with me.”

“What?” Arthur said sharply.

“I insist,” Wesley said simply, as if that was all he needed to say to get his way, and to be fair, it generally was. “I want the company.”

Rory scoffed. “You mean you want Ace’s company—”

“You’re both welcome,” Wesley interrupted. He considered Rory for a moment down the end of his nose. “Well. Perhaps welcome is too strong a word, but I’m extending the invitation, at any rate.” He pointed at his driver. “Marcus will get your bags. Is this it? Arthur, why are you carrying a suitcase? Where is your trunk?”

Arthur got into the back seat next to Rory. The car took them through gray streets, the white clouds hanging low in the gray sky. The air was cool, a light rain coming through the car that was more a tangible mist that dampened skin and clothes than real raindrops. London felt familiar, the weather, the sights, all of it.

“We’re going to the Kensington house. Arthur, you remember it,” Wesley said from the front seat.

“Oh, of course Arthur remembers it,” Rory muttered.

Arthur pressed his shoulder a little more firmly against Rory’s.

The Kensington townhouse was as Arthur remembered it, four stories high with graceful bay windows on the ground and first floors. Some member of Wesley’s staff had arranged spring flowers on the front steps, bright yellow against the gray skies and white stone. Arthur had a moment of seeing double, his present layered over his past and the blur of days and nights spent drinking alone, missing Jade and the others, Wesley off somewhere busy with the deaths of his father and brother, his family’s estate, his new title.

There was a comforting pressure suddenly against his side, Rory discreetly leaning in. “Hey.” The rough word could somehow be soft when Rory said it, brown eyes searching Arthur’s from under the brim of his cap. “You okay?”

The knot in Arthur’s chest loosened. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Wesley’s staff was the same as well, faces Arthur recognized but embarrassingly couldn’t put names to because he’d never bothered to learn who they were beyond “the cook” or “the butler” or “the fellow who made sure there was always whiskey.” Rory wasn’t going to be very impressed by that.

Their bags were left to the staff as Wesley led them into the familiar entrance hall. He clapped his hands together. “Well, Arthur hardly needs a tour, I’m sure.” He looked at Rory like he might look at a dog who’d walked in with muddy paws. “Do you? Is property something you have any interest in?”