Clarissa’s eyes widened, her fork dropping limply from her grasp. “Already? The Season has just begun! Is it Lord Gregory?”
“How did you know?”
“Oh, goodness.” She put her hand to her temples in consternation. “That man is quite persistent.”
“Who is Lord Gregory?” Michael asked, grateful that the attention was no longer on him.
“He is the second son of the Earl of Palwood,” Henry explained. “And he is quite smitten with Clarissa. The same night he met her, he asked me for my permission to ask for her hand in marriage.”
“I hope you said no,” Clarissa muttered.
“I didnotsay no,” Henry admitted with a cheeky smile. “But do not fret; I did not say yes either.”
“That hardly makes me feel any better,” she grumbled.
“Pay that no mind, Clarissa,” Michael told her. “If he wishes to receive any blessing, it will have to come from me. And if you do not like this Lord Gregory fellow, then neither do I.”
Clarissa visibly brightened at that, but Beatrice rolled her eyes. “You do not know him.”
“I do not need to know him. Clarissa does. And she does not like him. So that is that.”
“So will you simply dismiss any gentleman who fancies her merely because she does not fancy him back?”
“Yes.”
Beatrice sighed. “I wish you all the luck in your endeavours.”
“Mayhap I shall find a more suitable gentleman at Lady Jones’ ball upon the morrow's evening,” Clarissa mused aloud. “The men I have met so far are quite lacking. Will you chaperone me, Michael?”
“I believe Aunt Beatrice will be better suited to act as your chaperone,” Michael responded. Just as her shoulders sagged with disappointment, he added, “But I shall be attending alongside you.”
“You will?” Clarissa squealed. “How wonderful! You will be all anyone will be able to talk about. The much-discussed return of the infamous Duke of Ryewood.”
Even though her words were meant in jest, the reality was far more sombre. He’d planned it all, of course. Lord and Lady Jones were notorious for throwing grand balls, that nearly the entirety of the Ton would be in attendance. If he wanted to be noticed, tomorrow’s ball was the best way to do so.
Yet, his apprehension simmered deep within him nonetheless. Rubbing noses and smiling in hypocritical faces was the last thing he wanted to do.
Thankfully, the conversation centred around Clarissa and her numerous suitors for the rest of the dinner, but Michael knew that it was far from over. Henry kept giving him curious looks and he knew he would have to face his questioning sooner or later.
As it happened, no more questions were directed his way for the remainder of the dinner. But as it drew to an end, Henry seized the opportunity to ask Michael to share a bottle of brandy with him in the parlour while the ladies went to the drawing room.
Michael accepted out of courtesy. He knew that he couldn’t hold the truth to himself any longer. And if there was anyone he wanted on his side, it was his closest uncle.
Clarissa and Beatrice chatted incessantly as they made their way to the drawing room, talking about today’s fashion and whether they were impressed with the new changes. Michael and Henry were quiet, that silence lasting even when they entered the parlour and Henry went about making them their drinks.
Michael sat in a high-backed armchair and waited.
“Tell me what you have been up to,” Henry stated, his voice devoid of any humour. He wasn’t serious very often, but when he was, it was a force to be reckoned with.
Michael sipped his brandy, letting the smooth liquor warm his insides before he responded. “I’m sure you can guess what has consumed my every thought since the day my father was found guilty of treason.”
Henry frowned, his brows drawing together as concern clouded his gaze. “Surely you have not spent all this time chasing shadows? It is such a futile ambition, Michael, to invest one’s soul in what cannot be caught.”
Michael scoffed. “Were it merely a shadow, there would be little to pursue. Yet in seeking to prove his innocence, I have traversed the breadth of England, gathering overwhelming evidence that my father was condemned unjustly, his trial nothing short of a travesty." His voice lowered, laced with both frustration and fierce determination, the weight of his quest palpable in the charged air between them.
“Then why haven’t you brought this evidence to light?” Henry pressed.
Michael took another slow sip of his brandy, the fiery liquid barely dulling the edge of his simmering fury. "Because it is not enough," he replied, his voice tight. "I need more than letters and rumours—I need irrefutable proof. I need a confession from the man responsible for Father’s ruin.”
