Plagued by a nightmare he couldn’t quite catch as he woke, Lord Albert awoke in a miserable state. He was not comfortably tucked in bed as he might have expected, but on the ground. On his stomach, in fact, sprawled over the threadbare rug beside his bed.

  The wood and rough fibers dug into his back, reminding every aching muscle from his neck down to his knees how quickly the drink and long nights were aging him. Even through the worst week he’d had the misfortune to survive, in which he’d lost his beloved Charlotte, not once had Lord Albert awoken anywhere but in his own bed.

  Attempting to sit up with no small effort, he managed to croak out his valet’s name through parched lips, “Reeve!”

  There was no response, so he licked his lips and tried again with a little more force, “Reeve! Damn you, answer me!” Turning his head to and fro, he searched for his loyal valet.

  He squinted in the dark, relying on slivers of soft light poking from the bottom of his bedroom curtains. It was meager, but just enough to guide him to the door. Even when he was so deep in his cups that walking became a flight of fancy, Reeve had never allowed him such an undignified resting place.

  His head ached fiercely, pounding and throbbing in an arrhythmic beat. His mouth felt dry. Foul. His tongue was nearly plastered to his teeth with the rank taste of a poor night. Devil hang him, how much brandy had he gone through? He swore it had only been a glass or two. A tipple here and there to keep the cold out. Lord Albert screwed up his features, gripping the handle to his bedroom door. He leaned against it. An anchor to keep the world from shifting beneath him as he stood. A gentle knock at the door startled him, magnifying the ache in his head tenfold.

  “Damn it all,” he rasped, slowly turning the handle and pressing one red-rimmed eye to the crack in the door. It wasn’t Miles Reeve. It wasn’t even the butler. It was Lord Grace, dressed in a fine suit that dazzled even under the sparse candlelight of the upstairs halls. Lord Albert very nearly lifted a hand to shield his eyes. He wore a green silk waistcoat and vest dripping with gold embroidery. Gold breeches to match. Even the shine of his buckled shoes put the Baron to shame.

  For his part, he was still wearing his clothes from the night before. Crumpled. Faded. Though his valet took pride in caring for the clothes, there was no denying that even the Baron’s neck kerchief was pathetic. Today he didn’t even have the dignity Reeve’s attention allowed him. Where the devil was the man?

  The viscount was honorable enough to ignore Lord Albert’s miserable state. He didn’t call attention to it. Instead, he offered a pleasant afternoon greeting, “I apologize for disturbing you. Your man left in quite a state this afternoon. The hour is growing late, and I was growing somewhat concerned,” He had such a way about him. Class. Elegance. It was hard not to hang onto every single word he spoke. As if he were giving a compelling sermon at church. Lord Albert opened his door just a little more, attempting to smooth his unkempt hair back. The ribbon tying it together hung by a strand at the back of his head.

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  “Left, sir?” Lord Albert repeated, confused, “my valet? He left?”

  “Yes, I believe so.” The man looked so dreadfully sorry for his loss, that Lord Albert couldn’t abide. What an embarrassment!

  “Ah,” he replied, struggling to push through his muddy thoughts. He was so very tired. More and more, life was catching up to him. Moreso today than ever before. He hoped this wouldn’t sabotage their plans for Sommer Steppe. The baron wasn’t likely to find another ally of such means as Lord Grace again.

  “Your good doctor told me he needed to take some air. Dashedly strange. I understood that as soon as you woke, someone was sure to see to your needs,” the viscount went on, and there was not a hint of judgment in his face or tone. A man who understood the baron, a man who knew the trials of dealing with the mercurial nature of staff. Lord Albert was, all at once, very calm. The longer he looked into his friend’s warm eyes, the better he felt. He opened his door just a little more, forgetting his state of dress.

  The viscount looked behind him, then back at Lord Albert with an expression of pure irritation, “one can never rely on the help,” he said. “My own valet is already speaking with your butler. If we’re to bring this place back to its former glory, a firm hand is needed.” He held out his hand, “I swear on my honor that things are going to change for the better. All I ask is that you indulge in a small request here and there, my friend.”

  “Gladly!” Lord Albert exclaimed, throwing his door open wide and gladly taking the offered hand with a hearty grasp. A moment ago he’d felt half-dead, but now? Invigorated. Inspired!

  “My tailor,” Lord Grace said softly, looking him up and down, “shall be here in just a few days. I would very much like to give you a new wardrobe for the season. It’s the least I can do, sir. After all, I am to be your guest for quite some time. I insist.”

  He thought for just a moment to decline. It was far too much, too grand for someone he’d met only yesterday, but then–he thought better of it. A deep tension in his muscles seemed to release all at once. Yes, why shouldn’t he accept such a gracious offer? Declining would be the height of rudeness.

  “I–” Lord Albert began, leaning forward, slightly unsteady on his feet, “--of course. Yes. You are most generous, sir.”

  Lord Grace nodded, “indeed. I shall summon the young man chosen to see to your needs for the time being. Then we shall meet for a late supper, and I dare say discuss our business plans. Yes?” He had such a matter-of-fact way about him. Straight to the point. Lord Albert very much liked that about him.

  “Of course. I am most grateful,” the baron agreed, nodding just a little too enthusiastically. His headache did not appreciate the effort.

  It was a peculiar afternoon, to say the least. He could hardly remember a day he’d slept past three, but here he found himself being attended to by the steward (Gordon, he believed), and the sun had very nearly begun to set. For the tenth, perhaps hundredth time, Lord Albert firmly resolved to give up the drink. At the very least, he would pace himself. Perhaps only a glass or two of brandy to soothe the nerves. Then, maybe another glass if the company present was also doing the same. It was good manners, after all.

  For some very peculiar reason, the steward selected a pillow from his bed and departed with it once his main duties were seen to. Shortly afterwards Lord Albert found himself at the supper table enjoying his guest’s company. Oddly enough, he felt as if he were repeating the previous night to a tee. He’d have pondered it more deeply if not for the endless brandy glass on the table assuring him that nothing was amiss.