Page 152 of The Boxing Baroness

But after Christmas—which he had foolishly decided to spend in London, in case anyone should change her stubborn mind and come looking for him—he gave up hope that Marianne would see reason.

She had rejected him and would not relent.

On Christmas Day he received a message from his aunt Julia; his mother had died in her sleep at the age of fifty-six.

Preparations for a small, intimate funeral consumed the month of January.

Just when he’d prepared to return to London, he received a second courier-delivered message, this one from Guy.

Unlike Sin’s mother, whom most people believed had died years ago, the Duke of Fairhurst, Guy’s grandfather, had been well-liked, and his funeral had drawn hundreds.

Death comes in threes, was his aunt Julia’s ghoulish prognostication when she accompanied him to London—the first time she would take part in a Season since her own, many decades before.

She had only come that year because they would, as a house in mourning, have only intimate entertainments. Although his aunt was not as self-conscious about her scars as many who’d been afflicted, she was by nature retiring.

As Sin mounted the steps to Staunton House after a long day, he thought, yet again, how grateful he was that he had his aunt to come home to—even though he often didn’t manage to get home until late, like tonight.

In the past, living alone had not bothered him. But since returning from Europe . . . well, his house felt even larger and emptier.

As usual, Buffle was waiting at the door and opened it before Sin even reached the top step.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Buffle said, and then turned to dismiss a hovering footman before taking Sin’s hat. “I was just going to send one of the footmen with a message for you,” he added.

Sin paused in the act of stripping off a glove, his stomach clenching. “Is something wrong with Lady Julia?”

“Oh, nothing like that, Your Grace. It is Mr. Wingate—he is in the library. He said he was happy to wait for your return, but I thought you would like to know.”

“You thought right,” Sin said, glancing at his watch; it was after eleven. He wondered why Elliot hadn’t just met him at the club, where he’d been having dinner with Guy. “My aunt?” he asked.

“She went up to her rooms an hour ago, Your Grace. Can I send something up for you, sir?’

“No, thank you, Buffle—not unless Mr. Wingate asked for anything.” He knew his butler well enough to know he’d offered.

“He did not, sir.”

“Then take yourself off to bed.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Elliot was beside the fire, reading one of the newspapers Sin had delivered each day. “It is good to see you, Staunton,” he said, smiling and putting aside the paper.

“You, as well. I thought you were going to be in Paris for another week.”

“No, I drew the long straw and was allowed to come back early.”

Sin gave him a wry look. “That bad, is it?” Elliot had accepted a special appointment last year and had been out of the country more often than not.

“Bad enough.” He sighed. “But I’m home for the duration.”

Sin poured himself a drink and lifted the decanter.

“I’m still fine,” Elliot said, gesturing to his glass. “Buffle fussed over me as if I were a long-lost grandchild. He said I’ve lost weight and threatened to wake up the kitchen to feed me.”

Sin cocked his head and gave him an appraising look. “You do look a bit on the scrawny side.”

Elliot chuckled.

“So,” Sin said, taking the chair across from his friend. “What brings you here at this time of night?” He ran his gaze over Elliot’s travel-stained person. “And without even stopping at your house first.”