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He covered his eyes with his hand. He was still exhausted by their return journey. Surely it was not normal to be so tired, still, when they’d been back in London for several days? He felt, though, that his exhaustion was not merely physical. In fact, he was beginning to think that he'd broken his own heart.

They’d made the return journey across the Continent via carriage. Mile after mile, day after day, he’d tried to think of a way to apologize to Pomona. He’d started to talk to her dozens of times. But each time she’d simply said, “I do not wish to speak of it.”

They traveled across Italy to Turin, crossed the Alps into France, and then drove north to Calais and the short sea passage across the Channel to Dover. Thanks to his new title—and everyone’s assumptions about what an English duke expected and was entitled to—the long journey had passed in as much speed and style as possible.

At the inns and hotels at which they stopped, they took separate rooms. He began to notice that she looked tired and drawn. Several times he'd seen a light coming from beneath her door, so he assumed that she was continuing her work. But it also seemed as though the spark of hope and happiness had been extinguished in her. Now she was simply enduring the long journey as best she could—climbing in and out of the carriage whenever they stopped to change horses, being gracious to coachmen and inn servants… going through the motions, at least externally, of being the Duchess of March.

At first, he blamed Townley. If only Townley hadn’t planted doubt in his mind with his insinuations…! Now that it was too late, he saw that of course, that had been Townley’s intention all along. But gradually, he began to realize that this was his own fault. He was the one who'd fallen for Townley's scheme. There was no one else that he could blame for that.

And now they were back in London... back in this empty, dreary shell of a house, with its water-stained walls and dark hallways. He’d scarcely seen Pomona at all since they’d arrived.

The sound of furious hammering still echoed from the first floor. Despite the housemaids’ constant sweeping, plaster dust kept infiltrating the entrance hall from the repairs that were being made to the dining room.

He picked up his quill. The sooner that he wrote to dismiss the mine supervisor, the sooner it would be done.

A footman knocked on the door. “You have a caller, your grace.” West took the card, and saw that once again, Sir Anthony had somehow learned that West was in London before anyone else had.

His spirits rose slightly. At least now he could make himself useful and get to work on Sir Anthony’s committee, drafting a reform bill. “Very good. Please send him up.”

There was still no other room in which he could receive visitors. He looked around the billiard room. It was just as disordered and crowded with extra furniture as it had been the first time that Sir Anthony had called, back in February.

A pang went through him. That was the day that he’d become engaged to Pomona. How much hope he’d had then that he could be a better man.

“Your grace.” Sir Anthony made him a bow. He did not remark upon the loud pounding noises coming from the first floor. His expression was serious.

West had a sudden feeling of foreboding, though he didn’t know why. “I hope that you are well, sir? As you see, this house remains… well. However, I have put together a number of notes for a speech that I intend to give. I gather that there has been some serious unrest in the north.” He’d gathered some of this from Townley, in fact. “Perhaps that development means that there will be more interest in discussing reforms.”

“Ah. Yes. I see, your grace.” Sir Anthony’s expression remained grave. A silence fell.

West frowned. “Forgive me, sir. But is something wrong?”

“Not at all, your grace.” Sir Anthony cleared his throat. “It is only that—Well. Perhaps it may be best to… postpone any such discussions.”

“I do not understand. Please, speak plainly.”

Sir Anthony’s eyebrows went up. “There has been concern amongst some of the committee members about the, er… conditions at your country seat, Castle March.”

“Conditions?”

“Of course, your grace, you only recently acceded to the title, and then you—well, you married rather suddenly, and left the country immediately following that. It is plain that you have had many demands upon your attention. But—there are concerns that although you expressed a wish to end the employment of children in your mines, that has… not been the case.”

“Not the case?” So his orders had been ignored. What in hades was going on?

“Forgive me if I am mistaken, your grace.”

West gave his head a slight shake to try to clear it. “I returned to London only a short time ago. I am still reviewing the letters of business that arrived while I was travelling. You mention ‘conditions.’ Would you please speak more plainly?”

“Rumors, your grace.” Sir Anthony frowned and was silent a moment, as though thinking. “And a blind item in a newspaper gossip column.”

“I see.” West’s stomach clenched. “And what did this item say?”

“That a certain gentleman who has lately inherited a title cultivates a public reputation as a reformer, but is known to neglect his own tenants most shockingly—and that he would like his neighbors to cease employing children underground, while he himself continues to profit from doing so.”

While he continues to profit from… Then not only had his explicit, written instructions been ignored—but now he’d been tarnished with a reputation as a hypocrite. And he could well imagine who had fed that blind item to the newspaper.

“The first day that you came to see me, I wrote to the mine supervisor at Castle March with instructions to cease the employment of children. I cannot imagine that such clear orders—coming directly from me—could have been disregarded.”

Sir Anthony’s expression didn’t change. “Well. No doubt, now that you are returned, you will get to the bottom of it.”