“You mustn’t blame yourself. Truly.”

After several more drinks and a meandering, regretful conversation, McConnell left. Lenox promised to be in touch the next day and went to bed troubled in his mind.

At four in the morning, as Lenox slept, there was an urgent knock on his bedroom door. It was Graham, carrying a candle, bleary eyed.

“Yes?” said Lenox, sitting up instantly flooded with anxiety about Jane, about his brother, about the future. A nervous day had made for nervous rest.

“A visitor, sir. Urgent, I believe.”

“Who is it? McConnell?”

“Mr. Hilary, sir.”

“James Hilary?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hilary was the MP and political strategist Edmund had recommended Charles speak with. What on earth could he want?

Lenox made his way downstairs as quickly as he could. Hilary was sitting on the sofa in Lenox’s study. He was a handsome man, with nobility written on his brow; he had a pleasant and open face usually but at the moment appeared profoundly agitated.

“Goodness, man, look at the hour,” said Lenox. “What can it be?”

“Lenox, there you are. Come, you must tell your butler to pack a bag. Some sandwiches would be welcome for the trip, too. Even a cup of coffee.”

“What trip, Hilary?”

“Of course-where is my head? We’ve received a telegram; we need to go to Stirrington now.”

“Why?”

“Stoke is dead.”

“No!” cried Lenox.

Stoke was the Member of Parliament for Stirrington, whose retirement was going to prompt the election Lenox would compete in. He was a rural-minded, rough-mannered old man from an ancient family, who loved nothing but to run after the hounds and confer with his gamekeeper and for whom retirement held only happy prospects. He had never been meant for Parliament, but he had served his time honorably.

“Yes,” said Hilary impatiently. “He’s dead. His heart went out.”