“Good evening, my lord. Your uncle has called. He’s awaiting you in the library.”

Gyles Frederick Rawlings, fifth Earl of Chillingworth, paused in the act of divesting himself of his greatcoat, then shrugged and let the heavy coat fall into his butler’s waiting hands. “Indeed?”

“I understand Lord Walpole will shortly return to Lambourn Castle. He wondered if you had any messages for the Dowager Countess.”

“In other words,” Gyles murmured, resettling his cuffs, “he wants the latest gossip and knows better than to return to Mama and my aunt without it.”

“As you say, my lord. In addition, Mr. Waring called earlier. On ascertaining that you were returning this evening, he left word that he would hold himself ready to wait on your lordship at your earliest convenience.”

“Thank you, Irving.” Gyles strolled into his front hall. Behind him, the front door quietly shut, propelled by a silent footman. Pausing in the middle of the green-and-white tiles, Gyles glanced back at Irving, waiting, a picture of patience in his butler’s black. “Summon Waring.” Gyles turned down the hall. “Send a footman with the carriage, given it’s so late.”

“Immediately, my lord.”

Another well-trained footman opened the library door; Gyles walked in; the door closed behind him.

His uncle, Horace Walpole, was sitting on the chaise, legs stretched out, a half-empty brandy balloon in one hand. He cracked open one eye, then opened both and sat up. “There you are, m’boy. I was wondering if I’d have to go back newsless, and considering what would be safe to concoct.”

Gyles crossed to the tantalus. “I believe I can spare your imagination. I’m expecting Waring shortly.”

“That new man-of-business of yours?”