Eighty miles to the south, within the aristocratic sprawl of the capital, the late afternoon sun failed to penetrate the thick, velvet-draped windows of Duke Asher's private solar.
The room smelled of old paper, cold beeswax, and the bitter, herbal smoke of an unlit pipe resting on an ebony side table.
Around the long obsidian conference table, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the erratic, nervous ticking of a gilded clock mounted between the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Vance sat in his accustomed chair to the Duke's immediate right. His expensive fur mantle had been discarded, tossed carelessly over an empty armchair in the corner. His silk cravat was loosened, his knuckles resting against the dark polished wood, white and unyielding as bone.
Across from him, Viscount Horn stood near the darkened fireplace, his heavy arms crossed over his chest. The military man had refused a seat since arriving three hours ago.
