As the secretary rushed out of the office with lunatic speed, Rhys lowered his forehead to the surface of his desk. “Diolch i Dduw,” he muttered. Thank God.

If an invitation hadn’t come soon, he would have had no choice but to storm Eversby Priory like an invading army. He was sorry for the death of Kathleen’s father, but more than anything he was desperate to see Helen again. It had seemed impossible that Helen was beyond his reach when he wanted her so badly. All he’d been able to do was wait, which was the thing in life he had always been worst at.

Helen had sent three or four letters a week, telling him the latest news about the family and recent events in the village, the restoration work being done on the house, and the progress of the hematite ore quarry. She had sprinkled in descriptions of things like candle making, or harvesting the forced rhubarb they had grown in one of the glasshouses. Prim, cheerful, chatty letters.

He was mad with longing, sick with it.

His work, his store, had always absorbed his unlimited energy, but now it wasn’t enough. He burned with desire, a constant fever beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure if Helen was the illness or the cure.

As it turned out, the next train departed in three hours. Since there wasn’t nearly enough time to have his private train car made ready, nor was there an immediately available locomotive to couple it with, Rhys was more than happy to go by regular train. By some miracle, the unflappable Quincy managed to pack their bags with such efficiency that they were able to reach the station in time. Had there been any lingering question in Rhys’s mind about the merit of having a valet, it was forever silenced.

During the two-hour journey from London to Alton Station, Rhys found himself leaning forward in his seat as if to urge the toiling engine to a greater speed. At last the train stopped at Alton Station, and Rhys found a hired carriage to convey him and his valet to Eversby Priory.

The massive Jacobean manor house was in the process of being restored, and had been ever since Devon had inherited it. Richly ornamented with parapets, and arcade arches, and bristling with rows of elaborate chimneystacks, the Jacobean house surveyed its surroundings like a dignified dowager at a ball. The discovery of a hematite deposit on the estate had come none too soon—without a heavy infusion of capital, the manor would have fallen to ruins before the next generation could inherit.

Rhys and Quincy were greeted by the butler, Sims, who said something to the effect that they hadn’t been expected quite so soon. Quincy agreed that their arrival had indeed been precipitate, and the two servants exchanged a quick glance of mutual commiseration over the difficulties posed by rash and demanding employers.

As Rhys prowled restlessly around the front receiving room, waiting for someone to appear, it occurred to him that his surroundings were deeply comfortable in a way that his modern house was not. He’d always preferred newness, associating old things with decay and dowdiness. But the faded charms of Eversby Priory were soothing and welcoming. It had something to do with the way the furniture was arranged in cozy groups on the flowered rug. Books and periodicals were stacked on small tables, and there were cushions and lap blankets everywhere. A pair of friendly black spaniels wandered in to sniff at his hand, and left at the sound of some distant noise in the house. Baked sweet smells wafted into the room, heralding the approach of afternoon tea.

He hadn’t known what to make of the fact that he had been invited to Eversby Priory at a time of mourning. From what he knew of mourning rituals—which wasn’t much, save for the merchandise he sold at his store—a recently bereaved family did not invite or accept visitors. Calls of condolence weren’t encouraged until after the funeral.

However, Quincy, who was versed in such matters and had known the Ravenels for decades, had explained the significance of the invitation. “It would appear, sir, that Lord and Lady Trenear have decided to treat you as one of the family, even though you have not yet married Lady Helen.” Turning away, he had added with a hint of disapproval, “This new generation of Ravenels is not always traditional.”

Rhys’s thoughts snapped back to the present as Devon entered the room.

“Good God, Winterborne.” Devon looked bemused and a bit weary. “I only sent the telegram this morning.” But he smiled in the old comfortable way, and reached out to shake Rhys’s hand firmly. It seemed that their differences had been set aside.

“How is Lady Trenear?”

Devon hesitated, as if debating how much to admit. “Fragile,” he finally said. “She’s grieving not for the father she lost so much as the father she never had. I’ve sent for Lady Berwick, who will arrive tomorrow from Leominster. Kathleen will find comfort in her presence—the Berwicks took her in after her own parents sent her away from Ireland.”

“The funeral will be there?”

Devon nodded a slight frown. “Glengarriff. I’ll have to take her. Needless to say, the timing is bloody inconvenient.”

“Couldn’t you find a suitable traveling companion for her?”

“Not in her condition. I need to be with her. She’s having morning sickness, and is more at the mercy of her emotions than usual.”

Rhys considered the logistics of the trip. “The fastest way is to go from Bristol to Waterford by steamer, and stay the night at the Granville—it’s a fine hotel with a railway station close by. You could take a train to Glengarriff the next day. If you wish, I’ll wire my office to make travel arrangements. They know the schedules of every ship and steam packet route going to and from England, as well as every railway station and halt in existence.”