The sun was high and bright, a sharp, clear, unforgiving light that was the very opposite of the night before.
Carcel stood on the front steps of the Hamilton townhouse, adjusting his cravat. The simple, mindless, normal action was a comfort. He tugged at the knot, his movements precise, his expression calm.
He had not slept. Not really. After he had... concluded his "lesson" with Ines—after he had cleaned up the evidence, watched her, in a daze, retrieve her notes, and then practically pushed her, gently, from the library—he had gone not to his bed, but to the brandy.
He had sat, in the dark, in his own chair, and processed the evening.
He had come to a single, terrible, and exhilarating conclusion: He was, quite possibly, the worst guardian in the history of England. And... he could not wait to do it again.
Rowan had, blessedly, already left. A note at the breakfast table had informed them he was meeting with his man of business, and would not return until luncheon.
