Seymour House was unusually still that evening, the kind of heavy quiet that settles on a home when something is already wrong but no one has spoken it aloud yet.
Lord James burst through the doors the moment the butler admitted him, his expression thunderous. Servants scattered. He strode straight into the drawing room where Baron Seymour and the Baroness were sitting with tea between them.
His mother looked up, startled. "James? Why are you home so early from White's?"
He didn't bow. He didn't sit. He simply said, "Margaret's courtship with Lord Lockhart must not continue."
Baroness Seymour blinked, then scoffed softly. "You will not sabotage your sister's prospects. Frederick Lockhart is an earl. Your sister is fortunate he even glances her way."
Baron Seymour frowned. "Continue, James. Tell me what you've heard."
James inhaled sharply. "At White's… Lockhart spoke of Margaret." His hands curled into fists.
