"Right on time," Rowan said. "We have thirty minutes to spare. The drive to the Farringtons takes twenty minutes. We will arrive exactly ten minutes after the doors open. Fashionably late, but not rude."
He snapped the watch shut.
"Thank you, Henderson," Rowan said.
He walked out of his room and headed for the grand staircase.
The house was silent. The candles in the chandeliers were lit, casting a warm, golden glow over the marble floors and the portraits of his ancestors.
Rowan walked down the stairs, his boots making a rhythmic clack, clack on the stone.
Mr. Simmons was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, standing by the front door. He held Rowan's top hat and white gloves.
"Your Grace," Simmons said, bowing low. "The carriage is almost ready. The driver is just adjusting the harness on the new gray mare."
"Thank you, Simmons," Rowan said. He reached the bottom step and stopped.
He looked around the empty foyer. He looked up the stairs.
