The front door of Hamilton House closed with a definitive thud, shutting out the noise of London, the rattle of carriage wheels, and the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun.
Rowan Hamilton stood in the foyer. The silence of the house washed over him instantly. It was usually a welcome sensation, a cool bath after the heat of social performance. Today, however, the silence felt heavy. It felt accusing.
He peeled off his brown driving gloves, finger by finger. The leather made a soft shhh sound as it slid against his skin. He felt a strange sense of relief to be rid of them. They were part of the costume that Delaney had selected for him.
Mr. Simmons appeared from the shadows of the hallway, a silver tray already in hand. He moved with the silent efficiency of a ghost.
"Welcome home, Your Grace," Simmons said. "I trust the promenade was... agreeable?"
