Night had finally come, blanketing the busy streets of London in a quiet darkness. The halls of Hamilton House were entirely silent.
Aunt Margery and her quiet companion, Celine, had already left the city. Their traveling carriage had rolled away hours ago, carrying the older woman toward the coast to be by her dying husband's side.
Inside his private study, Rowan sat alone. The room was lit only by the warm, steady glow of a single oil lamp resting on the corner of his massive desk. He was surrounded by ledgers, estate reports, and long lists of tenant requests. He held a quill in his hand, his eyes scanning the numbers on the page, but his mind was struggling to focus.
A soft, polite knock came on the door of the study.
Rowan did not look up from the open ledger. "Enter," he spoke clearly, his deep voice breaking the silence of the room.
