Johnathan sifted through John's memories. He remembered everything. The heat of an argument.
The taste of pride. The tremor under it that had never been about land at all.
It had been about loss. The kingdom had seized the lands the Sins had tended for generations.
The original John had refused to yield. He had stood before the duchess and insisted he would fight for it himself.
He did not need her help. He did not need her soldiers. He did not need anyone.
It had sounded brave. It had felt brave. Now that Johnathan wore the memory, he could feel the truth beneath it.
John had been terrified. He had already lost his mother and father to a war that did not care how heroic they were.
He could not bear the thought of losing another family to that same hungry political schemes.
John knew the duchess would move to claim what was his, and she would do it in his name.
Johnathan pressed two fingers to his temple. His head still ached in slow waves.
His mouth tasted bitter, and the stink of alcohol clung to him like shame.
He had not drunk last night, not as himself. Yet he woke with a drunkard's tongue and a stranger's memories.
"Did the original John die after drinking?" he wondered. "Would I die if I drink?"
He did not have an answer. He only had a mission hanging in his vision, and a duchess who had been cut by words meant to protect her.
Johnathan had spent a life around women, friends, lovers, and enemies all wearing different smiles.
He knew one thing for certain. A wound from someone close did not bleed less. It bled longer. It bled more.
He breathed out, slow, and decided on a strategy that felt stupid enough to work.
He would make her laugh. Then he would bow. Then he would talk, and if he was lucky, he would leave the table smiling, with her smiling too.
He opened the wardrobe and started rummaging. His hands moved with growing irritation.
Underwear first. Nothing. He shifted hangers, dug through folded stacks, not even short shorts.
"Fine," he muttered.
He grabbed the longest socks he could find and pulled them on. He found baggy pants that ballooned at the thighs, the sort of thing a jester might wear.
Over that went a decorated robe, heavy with embroidery and jewelry set into the cloth, gems catching the light like eyes.
He stared at himself in the mirror and feltogueTh the ThempaFoy woke. Not pleased. Not yet.
He opened the accessory cabinet and began piling on everything that glittered.
Necklaces, rings, a chain that sat too proud on his chest. He looked less like a gentleman and more like a walking treasury.
Some distant memory of a King Henry surfaced, a man who wore wealth like a threat.
Johnathan licked his lips and adjusted his brows. Then he forced his face into the straight, hard calm the original John had worn like a shield.
A ridiculous outfit. A serious expression. Perfect.
He opened the door and strode into the corridor as if this was normal.
The mansion's corridors recognized him. His feet found turns without thinking. The air smelled of warm bread, and beneath it the faint bite of olive oil for dipping.
As he neared, the sound of voices softened, and the scrape of cutlery rose and fell. The doors stood open.
Light spilled across a long table laid with dishes, silver, fruit, and steaming bowls.
At the head sat the duchess. Johnathan's first thought was the unhelpful one. Beauty. Power. A face that could make men forget their own names.
Her hair was chestnut brown, long and wavy, thick curls falling over her shoulders. Straight bangs framed her brow.
Her skin was fair and luminous, warmed by rosy cheeks. Her eyes were hazel brown, glossy, steady. A soft smile rested on her lips, red pink and controlled.
Beside her sat her daughter, Daisy Everhart, close enough in looks that a stranger might believe they were twins.
Daisy's eyes were the only true difference. Hers drooped slightly at the corners, sleepy, gentle, like morning light that asked permission before it entered a room.
Johnathan realized he had stopped in the doorway, staring like a man who had forgotten how to breathe.
The duchess noticed at once. Of course she did.
"Sir John," the duchess asked, with composed courtesy, "Will you attend us at breakfast?"
Johnathan blinked, then nodded as if he had been thinking something profound instead of gawking.
"Yeah, I'm on my way," he said. "I just... Got caught on a thought."
He walked forward. He remembered, from the body's habits, where the original John sat.
Across from the duchess, on the far side, the seat of honor. A seat that kept distance and kept rank tidy.
Johnathan did not sit there. He slid into the place beside them, in front of Daisy and to the left of the duchess, close enough to smell the faint floral note of the duchess's perfume and the warm butter on the table.
Close enough that every maid in the room stiffened as if someone had dropped a plate.
A man lowering his status like that was either drunk, mad, or making a point.
Daisy stared at him, her knife paused above her bread. Her mouth parted, just a little.
The duchess's smile did not move, but something in her eyes cooled.
"John." The single word drew him up short. "Pray, take your place... in the seat of honour."
Johnathan shook his head, slow and calm, as if refusing was the most natural thing in the world. He raised a hand.
"Maid," Johnathan said, sharp and certain. "Bring the breakfast here. Now."
The maid nearest the wall looked ready to faint, uncertain who to follow.
The duchess set her cup down. Porcelain clicked softly. The sound carried across the table like a warning.
"John." Her gaze did not soften. "Explain yourself. What is the meaning of all this?"
Johnathan lowered his head. He rehearsed the words once, fast, in the privacy of his skull.
'Sincerity,' he told himself. 'Now. Show it. Then make her feel safe... then make it right.'
He lifted his face and met her gaze head on. Then, before his courage could flee, he reached out and took her hand.
Her skin was warm. Her grip was steady. She did not pull away, which felt like its own judgment.
"Duchess Rosalind," he said, and the room seemed to cinch around the name.
"If I can't humble myself before the family I care for. Truly care for. And still call myself a gentleman, then fine."
"Brand this John as a fool. Exile me to barren land so none of you ever have to look at my face again."
The maids looked ready to drop their trays. Daisy's eyes widened, her droop gone, shock turning her gentleness sharp.
The duchess did not speak at once. Johnathan held her hand anyway, feeling his pulse hammer in his wrist, and waited to see if he had just saved himself or signed his own sentence.