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that Lady Katherine has a twin sister. A lovely creature, far more beautiful than the lady you fished from the river. They made their Come Out this year. Both remain unwed.”
    And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the king decreed it to spare my life.
    His lips twitched in remembrance of her spirited outburst.
    “I say, did you just smile, Bainbridge?”
    Jasper growled. “No.”
    Guilford downed the remaining contents of his glass and then leaned over, placing it with a loud thunk upon Jasper’s mahogany desk. The usual easy smile worn by his affable friend now gone, replaced by a somber set to his mouth in a show of pity that was neither wanted nor appreciated. Jasper had seen that look those three years ago. He gripped the arms of his chair hard enough that his nails bit into the wood and left marks upon the surface.
    “She would not want you to live like this, Bainbridge.”
    His grip tightened.
    Guilford seemed unaware of the volatile emotion thrumming through Jasper, for if he was, he’d surely have known to cease his barrage.
    Instead, he continued. “Lydia loved you. She would want you to be happy.”
    Jasper looked at a point over Guilford’s shoulder, flexing his jaw. “You dare presume to know what Lydia would want?” Not a soul had known another so well as Jasper had known his wife. From her smile to her gentle spirit, he knew her better than he knew the lines that covered his palm.
    Guilford shifted forward in his seat; the aged leather cracked in protest. “Then you tell me, Bainbridge, you who knew her better than any other. Would Lydia be so cold and cruel as to want to see you live your life as this hard, unforgiving, empty man you’ve become?”
    “Go to hell,” Jasper snapped.
    His friend inclined his head. “I believe your response shall suffice as an answer.” Guilford climbed to his feet, and fished around the front of his pocket. He extracted a small book, no larger than the span of his palm and dropped it onto Jasper’s desk. “Consider it a bit of an early Christmastide present,” he murmured.
    Jasper dropped his gaze.
    Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
    “It is the story of a world-weary man looking for meaning in his life,” Guilford went on.
    “I don’t—”
    “Read poetry. I know. But you used to, and I thought perhaps as it is Christmastide, and a time of hope and new beginnings, that you might find a renewed love for the written word.” Guilford opened his mouth as if he wished to say more. Instead, he sketched a short bow. “Good day, Bainbridge. I shall see you tomorrow.”
    “You needn’t come by,” Jasper barked when his friend grasped the handle of the door.
    “I know. But that is what friends do.” He paused. “Oh, and Bainbridge?” He reached into the front pocket of his jacket once more and fished something out. He tossed the item across the room. It landed with a solid thump atop Jasper’s desk, coming a hairsbreadth away from his ledgers. “I managed to retrieve Lady Katherine’s reticule. I thought you might return the item to your lady.”
    “She’s not—”
    Guilford took his leave. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.
    “My lady,” Jasper finished into the silence. He momentarily eyed the small pale green reticule, reached for it, and then caught himself. With a curse, he shoved it aside and instead picked up Byron’s recent work. He turned it over in his hands. At one time, Jasper had read and appreciated all the works of the romantic poets. When he’d courted Lydia, he’d read to her sonnets that bespoke of love and beauty. Her death had shown him that sonnets were nothing more than fanciful words, not even worth the ink they were written in.
    Yet, Guilford somehow believed the remnants of the man Jasper had been still dwelled somewhere inside him. When all the servants had fled in fear of the Mad Duke after Lydia’s death, Guilford had been unwavering in his steadfastness;