Brenford House, Early Morning — Late March
The Duke of Brenford's townhouse stood on the west side of Grosvenor Square, massive and cold as a fortress. The sun had barely risen, and yet the lamps inside still burned. Power, after all, did not sleep — and neither did the men who meant to reclaim it.
Christopher stood before the tall window of his father's study, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His reflection in the glass was a ghost — pale, calm, unreadable. The last of winter's fog drifted past the glass like smoke.
Behind him, the Duke of Brenford cleared his throat.
"You should have stayed in the country," the older man said. "Half the city still whispers your name like a curse."
Christopher smiled faintly. "And yet, Father, here I stand."
"Here you intrude," the duke corrected, setting down his paper. "You have been convicted, publicly shamed, stripped of your post. Every sensible man in this government wants you forgotten."
