By late evening, the crowd had thinned to dockworkers, clerks, and pairs of friends lingering longer than intended, those with night shifts drifting toward their posts, others reluctant to return home just yet.
Matthew watched them through the windows of The Lantern Room.
Tucked between a tailor's shop and a shuttered bookbinder, the establishment remained open long after respectable houses went dark. A single brass lantern hung above the door, its glass permanently clouded with soot, casting a steady amber glow onto the cobblestones.
Inside, the air was thick with steam, bread, and the faint bite of onions browned too long in iron pans. Narrow wooden tables bore the scars of years—knife marks, wine rings, names carved by bored apprentices. Coats hung from pegs along the wall, damp from fog or drizzle. Conversations were low and unhurried, meant to warm rather than impress.
This was not a place for ceremony. It was where friends went for late meals.
Adrian had suggested it.
"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Adrian said, lifting a spoonful of thick beef soup, "when Matthew Wellington would come somewhere only to be rejected."
Thomas had already recounted the events at the Verin mansion in exaggerated detail, drawing laughter from both himself and Adrian. Matthew, meanwhile, brooded by the window.
"I warned him," Thomas said happily. "But no, he wasn't just another handsome gentleman this time."
Adrian laughed.
"Laugh all you want," Matthew snapped, turning from the window. "At least I don't need Miss Hawthorne to rescue me."
Thomas grinned. "That's low, Matthew. Even for you."
"Says the famous rake of Turner Gate who couldn't get a girl," Adrian added, unhelpfully.
Thomas laughed outright.
Matthew resigned himself, knowing any retort would only return to him tenfold.
After a moment, Adrian softened.
"Still," he said, "you look heartbroken. It's not the first time you've been refused."
Matthew exhaled. "That's just it. It's the first time I cared. And worse, I don't know whether I still have a chance."
Thomas spoke with his mouth full of bread. "Give it up. There's a reason they call her The Distant Rose."
"I forgot," Adrian said. "How exactly do you know the Verins family again?"
Thomas shrugged. "Her father, Mr. Verin, is a regular at my father's club. Cards, bets, the usual. Our mothers became friends soon after. Turns out they shared many things to complain about."
"That explains a great deal," Adrian said, hiding his grin behind his drink. "It truly does run in the blood."
Matthew laughed loudly, pointedly.
Thomas hissed, either too tipsy to respond or too resigned to try.
The rest of the evening passed with fewer jabs. They finished their meals, paid the waitress fifteen shillings, and lingered longer than necessary. Bowls emptied. The lantern outside dimmed. No one hurried them.
When they finally stood, coats reclaimed, the night waited patiently, cold, damp, unchanged.
----
As they neared Adrian's building, Matthew spoke again.
"I've decided," he said quietly. "I'm going to see her again. To clarify things."
"You can't just walk into her mansion," Adrian replied.
Matthew smiled, confidence returning. "I have my ways."
"Well," Adrian said, stepping back, "good luck. And inform me when you survive."
Thomas offered no rebuke, only a brief nod of encouragement.
They parted ways under the dim lamps.
For Matthew Wellington, the night was not an ending.
It was preparation.