I had been invited, of course. Men like me always are—if not for respect, then for the spectacle. The carriage rolled to a measured halt before the Beaumont estate, its gravel drive gleaming pale beneath the late afternoon sun. Even before I stepped down, I could hear it—the soft hum of cultivated laughter, the clink of crystal, the orchestrated ease of a gathering designed to impress without appearing to try. The air itself seemed perfumed with excess. A barbecue, they had called it. An indulgent novelty borrowed from abroad, dressed in refinement to suit English sensibilities. Fires burned low and controlled across the gardens, where servants moved with discreet precision, tending to meats and delicacies as though they were handling state secrets rather than supper. Silk parasols bloomed like pale flowers across the lawn, and society—its finest specimens—had gathered beneath them. I stepped out, unhurried. Eyes found me quickly. They always do. Some curious. Some disapproving. A few—far more interesting—amused. The Beaumonts had spared no expense. Their estate stretched outward in deliberate grandeur, every hedge trimmed, every path calculated to suggest effortless beauty. It was the sort of place that made lesser men feel small and greater men feel challenged. I felt neither. Houses, like reputations, were only as strong as the illusions that sustained them. A servant announced my name, though it was hardly necessary. “Viscount Ashcombe.” The title carried. It always carried. I moved through the crowd as one does through water—without resistance, without apology. Conversations faltered, then resumed in quieter tones. I caught fragments as I passed. “…boxing rumors—” “…impossible, surely—” “…his poor family…” I smiled, just enough to be insulting. And then I saw her.