The Duke of Blackthorn arrived exactly on time, which seemed to unsettle her father more than if he’d been late. He was tall, dark-coated, and utterly still in a way that made the rest of the room look frantic by comparison. He did not smile at Marguerite’s curtsy. He did not linger on Isolde’s carefully arranged beauty. His eyes swept the hall once, briskly, like a man checking a room for something misplaced.
Lord Devereux stepped forward, all practiced warmth. “Your Grace, welcome to Ashford Manor. May I present my daughters?”
“Where is Lady Serafina Devereux?”
The words landed like a dropped glass.
For a moment, no one moved. Marguerite’s smile froze mid-curve. Isolde’s fan stopped fluttering. Lady Cordelia’s face went the color of old paper.
“Your Grace,” her father said carefully, “I believe there’s been some confusion. My daughters are—”
“I asked for Lady Serafina.”
The duke’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
“Not her sisters. Her.”
Above them, hidden in the shadows of the gallery, Serafina went very still. She had never heard her name spoken like that in this house, not as an accusation, not as a whisper of shame, but plainly, as though it were simply a fact that mattered.
“She is indisposed,” Lady Cordelia managed. “Unwell. Not fit to receive guests of your standing.”
“Then I will wait until she is fit.”
“Your Grace, surely my other daughters—”
“I did not travel three days to meet your other daughters.”