A chill settled between Julian and Lord Ashworth. Since that unfortunate contretemps in the Mayfair ballroom, Ashworth’s open disdain had become a palpable presence, a frosty wall erected between them. No longer did Ashworth seek Julian’s company for their customary exchange of witty barbs or philosophical musings. Instead, Lady Eleonora Beaumont, recently arrived from her country estate, found herself the constant recipient of Ashworth’s fervent attention, a veritable shadow at his side through every promenade and assembly. Julian’s pride, a fragile edifice at the best of times, smarted under the public slight. He possessed no talent for feigning ignorance, nor the temperament to wear shame with an unaffected smile. A Vance did not cower. Yet, to confront Ashworth, to demand an explanation, felt a weakness too profound to contemplate. The very thought conjured images of desperate, unseemly scenes. A malaise of ennui settled upon Julian. The vibrant hum of society now sounded dull, monotonous. Sometimes, a spark of petty vengeance flickered, a desire to wound Ashworth as he had been wounded. But always, the cold hand of reason held him captive. He merely endured. Ashworth, a man notoriously governed by volatile humors, now regarded Julian with a resentment that felt, to Julian’s keen perception, utterly childish. And the source of this peculiar animosity was undeniably Lady Eleonora. Julian felt a corrosive hatred bloom for the girl. She had never been his to begin with, yet her sudden prominence had not merely supplanted him in Ashworth’s estimation; it had, inexplicably, turned Ashworth against him entirely. A vicious creature, he thought, even if her machinations were entirely unwitting. Logic, Julian knew, often held no sway over the heart’s labyrinthine passages. Blaming Lady Eleonora offered a palatable scapegoat, a balm for his wounded spirit in this wretched predicament. His intellect, however, reminded him of her vulnerable position. She was merely a slip of a girl, a vessel for Ashworth’s shifting affections, caught in a tide not of her making. He revealed no flicker of hostility towards her. His own shame, a constant companion, forbade such a display. To betray his jealousy, to lash out at the innocent Lady Eleonora, would paint him as a petulant fool. Society would whisper of his ungentlemanly conduct, and Ashworth would only find further cause for contempt. Worse, the insidious rumor mill, ever eager for fresh grist, might conjure something truly damning—whispers of an ‘unnatural’ fixation, a depraved sensibility that could utterly ruin a man of his standing. “This is truly insufferable.” He pressed a thumb against his temple, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. It was a fate he dreaded more than Ashworth’s open scorn. And then, quite unbidden, Lord Alistair Fairfax’s indolent countenance floated into his mind’s eye. A vexing companion, Alistair, but one Julian had found himself increasingly tethered to. If Alistair ever gleaned the true nature of Julian’s inner turmoil, what pronouncement would he offer? Doubtless, some barbed observation: “So, Vance harbors an unnatural affection, does he? How utterly common.” The image of Alistair’s condescending smirk, the contempt in his languid gaze, sent a shiver of revulsion through Julian. His fists clenched. No, such a damning secret must never see the light of day. Friendships in the beau monde proved remarkably transient. As the fissure between Julian and Ashworth became apparent, the peripheral figures in Ashworth’s orbit naturally drifted away. Amusingly, Mr. Percy Thorne, an exquisitely dull young man from Alistair’s own rather isolated set, had engaged Julian in an utterly pointless discourse on the virtues of equestrian pursuits the previous afternoon. “Fairfax inquired after you, Vance.” “Indeed? For what purpose?” “He merely did.” Such was the nature of their burgeoning association—trivial exchanges devoid of genuine substance. A clear signal, Julian noted, that society now viewed him as more aligned with Lord Alistair’s set than with Lord Ashworth’s. The ties to Ashworth’s former coterie were not entirely severed, of course. Occasionally, during a brief interlude at a garden party or a chance encounter in the Gentlemen’s Club, a polite nod or a stiff greeting might be exchanged. Mostly, this was limited to Mr. Edmund Finchley, a man whose loyalty, Julian suspected, clung to the strongest branch. “Vance, a good morning.” “Finchley.” Julian offered a curt inclination of his head. He recalled one such awkward exchange when Finchley had leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Ashworth has been rather…singular of late. His attentions to Lady Eleonora are…uncommonly intense, wouldn’t you agree?” Julian’s expression, he knew, must have hardened, for Finchley recoiled slightly, misinterpreting the unspoken contempt as agreement. Finchley then launched into a hushed recitation of Ashworth’s increasingly possessive gestures—the way he insisted Eleonora always occupy the chaise beside him, the proprietary grasp of her arm, the refusal to allow her even a moment’s solitary contemplation. Julian’s jaw tightened. He found the sheer presumption of Finchley’s gossip intolerable. “I hold no interest in such sordid affairs, Finchley.” The words were clipped, dismissive. Finchley’s mouth snapped shut immediately. The man, Julian had observed, was quietly seeking a new anchor, a safe harbour away from Ashworth’s shifting temperament. Perhaps his indiscretion had been an clumsy attempt to forge a closer bond with Julian. Today, as was becoming customary, only Julian and Lord Alistair remained in the quiet hush of the drawing-room at Lady Danbury’s afternoon reception, the other guests having dispersed for their various engagements. Alistair leaned back against the ornate damask of an armchair, observing Julian with an unnerving indolence. Julian could not discern if the man ignored him or merely assessed him. Annoyed, Julian turned his gaze towards the window, deciding to return the favour. “Vance.” “Fairfax?” “A new exhibition of Roman antiquities has just opened at the Royal Academy. One hears it is quite diverting. Shall we procure a carriage?” Alistair ignored Julian’s deliberate attempt at distance. As he spoke, he idly spun a silver snuff box between his long fingers. The box glinted in the afternoon light, a small, distracting gleam. A footman, passing by, hesitated, then continued his duties. Alistair, Julian knew, cared little for the prevailing mood. He cultivated an air of indifference, a self-centeredness that bordered on insolence. Julian watched the snuff box spin, then broke his silence, his irritation at Alistair’s presumption lending a sharp edge to his voice. “A generous invitation, Fairfax. One trusts you intend to share the visual delights, rather than merely monopolizing the most impressive artifacts for your own private amusement, as you are wont to do.” “One fails to see how one’s singular appreciation diminishes your own, Vance. Your preferences were not declared.” Alistair paused his spinning. He offered the snuff box to a passing maidservant, who, flustered, took it, then quickly deposited it on a nearby table before retreating. Alistair casually nodded towards her retreating back. “A trifle slow-witted, that one.” An insufferable disposition. ‘Slow-witted,’ ‘dullard,’ ‘provincial.’ Every utterance from Alistair’s lips was an exercise in casual superiority. Julian found it perplexing that a man of Alistair’s obnoxious charm now preferred his company to that of Lord Ashworth. Alistair dined with him, walked with him through the parks, and shared the tedious hours of social calls. Ashworth was absent, yes, but Alistair possessed myriad avenues to seek him out, should he so desire. A sudden query formed in Julian’s mind, and he voiced it without much reflection. “Fairfax, why do you not consort with Lord Ashworth these days?” Alistair, mid-action of tapping the snuff box against his thumb, froze. He then turned a quizzical gaze upon Julian. “A quarrel, was it not? Between you and him.” “Between Ashworth and myself, yes. My awareness of the matter is considerable. What concern is that of yours?” “Truly, Vance, you pose the most absurd questions. You are my friend.” Alistair’s oddly direct stare raked over Julian. Feeling a prickle of unease, Julian averted his gaze and retorted. “You also maintained a friendship with Lord Ashworth.” “Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are *not* my friend, Vance?” Alistair’s tone was now incredulous, his finger pointed accusingly. “No, I am your friend. But your acquaintance with Ashworth was equally established. Why, then, do you align yourself with my… side?” “Well, one has known you for a longer duration.” “What nonsense is this? Our acquaintance solidified through Ashworth, did it not?” “Vance, I protest. Our earliest connections date back to our first year at Eton!” “When, precisely?” “Preposterous fellow. Truly. In the refectory, we exchanged glances on countless occasions!” “Ah… those instances.” Julian recalled the vague memory, a distant echo of awkward, prolonged stares across crowded dining halls. He had interpreted them as a mutual assessment of rivals, a silent challenge. “So, I alone perceived those as a nascent bond of friendship? You rogue. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same university college, I sought you out first! And you deny it? Unconscionable. I confess myself quite wounded.” “Indeed.” “Oh, the depths of betrayal. My sensibilities are quite affronted.” “Forgive me, Fairfax. My apologies, truly.” Julian mumbled a hasty apology, the memory of those strangely frequent, though utterly baffling, encounters from their school days now casting a new light. So, those intense, silent appraisals had been, in Alistair’s mind, the nascent tendrils of friendship? Julian felt utterly dispossessed. How could one possibly interpret such scrutinies as anything but veiled hostility? And if Alistair’s account was true, then the initial overture, the very beginning of their shared circle, had not been Ashworth’s, but… his? The realization struck Julian with the force of a carriage impact, leaving him momentarily speechless. It was unsettling, profoundly so. Yet, unwilling to delve further into this peculiar re-framing of history, he simply nodded, feigning comprehension. “Very well, very well. I grasp it now. My sincere apologies.” “One was gravely discomfited just now.” Alistair’s gaze, though brief, held an unusual intensity. Julian often found Alistair’s inner workings utterly opaque. “And besides, Lord Ashworth has become quite… singular.” A shiver ran through Julian. “The fellow is quite unhinged, truly. He always possessed a peculiar temperament, but this? This is beyond the pale.” Alistair grasped the snuff box with four fingers, idly spinning it against his temple with his index finger. The gesture brought to mind Mr. Finchley and the other acquaintances who had awkwardly attempted to confide in Julian about Ashworth. From that single observation, Julian discerned a chilling truth: Lord Ashworth’s reputation was in a precipitous decline. “Depraved.” The word, a social death knell in the rigidly structured world of Regency London, sent a cold dread through Julian. A faint tremor coursed through him. Yet, an unsettling wave of relief washed over him that his own secret remained inviolate. Did that relief betray a deeper, more self-serving instinct than loyalty to Ashworth? Unease gnawed at him. He regarded Alistair’s impassive face, feeling akin to a blasphemous priest harboring a forbidden truth before the very altar. “Indeed, Fairfax,” he murmured, the words feeling utterly hollow. A strange, brittle laugh escaped him, a curious blend of fear and derision. It struck him as almost ludicrous that, to the external world, he was Lord Alistair’s closest confidant. In truth, he was no different from the man whom society now quietly branded with an unspeakable stigma. Only months ago, he had been Lord Ashworth’s closest friend. And yet, here he stood, concealed within a noxious trap from which he had barely escaped. He had merely avoided capture. That was all. --- It was the small hours. A message, discreetly folded and sealed with an unfamiliar crest, arrived unexpectedly with the night watchman’s knock. A summons at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Julian found himself wondering if the entire wretched affair was merely a dream. Though he had carefully distanced himself from Lord Ashworth to spare his own sensibilities, his heart gave a wretched lurch at the fleeting thought that the missive might be from him. Hastily, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, verifying the sender. His feelings were a tumultuous conflict. A part of him wished it were merely one of those unsolicited invitations to a clandestine gambling den. But as soon as he deciphered the elegant script, he knew it was not from Lord Ashworth. “Mr. Vance, forgive this unseemly hour. I beg you, could you step outside your residence for but a moment? My sincerest apologies. I am truly distressed.” “Only for a moment. I implore you, just this once.” Lord Ashworth would never beg, let alone apologize. Julian could not imagine a scenario where such a plea would ever pass his lips. Among his dwindling circle, only two individuals would address him so informally, and of those two, only one seemed capable of such desperate humility. Lady Eleonora. How had she even known his address? The moment the realization struck, Julian’s countenance twisted into a scowl. He wished to avoid her—had no desire to encounter her. Her very presence had, of late, become a source of profound discomfort. Yet, despite his every inclination, he rose from his bed, donned a dressing gown over his nightclothes, and crossed the room. He reached the door, paused, and rested his forehead against the cool, dark wood with a profound sigh. “Confound it all.” An overwhelming sensation, a tight knot in his very being. That was the only adequate description. He clutched at his chest. He had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, amassed from countless hours spent in libraries, yet no word he knew could fully articulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… too much. The resentment he harbored for Lady Eleonora, the vivid memory of her tear-stained face at the ball, the desperate days he had spent attempting to distance himself from the encroaching scandal—all swirled together in a suffocating maelstrom. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the brass doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist. In the garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of a crisp autumn. To avoid the damp grass, Julian stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones that tessellated the lawn. The pre-dawn chill made him draw his dressing gown tighter around him. His slipper-clad feet carried him silently to the ornate wrought-iron gates. He paused there for a moment, tutted softly, and grasped the cold iron handle. The low creak of the hinge made him wince, and he eased the gate open with painstaking slowness. Beyond the gates, illuminated by the distant glow of a street lamp, stood Lady Eleonora Beaumont. Cloaked against the morning chill, her head was bowed, and she traced aimless patterns on the asphalt path with the toe of her satin slipper. “Lady Eleonora.” At Julian’s quiet utterance, Lady Eleonora’s head snapped up with a start. “Mr. Vance! Julian!”

A Morning's Unwelcome Summons