His brother froze on the threshold. He turned. Older, of course, but otherwise unchanged. Tall, rangy build, hawk-like nose—he got that from Father—keen grey eyes.
Ignoring the now-persistent rain, Matthew removed his hat. His brother’s only reaction was a blink and the firming of his lips.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said and opened the door. ‘First floor.’
Matthew led the way upstairs, thrusting down the nervous questions crowding his mind. Stephen would do what he would do. The die was now cast. On the landing, Stephen indicated a door.
‘Sitting room,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Pring to bring some wine.’
Matthew shrugged out of his greatcoat and, after a second’s hesitation, draped it over a ladderback chair set before a writing desk. The room was masculine—to be expected in this popular area for bachelor lodgings—all dark-green damask, polished wood panelling and leather seats. The fire was lit, as were the candles, dispersing the gloom of the murky late afternoon and Matthew used the poker to stir the coals. At the sound of the door closing, he turned.
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