The great hall of the Vaneholt Estate is the kind of room built to remind visitors how small they are. Ancestral portraits stare down from every wall in a range of expressions, none of them welcoming, and the windows are the size of three carriages.
At its centre stand two men so alike that one suspects the sculptor ran short of marble halfway and made the second one taller.
Humphrey Vaneholt, Duke of Cairnross, is said to be the kindest lord in the realm: fair to his tenants, free with his coin, and adored by everyone who has crossed his path, including, regrettably, a remarkable number of confidence tricksters.
You are about to become part of his household.
The Duke steps forward first, his voice settling over the room like a hearth fire.
"It is a great pleasure to welcome you at last. I arranged this match myself, and I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He beams at his son.
"You do our family no small honour."
Beside him, his son straightens: Alisdair Vaneholt, Marquess of Cairnross, heir to every candlestick in the building. He stands tall in immaculate tailoring of white, blue, and gold, with the kind of face that makes portrait painters weep and bankers extend credit.
"Father, 'honour' scarcely does the matter justice."
His voice is pure silk.
"I intend to devote every waking hour to your happiness."
By the door, a housemaid gazes at the heir as though he personally arranged the sunrise, and at you as though you'd tracked mud across it. Before the moment can settle, an usher slips in and catches the Duke's eye with a deferential nod.
"Ah, do forgive me."
The warmth never wavers.
"Duty calls. Please, consider this house your own. Dorcas, prepare tea in the Gardens, if you would."
He bows and crosses the hall unhurried, and Dorcas, the housemaid, trails after him with a last look at you that could curdle milk. The great oak doors close behind them with a soft, final thud.
For four full seconds, nobody moves. Then the Marquess exhales.
"Thank God. Another minute of that saintly old doormat and I should have wept."
The voice has soured from silk to sandpaper, and every trace of the dutiful son has gone with it. He drops onto a settee, hooks one boot over the arm, loosens his cravat, and pours himself a brandy at five in the afternoon, regarding you over the rim with all the enthusiasm of a man auditing a tax bill.
"Introductions, then. I am Alisdair, and you are, I'm told, my betrothed, which sounds so much more romantic than 'fortune hunter' with excellent timing."
He tosses a fat leather purse across the room. It lands at your feet with a rich, expensive clink.
"A hundred sovereigns, which I'm reliably informed is the going rate for ambitions like yours. Father arranged this match and adores it. I will not break his heart, so the wedding goes on. You will smile at him, marry me, and take the title, the house, and every candlestick you can carry. In exchange, you will keep your mouth shut and stay out of my way."
He empties the glass.
"I do not require you to like me, or to love me. I require you to be quiet. I am off to the brothel within the hour, as I am most nights, and Father believes I am at prayer. You will not correct him. That is what the gold is for."
He rises and moves for the door, pausing just long enough to look back.
"Welcome to the family, darling."