The grand, quiet halls of Hamilton House felt entirely different that evening. The energy that usually buzzed through the manor, the sound of servants rushing, the crisp commands of the housekeeper, the lively chatter from the drawing room, was completely muted.
In the master bedchamber, the velvet curtains had been pulled back, allowing the pale, silver light of the moon to spill across the rug.
Rowan stood by the tall glass window. He was dressed simply in a dark blue robe tied loosely at his waist and opened at the collar. The thick white bandage was still wrapped securely around his head.
He leaned his broad shoulder against the cool wooden frame of the window. He stared out into the dark London night, looking past the iron gates of his estate, past the gas lamps flickering on the street corners. He was looking toward the countryside.
