His father was The Earl of Manston, solid and stern. Since George was a child he had led the Rokesby family with a firm but fair hand. He was a pillar; he was strength. He was unquestionably in charge. He treated his children with scrupulous fairness, which occasionally meant that no one was satisfied with his judgments, but he was always obeyed.

In his father George saw what it meant to lead a family. And in his father's tears, he saw his own future.

Soon, it would be time for George to lead.

"Dear heavens," Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, finally noticing them in the doorway. "What happened to Billie?"

George just stared for a moment. He'd forgotten he was holding her. "Here," he said, setting Billie down near her mother. He looked around the room. He didn't know to whom he should apply for information. Where was the messenger? Was he even still here?

"George," he heard Felix say. He looked up and saw his friend holding out a sheet of paper. Wordlessly, he took it.

To the Earl of Manston, I regret to inform you that Captain the Hon. Edward Rokesby went missing on 22 March 1779 in Connecticut Colony. We are making every effort to recover him safely.

God bless and Godspeed, Brigadier General Geo. Garth "Missing," George said, looking helplessly around the room. "What does that even mean?"

No one had an answer.

George stared down at the paper in his hands, his eyes taking in every last loop of the script. The message was spectacular in its lack of information. Why was Edward in Connecticut Colony? The last they'd heard he was in New York Town, boarded at a loyalist tavern while keeping an eye on General Washington's troops across the Hudson River.

"If he's missing..." he said, thinking out loud. "They have to know."

"Know what?" Billie asked. She was looking up at him from her position on the sofa, probably the only person close enough to hear his words.

He shook his head, still trying to make sense of it. From the (admittedly sparse) wording of the missive, it seemed that the army was certain that Edward was still alive. Which meant that the general had at least some idea where he was.

If that were the case, why didn't he just say so?

George raked his fingers through his hair, the ball of his hand rubbing hard against his forehead. "How can a decorated soldier go missing?" he asked, turning back to the rest of the room. "Was he kidnapped? Is that what they are trying to tell us?"

"I'm not sure they know," Felix said quietly.

"Oh, they bloody well know," George nearly spat. "They just don't want -"

But Andrew cut him off. "It's not like here," he said, his voice hollow and dull.

George shot him an irritated glance. "I know, but what -"

"It's not like here," Andrew said again, this time with rising anger. "The villages are far apart. The farms don't even border each other. There are giant swaths of land that nobody owns."

Everyone stared at him.

"And there are savages," Andrew said.

George stepped closer, trying to block his mother's view of Andrew's tortured face. "This is not the time," he said in a harsh whisper. His brother might be in shock, but so were they all. It was time for Andrew to grow up and bloody well take hold of his emotions before he shattered what little composure remained in the room.

But Andrew's tongue remained loose and indiscreet. "It would be easy to go missing there."

"You haven't been there," George snapped.

"I've heard."

"You've heard."

"Stop," someone said. "Stop it now."

The two men were now nearly nose to nose.

"There are men on my ship who fought in the colonies," Andrew bit off.

"Oh, and that's going to help us recover Edward," George practically spat.

"I know more about it than you do."

George nearly flinched. He hated this. He hated this so much. The impotence. The worthlessness. He'd been outside playing bloody Pall Mall and his brother was missing in some godforsaken colonial wilderness.

"I am still your older brother," he hissed, "and I will be head of this family -"

"Well, you're not now."

He might as well have been. George cast a fleeting glance at his father, who had not said a word.

"Oh, that was subtle," Andrew jeered.

"Shut up. Just shut -"

"Stop!" Hands came between them and forcibly pushed them apart, and when George finally looked down he realized they belonged to Billie.

"This isn't helping," she said, practically shoving Andrew into a chair.

George blinked, trying to regain his equilibrium. He didn't know why he was yelling at Andrew. He looked at Billie, still standing between them like a tiny warrior. "You shouldn't be on that foot," he said.

Her mouth fell open. "That's what you want to say?"

"You've probably reinjured it."

She stared at him. George knew he sounded a fool, but her ankle was the one bloody thing he actually could do something about.

"You should sit down," she said softly.

He shook his head. He didn't want to sit down. He wanted to act, to do something, anything that might bring his brother safely home. But he was tied here, he'd always been tied here, to this land, to these people.

"I can go," Andrew choked out.

They all turned to look at him. He was still in the chair that Billie had forced him into. He looked terrible. Thunderstruck. Andrew looked, George had a feeling, rather like he himself felt.

But with one massive difference. Andrew at least believed that he could help.

"Go where?" someone finally asked.

"To the colonies." Andrew looked up, the bleak desperation in his face slowly giving way to hard determination. "I will ask to be assigned to a different ship. There's probably one leaving in the next month."

"No," Lady Manston cried. She sounded like a wounded animal. She sounded like nothing George had ever heard.

Andrew rose to his feet. "Mother -"

"No," she said again, this time with fortitude as she pulled herself from Lady Bridgerton's comforting arms. "I will not permit it. I won't lose another son."

Andrew stood stiffly, looking more like a soldier than George had ever seen him. "It's no more dangerous than serving where I do now."

George closed his eyes. Wrong thing to say, Andrew.

"You can't," Lady Manston said, struggling to her feet. "You can't."

Her voice began to break again, and George silently cursed Andrew for his lack of tact. He stepped forward. "Mother..."

"He can't," she choked out, her tortured eyes coming to rest on George's face. "You must tell him... he can't."

George pulled his mother into his arms, meeting Andrew's eyes over her head before murmuring, "We can discuss it later."

"You're just saying that."

"I think you should lie down."

"We should go home," Lord Manston said.

They all turned. It was the first he had spoken since the terrible message had been delivered.

"We need to be at home," he said.

It was Billie who sprang into action. "Of course," she said, going quickly to his side. "You will be more comfortable there." She looked over at George. "The last thing you need is this house party."

George nearly groaned. He'd forgot all about the other guests. The thought of having to actually converse with any of them was excruciating. There would be questions, and condolences, never mind that none of them knew the first thing about Edward.

God, it was all so insignificant. This. The party. Everything but the people in this room.

He looked at Billie. She was still watching him, concern evident in every line of her face. "Has anyone told Mary?" she asked.

"I will do so now," Felix said. "We will join you at Crake, if that suits. I'm sure she will wish to be with her family. We have no need to go back to Sussex immediately."

"What will we do?" Lady Manston said in a lost voice.

George looked to his father. It was his right to decide.

But the earl looked lost. He'd said they should go home; apparently that was all he could manage.

George turned back to the rest of the room and took a breath. "We will take a moment," he said firmly. "We will pause to collect ourselves and decide how best to proceed."

Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but George had had enough. With a hard stare, he added, "Time is of the essence, but we are too far removed from the military theater for one day to make a difference."

"He's right," Billie said.

Several pairs of eyes turned to her in surprise, George's included.

"None of us is in a state to make a proper decision just now." She turned to George. "Go home. Be with your family. I will call tomorrow to see how I may help."

"But what can you do?" Lady Bridgerton asked.

Billie looked at her with quiet, steely grace. "Anything that is required."

George swallowed, surprised by the rush of emotion behind his eyes. His brother was missing; his father was shattered, and now he thought he might cry?

He ought to tell her that they did not need help, that her offer was appreciated but unnecessary.

That was the polite thing to do. It was what he would have said, to anyone else.

But to Billie he said, "Thank you."

Billie drove herself to Crake House the following day, taking a simple one-horse buggy. She wasn't sure how her mother had managed it, but the house party had been cut short by several days, and everyone had either left or was planning to do so by the following morning.

It had taken her a ridiculous amount of time to decide what to wear. Breeches were most certainly out. Despite what her mother thought, Billie did know how and when to dress appropriately, and she would never don her work clothes for a social call.

But this was no ordinary social call. Bright colors would not do. But she could not wear black. Or lavender or gray or anything that even hinted of mourning. Edward was not dead, she told herself fiercely.

In the end she settled on a comfortable day dress she'd got the year before. Her mother had picked out the pattern a springlike floral with greens and pinks and oranges set against cream muslin but Billie had loved it from the first. It made her think of a garden on a cloudy day, which somehow seemed exactly right for calling upon the Rokesbys.

Crake was quiet when she arrived. It felt wrong. It was an enormous house; like Aubrey Hall, one could theoretically go days without seeing another member of the family. But even so, it always seemed vibrant, alive. Some Rokesby or another was always about, ever happy, ever busy.

Crake House was huge, but it was a home.

Right now, however, it felt subdued. Even the servants, who normally worked with diligence and discretion, were quieter than usual. No one smiled, no one spoke.

It was almost heartbreaking.

Billie was directed to the sitting room, but before she exited the hall George appeared, obviously having been alerted to her arrival.

"Billie," he said, bowing his head in greeting. "It is good to see you."

Her first impulse was to ask if there had been any news, but of course there would not be. There would be no swift rider, down from London with a report. Edward was far too far away. It would likely be months before they learned his fate.

"How is your mother?" she asked.

He smiled sadly. "As well as can be expected."

Billie nodded, following him into the sitting room. "And your father?"

George paused, but he did not turn to face her. "He sits in his study and stares out the window."

Billie swallowed, her heart breaking at George's bleak posture. She did not need to see his face to know his pain. He loved Edward, just as she did. Just as they all did.