Montgomery Townhouse, Berkeley Square.
Late Morning.
The Montgomery residence stood with the quiet confidence of a house long accustomed to importance. Its pale façade caught the morning light with restrained elegance, neither ostentatious nor modest—merely certain of its place in London.
Jeremy Eden regarded it with the mild indifference of a man who had seen too many such houses to be impressed by any one of them.
He stepped from his carriage without haste, his boots meeting the stone with measured certainty. A footman opened the door before he reached it, bowing with the precision expected of a household that had recently acquired new distinction.
"Lord Jeremy Eden," the servant announced.
Jeremy inclined his head once and entered.
The interior, as ever, was impeccable. Polished marble, muted gold, the faint scent of beeswax and order. It was the sort of place that suggested discipline had been carefully cultivated—and recently, perhaps, rearranged.
He had expected to be received in the morning room.
He had not expected—
"Eden."
Jeremy turned.
Lord Edward Montgomery stood near the base of the staircase, composed as ever, though there lingered about him a faint air of resignation that did not entirely belong to the setting.
Jeremy inclined his head in greeting. "Montgomery."
Edward's gaze flicked briefly toward the closed corridor beyond, then returned.
"If you are here for Sophia or Benedict," he said, tone even, "I am afraid you have chosen an unfortunate hour."
Jeremy paused.
"Unfortunate," he repeated. "In what sense?"
Edward exhaled—quietly, but with meaning.
"You see," he said, with the patience of a man who had already endured more explanation than he preferred, "my sister-in-law and my younger brother have made it abundantly clear that they are not to be disturbed today."
Jeremy's brow lowered a fraction.
"Not to be disturbed," he echoed. "By whom?"
"By anyone," Edward replied.
A beat.
Then, with a composure that did not quite conceal the absurdity of the situation—
"They are not receiving visitors."
Jeremy considered this. "They were married last summer," he said at length, as though presenting a fact that ought to resolve the matter entirely.
Edward's mouth curved—just slightly.
"I am aware," he said. "The calendar has not escaped me."
"And yet," Jeremy continued, "you speak as though the event occurred yesterday."
Edward's expression shifted—not into amusement, precisely, but into something adjacent.
"Yes," he said. "Well."
A pause followed.
Then, more plainly—"You are, I think, underestimating the… persistence of newlywed enthusiasm."
Jeremy stared at him.
For a moment, the silence held—not confusion, precisely, but a rare interruption in his usual certainty.
"…I see," he said.
Edward's brow lifted. "No," he replied. "I do not believe you do."
Jeremy glanced, almost involuntarily, toward the corridor Edward had earlier acknowledged. It remained closed. Quiet. Entirely uninformative.
Which, he thought, was perhaps the point.
He returned his gaze to Edward.
"And this state of affairs," Jeremy said, "is expected to continue indefinitely?"
Edward gave a soft, humourless laugh.
"One can only hope not," he said. "For the sake of the household, if nothing else."
Jeremy exhaled faintly.
"I had intended only a brief call."
"As do all men who arrive at an inconvenient hour," Edward replied.
Jeremy ignored that.
"Then I shall leave a card," he said, reaching for his gloves as though the matter were already concluded. "And return when the… enthusiasm has subsided."
Edward inclined his head.
"A sensible course."
Jeremy paused.
"Though I confess," he added, "it is a curious arrangement—that matrimony should render one temporarily inaccessible to reason."
Edward's expression sharpened—not unkindly, but with interest.
"Matrimony," he said, "renders many things temporarily inaccessible."
Jeremy's mouth twitched.
"I begin to see why you have delayed it."
Edward gave him a look, assessing. "And I begin to see why your mother has not permitted you to do the same indefinitely."
Jeremy huffed a quiet breath.
"I suspect," he said, "that my mother is engaged in a similar campaign."
Edward folded his arms loosely. "Mine has made her position abundantly clear," he said. "Five years in the marriage mart, and still unclaimed—it is, apparently, a matter of increasing concern."
Jeremy tilted his head.
"Unclaimed," he repeated. "How very agricultural."
Edward almost smiled.
"She has begun to use the word urgent," he added.
Jeremy winced—just slightly.
"A dangerous escalation."
"Indeed."
A brief silence settled between them, companionable in its shared resignation.
At last, Jeremy said:
"I am expected, then, to follow suit."
Edward's gaze flicked to him.
"Are you not?"
Jeremy considered the question with more seriousness than his tone suggested.
"I would rather read Machiavelli," he said.
Edward's brow rose. "Than court a lady?"
"Than be arranged," Jeremy corrected. "The distinction matters."
Edward studied him for a moment.
"And yet," he said slowly, "you have come today to call upon a married woman."
Jeremy did not flinch.
"I have come to speak with a friend," he said. "The rest is interpretation."
Edward nodded once.
"Society," he said, "rarely concerns itself with your interpretations."
Jeremy's gaze drifted once more, briefly, toward the closed corridor.
"Society," he murmured, "is frequently misguided."
Edward gave a quiet huff of amusement. "On that, at least, we agree."
A footman approached discreetly, bearing a small tray. Jeremy took up a calling card, writing his name with swift precision before placing it upon the silver surface.
"Do inform them," he said, "that I called."
Edward inclined his head.
"I shall," he said. "When they are… available."
Jeremy turned toward the door, his expression once more composed, his thoughts already shifting elsewhere—toward the Season, toward expectation, toward the quiet insistence of a world determined to arrange itself around him.
As he stepped out into the light of Berkeley Square, he exhaled softly.
"Matrimony," he said under his breath, "appears to be a most efficient barrier."
The carriage door closed behind him.
And as the wheels began to move, Lord Jeremy Eden—unimpressed, unhurried, and entirely unpersuaded—found himself, for the first time that morning, with nothing to do.
Which, he suspected, would not last.