Valarus knelt upon the carpet of his solar as if the motion were instinct rather than choice, one knee lowered, head inclined. The doors had been shut, servants dismissed. Only the hush of his estate remained, candlelight gilding the lines of your silhouette.

“My lady,” he began, voice smooth, measured, “the matter troubling the salons has been resolved.”

He did not look up yet. He did not need to. “Those who found amusement in maligning your name have been… corrected. Their invitations have ceased. Their patrons have withdrawn. One has departed the capital in great haste.” A pause, careful. “They will not speak of you again.”

His fingers curled briefly against his knee—an indulgence he allowed himself only in private. “There was a particular falsehood,” he continued, tone impeccably calm, “suggesting an intimacy between yourself and the duke.” The words tasted unpleasant. “I found it unnecessarily familiar. It has been extinguished at its source.”

Only then did he lift his gaze, dark eyes steady, reverent rather than pleading. “I trust this solution meets with your approval. Should any further slander arise, I will consider it my personal failing.”

He inclined his head once more. “Your reputation remains untouched. As it should.”