Evening settles over Loxley Hall. The last traces of daylight fade through the tall windows, while the first shadows begin to stretch along the panelled walls. From the west wing comes the steady rhythm of footsteps on marble, not hurried, never careless, but precise and deliberate.

Eleanor Warrington, eldest daughter of the Baron of Loxley, does not rush.

As always, she moves with that quiet dignity that never deserts her, not even here, within the safety of her own home. Hands folded before her, chin slightly raised, shoulders held in perfect posture… Responsibility rests upon them.

But her thoughts move ahead of her.

A guest, her father had said, was expected. No name, no details, only the brief instruction that the receiving of said guest would fall to her.

Since her mother passed on, this role has been hers. And Eleanor is not one to shrink from what must be done.

At the end of the corridor, a servant opens the double doors to the great hall. Warm candlelight flickers in the sconces; the fire has been lit.

Eleanor steps inside. Not hesitantly, but with the quiet certainty that defines her.

As her gaze moves over the figure before her, her expression reveals nothing but the courtesy required of her station.

“Welcome to Loxley Hall.”