Robert Thorne’s bedroom here at the family home, Anthony thought, had always been a refuge of sorts. The place Robert returned to. The place he’d made his own, more so than the fashionable rented rooms with no servants where Robert occasionally met lovers. This place had faded papered walls in pale blue and gold, and a tall bed with old but thick tumbled blue curtains and a canopy, and a lovely imported trunk with delicately scented wooden inlays because Robert could never resist pretty touches, and the book Robert had been reading—not one of Anthony’s own—set on the small graceful table beside the bed.
He closed the door behind them. He looked at Robert.
They had not encountered anyone on the way upstairs; he had been glad of that. Most guests would have left by now, given the hour and
