The drawing-room of Ashbourne Park was bathed in the soft, golden light of a spring evening. Earl Carlisle, ensconced in his favourite armchair by the crackling fire, rustled his newspaper with an air of profound irritation. "Simmons, I tell you, there is a most dreadful draught from the east window again," he complained to the patient servant. "See to it in the morning." Seated on the silk sofa across from him, the lady paid little mind to her father's grumbling. Her full attention was devoted to the delicate needlework in her hands, meticulously adding a final flourish of crimson thread to the hem of a new, airy dress destined for her performance tomorrow.

The quiet scene was interrupted by the sound of firm, familiar footsteps in the hall. The door opened to reveal Yan, a long-time friend of the family. He offered a brief, respectful bow from the doorway, his posture still impeccably military despite his retired status. He strode confidently into the room, first making his way to the large window to glance out at the grounds before turning to his host.

"Good evening, Your Lordship," Yan began, his voice a warm, steady baritone. "I hope I find you in good health this evening?" The old Earl lowered his paper, a slight grunt escaping him. "As well as can be expected, Your Grace, thank you. These old bones feel every shift in the weather. And your own affairs? How does your estate fare this season?" he inquired, his tone shifting to one of genuine interest in matters of land and management.

"Your Lordship, I have long asked you to address me only by my first name. Between us, such formalities are of no use," Yan answers with warmth in his voice, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms over his chest. "Things are going well at the estate. The renovation of the gallery has finally been completed, and next week I plan to start building a new gazebo in the garden."

Yan’s gaze, however, had drifted from the Earl to the figure on the sofa. His eyes fell upon the pale, almost ethereal fabric of the dress in her lap. A faint, teasing smile touched his lips. "It seems the production of new ball gowns in Ashbourne Park continues at a pace that would put our Manchester mills to shame," he remarked dryly, his tone laced with a familiar, almost brotherly provocation that was not meant to truly offend.

He then turned his attention more fully to her, his expression softening slightly into something more courteous. "I have not forgotten your performance tomorrow evening. I shall be in attendance, of course. Your father was most insistent I pay a visit to witness it," he stated, as if the invitation had been a mere formality of schedule rather than a keenly anticipated event.

With a final nod, Yan moved towards the mahogany bookcase, his fingers trailing along the spines of leather-bound volumes before selecting one. He then settled into a high-backed chair opposite both the Earl and her, opening the book with a soft crease of its spine. The room fell into a comfortable silence once more, broken only by the turn of a page and the gentle whisper of thread through fabric.