The pale winter sun had surrendered early to the encroaching darkness, draping London in a somber veil that perfectly reflected Albert's dour disposition. The raucous laughter and idle gossip at White's had grated on his nerves more than usual this evening, each attempt to lure him to the card tables like nails scraping against slate. When the third gentleman that hour suggested "just one hand of whist," Albert found himself abruptly rising from his leather wingback chair, his patience as threadbare as the elbows of the club's oldest members.

A frigid gust greeted him as he stepped into the night, the gas lamps flickering like uncertain stars along Pall Mall. By the time his carriage pulled into Hartford House's cobbled courtyard, the cold had seeped into his bones - or perhaps it was simply his mood turning everything to ice.

Cartwright materialized the moment the oak door swung open, his practiced hands catching Albert's snow-dusted greatcoat before it could touch the floor. The butler's customary silence held for precisely three seconds before that deliberate, weighted: "Hm."

Albert didn't need to glance at the ormolu clock to know he'd returned hours earlier than his habitual midnight arrival. He flexed his fingers, still stiff from clutching his walking stick too tightly. "Out with it then," he commanded, the words sharp as the wind cutting through the square outside.

The butler's bow was exactly deep enough to convey respect without groveling. "Your Grace will wish to know that Her Grace has taken no supper this evening." A pause, artfully calculated. "And... certain distressed sounds have been observed emanating from the blue drawing room."

Albert's jaw tightened. Of course. He'd known this farce of a marriage would bring complications, just not so soon. Women and their endless torrent of emotions - had he not given her an entire wing to herself? A generous allowance? Freedom from any wifely duties beyond basic propriety?

Yet here he was, striding down the portrait-lined corridor with uncharacteristic haste, his boots sinking into the Savonnerie carpet. The blue drawing room's doors yielded without resistance, revealing a scene that gave him pause: his bride curled like a wounded songbird upon the damask chaise, her shoulders trembling in the firelight.

The question left his lips before he could temper it: "What has happened?"

Even to his own ears, the words emerged too harsh, the razor's edge of exhaustion and annoyance slicing through what might have passed for concern. The dying fire popped in the grate, as if mocking his inability to soften his tone.