Instead, I went to the nuptials of my most noble brother Charles Quinton, tenth Earl of Ravensden, with the heart and smile of a corpse. Yet it was a bright and cheery morn as the Earl and I rode out of Ravensden House. We were both attired in fine new garb, namely deep blue tunic coats with silver buttons, scarlet breeches and stockings, and fine blue silk gloves; blue, the armorial colour of Quinton. As we were finishing dressing before the mirror, a little earlier, Charles had commented laconically that we looked like a pair of somewhat disreputable French swordsmen. Otherwise, the Earl prepared himself in silence, as though for a funeral rather than a wedding, and with a mighty heaviness already upon my own heart, I knew better than to attempt the back-slapping jollity expected of a groom's supporter. Thus prepared, we left the house to the cheers of a small gaggle of retainers and tenants, brought down from Bedfordshire for the occasion. I mounted Zephyr, who seemed inclined to bolt toward the west; Musk, already mounted and in my earshot but not my brother's, murmured: 'The glory or downfall of the House of Quinton, today, by God.
