His Eusebian comes home soon enough, stormy-eyed and anxious to be out of the public eye. He was a retiring man before he lost his tongue; now, the thought of wandering the Mirador's innumerable corridors alone is a pressure on his chest, matched only by his weary fury at the way Felix decided to bid him good night before flitting off to find society with friends that can't be described as mutual.

No doubt he'll find plenty of society in someone else's bed tonight.

He's not fit for company when he returns, and he knows it, but Mildmay can hardly be described as company. Gideon stalks across the room, sits down across from the man, and folds his hands on the table. Cards will suit neither of them, but it's better than stewing in a room he can't properly describe as his own.