“I have pressing matters to discuss with Mr. Fowler.”

“Care to elaborate?"

Tyrone looked up at Shane.

Momentarily caught off guard, Shane found himself at the study door.

He chuckled lightly.

"Mr. Blakely, do take a seat."

Tyrone strolled into the study, his gaze fixed straight ahead, settling himself on the sofa in the reception area without casting a single glance sideways.

Meanwhile, Shane ventured out in search of Horace, while a servant swiftly entered, bearing a tray laden with tea.

Gesturing wordlessly, Tyrone signaled the servant to place the tray on the table. He scanned the study's layout briefly, then withdrew his scrutiny.

Shane rapped lightly on Horace's bedroom door, securing permission before gently pushing it open.

"Sir, Tyrone's arrived."

Horace, now garbed in a pristine suit, meticulously adjusting his collar, asked, "Did he say something?"

A furrow appeared on Shane's brow as he replied, "I asked him, but all he mentioned was an impending discussion with you. He didn't mention the subject at hand."

Seasoned and weathered, Shane, having served Horace through myriad triumphs and tribulations, had mastered the art of maintaining composure through any storm.

Yet, the look Tyrone had just cast in his direction sent an unexpected ripple of nerves through Shane.

Little wonder Tyrone bore the mark of Horace's lineage, a figure of unmistakable distinction.

"Proceed with your work. I'll come shortly," Horace directed.

"Understood."

Coming to a halt at the study's door, Horace drew a deep breath, willing himself to an even keel, before pushing the door open.

"Mr. Fowler." In deference, Tyrone stood and extended his hand in a composed manner.