A pretty blond in a fashionable pelisse was directing a footman to take care of her boxes, unaware of Royce’s approach. “Alice—welcome.”
Alice Carlisle, Viscountess Middlethorpe, turned, wide-eyed. “Royce!” She embraced him, tugging him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “What an unexpected event—and before you’d even returned.”
Gerald, her husband, heir to the earldom of Fyfe, stepped down from the carriage, Alice’s shawl in one hand. “Royce.” He held out his other hand. “Commiserations, old man.”
The others had heard, and quickly gathered, offering condolences along with strong hands, or scented cheeks and warm embraces—Miles Ffolliot, Baron Sedgewick, heir to the earldom of Wrexham, and his wife, Eleanor, and the Honorable Rupert Trelawny, heir to the Marquess of Rid-dlesdale, and his wife, Rose.
They were Royce’s closest friends; the three men had been at Eton with him, and the four had remained close through the subsequent years. Throughout his self-imposed social exile, theirs had been the only events—dinners, select soirees—that he’d attended. Over the last decade, he’d first encountered each of his many lovers at one or other of these three ladies’ houses, a fact of which he was sure they were aware.
These six made up his inner circle, the people he trusted, those he’d known the longest. There were others—the members of the Bastion Club and now their wives—whom he would likewise trust with his life, but these three couples were the people he shared closest connection with; they were of his circle, and understood the pressures he faced, his temperament, understood him.
Minerva was one he could now add to that circle; she, too, understood him. Unfortunately, as he was reminded every time he saw her, he needed to keep her at a distance.
With Miles, Rupert, and Gerald there, he felt much more…himself. Much more certain of who he really was, what he really was. Of what was important to him.
For the next several minutes, he let himself slide into the usual cacophony that resulted whenever all three couples and he were together. He led them inside and introduced them to his chatelaine, relieved when it became obvious that Minerva, and Alice, Eleanor, and Rose, would get on. He would ensure that his three friends were entertained, but given the way the next days looked set to go, he was planning on avoiding all gatherings of ladies; knowing Minerva would watch over his friends’ wives meant their entertainment would likewise be assured, and their stay at Wolverstone as comfortable as circumstances permitted.
He was about to accompany them up the main stairs when the rattle of carriage wheels had him glancing into the forecourt. Slowing, a carriage rolled into view, then halted; he recognized the crest on its door.
He nudged Miles’s arm. “Do you remember the billiard room?”
Miles, Gerald, and Rupert had visited before, long ago. Miles arched a brow. “You can’t imagine I’d forget the place of so many of your defeats?”
“Your memory’s faulty—they were your defeats.” Royce saw Gerald and Rupert looking down at him, questions in their eyes. “I’ll meet you there once you’ve settled in. Some others have arrived who I need to greet.”
With nods and waves, the men followed their wives up the stairs. Royce turned back into the front hall. More guests were arriving; Minerva had her hands full. The hall was continually awash with trunks and boxes even though a company of footmen were constantly ferrying loads upstairs.
Leaving them to it, Royce walked outside. He’d last seen the couple descending from the latest carriage mere weeks ago; he’d missed their wedding, deliberately, but he’d known they would come north to support him.
The lady turned and saw him. He held out a hand. “Letitia.”
“Royce.” Lady Letitia Allardyce, Marchioness of Dearne, took his hand and stretched up to kiss his cheek; she was tall enough to do so without tugging him down. “The news was a shock.”
She stepped back while he exchanged greetings with her husband, Christian, one of his ex-colleagues, a man of similar propensities as he, one who had dealt in secrets, violence, and death in their country’s defense.
The three turned toward the castle steps, the men flanking Letitia. She looked into Royce’s face. “You weren’t expecting to have the dukedom thrust upon you like this. How’s your temper holding up?”
She was one of the few who would dare ask him that. He slanted her an unencouraging look.
She grinned and patted his arm. “If you want any advice on restraining temper, just ask the expert.”
He shook his head. “Your temper’s dramatic. Mine’s…not.”
His temper was destructive, and much more powerful.
“Yes, well.” She fixed her gaze on the door, fast drawing near. “I know this isn’t something you want to hear, but the next days are going to be much worse than you imagine. You’ll learn why soon enough, if you haven’t already. And for what it’s worth, my advice, dear Royce, is to grit your teeth and reinforce the reins on your temper, because they’re about to be tested as never before.”
Expressionless, he stared at her.
She smiled brightly back. “Shall we go in?”
Minerva saw the trio enter, and walked over to greet the newcomers. She and Letitia knew each other well, which, she realized, surprised Royce. She hadn’t met Dearne before, but approved of his presence, and especially his statement that he was there in part representing Royce’s closest ex-colleagues from his years in Whitehall.
He added to Royce, “The others asked us to convey their regards.”
Royce nodded in acknowledgment; despite his perpetual mask, she sensed he was…touched. That he appreciated the support.
She’d already assigned rooms to all those expected; handing Letitia and Dearne over to Retford to magisterially guide upstairs, she watched them ascend. Felt Royce’s gaze on her face. “I know Letitia from all the years I spent with your mother in London.”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod; that was what he’d wanted to know.
She’d met Miles, Rupert, and Gerald when they’d visited years ago, had met them and their wives in more recent times, too, although only in passing at ton entertainments. She’d been intrigued to learn—relieved to learn—that they’d stood by Royce over the years. She’d often wondered just how alone he’d been. Not completely, thank heaven, yet she was starting to suspect, his friends aside, that he wasn’t as socially adept as he was going to need to be.
The next days were going to be a strain on him, in more ways than she thought he realized.
Turning from the stairs, she surveyed the hall, still a bustling hive of activity. At least there were no guests waiting to be greeted; for the moment, she and Royce were alone amid the sea of luggage.
“You should know,” she murmured, “that there’s something afoot regarding your wedding. I haven’t yet learned exactly what—and your friends’ wives don’t know, either, but they’ll keep their ears open. I’m sure Letitia will.” She glanced at his face. “If I hear anything definite, I’ll let you know.”
His lips twisted in a partially suppressed grimace. “Letitia warned me that something I wouldn’t like was coming—she didn’t specify what. It sounded as if she, too, wasn’t entirely sure.”
Minerva nodded. “I’ll speak with her later. Perhaps, together, we can work it out.”
Another carriage rolled to a halt beyond the steps; she cast him a glance, then went out to greet his guests.
Late that evening, on returning to his rooms after soundly thrashing Miles at billiards, Royce stripped off his coat and tossed it to Trevor. “I want you to keep your ears open on the subject of my marriage.”
Trevor raised his brows, then took his waistcoat from him.
“Specifically”—Royce gave his attention to unraveling his cravat—“my bride.” He met Trevor’s gaze in the mirror above the tallboy. “See what you can learn—tonight if possible.”
“Naturally, Your Grace.” Trevor grinned. “I’ll bring the pertinent information with your shaving water in
the morning.”
The next day was the day before the funeral. Royce spent the morning riding with his friends; on returning to the stables, he stopped to speak with Milbourne while the others went ahead. A few minutes later, he followed them back into the castle, seizing the moment alone to review the scant information Trevor had relayed that morning.
The grandes dames were fixated on the necessity of him marrying and getting an heir. What neither Trevor nor his chatelaine, whom he’d seen over breakfast, had as yet ascertained was why there was such intensity, well beyond the merely prurient, almost an air of urgency behind the older ladies’ stance.
Something definitely was afoot; his instincts, honed by years of military plotting, ducking, and weaving, were more than pricking.
He strode into the front hall, the necessity of gathering better intelligence high in his mind.
“Good morning, Wolverstone.”
The commanding female tones jerked him out of his thoughts. His gaze met a pair of striking hazel eyes. It took him an instant to place them—a fact the lady noted with something akin to exasperation.
“Lady Augusta.” He went forward, took the hand she offered him, half bowed.
To the gentleman beside her, he offered his hand. “My lord.”
The Marquess of Huntly smiled benignly. “It’s been a long time, Royce. Sad that we have to meet again in such circumstances.”
“Indeed.” Lady Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, one of the most influential ladies of the ton, eyed him measuringly. “But circumstances aside, we’ll need to talk, my lad, about your bride. You must marry, and soon—you’ve been dragging your heels for the past decade, but now the time has come, and you’ll have to choose.”
“We’re here to bury my father.” Royce’s accent made the statement a none-too-subtle rebuke.
Lady Augusta snorted. “Indeed.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Which is precisely my point. No mourning for you—in the circumstances the ton will excuse you, and gladly.”
“Lady Augusta!” Minerva hurried down the main stairs, all but tripping in her haste to rescue them all. “We were expecting you yesterday and wondered what had happened.”
“Hubert happened, or rather Westminster called, and he was delayed, so we set out rather later than I’d wished.” Augusta turned to envelop her in a warm embrace. “And how are you, child? Managing with the son as well as you did with the father, heh?”
Minerva shot Royce a look, prayed he’d keep his mouth shut. “I’m not sure about that, but do come upstairs, both of you.” She linked her arm with Augusta’s, then did the same with Hubert on her other side. “Helena and Horatia are already here. They’re in the upstairs salon in the west wing.”
Chatting easily, she determinedly towed the pair up the stairs. As she turned them along the gallery, she glanced down and saw Royce standing where they’d left him, an expression like a thundercloud on his usually impassive face.
Meeting his eyes, she fleetingly shrugged, brows high; she had yet to learn what was fueling the grandes dames’ avid interest in the matter of his bride.
Correctly interpreting her look, Royce watched her guide the pair out of his sight, even more certain that Letitia had been right.
Whatever was coming, he wasn’t going to like it.
Five
That evening, Royce walked into the great drawing room in no good mood; neither he, Minerva, nor Trevor had yet managed to learn exactly what was going on. The large room was crowded, not just with family but also with the elite of the ton, including representatives of the Crown and the Lords, all gathered for the funeral tomorrow, and talking in hushed tones as they waited for the summons to dine.
Halting just over the threshold, Royce surveyed the assembly—and instantly perceived the answer to his most pressing need. The most powerful grande dame of them all, Lady Therese Osbaldestone, was seated between Helena and Horatia on the chaise before the fireplace. She might have been a mere baroness in the company of duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses, yet she wielded more power, political and social, than any other lady of the ton.
More, she was on excellent terms with said duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses; whatever she decreed, they would support. Therein lay much of her power, especially over the male half of society.
Royce had always treated her with respect. Power, the amassing and wielding of it, was something he understood; it was bred in his marrow—something her ladyship appreciated.
She must have arrived while he was out riding.
He walked to the chaise, inclined his head to her companions, then to her. “Lady Osbaldestone.”
Intensely black eyes—true obsidian—fixed on his face. She nodded, trying to read him, and failing. “Wolverstone.”
It was the first time she’d called him that—the first time he’d felt the weight of the mantle on his shoulders. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed, careful not to overdo the observance; she respected those who knew their place, knew what was due to them.
“My condolences on your father’s death. Sadly, it comes to us all, although in his case the timing could have been better.”
He inclined his head, declined to rise to the lure.
She uttered a soft “humph.” “We need to talk—later.”
He acquiesced with a half bow. “Later.”
Swallowing his impatience, he moved away, letting those of his relatives and connections he’d thus far avoided have at him. Weathering their greetings and accepting their condolences grated on his nerves; he was relieved when Minerva joined the circle about him and set about distracting those he’d already spoken with, subtly but effectively moving them on.
Then Retford announced that dinner was served. Minerva caught his eye, whispered as she passed close, “Lady Augusta.”
He assumed that was who he was to lead in to dinner; he located the marchioness—yet his senses, ensorcelled simply by Minerva passing so close, continued to track her.
She wasn’t doing anything to attract his notice. In her weeds, she should have faded into the sea of black surrounding him; instead she—just she—seemed to shine in his awareness. The dull black suited her golden loveliness. With an effort hauling his mind from slaveringly dwelling on the loveliness inside the dull black, he surrendered to duty and strolled to Lady Augusta, while trying to push the lingering, elusive, wantonly feminine scent of his chatelaine from his brain.
The conversations in the drawing room had been muted. Continuing the trend, dinner proved an unexpectedly somber meal, as if everyone had suddenly recalled why they were there—and who no longer was. For the first time since he’d viewed the body, he felt touched by his father’s absence, sitting in the great carver where his sire used to sit, looking down the long table, lined by more than sixty others, to Margaret sitting at the other end.
A different perspective, one not previously his.
His gaze tracked back to Minerva, seated toward the table’s center, opposite Susannah, and surrounded by his cousins. There were nine male cousins present from both sides of his family, Variseys and Debraighs; given the numbers attending, his younger female cousins weren’t expected.
His maternal uncle, the Earl of Catersham, was seated on Margaret’s right, while the eldest of his paternal aunts, Winifred, Countess Barraclough, sat on Royce’s left. Beyond her sat his heir, Lord Edwin Varisey, the third brother of his grandfather’s generation, while on his right, next to Lady Augusta and facing Edwin, was his cousin several times removed, Gordon Varisey, eldest son of the late Cameron Varisey, Edwin’s younger brother; after the childless Edwin, Gordon stood next in line for the ducal crown.
Edwin was an ancient fop. Gordon was dark and dour, but underneath a sound man. Neither expected to inherit the dukedom, which was just as well; despite his resistance to discussing the subject with all and sundry, Royce had every intention of marrying and siring an heir to whom he would pass the title. What he failed to comprehend was why he needed the help of the grandes da
mes to achieve that goal, and why it had to be achieved so urgently.
Luckily, the mood of the dinner, with the ladies in dull black, gray, or deep purple, with no jewels beyond jet and no fans or furbelows, and the gentlemen in black coats, many sporting black cravats, had suppressed all talk of his nuptials. Conversations continued to be low-voiced, constant, yet no one laughed, or smiled other than wistfully; across him, Augusta, Winifred, and Edwin swapped tales of his father, to which he pretended to pay attention.
Then the covers were drawn, and Margaret rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room, leaving the men to enjoy port and brandy in relative peace. Some of the formality eased as gentlemen moved to form groups along the table. Royce’s cousins congregated in the center, while the older men gravitated to flank his uncle Catersham at the far end.
His friends came to join him, filling the chairs the ladies and Edwin and Gordon had vacated. Joining them, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, passing behind his chair, briefly clasped his shoulder. His pale green eyes met Royce’s as he glanced up. Devil had lost his father and succeeded to his dukedom when he’d been fifteen. With a nod, Devil moved on, leaving Royce reflecting that at least he was shouldering the burden at a significantly older age; then again, Devil had had his uncle, George, to rely on, and George Cynster was a wise, knowledgeable, and capable man.
Devil took the seat next to Christian, easily sliding into the camaraderie of the group; they all opted for whisky, and sat savoring the smoky liquor, lazily exchanging the latest sporting news, and a few salaciously risqué on-dits.
With his impatience to learn what Lady Osbaldestone would tell him steadily mounting, as soon as it was reasonable he led the gentlemen back to the drawing room. Devil ambled beside him; they stopped shoulder to shoulder just inside the room, letting the other men pass by.
Royce surveyed the gathering; from the glances that came his way, many conversations had reverted to the subject of his bride. “At least no one’s expecting you to marry tomorrow.”
Mastered by Love Page 10
