Devil’s black brows rose. “You obviously haven’t spoken to my mother on that subject.”
“She called you recalcitrant.”
“Indeed. And you have to remember she’s French, which is the excuse she uses to be as outrageous as she pleases in pursuit of her goal.”
“You’re hardly in your dotage,” Royce returned. Devil was six years younger than he. “And you’ve a string of acceptable heirs. What’s the rush?”
“Precisely my question,” Devil purred, his green eyes fixed on someone in the crowd. Then he slanted a glance at Royce, one brow arching. “Your chatelaine…?”
A fist clamped about his heart. The effort not to react—not to snarl and show his teeth—almost stole his breath. He waited a heartbeat, his eyes locked with Devil’s, then quietly murmured, “No.” After an instant, he added, “I believe she’s spoken for.”
“Is she?” Devil held his gaze for an instant longer, then he glanced across the room—at Minerva. “Earlier, she just frowned and told me to go away.”
“Unlike most ladies, she probably meant it.” Royce couldn’t stop himself from adding, “If I were you, I’d take her at her word. Heaven knows, I do.” He imbued the last words with sufficient masculine long-suffering to have Devil grin once more.
“Ah, well—I won’t be here that long.”
“Abstinence, they say, is good for the soul.”
Devil shot him a look as if asking who he thought he was fooling, then wandered off into the crowd.
Royce watched him go, and muttered to himself, “However, abstinence is hell on the temper.” And his was worse that most to begin with.
In search of relief, he located Lady Osbaldestone and would have immediately gone to her side, except for the numerous guests who lined up to waylay him.
Not family, but the ton’s elite, including Lord Haworth, representing the Crown, and Lord Hastings, representing the Lords. None were people he could dismiss with just a word, not even a word and a smile; he had to interact, engage in social exchanges all too often layered with multiple meanings…he was reaching, had come close to socially stumbling, when Minerva appeared beside him, serenely calm, a stately smile on her lips, and the hints he needed ready on her tongue.
After just a few words, he realized she was an adept in this sphere, and gratefully, if reluctantly, attached himself to her apron strings. The alternative was too damning to permit him to indulge in any pretense.
He needed her. So he had to metaphorically grit his teeth and bear the sexual abrasion of her nearness—it was that or come to social grief, and he’d be damned if he did that. Failure in anything had never been an option, yet this arena was not one in which he’d had any real experience. Yet now he was Wolverstone, people expected him to simply take on the mantle; they seemed to have forgotten the sixteen years he’d spent outside their pale.
For the next half hour, Minerva was his anchor, his guide, his savior.
Courtesy of her vows, she had to be, or, damn him, he’d founder on the social shoals, or come to grief on the jagged rocks of political repartee.
She managed the glib exchanges with half her brain—the other half was entirely consumed by something akin to panic. A frenzied awareness of what would happen if he brushed her shoulder with his arm, if, for some benighted reason, he thought to take her hand. Beneath her smiles, underneath her ready replies, ran an expectation of disaster that clenched her lungs tight, leaving her nearly breathless, every nerve taut, ready to leap with hypersensitive reaction.
At one point, after she’d excused them from a group where the exchanges had looked set to grow too pointed for his—or her—good, he seized the moment of fleeting privacy to lower his head, lower his voice, and ask, “Was my father any good at this?”
Ruthlessly suppressing the effect of the subtle caress of his breath over her ear, she shot him a glance. “Yes, he was.”
His lips twisted in a grimace. “So I’m going to have to learn how to manage this, too.”
It was the look in his eyes as he glanced around, more than his words, that had her feeling sorry for him; he’d had to take on the business of the dukedom unprepared, and he had made and was making a huge effort in that regard, and succeeding. But this arena of high-level political and social games was one in which he also had to perform, and for that his exile—from the age of twenty-two to thirty-seven—had left him even less well prepared.
“You’re Wolverstone now, so yes, you’ll have to learn.” She had every confidence that, if he applied himself—his incredible intellect, his excellent memory, and his well-honed will—he would succeed. To ensure he accepted the challenge, she added, “And I won’t be forever by your side.”
He met her gaze at that, his eyes so dark she couldn’t read anything in them. Then he nodded and looked ahead as the next wave of guests approached.
The next time they moved on, Royce murmured, “I’ve been commanded to attend Lady Osbaldestone.” Her ladyship was conversing with one of his cousins at the side of the room just ahead of them. “I can manage her if you’ll keep the rest at bay. I need to speak with her alone.”
Minerva caught his eye. “About this bride business?”
He nodded. “She knows the reason—and once I prostrate myself before her, will take great delight in informing me of it, no doubt.”
“In that case, go.” She smoothly stepped forward to intercept the next couple seeking an audience with him.
Lady Osbaldestone saw him approaching, and with a few words dismissed his cousin Rohan; hands folded over the head of the cane she didn’t really need, she waited before one of the long windows for him to join her.
She arched a brow as he halted before her. “I take it you have, by now, been informed of the need for you to wed with all speed.”
“Indeed. In various ways, by a number of your cronies.” He fixed his eyes on hers. “What I don’t understand is the reason behind the supreme urgency.”
She stared at him for a moment, then blinked. She regarded him for an instant more, then murmured, “I suppose, having been in social exile…then you were summoned back here before…” Lips compressing, she narrowed her eyes. “I suppose it’s conceivable that, omniscient though you are rumored to be, you might not have been alerted to the recent developments.”
“Obviously not. I will be eternally grateful if you would enlighten me.”
She snorted. “You won’t be grateful, but clearly someone must. Consider these facts. One, Wolverstone is one of the wealthiest duchies in England. Two, it was created as a marcher lordship. Three, your heir is Edwin, already one step away from senile, and after him, Gordon, who while arguably a legally entitled heir, is nevertheless sufficiently distant to be challenged.”
He frowned. “By whom?”
“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “The source of the threat.” She held his gaze. “The Crown.”
His eyes narrowed. “Prinny?” His voice was flat, his tone disbelieving.
“He’s neck-deep in debt, and sinking ever faster. I won’t bore you with the details, but I and others have heard from reliable sources close to our dear prince that the search for plunderable funds is on in earnest, and Wolverstone has been mentioned, specifically along the lines of, if anything should, heaven forbid, happen to you, then as matters stand it might be possible to press for the title, and all its entailed wealth, to revert to the Crown in escheat.”
He could understand the reasoning, but…“There’s a significant difference between Prinny, or more likely one of those panderers close to him, making such a suggestion, and it actually being acted upon, even were something to mysteriously happen to me.”
Lady Osbaldestone frowned; something like exasperated alarm showed briefly in her eyes. “Don’t shrug this off. If you were married, Prinny and his vultures would lose interest and look elsewhere, but while you aren’t…” She closed a clawlike hand about his arm. “Royce, accidents happen—you of all people know how easily. And there are thos
e around the Regent who are already looking to the day he’ll be king, and how he might reward those who can put him in their debt.”
When he continued to regard her impassively, she released him and arched a brow. “Did Haworth say anything beyond the expected comments on your father’s demise?”
He frowned. “He asked if I had suffered any injury during my service to the Crown.”
“I thought you served from behind a desk in Whitehall.”
“Not always.”
Her brows rose. “Indeed? And who knew that?”
Only Prinny and his closest advisors.
She knew the answer without him saying. She nodded. “Precisely. ’Ware, Wolverstone. That’s who you now are, and your duty is clear. You have to marry without delay.”
He studied her eyes, her face, for several heartbeats, then inclined his head. “Thank you for telling me.”
He turned and walked away.
The actual funeral—the event he and the castle’s household had spent the last week and more preparing for, that a good portion of the ton had traveled into Northumbria for—was something of an anticlimax.
Everything went smoothly. Royce had arranged for Hamish and Molly to be given seats at the front of the side chapel, ahead of those reserved for the senior household staff and various local dignitaries. He saw them there, exchanged nods across the church. The nave was filled with the nobility and aristocracy; even using the side aisles, there was barely room enough for all the visitors.
The family spread over the front pews to both sides of the central aisle. Royce stood at the center end of the first pew, conscious of his sisters and their husbands ranged beside him, of his father’s sisters and Edwin in the pew across the aisle. Even though the ladies were veiled, there was not a single tear to be found among them; Variseys all, they stood stone-faced, unmoved.
Minerva also wore a fine black veil. She was at the center end of the pew one row back and opposite his. He could see her, watch her, from the corner of his eye. His uncle Catersham and his wife were beside her; his uncle had given Minerva his other arm into the church and up the aisle.
As the service rolled on, he noted that her head remained bowed, that her hand remained clenched tight about a handkerchief—putting sharp creases in the limp, damp square of lace-edged linen. His father had been a martinet, an arrogant despot, a tyrant with a lethal temper. Of all those here, she had lived most closely with him, been most frequently exposed to his flaws, yet she was the only one who truly mourned him, the only one whose grief was deeply felt and sincere.
Except, perhaps, for him, but males of his ilk never cried.
As was customary, only the gentlemen attended the burial in the churchyard while a procession of carriages ferried the ladies back to the castle for the wake.
Royce was among the last to arrive back; with Miles beside him, he walked into the drawing room, and found all proceeding as smoothly as the funeral itself. Retford and the staff had all in hand. He looked around for Minerva, and found her arm-in-arm with Letitia, looking out of one window, their heads bent close.
He hesitated, then Lady Augusta beckoned and he went to hear what she wished to say. Whether the grandes dames had issued a directive he didn’t know, but not one lady had mentioned marriage, not even any eligible candidate, at least not within his hearing, at any time that day.
Grateful, he circulated, imagining his chatelaine would say he ought to…he missed hearing her words, missed having her beside him, subtly, and if he didn’t respond not so subtly, steering him.
The wake didn’t end so much as dissolve. Some guests, including all those who had to hasten back to political life, had arranged to depart at its close; they left as their carriages were announced. He shook their hands, bade them Godspeed, and watched their coaches dwindle with relief.
Those who intended to remain—a core of the ton including most of the grandes dames as well as many of the family—drifted off in twos and threes, going out to stroll the lawns, or to sit in groups and slowly, gradually, let their customary lives, their usual interests, reclaim them.
After waving the last carriage away, then seeing Minerva step onto the terrace with Letitia and Rupert’s Rose, Royce escaped to the billiard room, unsurprised to find his friends, and Christian and Devil, already there.
They played a few sets, but their hearts weren’t in it.
As the sun slowly sank, streaking the sky with streamers of red and purple, they lounged in the comfortable chairs about the fireplace, punctuating the silence with the occasional comment about this or that.
It was into that enfolding, lengthening silence that Devil eventually murmured, “About your wedding…”
Slumped in a wing chair, Royce slowly turned his head to regard Devil with an unblinking stare.
Devil sighed. “Yes, I know—I’m the last one to talk. But George and Catersham both had to leave—and both apparently had been asked to bring the matter to your attention. Both tapped me on the shoulder to stand in their stead. Odd, but there you have it.”
Royce glanced at the five men slumped in various poses around him; there wasn’t one he wouldn’t trust with his life. Letting his head fall back, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “Lady Osbaldestone spun me a tale of a hypothetical threat to the title that the grandes dames have taken it into their heads to treat seriously—hence they believe I should marry with all speed.”
“Wise money says the threat isn’t entirely hypothetical.”
It was Christian who spoke; Royce felt a chill touch his spine. Of those present, Christian would best appreciate how Royce would feel about such a threat. He also had the best intelligence of dark deeds plotted in the capital.
Keeping his gaze on the ceiling, Royce asked, “Has anyone else heard anything of this?”
They all had. Each had been waiting for a moment to speak with him privately, not realizing the others had similar warnings to deliver.
Then Devil pulled a letter from his pocket. “I have no idea what’s in this. Montague knew I was coming north and asked me to give this to you—into your hand—after the funeral. Specifically after, which seems to be now.”
Royce took the letter and broke the seal. The others were silent while he read the two sheets it contained. Reaching the end, he slowly folded the sheets; his gaze on them, he reported, “According to Montague, Prinny and his merry men have been making inquiries over how to effect the return of a marcher lord title and estate in escheat. The good news is that such a maneuver, even if successfully executed, would take a number of years to effect, given the claim would be resisted at every turn, and the escheat challenged in the Lords. And as we all know, Prinny’s need is urgent and his vision short-term. However, invoking all due deference, Montague suggests that it would be wise were my nuptials to occur within the next few months, because some of Prinny’s men are not so shortsighted as their master.”
Lifting his head, Royce looked at Christian. “In your professional opinion, do I stand in any danger of being assassinated to bolster Prinny’s coffers?”
Christian grinned. “No. Realistically, for Prinny to claim the estate your death would need to look like an accident, and while you’re at Wolverstone, that would be all but impossible to arrange.” He met Royce’s gaze. “Especially not with you.”
Only Christian and the other members of the Bastion Club knew that one of Royce’s less well-known roles over the past sixteen years had been as secret executioner for the government; given his particular skills, killing him would not be easy.
Royce nodded. “Very well—so it seems the threat is potentially real, but the degree of urgency is perhaps not as great as the grandes dames think.”
“True.” Miles caught Royce’s eyes. “But that’s not going to make all that much difference, is it? Not to the grandes dames.”
The day had finally come to an end. Minerva had one last duty to perform before she retired to her bed; she felt wrung out, more emotionally exhausted than she’d exp
ected, yet once everyone else had retired to their rooms, she forced herself to go to the duchess’s morning room, retrieve the folio, then walk through the darkened corridors of the keep to the study.
She was reaching for the doorknob when she realized someone was inside. There was no lamplight showing beneath the door, but the faint line of moonlight was broken by a shadow, one that moved repetitively back and forth…
Royce was there. Pacing again.
Angry.
She looked at the door—and simply knew, as if she could somehow sense his mood even through the oak panel. She wondered, felt the weight of the folio in her hand…raising her free hand, she rapped once, then gripped the knob, opened the door, and went in.
He was a dense, dark shadow before the uncurtained window. He whirled as she entered. “Leave—”
His gaze struck her. She felt its impact, felt the dark intensity as his eyes locked on her. Realized that, courtesy of the faint moonlight coming through the window, he could see her, her movements, her expression, far better than she could his.
Moving slowly, deliberately, she closed the door behind her.
He’d stilled. “What is it?” His tone was all lethal, cutting fury, barely leashed.
Cradling the folio in her arms, resisting the urge to clutch it to her chest, she said, “Lady Osbaldestone told me the reason the grandes dames believe you need to wed as soon as practicable. She said she’d told you.”
He nodded tersely. “She did.”
Minerva could sense the depth of the anger he was, temporarily, suppressing; to her, expert in Varisey temper that she was, it seemed more than the situation should have provoked. “I know this has to be the last thing you expected to face, to have forced on you at this time, but…” She narrowed her eyes, trying to see his expression through the wreathing shadows. “You’d expected to marry—most likely in a year’s time. This brings the issue forward, but doesn’t materially change all that much…does it?”
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