He nodded. “Their gossip may as well be useful for something. Add anything relevant you know, or hear from reliable sources.” He met her eyes. “And, no doubt, you’ll add your opinion, as well.”

She smiled sweetly. “No, I won’t. As far as I’m concerned, choosing your bride is entirely your affair. I won’t be living with her.”

He gave her another of his bland, you-should-know-better looks. “Neither will I.”

She inclined her head, acknowledging that fact. “Regardless, your bride is not a subject on which I would seek to influence you.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to promulgate that view to my sisters?”

“Sadly, I must decline-it would be a waste of breath.”

He grunted.

“If there’s nothing else, I should go and see who else has arrived. Cranny, bless her, needs to know how many will sit down to dine.”

When he nodded, she rose and headed for the door. Reaching it, she glanced back, and saw him sprawled in his chair, that brooding look on his face. “If you have time, you might like to look at the tithing from the smaller crofts. At present, it’s stated as an absolute amount, but a percentage of profit might suit everyone better.”

He arched a brow. “Another radical notion?”

She shrugged and opened the door. “Just a suggestion.”


So here he was at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof. His very large roof, in this far distant corner of Northumberland, which was a point, he now realized, that worked in his favor.

The estate was so very far from London that many of the visitors, especially those who were family, would stay for a time; the castle was so huge it could accommodate a small army. So there was, and would continue to be, plenty of cover; he would be safe enough.

He stood at the window of the pleasant room he’d been given in the east wing, looking down on the castle gardens, beautifully presented and bursting with colorful life in the last gasp of the short northern summer.

He had an appreciation for beautiful things, an eye that had guided him in amassing an exquisite collection of the most priceless items the French had had to offer. In exchange he’d given them information, information that, whenever he’d been able, had run directly counter to Royce’s commission.

Whenever possible, he’d tried to harm Royce-not directly, but through the men he’d commanded.

From all he’d been able to glean, he’d failed, dismally. Just as he’d failed, over the years, over all the times he’d been held up against Royce, measured against his glorious cousin and found wanting. By his father, his uncle, most of all by his grandfather.

His lips curled; his handsome features distorted in a snarl.

Worst of all, Royce had seized his prize, his carefully hoarded treasure. He’d stolen it from him, denying him even that. For all his years of serving the French, he’d received precisely nothing-not even the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused Royce pain.

In the world of men, and all through the ton, Royce was a celebrated success. And now Royce was Wolverstone to boot.

While he…was an unimportant sprig on a family tree.

It shouldn’t be so.

Dragging in a breath, he slowly exhaled, willing his features back into the handsome mask he showed the world. Turning, he looked around the room.

His eye fell on a small bowl sitting on the mantelpiece. Not Sevres, but Chinese, quite delicate.

He walked across the room, picked up the bowl, felt its lightness, examined its beauty.

Then he opened his fingers and let it fall.

It smashed to smithereens on the floor.


By late Wednesday afternoon, all the family were in residence, and the first of the guests invited to stay at the castle had begun to arrive.

Royce had been instructed by his chatelaine to be on hand to greet the more important; summoned by Jeffers, he gritted his teeth and descended to the hall to welcome the Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Horatia Cynster, and Lord George Cynster. Although St. Ives’s estates lay in the south, the two dukedoms shared a similar history, and the families had supported each other through the centuries.

“Royce!” Her Grace, Helena, Duchess of St. Ives-or the Dowager Duchess, as he’d heard she preferred to style herself-spotted him. She glided to meet him as he stepped off the stairs. “Mon ami, such a sad time.”

He took her hand, bowed, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles-only to have her swear in French, tug him lower, stretch up on her toes, and press a kiss first to one cheek, then to the other. He permitted it, then straightened, smiled. “Welcome to Wolverstone, Your Grace. You grow lovelier with the years.”

Huge, pale green eyes looked up at him. “Yes, I do.” She smiled, a glorious expression that lit her whole face, then she let her gaze skate appreciatively down him. “And you…” She muttered something in colloquial French he didn’t catch, then reverted to English to say, “We had expected to have you return to our salons-instead, you are now here, and no doubt plan to hide yourself away.” She wagged a delicate finger at him. “It will not do. You are older than my recalcitrant son, and must marry soon.”

She turned to include the lady beside her. “Horatia-tell him he must let us help him choose his bride tout de suite.”

“And he’ll pay as much attention to me as he will you.” Lady Horatia Cynster, tall, dark-haired, and commanding, smiled at him. “Condolences, Royce-or should I say Wolverstone?” She gave him her hand, and like Helena, pulled him nearer to touch cheeks. “Regardless of what you might wish, your father’s funeral is going to focus even more attention on your urgent need of a bride.”

“Let the poor boy find his feet.” Lord George Cynster, Horatia’s husband, offered Royce his hand. After a firm handshake, he shooed his wife and sister-in-law away. “There’s Minerva looking harassed trying to sort out your boxes-you might help her, or you might end with each other’s gowns.”

The mention of gowns had both grandes dames’ attention shifting. As they moved to where Minerva stood surrounded by a bewildering array of boxes and trunks, George sighed. “They mean well, but it’s only fair to warn you you’re in for a time of it.”

Royce raised his brows. “St. Ives didn’t come up with you?”

“He’s following in his curricle. Given what you just experienced, you can understand why he’d take rain, sleet, and even snow over spending days in the same carriage as his mother.”

Royce laughed. “True.” Beyond the open doors, he saw a procession of three carriages draw up. “If you’ll excuse me, some others have arrived.”

“Of course, m’boy.” George clapped him on the back. “Escape while you can.”

Royce did, going out through the massive doors propped open in welcome and down the shallow steps to where the three carriages were disgorging their passengers and baggage amid a chaos of footmen and grooms.

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.