Mastered By Love (15 page)

 

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 expected, 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?”

 

Royce watched her trying to understand—to comprehend his fury. She stood there, not the least afraid when most men he knew would be edging out of the door—indeed, wouldn’t have come in in the first place.

 

And of all those he considered friend, she was the only one who might understand, probably would understand…

 

“It’s not that.” He swung back to stare out of the window—at the lands it was his duty to protect. To hold. “Consider this.” He heard the harshness in his voice, the bitterness, felt all his pent-up, frustrated anger surge; he gripped the windowsill tightly. “I spent the last sixteen years of my life essentially in exile—a social exile I accepted as necessary so that I could serve the Crown, as the Crown requested, and as the country needed. And now…the instant I resign my commission, and unexpectedly inherit the title, I discover I have to marry immediately to protect that title and my estate…from the Crown.”

 

He paused, dragged in a huge breath, let it out with “Could it be any more ironic?” He had to move; he paced, then
turned, viciously dragged a hand through his hair. “How
dare
they?
How
…” Words failed him; he gestured wildly.

 

“Ungrateful?” she supplied.

 

“Yes!”
That was it, the core fueling his fury. He’d served loyally and well, and this was how they repaid him? He halted, stared out again.

 

Silence descended.

 

But not the cold, uncaring, empty silence he was used to.

 

She was there with him; this silence held a warmth, an enfolding comfort he’d never before known.

 

She hadn’t moved; she was a good ten and more feet away, safely separated from him by the bulk of the desk, yet he could still feel her, sense her…feel an effect. As if her just being there, listening and understanding, was providing some balm to his excoriated soul.

 

He waited, but she said nothing, didn’t try to make light of what he’d said—didn’t make any comment that would provoke him to turn his temper—currently a raging, snarling beast—on her.

 

She really did know what not to do—and to do. And when.

 

He was about to tell her to go, leaving him to his now muted, less anguished thoughts, when she spoke, her tone matter-of-fact.

 

“Tomorrow I’ll start making a list of likely candidates. While the grandes dames are here, and inclined to be helpful, we may as well make use of their knowledge and pick their brains.”

 

It was the sort of comment he might have made, uttered with the same cynical inflection. He inclined his head.

 

He expected her to leave, but she hesitated…He remembered the book she’d held in her hands just as she said, “I came here to leave you this.”

 

Turning his head, he watched her walk forward and lay the book—a folio—on his blotter. Stepping back, she clasped her hands before her. “I thought you should have it.”

 

He frowned; leaving the window, he pushed his chair aside and stood looking down at the black folio. “What is
it?” Reaching out, he opened the front cover, then shifted so the moonlight fell on the page revealed. The sheet was inscribed with his full name, and the courtesy title he’d previously used. Turning that page, he found the next covered with sections cut from news sheets, neatly stuck, with dates written beneath in a hand he recognized.

 

Minerva drew breath, said, “Your mother started it. She used to read the news sheets after your father had finished with them. She collected any piece that mentioned you.”

 

Although the details of his command had been secret, the fact of it hadn’t been, and he’d never been backward in claiming recognition for the men who’d served under him. Wellington, in particular, had been assiduous in mentioning the value of the intelligence provided, and the aid rendered, by Dalziel’s command; notices of commendations littered the folio’s pages.

 

He turned more leaves. After a moment, he said, “This is your writing.”

 

“I was her amanuensis—I stuck the pieces in and noted the dates.”

 

He did as she’d thought he would, and flipped forward to where the entries ended. Paused. “This is the notice from the
Gazette
announcing the end of my commission. It ran…” His finger tapped the date. “Two weeks ago.” He glanced at her. “You continued after my mother died?”

 

Her eyes had adjusted; she held his gaze. This was the difficult part. “Your father knew.” His face turned to stone, but…he kept listening. “I think he’d always known, at least for many years. I kept the folio, so I knew when it moved. Someone was leafing through it—not the staff. It always happened late at night. So I kept watch, and saw him. Every now and then he’d go to the morning room very late, and sit and go through it, reading the latest about you.”