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.”