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?”
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.