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.”
He looked down, and she went on, “After your mother died, he insisted I kept it up. He’d circle any mention as he went through the news sheets, so I wouldn’t miss any relevant article.”
A long silence ensued; she was about to step back, and leave him with his parents’ memento of his last sixteen years, when he said, his voice low, soft, “He knew I was coming home.”
He was still looking down. She couldn’t see his face. “Yes. He was…waiting.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “He didn’t know how you would feel, but he…wanted to see you. He was…eager. I think that’s why he got confused, thinking you were here, that you’d already come, because he’d been seeing you here again in his mind.”
Her throat closed up. There wasn’t anything more she had to say.
She forced herself to murmur, “Tomorrow I’ll bring you that list once I’ve made it.”
Turning, she walked to the door, went through without looking back, and left him to his parents’ memories.
Royce heard her go, despite the sorrow pouring through him, wished she’d stayed. Yet if she had…
She could make her list, but there was only one lady he wanted in his bed.
Reaching out blindly, he found his chair, drew it closer, then sat and stared at the folio. In the quiet darkness, no one could see if he cried.
By eleven the next morning, Minerva had made an excellent start on a list of potential candidates for the position of Duchess of Wolverstone.
Sitting in the duchess’s morning room, she wrote down all she’d thus far gleaned of the young ladies and why each in particular had been suggested.
She felt driven, after last night even more so, to see the matter of Royce’s wedding dealt with as expeditiously as possible. What she felt for him…it was ridiculous—she knew it was—yet her infatuation-obsession was only growing and deepening. The physical manifestations—and the consequent difficulties—were bad enough, but the tightness in her chest, around her heart, the sheer sorrow she’d felt last night, not for his dead father but for him, the nearly overwhelming urge to round his damned desk and lay a hand on his arm, to comfort him—even in the dangerous state he’d been in to recklessly offer comfort…
“No, no, no, and no!” Lips set, she added the latest name Lady Augusta had suggested to her neat list.