e around the Regent who are already looking to the day he’ll be king, and how he might reward those who can put him in their debt.”
When he continued to regard her impassively, she released him and arched a brow. “Did Haworth say anything beyond the expected comments on your father’s demise?”
He frowned. “He asked if I had suffered any injury during my service to the Crown.”
“I thought you served from behind a desk in Whitehall.”
“Not always.”
Her brows rose. “Indeed? And who knew that?”
Only Prinny and his closest advisors.
She knew the answer without him saying. She nodded. “Precisely. ’Ware, Wolverstone. That’s who you now are, and your duty is clear. You have to marry without delay.”
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.”