Out of society, out of his father’s life.
His reentry into both had been imminent for the last month. He’d been putting off the moment, finding reasons to delay resigning his commission, which, while overdue, his superiors had been in no hurry to receive.
He’d chosen the Monday after Christian Allardyce’s wedding as the first day of his return to his past life, the first day of becoming once again the Marquess of Winchelsea, the courtesy title bestowed upon the first son and heir of the Duke of Wolverstone.
It had seemed appropriate to choose the first weekday after the last of his seven ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club had wed. He’d assumed he would drive north, walk into his father’s presence and see what came next.
Instead…
There wasn’t going to be any “next.” No reconciliation, no understanding.
Certainly no apology.
Given the events of the past decade, let alone the commendations, royal and otherwise, he and his men had earned, even his father would have been hard-pressed to deny him the latter.
Except he, and fate, had, in the one way Royce had no power to control.
Staring across his study, he all but snarled as, fingers now locked white about the chair’s arms, he sat up. “Damn you!”
Whether he was addressing fate or his dead father wasn’t entirely clear.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Biting off the words, he surged to his feet. Swinging around, he stalked to the wall and tugged the bellpull.
When Hamilton appeared, he delivered his orders in a crisp, even tone, one that brooked no question, much less invited any. “Have my curricle brought around-I’ll want the blacks. Tell Henry I won’t need him with me-he’s to follow with the luggage.” Henry was his personal groom who’d followed him from Wolverstone, disregarding his father’s edict against anyone in his households giving his errant son succor.
“Tell Trevor to pack everything and travel up to Wolverstone with Henry as soon as he can. For now, all I’ll need is a small bag-he’ll know what to pack.” Trevor was his valet-another hangover from his father’s days, but one he’d never had the heart to dismiss. And Trevor was useful in more ways than the purely sartorial. With both Henry and Trevor behind the scenes, he’d be well placed to handle whatever waited for him at Wolverstone.
He hadn’t set foot on the property-on any of his father’s diverse and numerous holdings-since that scene in White’s sixteen years ago; he had absolutely no idea who was managing what, or if they were competent. While he could have asked any number of people for information-which they would have given him, conflict of interest or not-he’d been too nice, and too proud, to drag others into the firing line between himself and his father.
“Tell Handley when he comes in that I’ll need him at Wolverstone, too. As soon as he can arrange it.” Handley was his amanuensis, another he could rely on to see his orders carried out to the letter.
“And I suppose I’d better check that someone has remembered to notify Collier, Collier and Whiticombe.” His father’s solicitors. “I’ll write a letter before I go, and there’ll be another I’ll want delivered to Montague in the city.”
“Yes, my l-” Hamilton caught himself. “Your grace.”
Royce’s lips twisted. “Indeed. We’re both going to have to get used to that.”
Mentally reviewing his preparations, he could think of only one thing he’d missed. “And if anyone calls, you may tell them I’ve gone north, and that I have no notion of when I’ll be back.”
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS specializes in writing historical romances set in Regency England. The Edge of Desire is her thirty-second such work and her seventh in a group of novels about the members of the exclusive Bastion Club, first introduced in her novel The Lady Chosen.
Readers can write to Stephanie c/o The Publicity Department, Avon Books, HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022-5299, or via e-mail to slaurens@vicnet.net.au.
For information on Stephanie’s books, including updates on the Bastion Club and Cynster novels yet to come, visit Stephanie’s website at www.stephanielaurens.com.
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