Hamish himself was faring rather better. He held his lands freehold; his mother had been the only daughter of a freeholder. She’d married later in life, and Hamish had been her only child. He’d inherited the farm from her, and with the stipend his father had settled on him, had had the capital to expand and improve his stock; he was now a well-established sheep farmer.

At the end of the meal, Royce thanked Molly, bussed her cheek, then, following Hamish, snagged an apple from the bowl on the dresser, and they took their talk outside.

They sat on the stone wall, feet dangling, and looked across the hills. “Your stipend continues to your death, but you knew that.” Royce took a bite of his apple; it crunched sharply.

“Aye.” Hamish settled beside him. “So how did he die?”

“Minerva Chesterton was with him.” Royce related what she’d told him.

“Have you managed to contact all the others?”

“Minerva’s written to the girls-they’re all on one or other of the estates. That’s eleven of the fifteen.” His father had sired fifteen illegitimate children on maids, tavern wenches, farm and village lasses; for some reason he’d always drawn his lovers from the local lower orders. “The other three men are in the navy-I’ll write to them. Not that his death materially changes anything.”

“Aye, still, they’ll need to know.” Hamish eyed him for a moment, then asked, “So, are you going to be like him?”

Tossing away his apple core, Royce slanted him a narrow-eyed glance. “In what way?”

Unabashed, Hamish grinned. “In exactly the way you thought I meant. Are you going to have every farmer in the region locking up his daughters?”

Royce snorted. “Definitely not my style.”

“Aye, well.” Hamish tugged at one earlobe. “Never was mine, either.” For a moment they dwelled on their sire’s sexual proclivities, then Hamish went on, “It was almost as if he saw himself as one of the old marcher lords, royal perquisites and all. Within his domains, he saw, he wanted, he took-not, as I heard it, that any of the lasses resisted all that much. M’ mother certainly didn’t. Told me she never regretted it-her time with him.”

Royce smiled. “She was talking about you, you daft beggar. If she hadn’t spent that time with him, she wouldn’t have had you.”

“P’rhaps. But even in her last years, she used to get a wistful look in her eye whenever she spoke of him.”

Another moment passed, then Royce said, “At least he looked after them.”

Hamish nodded.

They sat for a time, drinking in the ever-changing views, the play of light over the hills and valleys, the shifting hues as the sun edged to the west, then Hamish stirred and looked at Royce. “So, will you be mostly at the castle, then, or will London and the sassenach ladies lure you south?”

“No. In that respect I’ll be following in his footsteps. I’ll live at the castle except when duty to the estate, family or the Lords calls me south.” He frowned. “Speaking of living here, what have you heard of the castle’s agent, Kelso, or the steward, Falwell?”

Hamish shrugged. “They’ve been your father’s eyes and ears for decades. Both are…well, not quite local anymore. They live in Harbottle, not on the estate, which causes some difficulty. Both were born on the estate, but moved to the town years ago, and for some reason your father didn’t object-suspect he thought they’d still know the land. Not something you forget all that easily, after all.”

“No, but things, conditions, change. Attitudes change, too.”

“Och, well, you’ll not get those two changing anything in a hurry. Right set in their ways-which I always supposed was why they suited the old bastard so well. Right set in his ways, he was.”

“Indeed.” After a moment of reflecting on his sire’s resistance to change, and how deep that had gone, Royce admitted, “I might have to replace them-retire them-both, but I won’t know until I’ve had a chance to get out and about and assess matters for myself.”

“If it’s information on the estate you need, your chatelaine can fill you in. Minerva’s the one everyone goes to if there’s a problem. Most have grown weary-in fact, wary-of going to Falwell or Kelso. Like as not, if they make a complaint, either nothing gets done, or the wrong thing-something worse that wasn’t intended-happens.”

Royce leveled a direct look at Hamish. “That doesn’t sound good.”

It was a question, one Hamish understood. “Aye, well, you’d written that you’d be giving up that commission of yours, and I knew you’d come home-didn’t think there was any need to write and tell you how things were not going quite so well. I knew you’d see it once you got back, and Minerva Chesterton was doing well enough holding the fort.” He shrugged his massive shoulders; they both looked south, over the peaks toward Wolverstone. “It might be not the done thing for me to say this, but perhaps it’s as well that he’s gone. Now you’ve got the reins, and it’s more than time for a new broom.”

Royce would have smiled at the mixed metaphor, but what they were discussing was too serious. He stared in the direction in which his responsibilities, growing weightier by the hour, lay, then he slid from the wall. “I should go.”

Hamish paced alongside as he went to the barn and saddled Sword, then swung up to the saddle and walked the big gray into the yard.

Halting, he held out his hand.

Hamish clasped it. “We’ll see you Friday at the church. If you get caught having to make a decision about something on the estate, you can rely on Minerva Chesterton’s opinion. People trust her, and respect her judgment-whatever she advises will be accepted by your tenants and workers.”

Royce nodded; inwardly he grimaced. “That’s what I thought.”

What he’d feared.

He saluted, then flicked the reins, and set Sword for Clennell Street and Wolverstone.

Home.


He’d torn himself away from the peace of the hills…only to discover when he rode into the castle stables that his sisters-all three of them, together with their husbands-had arrived.

Jaw set, he stalked toward the house; his sisters could wait-he needed to see Minerva.

Hamish’s confirmation that she was, indeed, the current champion of the estate’s well-being left him with little choice. He was going to have to rely on her, spend hours gleaning everything he could about the estate from her, ride out with her so she could show him what was going on-in short, spend far more time with her than he wished.

Than was wise.

Entering the house by the side door, he heard a commotion ahead, filling the cavernous front hall, and steeled himself. Felt his temper ratchet up another notch.

His elder sisters, Margaret, Countess of Orkney, and Aurelia, Countess of Morpeth, had agreed, implicitly if not explicitly, with his father over his erstwhile occupation; they’d supported his banishment. But he’d never got on well with either of them; at best he tolerated them, and they ignored him.

He was, always had been, much closer to his younger sister, Susannah, Viscountess Darby. She hadn’t agreed or disagreed with his banishment; no one had asked her, no one would have listened to her, so she’d wisely kept her mouth shut. He hadn’t been surprised about that. What had surprised, even hurt a trifle, was that she’d never sought to contact him over the past sixteen years.

Then again, Susannah was fickle; he’d known that even when they’d been much younger.

Nearing the hall, he changed his stride, letting his boot heels strike the floor. The instant he stepped onto the marble tiles of the hall, his footsteps rang out, effectively silencing the clamor.

Silks swooshed as his sisters whirled to face him. They looked like birds of prey in their weeds, their veils thrown back over their dark hair.

He paused, studying them with an impersonal curiosity. They’d aged; Margaret was forty-two, a tall, commanding dark-haired despot with lines starting to score her cheeks and brow. Aurelia, forty-one, was shorter, fairer, brown-haired, and from the set of her lips looked to have grown even more severely disapproving with the years. Susannah…had made a better fist of growing older; she was thirty-three, four years younger than Royce, but her dark hair was up in a confec tion of curls, and her gown, although regulation black, was stylishly fashionable. From a distance, she might pass for an adult daughter of either of her elder sisters.

Imagining how well that thought would go down, he looked back at the older two, and realized they were struggling with the fraught question of how to address him now he was the duke, and no longer simply their younger brother.

Margaret drew in a huge breath, breasts rising portentously, then swept forward. “There you are, Royce!” Her chiding tone made it clear he should have been dutifully awaiting their arrival. She raised a hand as she neared-intending to grip his arm and shake it, as had been her habit when trying to make him do something. “I-”

She broke off-because he’d caught her eye. Breath strangling in her throat, she halted, hand in the air, faintly shocked.

Aurelia bobbed a curtsy-a perfunctory one not nearly deep enough-and came forward more cautiously. “A dreadful business. It’s been a very great shock.”

No “How are you?” No “How have you been these last sixteen years?”

“Of course, it’s been a shock.” Susannah strolled up. She met his eyes. ”And I daresay it was an even bigger shock for you, all things considered.” Reaching him, she smiled, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. “Welcome home.”

That, at least, had been genuine. He nodded to her. “Thank you.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the other two exchange an irritated glance. He scanned the sea of footmen sorting through the piles of boxes and trunks, preparing to cart them upstairs, saw Retford look his way, but he was searching for Minerva.

He found her in the center of the melee, talking to his brothers-in-law. She met his eyes; the men turned, saw him looking their way, and came to greet him.

With an easy smile, Peter, Earl of Orkney, held out his hand. “Royce. It’s good to see you again.”

Stepping forward, he grasped Peter’s hand, responding equally smoothly, then stepped still farther from his sisters to shake hands with David, Aurelia’s husband, and lastly to exchange a pleasant greeting with Hubert, Viscount Darby-wondering, as he always did when faced with Hubert, why Susannah had married the faintly bumbling, ineffably good-natured fop. It could only have been for his fortune. That, and his willingness to allow Susannah to do whatever she pleased.

His maneuvering had brought him to Minerva’s side. He caught her eye. “I take it everyone’s rooms are organized?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Retford, who nodded. “Everything’s in hand.”

“Excellent.” He looked at his brothers-in-law. “If you’ll excuse us, my chatelaine and I have estate business to attend to.”

He nodded to them; they inclined their heads in reply, turning away.

But before he could turn and head up the stairs, Margaret stepped forward. “But we’ve only just got here!”

He met her gaze. “Indeed. No doubt you’ll need to rest and refresh yourselves. I’ll see you at dinner.”

With that, he turned and climbed the stairs, ignoring Margaret’s gasp of outrage. An instant later, he heard Minerva’s slippers pattering up behind him and slowed; one glance at her face as she drew level was enough to tell him she disapproved of his brusqueness.

Wisely, she said nothing.

But on reaching the gallery, she halted a footman heading downstairs. “Tell Retford to offer afternoon tea to the ladies, and the gentlemen, too, if they wish, in the drawing room. Or if the gentlemen prefer, there are spirits in the library.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a bow, the footman hurried on.

She turned to him, eyes narrow, lips compressed. “Your sisters are going to be trying enough as it is-you don’t need to goad them.”

“Me? Goad them?”

“I know they’re irritating, but they always are. You used to be much better at ignoring them.”

He reached the study door and opened it. “That was before I was Wolverstone.”

Minerva frowned as she followed him into the study, leaving it to Jeffers, who’d trailed behind them upstairs, to close the door. “I suppose that’s true. Margaret will undoubtedly try to manage you.”

Dropping into the chair behind the desk, he flashed her a smile that was all teeth. “She’s welcome to try. She won’t succeed.”