Once he had the rage roaring through him contained.
Hamilton bowed. “Indeed, your grace.” He silently withdrew.
Leaving Royce to face a prospect he hadn’t, despite all his experience of dicing with fate, ever contemplated.
His father had been a constant in his life-over the last decade a constant foe. One to whom he’d owed filial obedience, but filial obedience had stretched only so far.
Paternal command hadn’t stopped him from serving his country in the way his country had needed, in the way he was so uniquely qualified to do.
Paternal denunciation-one step short of outright disinheritance, but socially even more damning-had seen him adopt a name from a distant branch of his mother’s family tree.
His father had drawn his line short of disinheritance purely because he’d had only one son.
So he’d had to make do with Royce, a son who openly chose to live by his own creed, by an interpretation of loyalty, honor, courage, and service to his country that was significantly different from that of the generation of noblemen to which his father belonged.
Had belonged.
It was from his mother’s family he’d inherited that finer, more selfless creed; they’d always been warriors. His father’s family had been the money-makers, the power brokers, the kingmakers; serving their country had, for them, had a different meaning.
Brought up beneath his father’s heavy hand, but with his mother, strong and vibrant, an equal influence, he’d always been aware of the distinction.
When his father had learned of the exact nature of his commission, he’d been forced to choose between his father’s creed or that other. Forced to make a choice between his father’s approval and his country.
He’d chosen, and his father had made his stand-in the main room of White’s, of all places. Carefully chosen to be a bastion of his generation, a perfect setting to support him in bringing his errant son to heel.
Only the encounter hadn’t gone as his father had expected.
He’d never expected Royce to take all his fury, then, with a face carved from stone, simply turn and walk out.
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.
Whether he was addressing fate or his dead father wasn’t entirely clear.
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
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