Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  In an exquisitely cut morning coat, Royce had waited for her before the altar; even though she’d seen him mere hours before, it seemed as if something had changed. As if their worlds changed in the instant she placed her hand in his and together they turned to face Mr. Cribthorn.

  The service had gone smoothly; at least, she thought it had. She could remember very little, caught up, swept along, on a tide of emotion.

  A tide of happiness that had welled as they’d exchanged their vows, peaked when Royce had slipped the simple gold band on her finger, overflowed when she’d heard the words, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  Duke and duchess.

  The same, yet more. A fact that had been amply illustrated from the instant Royce had released her from the utterly chaste kiss they’d shared. A kiss that had carried both acknowledgment and promise, acceptance and commitment, from them both.

  Their eyes had touched, then, as one, they’d turned and faced their future. Faced first the assembled throng, all of whom had wanted to congratulate them personally. Luckily, the others—his friends and the Bastion Club couples—had formed something of a guard, and helped them move reasonably smoothly up the aisle.

  The roar as they’d emerged from the church into the weak sunshine had echoed from the hills. Hamish and Molly had been waiting by the steps; she’d hugged Molly, then turned to Hamish to see him hesitating—awed by the delicacy of her gown and the brilliance of the diadem’s diamonds. She’d hugged him; awkwardly, he’d patted her with his huge hands. “You were right,” she’d whispered. “Love really is simple—no thinking required.”

  He’d chuckled, bussed her check, then released her to all the others waiting to press her hand, shake Royce’s, and wish them well.

  An hour had passed before they’d been able to leave the churchyard; the guests and the rest of the wedding party had gone ahead, to the wedding breakfast waiting in the castle’s huge ballroom, a long-ago addition built out at the back of the keep.

  The carriage rolled across the stone bridge; a minute later, they passed through the heavy gates with their snarling wolf’s heads. The castle rose before them; it was as much home to her as it was to Royce. She glanced at him, found his gaze dwelling on the gray stone of the façade.

  Retford, Hamilton, Cranny, and Handley were waiting to meet them just inside the front door; all were beaming, but trying to keep their delight within bounds. “Your Grace.” Retford bowed low; it took her a moment to realize he was addressing her.

  Hamilton, Cranny, and Handley, too, all greeted her formally. “Everything’s in readiness, ma’am,” Cranny assured her.

  “I take it everyone is here?” Royce asked.

  Handley nodded. “Lord Haworth and Lord Chesterfield will need to leave in a few hours—I’ll make sure to remind them.”

  Royce glanced at Minerva. “Any others we need to pay early attention to?”

  She mentioned five others, representatives of king, regent, and Parliament, all of whom had to leave for London later that day. “Other than that, we’d be wise to give the grandes dames their due.”

  He snorted. “It’s always wise to give those beldames due attention.” Taking her arm, he led her toward the ballroom.

  “I suspect I should mention, Your Grace, that as from today, I am classed among the grandes dames.”

  He grinned. “My own grande dame. If that means that from now on I’ll only have to deal with you”—he met her gaze as they paused outside the ballroom door—“I have no complaints.”

  Jeffers, liveried, proud, and bursting with delight, was waiting to open the door. Royce held her autumn eyes—eyes that saw him, all of him, and understood. He raised her hand, pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Are you ready?”

  She smiled a touch mistily. “Indeed, Your Grace. Lead on.”

  He did, ceremonially leading her into the huge ballroom where the entire company rose and applauded. They paraded down the long room to the table at the end; a smile wreathing every face, the company clapped until he seated her in the center of the main table, and sat beside her, then everyone followed suit and the festivities began.

  It was a day of unalloyed happiness. Of enfolding warmth as the breakfast rolled on—through the long meal, the customary speeches, the first waltz. After that, the company rose and mingled freely.

  Returning from doing his duty with the representatives of Crown and government, Royce resumed his chair at the high table. Content, aware of a depth of inner peace he’d never before known, he looked over the crowd, smiling at the undisguised joy apparent on so many faces. A moment to savor, to fix in his memory. The only friends missing were Hamish and Molly; both he and Minerva had wanted them to attend, but hadn’t pressed, understanding that, in this milieu, Hamish and Molly would feel awkward.

  Instead, he and Minerva planned to ride over the border tomorrow.

  He wondered how much longer it would be wise for her to ride, especially long distances. He slanted a glance at her, in her chair beside him; as she hadn’t yet actually told him anything, he suspected he’d be wise to hold his tongue, at least until she did.

  A frisson of uncertainty rippled through him; he had absolutely no experience of ladies in delicate conditions. However, he knew several men who did—several, indeed, who were in much the same straits as he. Leaning closer to Minerva, deep in conversation with Rose and Alice, he touched her wrist. “I’m going to mingle. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  She glanced at him, smiled, then turned back to his friends’ wives.

  Rising, he went looking for his ex-colleagues.

  He found them in a knot in one corner of the room. All had glasses in their hands; all were sipping while they chatted, their gazes, one and all, trained in various directions—resting on their ladies scattered about the hall.

  Accepting a glass from one of his footmen, he joined them.

  “Ah—just the man!” Jack Hendon beamed. “Finally, you’re here to join us—about time.”

  “I often wondered,” Tony mused, “whether it was our weddings you eschewed, or weddings per se.”

  “The latter.” Royce sipped. “The excuse of not being Winchelsea was exceedingly convenient. I used it to avoid all wider ton gatherings.”

  They considered, then all grimaced. “Any of us,” Tristan admitted, “would have done the same.”

  “But we always have a toast,” Gervase said. “What’s it to be today?” They all looked at Charles.

  Who grinned. Irrepressibly. He’d clearly been waiting for the moment. He raised his glass to Royce; the others did the same. “To the end of Dalziel’s reign,” he began. “To the beginning of yours—and even more importantly, to the beginning of hers.”

  The others cheered and drank.

  Royce grimaced, sipped, then eyed them. “You perceive me in the unusual position of seeking advice from your greater collective experience.” They all looked intrigued. “How,” he continued, “do you…corral and restrain, for want of better words, your spouses when they’re in what is commonly termed ‘a delicate condition’?”

  The only one of their wives not yet obviously blooming—and he suspected it truly was not yet—was Letitia.

  Somewhat to his surprise, all his men looked pained. He looked at Jack Hendon. “You’re an old hand—any tips?”

  Jack closed his eyes, shuddered, then opening them, shook his head. “Don’t remind me—I never figured it out.”

  “The difficulty,” Jack Warnefleet said, “is in being subtle when what you want to do is put your foot down and state categorically that they can’t do that—whatever ‘that’ is at the time.”

  Deverell nodded. “No matter what you say, how tactfully you try to put it, they look at you as if you have the intelligence of a flea—and then just do whatever they were going to.”

  “Why is it,” Christian asked, “that we, the other half of the equation as it were, are considered to have no valid opinions on such matters?”

  “Probably
because,” Tony replied, “our opinions are ill-informed, being based on a woeful lack of intelligence.”

  “Not to mention,” Gervase added, “us having no experience in the field.”

  Royce glanced at them. “Those sound like quotes.”

  Tony and Gervase answered as one. “They are.”

  “What worries me even more,” Tristan said, “is what comes next.”

  They all looked at Jack Hendon.

  He looked back at them, then slowly shook his head. “You really don’t want to know.”

  All considered it, but none of them pressed.

  Royce smiled wryly. “What cowards we are.”

  “When it comes to that…yes.” Christian drained his glass, then turned the conversation to the recent developments surrounding the Corn Laws. They were all peers, all managed estates of various sizes, all had communities under their protection; Royce listened, learned, contributed what he knew, his gaze resting on Minerva as she stood chatting with Letitia and Rose halfway down the room.

  Another lady approached—Ellen, Minerva’s friend, one of her matrons-of-honor; Ellen joined the group, then spoke specifically to Minerva and indicated one of the side doors. Minerva nodded, then excused herself to Letitia and Rose and, alone, went to the door.

  Royce wondered what household emergency she’d been summoned to deal with…but why would Cranny or Retford or any of the others use Ellen to ferry a message? The summons had to be about something else…

  He told himself it was their recent discussion of delicate conditions and their primitive responses that was playing on his mind, but…with a nod he excused himself and started moving through the crowd.

  He felt Christian glance at him, sensed his gaze following as he made his way to where Letitia and Rose were still talking. They looked up as he halted beside them.

  “Where’s Minerva?”

  Letitia smiled at him. “She just stepped outside to meet someone.”

  “They had a message from your half brother, or something like that.” Rose tipped her head toward the side door. “They were waiting out there.”

  Royce looked toward the door—and knew Minerva wasn’t in the hallway beyond it. Every instinct he possessed was alive, pricking. Leaving the ladies without a word, he moved toward the door.

  Christian drew near as he opened it.

  The hallway beyond was empty.

  He walked into the narrow space; to his right the hall led back into the house while to his left it ran along the ballroom a little way, then ended in a door to the gardens. Common sense suggested Minerva had gone into the house; he prowled left, drawn by a white clump on the floor before the door.

  Christian followed.

  Royce stooped to pick up a beribboned band covered with white silk flowers—Minerva’s mother’s wedding favor; Minerva had worn it on her wrist. Bent over, he froze, sniffed. Turning his head, he crouched, looked; from the base of the umbrella stand he teased out a scrap of linen…a handkerchief.

  Without even raising it to their faces, both he and Christian, drawing near, recognized the smell. “Ether.” Rising, he stared out of the glassed doors into the gardens, but all looked peaceful, serene.

  “She’s been taken.” He barely recognized his voice. His fist closed on the handkerchief. Lips curling in a snarl, he swung around—

  Christian caught his arm. “Wait! Think. This was planned. Who are your enemies? Who are hers?”

  He frowned. It was a huge effort to get his mind to function; he’d never felt such scalding rage—such icy terror. “We don’t have any…not that I know of. Not here…”

  “You do. You have one. And he could be here.”

  He met Christian’s eyes. “The last traitor?”

  “He’s the one person who has most to fear from you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m no longer Dalziel—he won. He got away.”

  “Dalziel may be gone, but you’re here—and you never, ever, give up. He’s someone who knows that, so he’ll never feel safe.” Christian released him. “He’s taken her, but it’s you he wants.”

  That was undeniably true.

  “She’s the lure.” Christian spoke quickly, urgently. “He’ll keep her alive until you come. But if you alert everyone, send everyone searching…he might feel forced to kill her before you or any of us can get to her.”

  The thought helped him force the terror-driven rage down, caging it like a beast, deep inside, letting his mind, his well-honed faculties, rise above it and take command. “Yes. You’re right.” Hauling in a tight breath, he lifted his head. “Yet we need to search.”

  Christian nodded. “But only with those capable of acting and rescuing her if they find her.”

  Royce glanced outside. “He couldn’t have imagined we’d realize so soon.”

  “No. We’ve got time to do this properly, so we can get her back alive.”

  “You seven,” he said. “Hendon, Cynster, Rupert, Miles, and Gerald—they were all in the Guards at one time.”

  “I’ll fetch them.” Christian caught his eyes. “While I do, you have to think. You’re the only one who knows this terrain—and you’re the one who knows this enemy best. You are the best at planning battles like this—so think, Royce. We need a plan, and you’re the only one who can supply it.”

  Minerva’s life—and that of their unborn child—depended on it. He nodded curtly.

  Christian left him to it, and went quickly back into the ballroom.

  Two minutes later, Royce returned to the ballroom. He saw Christian moving smoothly through the crowd, surreptitiously tapping shoulders. His plan was taking shape in his mind, but there was something he needed to know.

  Last time he and the last traitor had crossed swords, the traitor had won. That wasn’t going to happen this time, not with what was at risk; he wanted to learn everything he possibly could before he took the field.

  Letitia, still standing with Rose, was already alerted, restive and restless, when he halted beside her. “Can you and Rose find Ellen, and bring her to me in the hallway beyond the side door?” Briefly he met her eyes. “Don’t ask, but hurry—and don’t alert anyone else bar the other Bastion Club wives.” He glanced at Rose. “Or Alice and Eleanor. No one else.”

  Both wanted to ask why; neither did. Lips tightening, they nodded, exchanged glances, then separated and slipped through the crowd.

  Searching. He searched, too, but, finding it harder and harder to keep his expression impassive, he went back into the hallway and left the hunt to the women.

  Minutes later, Leonora slipped through the door. “They’ve found her, but she was conversing with others. Eleanor, Madeline, and Alicia are extracting her.”

  He nodded, pacing, too tense to remain still.

  The other ladies joined them, one by one slipping into the hallway, all aware something was amiss. They threw him searching glances, but none asked. Last to join them were Eleanor, Alicia, and Madeline, shepherding Ellen, wide-eyed, before them.

  She didn’t know him; sensing the anger he was trying to contain, she was already skittish.

  “Just ignore the growling,” Letitia curtly advised her. “He won’t bite.”

  Ellen’s eyes widened even more.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” Royce said, speaking to them all, “but I need to know who Minerva came out here to meet.”

  Ellen blinked. “One of your cousins asked me to tell her your half brother’s children were here, asking to speak with her. Apparently they had a gift they’d made her. He said they were waiting in the garden.” She nodded down the corridor. “Out there.”

  Royce felt a sudden sense of inevitability. “Which of my cousins?”

  Ellen shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t say. I don’t know them, and you all look so alike.”

  Phoebe stirred. “How old?”

  Ellen glanced at Royce. “Of similar age to His Grace.”

  Letitia looked at Royce. “How many is that?”

  �
��Three.” But he already knew which one it was, which one it had to be.

  The door to the ballroom cracked open; Susannah peered around it. She took in the ladies, then focused on him. “What’s going on?”

  He didn’t answer, instead said, “I need to know if Gordon, Phillip, and Gregory are in the ballroom. Don’t speak to them, just go and check. Now.”

  She stared at him, then closed her mouth and went.

  Clarice, Letitia, and Penny headed for the door. “We know them, too,” Penny said as she passed him.

  Bare minutes later, all four came back. “Gordon and Gregory are in there,” Susannah reported. “Not Phillip.”

  Royce nodded, half turned away, his mind churning.

  Alicia said, “That’s not conclusive. Phillip might be anywhere—the castle is huge.”

  Mystified, Susannah appealed to the others; Letitia explained they were trying to learn which of the cousins had lured Minerva away.

  “It’ll be Phillip.” Susannah was definite. Royce looked at her; she went on, “I don’t know what bee he’s got in his bonnet about you, but for years he’s always wanted to know every last thing about you and your doings—and recently…it was he who suggested I invite Helen Ashton. He who told me Minerva was your lover and…not suggested but led me to think that engineering a situation might be a good thing. Of course, he never dreamed you loved her—” She broke off, paled. “Oh, God—he’s taken her, hasn’t he?”

  For a long moment, no one answered, then Royce slowly nodded. “Yes, he has.”

  He glanced at Alicia. “The last traitor we’ve been hunting over the last year? We concluded he had some connection with the War Office. Of all my cousins, of all those here, only Phillip qualifies.”

  He felt a certain sureness infuse him. It always helped to know who he was hunting.

  Minerva struggled through clouds of unconsciousness. Her head felt woolly; thoughts half formed, then slipped away, sank into the murk. She couldn’t think—couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t formulate a coherent wish, much less open her eyes. But inside, where a cold kernel of panicked helplessness clung to reality, she knew.