Winter 1817

Isabelle smoothed her pale pink gown and did her best to keep her back straight; the lace underthings of her ensemble had always been irritating on her sensitive skin, especially the ones which reached just underneath her chin, but, as she had yet to debut in front of Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, she couldn't show off her bosom to anyone. It had been a great relief when Papa had decided that she could be well looked-after by her lady's maid, provided that she didn't leave the house too often. She never did get along too terribly well with her grandmama, the Dowager Countess Kedleston, anyhow.

Papa, meanwhile, was due back to Kedleston House at any moment; Isabelle had been escorted to London in the final days of the month of January, just the week before, by Mr. Twaite and Mrs. Twombly, who would be officially retiring from her service come summer. This had always been the plan, as she would have no further need of education come springtime, as she would be devoting her time to finding a suitable husband. As for Papa, she hadn't seen much of him since her arrival in London, as there were many things to prepare for, given his upcoming wedding to the Dowager Baroness Featherington, and Isabelle hoped that she could be of help.

Isabelle fingered the delicate box in her hands, turning it this way and that; inside was a gift for her stepmother-to-be, a lovely necklace with the palest of pink pearls, with a cameo print as its pendant, and a single, particularly elegant pearl drop attached to the cameo. She had collected jewelry boxes of varying sizes, as well as varying materials, whenever she went shopping, for several years now, so that she would always have a gift box for her creations. This one was a very delicate pink shade, matching the pearls of the necklace, with gold trim on its edges, as well as little legs on each corner, and was adorned with flowers in varying colors in an intricate diamond pattern. Sitting in the parlor, she knew that one of the maids would bring in a tea tray once the carriage arrived, and Isabelle only hoped that she could still pour the hot drink expertly, without shaking hands, as well as doctor it to her father's and the Dowager Baroness Featherington's liking.

Isabelle turned sharply as the sound of a carriage pulled up outside the house, and she hastily got to her feet and hurried out of the parlor. "Verity, they've arrived!" she called out to her lady's maid, who, in turn, went to alert Mrs. Herrod, the cook. Verity had been in her service since she reached the age of ten, and was four years her senior; Isabelle ensured that Verity always went with her to exciting places, got paid time off, and met eligible gentlemen. She hated to think of losing Verity, but also knew that happiness in love was special, and couldn't imagine denying her first proper friend such a thing, although Verity had promised to remain in her service if she was able to do so, even after her marriage.

The front door to the house was opened by their head butler, Reginald Poppington, who had been with the family for as long as she could remember, and Isabelle practiced her breathing as she stood there, waiting. Watching avidly, she gazed out her father as got down from the carriage and offered his hand to the second passenger, about seven inches shorter than he was, with red hair and a slightly darker complexion to hers. Her eyes were silver, and her pale green dress hugged the top half of her frame, which was patterned with flowers. Her eyes traveled along the house with a soft smile as she tilted her head to listen carefully to something Isabelle's father was saying, and it was then that her eyes caught Isabelle's for the first time.

"Darling, is that her?" came Portia Featherington's voice as she gripped a little more tightly onto Frederick Wycliffe's arm, as if nervous; the tone was a slightly lyrical one, as she gave Isabelle a tentative smile.

Frederick turned and followed Portia's gaze, and his own expression softened as he looked over at his only daughter. "Indeed, my dear, it is," he said, and led her towards the door, before they stepped into the house, and Poppington shut the door behind them, at her father's nod. "Portia, my dear, please allow me to introduce my daughter, Lady Isabelle Adelaide Wycliffe," he uttered, his tone proud, as his blue eyes radiating excitement

Portia's eyes warmed considerably, and she gave a small curtsy to Isabelle. "How do you do, my dear Isabelle? It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

Isabelle curtsied more deeply to Portia, given that she was the elder between the two of them, and knowing that she must show her respect and quickly. "The pleasure is mine, my lady," she responded, doing her best not to allow her hands to shake, so she gripped the box all the more tightly within them. "Welcome to Kedleston House, and to our family. Please, accept this token of my affection as your future stepdaughter," she said softly, and offered up the box.

Portia looked touched as she squeezed Frederick's hand one last time to take the box from Isabelle, and gently guided her to her feet. "Oh, that is so thoughtful of you," she praised, placing her finger underneath Isabelle's chin, tilting it upwards so that their eyes could meet again. "Oh, you are absolutely lovely," she praised, her tone kind. "Your father mentioned that you favored your mother, God rest her. I don't seek to replace her, my dear, I assure you, but can only hope that you will look upon me kindly."

"I will, my lady," Isabelle assured her.

"Please, my dear, you must call me Portia," Portia responded, linking her arm in Isabelle's, and permitting her future stepdaughter to lead them into the parlor, Frederick walking steadily behind them. "I heard that you make jewelry. Did you make me a piece, then?" she asked politely, nodding towards the box she now held.

Isabelle nodded. "I did; I hope you like it," she said softly as she led Portia into the parlor with a friendly smile. "Do please sit down," she said, and, once Portia had, crossed over to the tea table. "How do you like your tea, Portia?" she asked, testing out the name, and was relieved when the woman smiled.

"Milk and one sugar, if you would, Isabelle," she responded, resting the box upon her lap. "This is simply lovely," she remarked, running her fingers gently upon its surface.

"I confess, I cannot take credit for its creation," Isabelle informed her quickly, as she poured Portia a cup of hot tea. "I merely collect jewelry boxes of varying sizes so as my gifts can be presented in an appropriate manner."

Portia's eyes filled with happiness at that. "How very kind," she said, and took the tea that Isabelle had poured for her, sipped it, smiled, and set it aside. "May I open it?"

"Please do," Isabelle said, making to pour her father's tea, but he gestured for her to make her own, so she did, and sat down, vaguely aware of her father preparing his own tea.

Portia lifted the lid of the jewelry box and smiled, lifting the piece out of it. "Oh, this is simply lovely," she praised, laying the cameo print in her palm. "It would be absolutely enchanting to wear this on my wedding day... What do you think, Frederick, darling?"

"I think you would look beautiful wearing it, Portia," Frederick assured her, his eyes softening as he gazed upon her.

Portia placed it back into the box and set it aside, patting it for a moment, before turning to look at Isabelle again. "As my own daughters have been married off, and it would be seen as inappropriate to have them, would you be willing to be my bridesmaid, Isabelle?"

Isabelle's eyes widened. "You... You want me to be a bridesmaid?" she breathed.

Portia smiled. "Of course I do, dear. We're going to be family, after all."

Isabelle nodded. "I would like that very much, yes. I would also like to seek your permission to write to Mrs. Dankworth, Mrs. Finch, and Mrs. Bridgerton, so that I may know the shades of the gowns they are wearing to the occasion, so it will be easier present them with tokens of my affection of our impending sisterhood."

Portia looked completely touched. "Oh, my dear, we will be going to the modiste together, so I will not only introduce you, but you will be able to see for yourself."

Isabelle smiled widely at that. "I would like that very much, Portia."

"I have also spoken to my daughter, Penelope," Portia continued, "and she and her husband have agreed to have you stay in their home whilst your father and I go on our honeymoon."

"It is a most lovely house," Frederick said quickly. "You will be well looked after there. Given that you are unmarried, it wouldn't be seemly for you to be alone here, Isabelle, and I do believe you wouldn't want to travel all the way back to the country, with the season coming so quickly. You do understand, don't you?"

Isabelle nodded; she really didn't mind, of course, given that she would be meeting Penelope beforehand at the modiste, and, given that Penelope and her husband, Colin, had granted their permission, of course. "Of course I understand, Papa," she assured him, knowing entirely well that he and Portia would want time to themselves after the wedding. "Might it be all right if I bring Verity, my lady's maid, with me?"

"I don't see why it wouldn't be," Portia responded. "I like to keep my own maid, Varley, quite close to me."

Isabelle smiled. "That is certainly good news," she mused.

"Their little boy, Thomas, is the new Lord Featherington," Portia explained, a fair amount of pride in her voice. "Do you like babies, Isabelle?"

Isabelle barely remembered Jeremy as a baby, given that she was not even two when he was born, but she had spent a bit of time with her niece, Emma. "I do," she said softly.

"She was simply marvelous when Emma, my granddaughter, was born two years ago," Frederick told Portia, who turned her head as he spoke. "Caroline, my daughter-in-law, was a bit poorly after the birth, you see, and so Isabelle went to visit them at White Cliff Manor. Other than her nursemaid, she spent the most time with the sweet little angel. She absolutely adores children, and took to being an aunt almost immediately," he praised.

"Well, Penelope and Colin will love having you meet Thomas, then," Portia said, nodding her head with a smile. "They do everything with him."

"As is the modern way of doing things, or, so I hear," Isabelle said, flushing ever so slightly, as she knew entirely well that it was hardly appropriate to be so outspoken as a young lady, let alone when she'd only just met someone.

Portia smiled at her, as if she did not mind. "Oh, Penelope will like you very much," she said with a decisive nod. "Thankfully, you will be seeing much of her, as she and Colin keep to their London house, save for a few weeks each summer, where they're invited to the Bridgerton family seat of Aubrey Hall in Kent."

"And they will always be welcome at Wycliffe Hall, of course, once we are married," Frederick stated quickly, occupying a chair close to the couch Portia sat upon.

Portia looked quite pleased at Frederick's words. "You are kind, Frederick, very kind."

Frederick positively melted at her words. "I aim to be, my dear," he responded. "Well, I'm sure you wish to tell Isabelle about her first event of the London Season, once you've presented her to Her Majesty Queen Charlotte."

Isabelle smiled at Portia, turning to face her; as her father's new wife, Portia would be presenting her to the queen, as tradition dictated. If her father hadn't remarried, the job would have fallen to Caroline, as the senior-most woman in the Wycliffe family and, failing that, her godmother, Violet Bridgerton, would have likely taken up the task. "Oh? Is it a very grand affair?" she asked, the uncertainty peppering her voice.

"Rest assured, you will be outfitted accordingly for each occasion, my dear," Frederick assured his only daughter.

Portia nodded, as if this was very important. "Indeed, my dear," she said. "It is the annual masquerade ball of the Bridgerton's."

Isabelle's eyes widened; she had heard of the event in question, of course, given Peregrine's friendship with Viscount Bridgerton, and Jeremy's friendship with young Gregory. However, this year, she would, at last, be old enough to attend, as she would have debuted by that time, and would be able to meet very many people, in varying disguises. "Oh, that sounds absolutely lovely," she breathed, gripping slightly at her skirts with excitement. "I always loved dressing up as a little girl..."

"We will find the absolutely perfect costume for you, my dear," Portia said; she had, by this time, moved to the opposite end of the couch, so that she was sitting close to Isabelle. She tucked a bit of raven hair behind Isabelle's ear, and smoothed her cheek with the pad of her thumb. "An ice princess, perhaps, for I know you were born in late-winter..."

"Perhaps an earth goddess would be more appropriate," Isabelle responded with a giggle, finding that she quite liked the motherly attention and affection that Portia was bestowing upon her. "I suppose, given that I was born a mere three days before the solstice... Or, perhaps, a mixture of both ice and earth deities?"

"Oh, she is lovely, Frederick, positively lovely," Portia said, her voice warm. "I simply cannot wait to meet Peregrine, as well as Jeremy." She lowered her hand and gently clasped one of Isabelle's in hers. "We're going to make a lovely little family, I think, my dear."

Isabelle smiled at Portia—could it really be so simple? "I think so, too, Portia," she said softly, and Portia positively beamed at her, squeezing her hands a bit.

ʚ♡ɞ

James massaged his temples once Andrew had stepped outside his inner rooms to give him a moment alone in the bath. The warmth of the water eased the stiffness and soreness of his muscles from being confined to a carriage for so long, and, while he was relieved to have that particular journey be over, a new one was just beginning. By what he'd heard from Mrs. Beeson, his father likely wouldn't survive to the end of the year, which meant that he would not only be responsible for his niece, but also that of his mother, as well as his three younger sisters.

His mother would, one day, move into their dower property in town, and James would have to ensure that she was not only well looked-after, but that the house was in good shape. The property itself, Thornridge House, was their secondary London property, while the main one, Ramsay House, was reserved for the current marquess, his wife, and his heirs. Once James married, he could, quite literally, turn his mother out of both the manor, as well as the primary London property, which would pass to him upon his father's death. Of course, James would never do such a thing; he'd been closer to his mother than that of his father, as his father always wanted time with Arthur from the time they were boys.

Lydia, Agnes, and Josephine were another matter; while they would formally come into his protection when his father died, their mother would still be in charge of their wellbeing. James would have to ensure that they made good marriages, as befitted their station as ladies, but it would fall to their mother to present them to Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, as well as accompany them to the modiste and potentially chaperoning them at public events. Of course, James would likely accompany Lydia, who was due to be presented to Queen Charlotte that spring, to many of the parties, balls, and other events the ton dictated. James would have to find a suitable bride sooner rather than later, and produce at least one son, as tradition dictated. He made a vow to himself then, as he trailed the tips of his fingers along the warmth of the water around him, that, if he was blessed with more than one boy child, he would never hold the direct heir above that of any future male progeny. No, he would not repeat his father's failings—

"Are you all right in there, my lord?" Andrew called.

James looked up; Andrew was close enough if an emergency happened, but far enough away to give him the privacy he so craved. "Yes, thank you, Andrew," James answered. "I'll just be a few more moments, I think. Have you laid out something suitable for me to see my father in?" he asked, knowing that Andrew would have kept busy.

"I have, my lord," Andrew assured him. "Very understated, but still appropriate. I should think you will be quite pleased."

James inclined his head, although he doubted Andrew would see it. "Thank you, Andrew, I'm sure I will be. I will let you know when I require a linen." He hesitated for a brief moment, before he spoke again, "Andrew, will I have a moment or two to dictate a letter to you?" he asked, unsure.

"Yes, my lord," Andrew said, his tone assured, leading James to sigh in relief; so, it appeared as if his young valet was an educated man for his station. "I am capable of writing in English, Latin, French, or German if it suits you. I can also speak all those languages."

"I'll have that linen now," James said, and gave Andrew a tight smile as he came back into the inner room, linen in hand. "How are your Italian and Greek?" he asked; though he was not the firstborn son, both languages were offered at Eton and Oxford, and so he had taken advantage of them both.

"I fear I am merely conversational, at best, my lord," Andrew admitted, holding out the square of linen, and looking away as James got to his feet, water dripping from each and every orifice of his body. "I am not noble, naturally," he explained as he handed over the linen and stepped away, "and while my parents were certainly comfortable, it was a relief when I was offered a position here."

"May I ask what your family does?" James asked; he appreciated Andrew's soft-spoken and modest demeanor, as well as the notion that he was, clearly, well-educated for someone of his rank.

"My father is a banker, and my mother was a seamstress," Andrew responded, standing at attention; he was not boasting, though he did seem proud of his family, which James could certainly understand. "My mother's elder brother was a priest, and he ensured that I had the best education possible, provided by the church, although I did manage to obtain a German tutor when I humbly requested it."

James smiled, pleased that Andrew advocated for himself. "That was quite clever of you, Andrew," he praised, tying the linen around his waist like a toga as he ventured into his new bedchamber, still feeling a bit odd about staying there. "Did you have brothers or sisters to share your childhood?"

"My brother, Edmund, became a priest alongside my uncle, Victor," Andrew said, lifting up the clothing options he'd selected for James, and seemed pleased when he nodded at the navy blue attire he'd chosen. "I had two younger sisters as well, Abigail and Felicity. With our mother gone, and our father working so late into the night, our aunt, Hannah, has had to come and look out for them."

James peered over his shoulder slightly as Andrew began to dress him. "What ages are your sisters, Andrew?" he asked, concerned for their plight.

"Abigail is fifteen and Felicity is twelve," Andrew responded, not meeting his eyes, the shame rolling off him in waves.

James turned as soon as Andrew had completed dressing him, and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "As soon as I am in charge here, I want you to write to your aunt and send for your sisters," he said softly.

Andrew looked up, stunned. "My lord?"

"I'm sure your mother taught them sewing," James continued, and Andrew nodded. "Can they speak any other languages?"

"Latin and French, for Mother and Father wanted them to sound educated, so Uncle Victor ensured it," Andrew said softly.

James nodded. "Do they sing?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Do they dance?"

"They can, my lord," Andrew responded. "But, forgive me for asking, why does that matter?"

"The middle and youngest of my three sisters, Agnes and Josephine, are in need of new lady's maids," James explained patiently to Andrew. "One is at retirement age and the other is leaving our household to marry. Will they mind working in the same household as you?"

Andrew shook his head. "No, my lord. I miss them terribly..."

"Good," James said, nodding with satisfaction. "You will send for them when I give word, and Abigail and Felicity will be appointed to Agnes and Josephine respectively. I will ensure that they will be given a fair wage, plenty of food to eat, clean clothes as benefits their station as ladies maids, and comfortable sleeping quarters. Does that suit?"

Andrew nodded, tears springing into his eyes. "Y-yes," he stammered, bowing deeply to James to show his respect. "Thank you, my lord."

"Your father... What is he called?" James asked, going over to his desk to write down the names, addresses, and a brief summary of what he wanted Andrew to write for him.

"His name is Oliver, my lord," Andrew said, a bit dazed from the current goings-on.

"I never trusted Mr. Hapsburg, the gentleman who was in charge of my father's accounts," he whispered to Andrew, whose eyes widened at the potentially scandalous secret. "He was always short with the staff and seemed a bit unscrupulous... How is your father when it comes to managing money, as well as counting it?"

"He... He is quite good, my lord," Andrew responded honestly. "I... I believe that, as he has no rank, he has been passed over by the bank for advancement..." He reddened to his ears. "God forgive me for saying so, my lord, but his superiors have never been kind to him," he went on, and James looked over at him.

"How so, Andrew?"

"Well, they lengthen his hours and pay him less," Andrew admitted.

James shook his head. "Well, that is unacceptable," he declared, making a note of it. "I will see to it that Mr. Hapsburg is fired, and that your father is brought in as the official manager of my accounts."

"My lord!" Andrew cried out.

"There are a few cottages upon the property, not for the villagers, that are stationed quite close by the house," James continued, secretly delighting in Andrew's shock. "They are reserved for the marquess' valet, the housekeeper, the accounts manager, and any other high-ranking staff members. Mr. Hapsburg never had a taste for them, and always stayed in luxurious lodgings in the village." James tutted for a moment and shook his head. "Well, the accounts' cottage has been sat empty for far too long now, and has not been in use since my grandfather's time, when it was resided in by a Mr. Jacobsen. I will see to it that Mrs. Beeson sends some staff out there to clear it out, so it will be made ready for your father, should he accept the position."

Andrew felt to his knees, taking ahold of James' hand, which boasted the ring for the Viscounts of Thornridge, and kissed the gemstone—a fiery topaz. "My lord, you are saving my family," he whispered, shaking his head. "How can I ever thank you?"

"By being loyal to me, firstly," James told him as he pulled Andrew to his feet, "and by accepting the position as valet to me, which you will continue to serve when I assume my father's title, whenever that may be." James clapped a hand onto Andrew's shoulder. "I intend to re-work what my father has done, Andrew, and although I may not be great at it initially, I will learn all I can to be a better marquess than he ever was."

Andrew nodded his head. "Of course I shall be loyal to you, my lord," he assured him.

"And, should you choose to marry, I shall do everything in my power to ensure a good love match for you," James told him, smiling.

Andrew chuckled. "Marry? Oh, no, my lord," he responded, shaking his head. "I may have a good position in life, truly, but who would wish to marry me?"

James chuckled in kind as well. "I should say the same for myself," he responded, utterly delighted with the notion that he'd befriended his new valet. James wrote down the names Viscount Bridgerton, Viscount Wycliffe, the Duke of Hastings, and Lord Barclay, before he showed the names to Andrew. "Tell me their Christian names."

Andrew stepped forward and stared at the names indicated. "Anthony Bridgerton, Peregrine Wycliffe, Simon Basset, and Matthias Barclay," he answered flawlessly. "Her Grace, your mother, instructed the crop of potential valets to be made aware of a few tidbits of information when it came to your personal life, my lord. She believed that learning the names of your four closest friends from your Oxford days would be beneficial."

James gave a nod, indicating that he was pleased with Andrew's words. "I wish you to write letters to each of them," he instructed, "which I will then sign, once they've been written. You will inform them of my father's ill health, and that they will be invited to the funeral, once it comes to pass. They are all, of course, invited to bring their wives, if they wish to do so, and if their wives wish to attend."

Andrew bowed to James. "Yes, my lord," he responded.

"You are also permitted to write to your father, as well as your aunt, to inform them of the job opportunities we have previously discussed for them," James continued. "I will write them both myself, once things have settled here, with the formal offers. Your aunt, of course, bearing that she has no family..." He raised an eyebrow, expecting an answer from Andrew.

"She is my father's younger sister, my lord," Andrew explained quickly. "And no, she has no family of her own. She was the last child born into the family, so she is a great deal younger than my father."

"Your paternal grandparents are gone, then?" James queried.

Andrew nodded. "They are, my lord, not long after my mother," he said softly, bowing his head for a moment, before he looked up again. "Aunt Hannah is a lovely woman, my lord. Very intelligent, can pick up tasks quickly—"

"Then, I believe she will be a worthy second for Mrs. Beeson," James said, considering it for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes. "She is always saying that she needs an assistant, or a second-in-command." He nodded to himself before he got to his feet. "Well, do inform your aunt about that, won't you?" he asked, clapping Andrew upon his shoulder. "You may use my desk, parchment, quills, and ink, if you like. For now, I must go and speak to my father."

Andrew bowed as James left the room. "Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

James smiled to himself as he wandered down the corridor from the heir's bedchamber, his steps considerably lighter than they'd been before. He reached his father's chambers not too terribly long afterwards, the double doors as imposing as they'd been from his childhood days, the symbols of a lion conquering a deer, as the Marquess of Ramsey crest depicted, carved there, as well as other important places of the historic manor. His father had an impressive portrait painter employed, as well as a gallery worth a fortune, filled with paintings from several worthy European painters—da Vinci, Vermeer, Botticelli, Titian, Holbein, and Van Eyck among the more noteworthy ones—decorated the halls of their ancestral family home.

James, knowing that his nerves would get the better of him if he delayed any further, rapped with purpose upon the double doors.

"Enter," answered the voice of Dr. Yarbury, his father's personal physician.

Perhaps Papa is worse-off than I was led to believe, James mused to himself, before taking ahold of the doorknob and turning it, and stepped into the palatial presence chamber belonging to his father and, in likely short order, would belong to him as well. He momentarily gazed at the oil paintings, ornaments, and baubles that his family had collected over the past one-hundred-and-fifty-years. These had been collected since their title had been bestowed upon them by King Charles II, when his six-times great-grandfather, who was merely Lord John Ramsay, had showed valor during the Great Fire of London. James had often heard the story of the John, and how he bravely entered the Palace of Whitehall and daringly saved the life of His Majesty's prized and favored spaniel, Bertram Bentley Spaniel III. The Merry Monarch, as he was known, was so overcome with emotion that he elevated him immediately to the title of marquess. The king later ensured that all his descendants—beginning with his younger brother and heir, James, and then followed by his own daughters, Mary and Anne, before the Georges came to England—knew of how much the Ramsay family meant to the crown.

"Dr. Yarbury," James said, stepping into the privy chamber, and spotted the doctor, his silvery hair combed expertly, and his own suit not an inch out of place. James temporarily stood in the doorway, peering openly at his father; his eyes were closed and he did not address him. James' father's forehead was covered with sweat and his cheeks were bright red, while his black hair, now streaked liberally with silver, was mussed; he appeared every inch to be a very ill man.

The physician got to his feet, glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose, and put a finger to his lips, gesturing towards James' father, who seemed to be asleep, although his chest seemed to be bothering him, due to the raspy air that he seemed to be emitting. The physician's tools were laid out expertly, the silver of them a bright note in the marquess's bedchamber, which appeared to have a solemn air to it. Dr. Yarbury motioned for James to leave the room and James did so, with the physician going after him and shutting the doors behind them. "His Grace has been exhausted," the elderly physician informed him, his tone at normal volume, likely believing that William Thornridge would not hear them through the doors.

James inclined his head. "He doesn't sound well," he said softly.

Dr. Yarbury nodded in confirmation, his clear blue eyes filled with sadness for his old friend. "His Grace is most unwell, I'm afraid, my lord," he agreed. "The broth he took last evening only sustained him momentarily. Ladies Lydia, Agnes, and Josephine have already said their goodbyes, and Her Grace the marchioness is preparing herself to be sent for, so that she may sit with him when the end is near."

James nodded. "And when shall that be?"

"By this evening, I should think," Dr. Yarbury answered quietly. "His Grace requested to be awoken as soon as you arrived, my lord, and I had debriefed you on the situation. His Grace wishes me to inform you that he understands the likely changes you will make to the household, once the title, moneys, and properties pass to you."

James's mouth formed a thin line, but he did not comment. "Has he requested to see Annabel before he passes?" he asked.

"Miss Annabel?" Dr. Yarbury asked. "No, he has not. You are more than welcome to ask him yourself, but I do not believe he has any interest," he said, shaking his head, leading James to believe that the man thought he should see his first grandchild.

"I shall go in and speak to him now, then," James said firmly. "Is it all right if I awake him, then?"

Dr. Yarbury nodded. "I should think so. He said his meeting with you was of the utmost importance, after all."

James coughed uncomfortably at that. "I am sure you are aware of the notion that Arthur was the favorite son, being the heir, Dr. Yarbury," he said quietly. "I, as the spare was often...overlooked, and that is putting it lightly."

Dr. Yarbury sighed, reaching upwards and clasping James gently upon the shoulder. "Give His Grace the opportunity to make amends to you, my lord," he said gently. "Those on their deathbeds often attempt to apologize for certain acts done in their lives."

James sighed, looking at his father's bedroom door again. "Well, I suppose we shall see, Dr. Yarbury," he said, walking away from the man and pushing open the door.