The footman he’d seen earlier appeared in the doorway from the sitting room carrying a huge china urn. “Hot water, Your Grace.”

He nodded, then watched as the man crossed the room and went through the doorway into the dressing room and bathing chamber.

He’d turned back to the window when the footman reappeared. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but would you like me to unpack your things?”

“No.” Royce looked at the man. He was average in everything-height, build, age, coloring. “There’s not enough to bother with…Jeffers, is that right?”

“Indeed, Your Grace. I was the late duke’s footman.”

Royce wasn’t sure he’d need a personal footman, but nodded. “My man, Trevor, will be arriving shortly-most likely tomorrow. He’s a Londoner, but he’s been with me for a long time. Although he has been here before, he’ll need help to remember his way.”

“I’ll be happy to keep an eye out for him and assist in whatever way I can, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Royce turned back to the window. “You may go.”

When he heard the outer door click shut, he quit the window and headed for the dressing room. He stripped, then washed; drying himself with the linen towel left ready on the washstand, he tried to think. He should be making mental lists of all he had to do, juggling the order in which to do them…but all he seemed able to do was feel.

His brain seemed obsessed with the inconsequential, with matters that were not of immediate importance. Such as why his father had moved out of the duke’s apartments immediately after their confrontation.

The act smacked of abdication, yet…he couldn’t see how such a proposition could mesh with reality; it didn’t match his mental picture of his father.

His bag contained a complete set of fresh clothes-shirt, cravat, waistcoat, coat, trousers, stockings, shoes. He donned them, and immediately felt better able to deal with the challenges that waited beyond the door.