As his peroration, his father had triumphantly declared that if Royce refused to bow to his edict and instead served in the capacity for which he’d been recruited, then it would be as if he, the ninth duke, had no son.

Even in the white rage his father’s attack had provoked, Royce had noted that “as if.” He was his father’s only legitimate son; no matter how furious, his father would not formally disinherit him. The interdict would, however, banish him from all family lands.

Facing his apoplectic sire over the crimson carpet of the exclusive club, surrounded by an army of fascinated aristocracy, he’d waited, unresponsive, until his father had finished his well-rehearsed speech. He’d waited until the expectant silence surrounding them had grown thick, then he’d uttered three words: As you wish.

Then he’d turned and walked from the club, and from that day forth had ceased to be his father’s son. From that day he’d been known as Dalziel, a name taken from an obscure branch of his mother’s family tree, fitting enough given it was his maternal grandfather-by then dead-who had taught him the creed by which he’d chosen to live. While the Variseys were marcher lords, the Debraighs were no less powerful, but their lands lay in the heart of England and they’d served king and country-principally country-selflessly for centuries. Debraighs had stood as both warriors and statesmen at the right hand of countless monarchs; duty to their people was bred deeply in them.

While deploring the rift with his father, the Debraighs had approved Royce’s stance, yet, sensitive even then to the dynamics of power, he’d discouraged their active support. His uncle, the Earl of Catersham, had written, asking if there was anything he could do. Royce had replied in the negative, as he had to his mother’s similar query; his fight was with his father and should involve no one else.