That had been his decision, one he’d adhered to throughout the subsequent sixteen years; none of them had expected vanquishing Napoleon to take so long.

But it had.

Through those years he’d recruited the best of his generation of Guards, organized them into a network of secret operatives, and successfully placed them throughout Napoleon’s territories. Their success had become the stuff of legend; those who knew correctly credited his network with saving countless British lives, and contributing directly to Napoleon’s downfall.

His success on that stage had been sweet. However, with Napoleon on his way to St. Helena, he’d disbanded his crew, releasing them to their civilian lives. And, as of Monday, he, too, had left his former life-Dalziel’s life-behind.

He hadn’t, however, expected to assume any title beyond the courtesy one of Marquess of Winchelsea. Hadn’t expected to immediately assume control of the dukedom and all it comprised.

His ongoing banishment-he’d never expected his father to back down any more than he himself had-had effectively estranged him from the dukedom’s houses, lands, and people, and most especially from the one place that meant most to him-Wolverstone itself. The castle was far more than just a home; the stone walls and battlements held something-some magic-that resonated in his blood, in his heart, in his soul. His father had known that; it had been the same for him.

Despite the passage of sixteen years, as the horses raced on Royce still felt the pull, the visceral tug that only grew stronger as he rattled through Sharperton, drawing ever closer to Wolverstone. He felt faintly surprised that it should be so, that despite the years, the rift, his own less than susceptible temperament, he could still sense…home.

That home still meant what it always had.