future of this house, the next generation.”
“It is.” Honoria raised her head. “And they’re healthy and strong, and know the value of kinship and friendship, and . . .”
When she said nothing more, Devil tipped his head to look into her face. “And what?”
A heartbeat passed, then, lips curving, Honoria took his arm; turning him, she cast him a measuring glance. “And they’re planning.”
Predictably, he frowned and looked back at the group. “That’s good?”
She patted his arm, waited until he looked back at her to say, “It means they’re looking ahead—that they’re facing forward and seeking to shape their own futures. And, yes, that is, indeed, how it should be. How they need to be.”
Faintly disgruntled, he allowed her to steer him back into the crowd, but then murmured, “And what will our role in that future be?”
Facing forward, confident herself, Honoria smiled gently and murmured back, “Our role is to keep the foundation rock-solid, steady and sure, and otherwise . . . learn to let them go.”
She knew that the latter would find little favor with him and his peers. It would go against their ingrained instincts, but that was, indeed, the next battle they would face.
Eventually, however, the Duke of St. Ives drew in a deep breath and asked, “So by your estimation, all is well?”
And, still smiling, his duchess replied, “In my estimation, everything is exactly as it should be in our family’s world.”
Following is an excerpt from
Where the Heart Leads
The first volume in
The Casebook of Barnaby Adair
By #1 New York Times bestselling author
Stephanie Laurens
Available now from Avon Books
The second and third volumes of
The Casebook of Barnaby Adair
will be released in 2014
November 1835
London
“Thank you, Mostyn.” Slumped at ease in an armchair before the fire in the parlor of his fashionable lodgings in Jermyn Street, Barnaby Adair, third son of the Earl of Cothelstone, lifted the crystal tumbler from the salver his man offered. “I won’t need anything further.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll wish you a good night.” The epitome of his calling, Mostyn bowed and silently withdrew.
Straining his ears, Barnaby heard the door shut. He smiled, sipped. Mostyn had been foisted on him by his mother when he’d first come up to town in the fond hope that the man would instil some degree of tractability into a son who, as she frequently declared, was ungovernable. Yet despite Mostyn’s rigid adherence to the mores of class distinction and his belief in the deference due to the son of an earl, master and man had quickly reached an accommodation. Barnaby could no longer imagine being in London without the succor Mostyn provided, largely, as with the glass of fine brandy in his hand, without prompting.
Over the years, Mostyn had mellowed. Or perhaps both of them had. Regardless, theirs was now a very comfortable household.
Stretching his long legs toward the hearth, crossing his ankles, sinking his chin on his cravat, Barnaby studied the polished toes of his boots, bathed in the light of the crackling flames. All should have been well in his world, but. . . .
He was comfortable yet . . . restless.
At peace—no, wrapped in blessed peace—yet dissatisfied.
It wasn’t as if the last months hadn’t been successful. After more than nine months of careful sleuthing he’d exposed a cadre of young gentlemen, all from ton families, who, not content with using dens of inquity had thought it a lark to run them. He’d delivered enough proof to charge and convict them despite their station. It had been a difficult, long-drawn and arduous case; its successful conclusion had earned him grateful accolades from the peers who oversaw London’s Metropolitan Police Force.
On hearing the news his mother would no doubt have primmed her lips, perhaps evinced an acid wish that he would develop as much interest in fox-hunting as in villain-hunting, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—say more, not with his father being one of the aforementioned peers.
In any modern society, justice needed to be seen to be served even-handedly, without fear or favor, despite those among the ton who refused to believe that Parliament’s laws applied to them. The Prime Minister himself had been moved to compliment him over this latest triumph.
Raising his glass, Barnaby sipped. The success had been sweet, yet had left him strangely hollow. Unfulfilled in some unexpected way. Certainly he’d anticipated feeling happier, rather than empty and peculiarly rudderless, aimlessly drifting now he no longer had a case to absorb him, to challenge his ingenuity and fill his time.
Perhaps his mood was simply a reflection of the