The footman led Arthur down one corridor after another, the manor’s humble facade belying a warren of halls and doors. Muffled sounds of illicit coupling emitted from behind more than one of those doors until the lit sconces reduced in number and they entered a shadowy conservatory.
The lady of the house was inordinately fond of orchids.
As they approached a small dais hosting a daybed and a work basket, another door opened, and they were joined by a human female, haughty in bearing—none other than Lady Frost. She was directed to stand at his left and took her place without so much as a glance at his person. Ton gossip had it she was a “special friend” of George’s, although, if Arthur recalled correctly, His Highness preferred his females to be comfortable in frame and cozy in nature.
This little bit would not be to the royal taste. The lady gave the impression of ten stone of imperiousness contained in a two-stone saddlebag. Arthur was not sure he’d ever seen so small a human adult; he doubted her nose came up to his sternum. Her blonde hair was caught up in a tight matronly twist, but the sober coiffure did nothing to dim its golden brightness even in the low light. Her embonpoint was impressive considering her stature, and yet she had no bum to speak of. An urge bubbled up in Arthur to tease her about it; in the first instance, nothing ever bubbled up within him, ever, and in the second—there was no second. Why in the name of Freya would he tease a female of any species? His bear snorted and sniffed and rolled in his aura, searching for something, Arthur knew not what.
Down, you, he scolded. This is neither the time nor the place.
Curious, curious, his bear muttered.
What is? Arthur leaned in a fraction and scented nothing of interest.
Nothing where something ought to be, his creature responded.
He was prepared to lecture his bear on philosophical fatuity when yet another door opened, this one at the back of the dais, presumably leading directly from the garden. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent George IV, entered, done up in his usual finery; the light of the few candles caught on the embroidery rioting up and down his coat, depicting a leap of hares. His pantaloons were as tight as pantaloons could be, and Arthur suspected he would need to be cut out of them at the end of the evening. He discerned the hand of Lady Jemima Coleman in the royal vesture, although it was not widely known she was responsible for the habillements of several highly ranked personages, the prince not least among them. That snippet of tittle-tattle would rock more than one foundation.
He was torn out of his musings regarding Georgie’s wardrobe as Lady Frost dropped into so deep a curtsy it was surely derisive. There was a flavor to the abject obeisance that implied its excessive depth served to shore up the uncertain authority of its object. She curled as naturally as the branches of the orchids surrounding them, her chin touching her chest as she lowered to the floor. Arthur managed the most cursory of bows and exposed his neck, as was the Shifter way, not wishing to draw attention from her audacity.
George remained on the dais, and his stillness could be confused for patience if one was unfamiliar with his temperament. He had taken note of the lady’s barbed intent as he did not bid either release their displays of respect. Arthur’s neck was beginning to suffer from fatigue; how was the lady managing? He suspected she would not waver and wondered what inspired her scorn.
The moment drew out, a demonstration of princely pique. Arthur raised his head to glare at George, who sighed and said, “Rise, ma’am.” She did so, as effortlessly as she lowered, and resumed her posture, gloved hands folded at her waist, fan and reticule dangling from a wrist, visage devoid of clues as to her thoughts.
“I find myself on the horns of a dilemma,” George announced. He paused for effect as if inviting his audience press him to continue.
Arthur dared. “Do you, Your Highness? And in those pantaloons?”
“I assure you it is no laughing matter, Arthur,” the Prince continued languidly but was betrayed by a slight flush beneath his ears.
“Horns, you say? Anyone we know?” In for a penny, and it was a pound of censure he would accrue for even obliquely alluding to their secret, given the presence of the human female.
“His Grace the Duke of Lowell is now betrothed, as you have both witnessed,” George said. “One hopes he and his lady will be fruitful and multiply, growing his estate in stature and consequence, as can only prove fortuitous for those of our kind.”
“The titled kind. Dukes and princes and such like.” Arthur tipped his head as subtly as he was able down to his left. His silly punning was one thing, but how did Georgie dare speak so loosely before Lady Frost?
“And yet the greater the strength consolidated by Lowell,” George continued, “the greater the need that it be matched by his betters. Such as we, Arthur.”
“We are cousins,” he said to the lady, who did not give the appearance of attending to a word he or His Highness had said.
“Are you unknown to one another? The Marchioness of Castleton, I am pleased to present to you Arthur, Duke of Osborn. Or is it Dowager Marchioness? Is that more in line if not entirely fitting?”
Only one paying as close attention as Arthur would detect the lady’s flinch.
“I do believe one is a dowager if widowed, despite a lack of progeny,” George went on, indelicate, thoughtless. Arthur’s bear lifted his head, as stunned as the man at their regent’s lack of manners. “There was, however, knowledge aborning.”
“His Highness refers to my awareness of the peculiarities to be found in his and Castleton’s unique…ancestry.” The marchioness flicked her gaze at Arthur for a heartbeat. “And yours, I presume. As his cousin.”
“Quite right, ma’am, quite right.” Georgie was always at his most dangerous when his voice softened as it did now, a bored whisper. It boded ill for the interlocutor.
“I marvel at your sangfroid, Georgie.” Arthur noted the wince on his cousin’s face at the nickname and hoped he drew fire from the female.
“I am not fond of diminutives,” George said, and the air changed, a frisson of his dominatum priming the air like lightning about to strike. The prince dropped any pretense of indolence. “I am not fond of relations who do not uphold the family name, of high-ranking peers who do not do their duty to their nation and their species. I am not fond of secrets,” and here Arthur and his bear snorted in reckless unison, “nor of secret-keepers who are well placed to wreak havoc. I am especially not enamored of the thought of Lowell’s pack rising in status by the day.”
“I have no care for status.” Speaking of cold blood, the lady had apparently earned her sobriquet. She spoke as calmly as she would in turning down kippers for breakfast. “Nor for society, nor for threatening the royal slumber. I have decided to leave London and the beau monde—”
“You have decided?” George lifted his brows in disbelief.
“I have, Your Highness.” Arthur moved closer to her side; she may know George’s secret, but she would not bait him if she knew the potential violence of the regent’s essential self.
“How very fortunate that our desires intersect.” The force of the prince’s will careered about the room. “As it were.”
“As what were?” Arthur remembered being similarly at sea the first time he saw Hamlet. Disaster stirred underneath the exchanges, the words themselves anodyne yet sinister in intent.
“As my plans for the future and the parts you will play coincide.” George ran a hand over an embroidered lapel. “You enjoy the theatre, do you not, Your Grace? I have heard tell of your attendance at the most popular revues of our day, here and abroad.”
“Heard, had you? Have ears everywhere, do you?” Arthur felt his dormant dominatum rouse, unpracticed, raw, and he fought it down. His would make no match for Georgie’s, and he would not risk the female coming to harm.
“Oh, yes.” His Highness sighed. “For when my subjects near and dear to me fail to do their duty, it pains me, Arthur. Here.” He laid a hand on his chest. “And we know how vital it is to command from a strong heart. It is time you did so.”
***
The very large male—the Duke of Osborn—bristled and growled. Beatrice was well acquainted with the subtle change in the atmosphere that heralded the transformation from man to beast. It had emanated from the prince regent initially; she suspected the duke was not far behind.
“You have no say over the choices of the marchioness,” the duke snarled, and Beatrice almost laughed. Everyone in this room had more say than she. Even the orchids had greater value.
“The lady knows better than you, Artie.” The diminutive was delivered with pique. “And she knows her leverage over Us must inevitably come to an end.”
A shiver ran down her spine. It was true: she was not so foolish as to have thought her protection would stretch to the end of her life. She had suspected she would be killed by one of these creatures in due course. Would the prince see to her end himself, or would he require his cousin to dirty his claws?
“There is a letter among my personal effects that reveals the secrets I kept, should I meet a mysterious end.” She lied without compunction.
The result was an arched brow from the prince and a light touch on her elbow. “Our kind can scent an untruth,” said the duke, who sounded regretful.
“Well played, nonetheless,” said His Highness. “Secrets weigh equally heavily on the keeper. I will relieve you of your burden and elevate you at the same time, dear Beatrice, if I may.”
“No. You may not.” She would run, to America, to the Antipodes—
“Were you to flee you would not get far. My influence would precede you to the very ends of the earth.” Beatrice met his gaze, as she was not meant to, as would be treasonous under any other circumstance that did not involve the knowledge she kept close. He looked vaguely apologetic as he continued. “Do you tell your tale, I will have your mental capacity questioned. I will see your fortune disappear in the snap of a finger. In addition, your family will fail to benefit from your candor. Is your youngest sister not about to make her debut? I will ensure she has the most disastrous of Seasons, at the hands of—”
“Monster.” Beatrice set her shoulders. “Beast.”
“Odin’s breath, ma’am,” the duke gasped.
“My formidable enemy.” George smiled; Beatrice questioned his mental capacity, but even she would not say so, given the state of his father’s. “My soon-to-be cousin by marriage.”
***
Georgie could not mean that he and she… Arthur looked at the little female, who did not appear to have been caught by surprise. “Pardon me?”
“It is time your hibernation came to an end, cousin,” Georgie said.
“I do not wish to marry, and I will not marry, and I will never marry.” Arthur’s boyhood vow sounded appropriately childish, and he did not care.
“I hope you do not intend to insult the lady,” Georgie said. “Humans are quite the rage these days.”
“Homo plenus or versipellis, I will not.”
“I say you will.” The air bristled again, a ripple, a threat. “I say you will throw off your naive rancor and take your place. Your clan awaits and must have its Alpha.”
Thundering Thor, how could he use these words before her?
“Family is so important, is it not, ma’am?” George purred. “Arthur, only see how far the marchioness would go to protect them, and she only human.” He would challenge Georgie on the spot did it not mean the utter destruction of the entire nation. “Such sentiment accorded to family ties is far more powerful amongst those of our kind, dear Beatrice. We, who must live two lives at once, require a strong bond with our kin or else we would weaken and die. Much the way Arthur’s father weakened and—”
“Do not!” Arthur let his claws drop and snarled full force at the prince, uncaring if the lady fainted, uncaring if a brawl broke out between himself and his Regent. He need not worry as to the former: the marchioness looked at him with as little dismay as if he had sneezed.
“As I say. So important, the ties that bind. How swiftly you rush to defend your father’s name.” George cocked his head. “I wonder does such protection extend to a brother and the brother’s wife and children?”
Dare he threaten Ben and Charlotte and the cubs? Her ladyship’s epithets came to mind. Monster. Beast. “Leave them out of this,” Arthur demanded, his bear looming in his aura.
“The family of an Alpha who will not take his rightful place and who have no true home of their own may find they are required, for their own good, to reside at Court,” George continued, undaunted. “This would be a pity if the male and the female are a love match, as mates are not in one another’s pockets under the royal roof. Such devotion is suited only to the lower orders. Thus, the husband will be separated from the wife, the wife made a lady of the Court, and we know how the royal dukes adore them.”
“You. Will. Not.” Arthur was that close to Changing; a light touch to his elbow checked him, and he was taken aback at the lady’s daring and her perception.
“Won’t I? And that is, of course, to say nothing of the children. A whelp of three, I believe?” George assumed a look of forlorn concern. “Court is no place for the young and needs must they be put into the care of nursemaids and governesses and tutors, perhaps out in the countryside or even as far away as the Hebrides.”
“You will not separate a mother from her children,” said the lady. Sweet Freya, this female had no sense of self-preservation. She stepped forward, which only resulted in making her even smaller before George, and yet her hands were in fists and the rage pouring off her was—
Breathtaking, swooned his bear.
“And how shall you stop me, ma’am?” With that, George called forth his dominatum.
***
The threat Beatrice had sensed, the terrifying quiver in the atmosphere, finally erupted and was nothing to what she’d experienced in her marriage. When the marquess raged and howled and by some class of dark art made the air unbreathable; when she felt her bones were on the verge of crumbling into dust, the stronger she stood and the calmer she remained, the less it affected her. Year after year, rage after rage, she strengthened and he weakened and she became invincible.
Or so she thought. The Prince of Wales had finer control of his ferocity and a greater ability to wield it. Beatrice’s muscles trembled; her hands shook, and she swayed on her feet. The enormous duke put her behind him, and his shouts for the prince to desist sounded like he was underwater. The prince remained unmoved, and she forgot herself so far as to clutch at the coat of the man before her.
The duke fought back in the same fashion if not to similar effect: a wave of power radiated from him, but it was no match for His Highness’s. If Beatrice had learned anything in life, it was how to choose a battle; she moved back to the duke’s side, and grabbing his hand, finding strength there, she struggled through the life-sapping force and assumed her exaggerated curtsy once more.
The oppression lifted so quickly she well nigh fell over.
“How dare you, Georgie.” The duke raised her up and took her hands, rubbed them, and she thought he may have growled, surprisingly not an offensive sound.
“It is my place to dare.” The man who stood before them was not the fribble of the scandal sheets who spent the contents of the exchequer on ostentatious ensembles and myriad inamorata. The man who stood before them was not the sullen son of a king who would not pass on his crown in good time. The man who stood before them was not merely a man. “It is my place to secure the future of my subjects but, more importantly, of my family.” He bowed to Beatrice as if he had not nearly suffocated her with his uncanny might. He turned back to the duke. “It is my duty to ensure you secure yours. It is time our generation take the reins. Alfred has done so, and now we follow suit.”
“I will not challenge Hallbjorn.” This name was not known to her, and it sounded quite foreign. Were they everywhere, these animal-people?
“I say it will not be required. He did not mate, he had no Second, the way is clear, and you will take it.” A flash of that strange potency surged, and Beatrice could not help herself; she shuddered.
His Highness nodded, satisfied. “And the lady is not so safe as she would think. The fortune hunters you keep at bay, ma’am, merely take their lumps and in turn petition me, certain I will look upon one of them with favor and discharge you accordingly in a fit of boredom or caprice. I have only to say the word and make it so.”
“We agreed,” she began.
“We did, we did.” He canted his head and regarded her from beneath lowered lids. “You have betrayed yourself by a knowing glance and, yes, a change in your scent one too many times. Our kind know you know our secret, and many of the old guard would see this problem solved in the time-honored way. Do you wish to die, ma’am?”
“I do not.” Beatrice had survived Castleton, and she would survive this.
“There we have it.” His Highness smiled, as icy an example as she had in her own arsenal. “Do you wish the lady to die, Arthur? For there is no other way to guarantee her safety.”
The duke seethed but showed no sign of transforming into a wild animal. He glared at the prince for oceans of time, for a glacial age until he shook his head once, furious and curt.
Beatrice cleared her throat. “I insist that my fortune remain in my own keeping.” Let it never be said she was backward in going forward.
“I do not want your money,” the duke snapped.
Beatrice bestowed upon him her own class of frosty smile. “That is convenient, as you shall not have it.”
“He will require it.” His Highness fiddled with an elaborate cuff and sounded bored once more. “And he will return its value in kind.”
“Obfuscation does not suit you, Georgie,” the duke sneered.
“Oh, it does, Artie, it does.” The royal footmen filed back into the room from various doors. “You will marry tomorrow, directly following Lowell’s vows. What a lark! We shall make it a day of ducal nuptials in Carlton House.”
“What a lark,” the duke spat.
“We shall welcome you at the appointed time, ma’am, or shall I be presumptuous and say ‘Your Grace’?” George gave her an affable nod. “My man Todd will organize both your departures and accompany you to your new residence, where he will remain and make himself useful. The Humphries family home, as you will soon see, wants freshening.”
“It cannot be in any fit state to bring a wife,” the duke said. “I have no fortune at my disposal—”
“You do, and you know how to draw upon it,” the prince began.
“—and I would not force the foulest ruffian from the Seven Dials to bide there, much less a fine society lady.”
“I choose a leaky roof over certain death,” Beatrice said.
“This is no choice!” He flung his arms about rather dramatically for a person of his stature. “This is manipulation at its basest! How dare you, Georgie?”
“If not I, then who?” Beatrice felt a shadow of sympathy for the lengths the Regent had gone to enforce his will on this man. The duke’s stubbornness was unlike any she had ever encountered.
“Your Grace,” she began. Even to her ears, her voice was flat as freshly ironed chintz. “If nothing else, let us unite in our mutual misfortune and inability to cross one of such great rank. Let us negotiate terms for ourselves.”
The duke stared at her, aghast. He scowled at the prince once more for good measure and then paused to bow to her before stalking off, slamming the door behind him.
“There. Not so much of a brute as to take his leave without manners.” The prince crooked an elbow. “Shall we?”
“Oh, Your Highness, I am not equal to your magnificence.” She curtsied again and held it, held it, held it, until she heard the huff of an incredulous laugh and the footsteps of her regent stride away and out the door.