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“It has, my lady,” Mrs. Weatherby answered. “My family have lived on the Isle of Portland for generations as well, and some of us in every generation have served the house and its masters.”

“How fascinating,” Kat said.

She caught her breath a moment later as they entered the Great Hall.

The massive room would never be as cozy or comfortable as Waldorf preferred, but his father had renovated it nicely in his younger years and made it a decidedly habitable place. Dunstan certainly thought so, as he had ensconced himself in a chair near one of the windows, a thick shawl thrown around his shoulder, while he read a book. The moment Kat put Napoleon’s basket down and opened the lid, the infernal cat leapt out and hurried over to Dunstan, as if Waldorf’s cousin had fish in his pockets, to see what he was doing.

“Let’s get this over with so we can go back to the creature comforts of London,” Waldorf muttered to Kat, taking her hand once she’d straightened from freeing Napoleon.

Kat laughed. “You do not wish to spend time in your family’s bosom?” she asked.

“No,” Waldorf said sardonically.

“Ah, Waldorf. There you are at last,” Waldorf’s father called to him from his chair by the fireplace. He, at least, looked perfectly at home in the castle. “Come forward so that we might complete the official striking off of your name from the Scroll of Destiny.”

“Oh, God,” Waldorf said, rolling his eyes as he and Kat approached him. “He’s given it a name.”

Kat laughed, then stifled her laughter with one hand as they came to stand before Waldorf’s father.

“So,” Lord Gerald said, narrowing his eyes at Kat. “This is the woman you bring to me as your wife?”

Waldorf sighed. “Father, you were at the wedding three weeks ago.”

“But you’re only just presenting her. Hmm.” Waldorf’s father made a disapproving face.

“You and Dunstan only just arrived here last week,” Waldorf said. “And besides, debate about the Mercian Plan has begun. I…I have been instrumental in deciphering much of the debate for King Swithin.”

In fact, even though both Waldorf and Kat had been dismissed from Queen Matilda’s service, Waldorf still ostensibly worked as a spy for King Swithin. He had, however, let the king know that he intended to turn his focus to married life, so before the end of the year, he would no longer be his uncle’s spy either.

“Very well,” his father said, then raised his voice to call out, “Mrs. Weatherby, bring me the scroll!”

Waldorf had heard from both Cedric and Alden about how Lord Gerald had taken such giddy delight in the ceremony, and how Mrs. Weatherby cheekily indulged him. Indeed, Mrs. Weatherby seemed to enjoy the whole thing as much as his father as she took the scroll and a black chalk pencil from the top drawer of the desk on one side of the room and marched it solemnly across the hall to Lord Gerald.

Dunstan glanced up from his book and from where he had been petting a decidedly happy Napoleon to watch. Though if Waldorf wasn’t mistaken, his cousin’s gaze was more for the surprisingly handsome and young Mrs. Weatherby instead of for the scroll or Lord Gerald.

Waldorf forgot all that in an instant as Mrs. Weatherby set the scroll on the table by his father’s chair and unrolled it. The top of the scroll bore the words “Heirs of Godwin Castle” penned in foreboding, black ink with red and gold accents. Underneath was a list of the names of Waldorf, his brothers, and his cousins. Cedric’s and Alden’s names had already been crossed out with a thick, black line.

“How very beautiful,” Kat commented solemnly, clasping her hands in front of her. Waldorf noted that she was biting her lip, likely to stop herself from laughing.

“The chalk, Mrs. Weatherby,” Lord Gerald asked, holding out his hand.

Mrs. Weatherby handed the stick of chalk to him as if it were Excalibur itself.

Waldorf huffed impatiently.

His father then took the chalk and struck a definitive line through his name, saying, “So mote it be.”

Kat made a squeaking sound, as if the laughter simply could not stay inside of her.

“I guess it’s all down to Lawrence and Dunstan now,” Waldorf said as Mrs. Weatherby took the chalk back and rolled up the scroll.

“Would you care to wager on which one of them will end up eternally cursed?” his father asked, far too delighted by the prospect.

Waldorf was not given a chance to state his pick, though it would have been Dunstan for certain. One of the castle’s footmen marched into the room at speed, carrying a letter in front of him.

“My lord, a letter has just arrived, and I’ve been told it is urgent and of grave importance and requires immediate action,” the footman said.

“Oh?” Waldorf’s father asked, sitting up straighter. “Well, go ahead and read it aloud. I’ve no idea where my spectacles have gone to.”

“Yes, my lord,” the footman said, proceeding to open the envelope. He cleared his throat, then said, “It is from your son, my lord, Lord Lawrence. It says, ‘Dearest Father. Forgive the shortness of this letter, but time is of the essence, and I need Mrs. Weatherby’s expertise with healing herbs at once. We have been waylaid, and Lady Minerva is dying.’”