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He turned to see his mother hurrying across the small courtyard, an expression of relief on her face.
“Mother,” he greeted her, with a smile.
“You’re here early,” his mother said, her eyes raking over him. “I’m so pleased.”
Heath was touched by the anxiety on her face, but before he could say anything, she hurried on.
“Your brother might listen to you. We’ve warned him, but he doesn’t seem to understand how it might appear.”
Heath turned toward the house with a wry smile. “Percival up to mischief, is he? I see why you missed me.”
His mother blinked, and a look of consternation came over her face. “I didn’t mean that, Heath. Of course I’m delighted to see you on your own account.” She cast another look over him as he walked, her gaze appraising. “Do you feel well? Your leg really is fully healed?”
Heath paused at the residence’s front door, which was being held open by a servant, and gestured for his mother to precede him inside. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said with good humor. “I’m fine.” He sighed. “And I was worried about what Percival might be up to. It’s one of the reasons I came back earlier than expected. Where is he?”
“Over at the royal training yard, apparently,” she said, pausing in the small entrance hall to wait for him. “Or at least, that’s what we were told. He didn’t mention his plans to us.”
“Even worse,” muttered Heath to himself. Louder he said, “I’ll head over at once, Mother. Just give me a minute to change. It was very dusty on the road.”
“Of course you need some time to settle in.” The Duke of Bexley’s calm voice cut across their conversation, as Heath’s father appeared in the doorway of his personal study. “Come in, Heath. I’m glad to see you returned to us safely and, I trust, well.”
“Very well, Father,” said Heath respectfully. He strode into his father’s study, his mother close behind him.
“How was your journey?” the duke asked, as he closed the door behind them.
Heath hesitated, casting a glance at his father’s face. The expression was serene, giving no indication that the question referred to anything other than the morning’s ride into Bryford. Still, Heath wouldn’t want to gamble on the chance that his father was unaware of his recent voyage. The Duke of Bexley often knew more than he let on.
“Uneventful, thank you,” said Heath. “What’s this Mother was telling me about Percival?”
His father gave a small sigh, his gaze flicking to his wife then back to his younger son. “Whatever you might think, Heath, we don’t expect you to answer for Percival’s actions. You’ve just had a long journey. Take some time to rest, and join us for luncheon.”
“But, Norik—” the duchess began, but her husband cut her off.
“Give the poor boy time to catch his breath, Elsabeth.” He frowned slightly at Heath. “I hope you know that your role as His Majesty’s liaison to power-wielders doesn’t make you responsible for restraining Percival from whatever he might choose to do.”
“Of course I know that, Father,” said Heath staunchly. “And I think you know that it’s not my role as liaison but as brother that makes me determined to go straight to the royal training yard. At least,” he amended, “after I change.”
His father waved him from the room, but he still looked troubled. And Heath heard him murmur to his wife, with an uncharacteristic note of anxiety in his voice, “Perhaps he is too young for the responsibility of this liaison role.”
Heath frowned as he hurried to his own room. He couldn’t help feeling a little stung. He knew he’d been distracted, and a bit reckless, when he came back from Vazula last time. But had his behavior really been bad enough to make his father doubt his capacity for the role? And he wasn’t being reckless now—he’d come back with the specific intention of shouldering his responsibility.
What would it take for him to prove that he could do this?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Half an hour after his arrival, Heath—who had not only changed his clothes but had been forced by his parents to eat a few sandwiches—was hurrying back out the gate into the bustling city. It didn’t take him long to reach the castle. He didn’t go in, instead skirting around it until he reached the royal training yard.
He could tell before he arrived that something unusual was going on. The yard itself was a square, surrounded on all sides by a covered walkway with no walls, held up by supporting pillars. It wasn’t unusual for guards to gather around the edges of the training yard to watch a much-anticipated bout, but this was something else entirely. The walkway was so crowded with onlookers that Heath couldn’t even see into the training yard. And most of those watching clearly weren’t guards.
Heath, his heart sinking, had barely begun to elbow his way through the crowd when a cheer rang out from those in front.
“That’s me done up,” groaned someone to his left, and Heath grimaced. The crowd placing wagers on the fight was just the element of tawdriness the situation needed.
He finally pushed through to the front, in time to see Percival throwing a burly guard over his shoulder and slamming him to the dusty ground. Mingled cheers and groans went up from the spectators, and Heath’s eyes, sweeping across the yard, noted four more prostrate guards.
Percival, who had been fighting unarmed, wiped his face on his sleeve. Then he held out a hand, grinning, and helped the nearest guard to his feet.
“Any other takers?” he asked cheerfully.
