Page 8 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Close enough to earn favor,” Isander agreed. “And, eventually, a title.”

Duncan cast him a sideways glance. “Yet he does not attend court.”

“No,” Isander confirmed. “From what I could gather, even after stepping back from the Fellowship, he runs his business from Marrowgate. It holds his interest more than court ever did, and he dislikes leaving it unattended for long.”

“Does he send someone in his stead?”

“His son, Jeachim, represented the family this past season.”

Duncan frowned. “I do not recall him.”

“You wouldn’t,” Isander said. “An unremarkable debut.”

“That is not always a failing,” Duncan said mildly. “And the rest of the household?”

“His wife, Lorenthea, née derRenoit, is Ardorri as well. Her father is the Viscount of Hunnolt. Wolmer arranged the match—noble blood to lend legitimacy to Albrecht’s line.” Isander’s mouth curved faintly. “If I were wagering, I’d say the lady was not pleased.”

Duncan let out a soft huff. “I imagine not.”

“Their daughter, Elysande, is twenty-five and, by all accounts, an accomplished artist,” Isander continued. “The youngest, Koraleise, is eighteen.”

“Fitting for Ardor,” Duncan mused. “Though twenty-five and still unwed?”

“That surprised me as well,” Isander admitted. “She is said to be beautiful, with no rumors about her reputation.”

Duncan sighed. “Then she’s waiting for an advantageous match.”

“Most likely.”

Duncan let his gaze drift toward Marrowgate. The town spread along the shore in terracotta roofs and winding streets. Nets lay stretched along the wharves, and ships crowded the bay beyond in dense clusters. “It is curious,” he said after a moment, “that the youngest is so far removed in age from the others.”

“Jeachim was often ill as a child, I'm told,” Isander said. “Perhaps a belated try for a spare son.”

“Perhaps.”

Isander let the conversation lapse and offered Duncan an encouraging nod as they finished the short climb to Marrowgate Manor, which sat on limestone cliffs above the seaport town like a sentinel. The verStampebls waited in a neat line at its base. Servants stood behind them, completing the tableau of a formal welcome.

Duncan exhaled and swung down from the saddle, preparing himself for the tedious onslaught of formalities.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Albrecht said, leaning into a bow. His attire was modestly tailored, wealth expressed through restraint rather than display. “I trust your journey was pleasant, and that you found us without too much trouble.”

“Your welcome is appreciated, Lord Albrecht,” Duncan said. “The road was kind.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Albrecht said, humor cutting through the sharpness of his dark eyes. Age had set into his features, and the raven-dark hair of his youth was now nearly overtaken by grey. Yet he had plainly once been strikingly handsome. “I always hope any grievances brought to my door arrive no worse than weary legs and dusted cloaks.”

Duncan allowed himself a small smile as Albrecht turned aside. “My wife, Lorenthea.”

The viscountess curtsied deeply, skirts flaring with enthusiasm. Fine embroidery traced the collar and cuffs of her bodice, immaculate and certainly expensive. “It is an honor to host you, Your Grace,” she said. Her smile was perfect and wholly without warmth. “Anything you require during your stay, only say it, and we shall see it done.”

Lorenthea extended her hand. Duncan took it and brushed a courteous kiss across her knuckles. Effusive delight bloomed across her face. Set beside her husband’s restraint, her manner suggested they shared little beyond their surname.

“My son, Jeachim,” Albrecht continued, faint irritation at his wife’s display threading his tone. “You may have crossed paths in Vaelstrom.”

Jeachim bowed, raven-dark hair catching sunlight like polished leather. “Alas, no. But I hope to remedy that in the days ahead, Your Grace.”

“As do I,” Duncan replied. “I look forward to it.”

“Our eldest daughter,” Lorenthea interjected quickly, “Elysande.”