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venerable and extremely old. Now she covertly examined the couple with greater attention for their appearance than she’d ever accorded before. The duke had to be well into his sixties, given what she knew of his career, which was almost everything. If anything he looked older, his face lined and gray, and with a stoop of the shoulders as though he carried the burdens of the world. The duchess looked as healthy as Minerva’s own mother and about the same age: not many years above fifty.
    â€œThe dukes of Hampton always marry much younger women,” Blake went on. “The ten years difference in our ages is nothing. I’d have to wed a child to stay in the family tradition.”
    â€œA singularly foolish remark,” said the duke. He turned to Minerva with a warm smile that seemed a deliberate snub of his son. “Now, my dear. Do you think you have enough baubles?”
    â€œMore than enough, sir. You and the duchess are very kind.”
    Blakeney approached the small table on which the Steward of the Jewels had placed Minerva’s selections, searching for something. He pushed aside the flat box containing the cameos to open the larger one beneath. The diamonds. He set his shoulders back and looked his father in the eye. Minerva had never seen her fiancé so . . . intent. She looked from the younger man to the older and, for the first time, saw the resemblance. In his youth the duke must have looked very like Blakeney. Now he seemed wrinkled and pale in contrast to his son’s vigorous, golden glow. A fleeting notion of an old king challenged by a young prince tickled her brain, but she couldn’t place the reference.
    â€œThe George I amethysts are not here.” Blakeney’s statement sounded like an accusation.
    The duke said nothing.
    â€œAnd the Queen Anne pearls? Why does Miss Montrose have these puny diamonds instead?”
    â€œThey are not puny . . .” Both Blake and his father ignored her interruption.
    â€œMiss Montrose,” the duke said calmly, “shall have the use of all the family jewels in due course.”
    â€œWhy not now?”
    Minerva couldn’t see what Blakeney had to be angry about, yet clearly he was upset. She moved across the room to take his arm, the first time she’d touched him uninvited.
    â€œTheir Graces have been more than generous. They’ve given me everything I could possibly need. I have no desire to deprive the duchess of her jewels.”
    Blakeney’s muscles were tense under her hand. “There’s no question of depriving the duchess of anything.”
    Minerva sensed undercurrents in the exchange. Perhaps Blakeney thought she minded because she wasn’t being festooned in pearls and amethysts, but she found it hard to believe he cared.
    The Duke of Hampton had long been one of the statesmen she admired the most and, though she’d told herself she needed to try, she hadn’t yet broken the habit of thinking Blakeney the next thing to an idiot. He was engaged in some kind of contest of wills with his father, something beyond the kind of masculine strife she was accustomed to observe among her four brothers. Blakeney’s paternal battle appeared to be more serious. Did it merely arise from the duke’s disappointment in his son’s indifference to weighty matters of state? Minerva could understand such displeasure. Yet she couldn’t help feeling there was a greater conflict at work and she was curious to discover it.
    T he amethysts had been a wedding gift from George I to the second duke. The pearls had been in the family even longer, dating from the time when Queen Anne had enjoyed a brief but violent friendship with the beautiful young wife of the first Marquis of Blakeney, before he was created duke for his steadfast support of the Hanoverian succession.
    Both heirlooms were the traditional perquisites of the heir’s bride. By fobbing Minerva off with insignificant