The town house was cold and quiet, however, for the kitchen staff were abed, and only a few lights burned over sleepy footmen. Stepping over assorted trunks and the odd piece of furniture that was destined to go with him, Sebastian moved to the doorway of the room where his steward was still shuffling papers, and rested his hand against the jamb. Suddenly he wondered if the man ever slept. “There has been a change of plans, Martin,” he said softly. The steward’s arm jerked, and his head came up in surprise. “Oh, you startled me, my lord!” he muttered, obviously embarrassed. “I have been known to do that,” Sebastian said with a wry smile. Pausing for Martin to recover his composure, the earl glanced around the room, where crates stood waiting to be moved. “I shall not be going to Yorkshire, as yet.” If ever, he thought, surprising himself. Perhaps his destiny lay not in returning to his roots but in putting down new ones, and what more fitting place than Wolfinger, which had harbored his kind for centuries?
