His family had held these lands since the time of the Tudors. Granvilles had married, begot, and died here. Some had been weak and some had been intemperate in drink or women, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the land. For the land was the foundation of their wealth and of their power—the foundation of Silas’s power. No one—especially not a baseborn land steward—was going to endanger that foundation. Not while the blood still beat in his veins. The loss of monies from the dead sheep on his lands was minimal, but the loss of pride—of honor— was too great to bear. Silas would never forget the sheer insolence on Pye’s young face nearly twenty years ago. Even as his finger was being cut off, the boy had stared him in the eye and sneered. Pye had never behaved as a peasant should. It was important that Silas make a show of punishing Harry Pye for his criminal affront.

The gelding turned in at the great stone gates, and Silas nudged the horse into another gallop. He topped a rise and Granville House appeared. Gray granite, four stories high, with wings that formed a square around an inner courtyard, Granville House loomed over the surrounding countryside. The building was imposing and stern, meant to signal here is authority to any who saw it.

Silas cantered to the front door. He pursed his lips in distaste as he saw the figure in crimson and silver on the steps.

“Thomas. You look like a sodomite in that rig.” He dismounted and threw the reins to a stable hand. “How much did that garment set me back at the tailor’s?”

“Hullo, Father.” His eldest son’s face blotched red. “It really wasn’t all that dear.” Thomas stared at the blood on the gelding’s heaving sides. He licked his lips.

“Gad, you’re blushing like a lass.” Silas brushed past the boy. “Come and sup with me, Miss Nellie.”

He smirked as his son hesitated behind him. The boy didn’t have much choice, did he? Not unless he’d grown a set of bollocks overnight. Silas stomped into his dining room, perversely pleased to see that the table wasn’t set.

“Where the hell’s my dinner?”

Footmen jumped, maids scurried, and the butler babbled out apologies. Too soon the table was ready and they sat down to dine.

“Eat some of that.” Silas pointed with a fork at the rare meat, lying in a pool of blood on his son’s plate. “Mayhap you’ll grow hair on your chest. Or elsewhere.”

Thomas hazarded a half smile at Silas’s baiting and shrugged one shoulder nervously.