The grand Carson carriage, looking more like a stately war chariot than a vehicle for a social call, stopped with a smooth, silent precision in front of the Ellington courtyard. The driver reined in the horses as they came to a stop.
The footman opened the carriage door and Duchess Lyra stepped out, adjusting her fine silk gloves and the elegant, severe-looking hat that sat upon her head. She was followed by the Captain of the Royal Palace Guards, his uniform crisp and his expression grim, and the head of the Carson legal team, a man whose face was as sharp and as serious as his employer, along with his subordinate. This was not a visit; it was an official delegation.
Delia, who had ridden with them, was the last to emerge. She put on her silk gloves, adjusted her hat and smoothed her skirt as Lyra led them all, a small, powerful army, towards the front door of the house Delia had once been so desperate to escape.
