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was the first time since they’d sat at the table—“I understand the boot’s on the other foot, so to speak, and it was more that she favors the name Victoria over all others.”
    The reasonable and, coming from Camberly, most likely informed comment defused that topic, effectively ending it.
    Seated beside Cynthia, Wallace Camberly was, Violet judged, even more ambitious than the lady he’d taken to wife. However, unlike Cynthia, he had no stake in the Halstead family’s internecine battles and largely remained aloof, commenting only when some subject interested him. As usual, he was quietly but fashionably dressed, as befitted his station. Violet knew him to be cold and utterly ruthless in pursuit of his goals, but he assiduously played by the rules as he perceived them—because that served him best in the long run, and if something did not benefit him, he didn’t waste time or energy on the matter.
    The Halstead family sniping did nothing for him, so he ignored it.
    Wallace’s lead was largely followed by his son, Walter Camberly, seated opposite, between Violet and William. Although already twenty-seven years old, Walter had yet to settle on any occupation; he drifted through life, apparently aimlessly. Violet wasn’t sure how Walter filled his days, but as Cynthia ruled that roost with an iron fist, Violet doubted that Walter derived much joy from his outwardly unfettered existence.
    Like Violet, Walter kept his head down and let the conversational volleys fly past. The others of the younger generation—Mortimer and Constance’s children, Hayden, presently twenty-three years old, and his sister, Caroline, just twenty—likewise endured, rather than enjoyed, these evenings. They rarely made a comment of any sort. As far as Violet knew, the younger Halsteads were ordinary, unremarkable young people; if she had to guess, she would have said they found the Halstead dinners utterly boring but were too polite, and too reliant on their parents’ goodwill, to do anything but attend and remain silent. They spoke when spoken to but contributed little.
    Then again, not attracting the attention of any of their Halstead elders was undeniably wise.
    Mortimer fastidiously patted his lips with his napkin and again made a bid to seize the stage. “I believe we will be advising that the new queen meet with the Irish representatives at some point—I may have to travel to Ireland as part of the delegation.”
    “Indeed?” Cynthia reached for the sauceboat. “Who knows? They may make you a permanent secretary over there.” She glanced at Constance. “My dear, you will have my sincerest sympathy if you are forced to relocate to Ireland.”
    Mortimer’s face mottled. “Don’t be absurd! I’m held in far too high esteem, my opinions too highly valued for the Home Secretary to even contemplate burying me in Ireland.” Mortimer halted, belatedly realizing he’d risen to Cynthia’s bait. His gaze locked on his sister, lips compressing, he drew in a breath and held it for a second, as if pulling back from the brink of what, from experience, Violet knew could be a rapid descent into a cutting exchange of barbed insults. As the fraught moment passed, Mortimer shifted his pale gaze from Cynthia to Lady Halstead.
    As usual, Lady Halstead remained unmoved by the vicious, almost violent undercurrents swirling about her table as she steadily sawed and ate her roast beef.
    With a certain deliberation, Mortimer set aside his napkin. “How are you, Mother? I do hope the exertion of having us all to dine isn’t too draining.”
    Lady Halstead’s brows faintly arched as she glanced up the table. “I’m well enough—as well as can be expected at my age. Thank you for asking, Mortimer.”
    Cynthia immediately leapt in with a solicitous comment, one Constance then felt compelled to top. Not to be outdone, Maurice noted that Lady Halstead was looking a touch paler, but otherwise seemed to be “up to snuff.” For several minutes,