[ And in which way would Lyney like him to bend--in casual conversation, or in his duties? Here and now late in the night, or in the everyday? Wriothesley can't give him the latter, but he can give him the former.

He leans back in his chair, relaxes. Looks Lyney over. And after a few moments of silence, continues down this path he's so unsure of--this easiness, this quiet thing that grows between them. ]

Abandoned in infancy. Taken in by a 'good' family. Until they weren't. [ He offers the words placidly, free from any of the sadness they once represented for him. ] I have my foster parents' blood on my hands. They were rotten people to the core. I didn't always have control, and I wasn't born a Duke--life simply turned out that way.