“And they saw the body?”
Wesley paused. “I suppose I never asked Geoffrey point-blank if he saw Alfred Fairfield’s body,” he admitted. “It’s hardly the sort of question one thinks to ask without a reason. But there was an article in the paper about it, at the time, and I remember a doctor was quoted saying the wound was clearly inflicted by the dropped gun.”
“Adoctor,” Sebastian repeated. “And after this doctor declared the previous duke accidentally shot himself, then his brother, Louis Fairfield—who was on this safari—became the new duke?”
“That he did,” Wesley said, more slowly, exchanging a look with Sebastian.
Chapter Eighteen
After lunch on the moor, they took their time returning, swinging far wide of the manor itself to visit the garages, then the kennels and the stables. There were plenty more animals to talk to, including an elderly dappled mare who liked nose rubs. Given a choice, Sebastian would have stayed out with the animals all night.
By late afternoon, however, the gray clouds that had looked like rain delivered on their promise, chasing Wesley and Sebastian back to the manor. Sebastian dried off, then changed from tweeds to black tie for dinner.
He’d just finished tying his bow tie when someone knocked politely at his door.
“Don Sebastian? It’s Horace Lester, sir.”
Sebastian opened the door to reveal Valemount’s butler, who gave a small bow. “I beg your pardon, but His Grace would like to see you for a moment.”
“Oh.” Sebastian paused. Neither he nor Wesley had seen the duke since they arrived at the manor the previous night. Apparently he’d returned. “Did he say why?”
“Yes, sir,” Lester said. “His Grace understands you weren’t expecting to join a hunt during your time in England and may lack your own kit. He requested Ibring you to the gun room so he can offer whatever you need.”
“Oh,” Sebastian said again, much more awkwardly. “No, no thank you, I don’t need—”
“He insists,” said Lester.
Sebastian gritted his teeth. “Okay,” he said, and reluctantly followed.
Lester led him down the stairs to the ground floor, and into another wing. From there, they traversed a long hall with tall windows draped in crimson red. Finally, Lester took him into a small room paneled in dark wood.
Valemount himself was standing in one corner, already dressed for dinner in black tie. He was bent over a writing desk with a tense set to his shoulders, and didn’t look up as they entered. “Lester.” Valemount’s tone was sharp. “I told you to bring Don Sebastian.”
“I did, sir.” Lester’s polite tone couldn’t quite mask his confusion. “He’s here with me.”
Valemount jerked his head up. His brow furrowed. “Don Sebastian.” He glanced down at the desk, then back at Sebastian. “Ah. Well. Thank you for coming.”
Sebastian tried to smile, ignoring the weapon racks on the walls. It was one thing to improve his aim shooting clay pigeons in the middle of the Atlantic with Wesley; he had no intention of ever aiming one of these things at a real animal. “Your Grace is very considerate,” he said, as Lester left them, “but I do not need anything for tomorrow.”
Valemount’s gaze flicked between Sebastian and the desk again. “Nonsense,” he said brusquely. “If you’re here, you’re going to be ready to hunt. Our family hasbeen exceptional hunters for as long as we’ve been Valemounts.”
That was probably true, considering the original Duke of Valemount, in the fifteenth century, had possessed tracking magic that he’d put in the medallion relic. “But I am not much of the hunter myself,” Sebastian said. “Animals are a delight when they’re alive.”
Valemount snorted. “My niece has already tried to get me to come around to that point of view.” He was still looking at the desk, his shoulders tight and his movements almost fidgety. “I’m afraid you’ll have no more luck bringing me around than she did. Seeing the world through someone else’s eyes isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” he finished, almost to himself.
“Hunting was what killed your brother, though, no?” Sebastian said, before he’d meant to.
That got Valemount to look fully at him. “You heard about that.”
Sebastian could see the surface of the desk now. Valemount wasn’t working on a letter; he had a revolver on the desktop, his hand resting over the grip. “I did,” Sebastian said. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Damn fool way to go. Alfred should have known to keep the safety on.” Valemount continued to stare at him. His fingers were curled around the revolver, his hand big enough to cover most of the gun’s grip.
“I saw the mausoleum today, on our walk,” Sebastian said, watching Valemount carefully. “I would pay my respects, if you approve.”
“Alfred’s not buried there,” Valemount said, his expression very blank.
“Why not?” Sebastian had to ask.
