* * *
Eatingtoast and marmalade after years of living off fruits and fish was an experience that shook Hector to his core.
Not even on theEmpresshad he tasted such delicious bread, butter, and marmalade. He ate slowly, savouring every piece, and ignored his rumbling stomach demanding to be filled quickly.
He’d given up trying to find a familiar spot in the house. Quentin had changed every room too deeply for Hector to recognise anything, but the dining hall was mostly untouched and by far his favourite place.
His precious book lay next to him, a stark contrast to the white tablecloth. But he didn’t trust the butler. The man had regarded his book with horror and suggested they should toss it into the rubbish. Rubbish! After he’d catalogued, described, and drew all the plants and animals he’d seen on the island as best as he could. He’d been lucky to find a register among the flotsam. Thank goodness that water couldn’t wash away writing made with graphite.
“Why no waistcoat?” Quentin asked, lowering his ironed copy ofThe Times. Just looking at him, all buttoned up in a crisp white shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and jacket made Hector nervous.
He shrugged. “I have no need for it.”
“What about shoes and a jacket?”
Another shrug. He was hungry. He’d think about fashion later. He was in his own house, for crying out loud. There was no one he had to impress.
Quentin raised his brow, casting a long glance at him. “Is this how you wish to present yourself?” he asked, buttering a slice of toast. “Quite inappropriate attire for a gentleman who belongs to the Wentworth family,” he added after Hector didn’t say anything. “And for God’s sake, what’s that awful thing?” He stretched out an arm to touch the book, but Hector growled, scaring him away.
“It’s mine.” He scowled at Quentin from across the table.
His cousin paled, pursing his lips. “There’s no need to growl like an animal. People might think you are one.”
Who cared? “Why did you change the house?”
The abrupt question flustered Quentin. “Modernisation and improvements. The house has a more efficient plumbing system, and I needed more space in my bedroom.”
“What have you done with the pieces of furniture my parents chose?” He didn’t know why he was so obsessed with the house and its furniture, but the changes felt like a violation, although the plumbing might have needed to be redone.
Quentin took his time answering, stirring a teaspoon in his tea. “The furniture wasn’t to my taste. I prefer a Continental style.”
Right. Hector had to remind himself Quentin had believed everyone was dead. A different taste in furniture wasn’t an insult...but something else was. He sipped his tea, enjoying its rich, aromatic taste before focusing his attention on his cousin.
“Why isn’t my mother buried in the family crypt next to my father and Robert?”
Quentin squirmed in his tailored white suit, a colour too bright for Hector’s liking, but then again, tastes and all that.
“You have to understand that the circumstances of her death were rather suspicious. The physician, who examined her body, didn’t offer a definite conclusion.” Quentin fiddled with his silk ascot tie. “I had to make a decision, and with Robert’s body being shipped here, a quite complicated affair if you ask me, I had too many things to take care of.”
“Too many things?” Hector ate even the breadcrumbs and the few drops of marmalade on his plate before licking the butter knife clean. “I want my mother in the family crypt where she belongs, where she wanted to be buried.”
The fiddling and stirring stopped. A hard glint flashed in Quentin’s icy gaze. “Youwant. I understand your sentiment, Cousin, but I’m afraid you aren’t in the position to make demands, much less to give me orders. I am the Duke of Blackburn. I make the decisions regarding the estate.” His expression relaxed. “But I won’t hold you accountable for your lack of tact. You’re obviously recovering from a harrowing ordeal, and I, as the only member of your family left, have every intention of taking good care of you.”
“You don’t have to.” Hector had never given a toss about being the one in charge, but he was talking about his mother. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I believe I proved it. It’s my mother I’m worried about.”
Quentin let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a snort. “You have nothing to worry about.”
A flare of heated anger surged to the fore. Hector slammed a fist against the white tablecloth, causing the cups to rattle in the saucers.
“I’m not the same man as I was. I won’t play the propriety game with you. My mother is going to rest in the family crypt. I don’t need your permission to have her moved.”
He wasn’t sure about that, but he’d be damned if he let Quentin stop him. On top of that, he hadn’t slept well. Too many noises. Carriages driving on the cobbles, horses, partygoers returning home inebriated, and someone nearby had to own a donkey, judging by the loud brays that had jolted him. His patience wore thinner than a spider’s silk.
Quentin’s hands balled into tight fists. Fists that were too delicate and refined for someone who knew how to fight. Hector guessed he could knock out Quentin with a single punch if needed.
“Hector, we should leave this conversation for a later time when you’re less temperamental, and—” The rest of his sentence was cut off by Mr. Jones entering the dining room.
“Sir.” He bowed from the waist.
