The horse swished its tail and whickered, which Duncan took as condolences.
“I’ll have to go through the kitchens for a wash,” he told the butler. “She’s got a better nose than our best hounds.”
“I took the liberty of having Mr. Brown draw the water in the kitchen and bring down your soap. Her ladyship did not wish you to return to your chambers for a full change.”
“Aye, I know how she is about delaying her tea.” Mother wore the gold pocket watch he had gifted her upon his return from India—a purchase for her in which he had gravely erred. She kept the thing pinned at her waist and marked time for everything and everyone in the household. “I suppose Malcolm is with her as well.”
“Yes, my lord. Your brother has already joined her.”
“Of course he has.” Lengthening his stride, Duncan strode to the back of the house and entered through the door used by the servants. Might as well get on with it; dawdling only delayed the inevitable.
True to Barclay’s word, Duncan’s valet waited beside a basin with a fold of linen draped over his forearm. Lifting a steaming kettle off its iron rod over the fire, he filled the large porcelain bowl, then stepped out of the way. “The water is quite warm, my lord. Shall I add some cold from the pitcher?”
“I am sure it’s fine.” It always was. Brown had never scalded him yet. Duncan scrubbed his hands, face, and neck with the transparent bar of Pears soap that smelled like an English garden and would hopefully wash away enough of the scent of travel to satisfy his mother’s nose. After drying off, he raked his hair into some semblanceof order, then turned for Brown to remedy the damage he had done to his neckerchief.
“I brought a clean cravat, should you wish to change, my lord.” The valet held up the freshly starched length of neckwear.
“No.” Duncan tossed the drying linen on the counter, then winked at the cook watching from her post at the worktable. “If Mother has nothing to gnash her teeth about, her day will be ruined, will it not, Mrs. Oxworthy?”
The jolly woman waved away his words with a hearty chuckle, then returned to kneading her dough. “Ye’ll not trick me into saying that, ye wee scamp.” She nodded at the tea cart already loaded and waiting by the door. “Ye best get a move on, my lord. ’Tis nearly past time.”
Deciding to give his mother something to fuss about straight away, Duncan pushed the tea cart out the door and down the hallway with Barclay and the footmen, Rob and Thomas, chasing after him.
“My lord! Please.” Rob raced past him and blocked the hallway with his lanky arms and legs outspread. “Her ladyship’ll skin us all,” he said in a panicked whisper. “Please.”
Duncan stepped back from the cart and ceded possession of it. They really needn’t worry. Mother would never scold the servants for something she knew he’d purposely done to stir her ire. Even in her dotage, the dowager was cannier than most. “Dinna fash yerself, Rob. Ye know as well as I she’d not blame ye.”
The footman bobbed his head. “Be that as it may…”
Duncan laughed. “Ye sound just like Barclay.”
The butler cleared his throat, his staid expression never changing. “Shall we precede you into the parlor, my lord?”
“Nay. Then she would say I was late for tea.” The clock on the mantelpiece started striking the hour, warning that he was cutting it close. Duncan squared his shoulders and strode in as if he owned the place—and by birthright, he did.
His mother sat in her usual chair, her tiny feet resting on a small, round cushioned footstool. She was dressed in black, as always, and the silver in her dark hair gleamed as brightly as the jet earrings dangling from her ears. Seated at the head of the room between the pair of settees arranged in front of the hearth, there was no question that this was her space to rule.
Malcolm sat on the settee to the right, gloating with a smugness that would soon get his interfering arse thrashed at Duncan’s first opportunity.
Duncan pecked a kiss on Mother’s crinkled cheek, her rose perfume reminding him of all the times she had tried to console him after Father’s tirades and beatings. While Mother might be strong and formidable now, she had not been so when her children were young. Well, she had tried, but Father had simply been too much for her to stand against. Whenever she had fought to shield Duncan, she had paid the price for it, and Duncan would never forget it. When Father had died, no one in the family shed a tear.
“Were there any troubles while we were away?” Duncan moved to the other settee, purposely ignoring Malcolm as Barclay and the footmen brought in the tea cart and served them.
Her eyes as dark as his own, she watched him closely while slowly petting the large, overfed cat lounging in her lap. “All was well, son. I was expecting the two of ye back days ago. The winter storm made me worry for ye.” She gently lifted the cat and set it on the floor, much to the feline’s disgust. “Off wi’ ye now, Amos. Ye may return when I have finished my tea.”
Amos flipped his fluffy black tail, then marched over to the hearth, took a seat, and glared at them all as though plotting their demise.
“Thank ye, Barclay.” She accepted the cup and saucer, then returned her attention to Duncan.
He braced himself, waving the proffered tea away. “Whisky, Barclay. My bones are cold.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler hurried over to the cabinet laden with all manner of decanters, poured a generous whisky, and brought it to him.
“Thank ye.” Duncan allowed himself a good, long sip before propping the glass on his knee and facing the inevitable. “Out with it, Mother. I ken well enough the rat has already squeaked to ye.”
“Is that any way to speak about yer brother?”
“Aye. ’Tis the nicest way to speak about him, considering he’s been more worrisome than a patch of stinging nettles.”
