Page 72 of Again, Scoundrel

The ride to Kent by horseback would take a full day and part of the next morning at a leisurely pace. He could have hired a conveyance or taken the train, but Alistair wanted to feel the muscle of a horse between his thighs. He wanted the sun to beat down on his face and the wind to rip across his body.

He had been too long in town, growing stagnant, pickling himself in whisky and bad decisions. He was a man who moved, or he had been before he met Violet Goodwin and McGann and Pembrooke and became enmeshed in all of their ridiculous plans. He shook his head. These last weeks had been an utter waste, and he needed this ride to clear his head. He thought it would do him good.

He was right. He arrived at Rosehips feeling rested despite the physical endurance needed for the trip and the overnight spent at the coaching inn. He dismounted, breathing in the briny air of the countryside and took his time to admire the sea glistening in the distance.

He’d loved Rosehips once. Despite, or perhaps because of, its marshy land unsuitable for farming and the thick Kentish accents that made its inhabitants so hard to understand. It was a place that was wholly itself, no matter what others wanted it to be. He admired that about it. During his better moments, he thought he and Kent were alike in that.

He threw the reins to the stable boy and strode to the entrance of the manor. His mother, father, and brother had been here for over a week, largely ignoring the London season, as they were want to do. The peculiarity of the habit had never occurred to him until today, as he had always been away for the season himself. But, he supposed, a lineage as old as the Marquess of Timsbury’s could do as it pleased.

“My lord,” Jacks, their venerable butler, greeted him at the door. “It has been an age. I’m glad to see you back.”

“And you.”

He nodded briskly and tried to ignore the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach that arose as soon as he’d stepped foot over the threshold to the manor. He had not been in the house for a decade. His heart began to pound in his chest, and he felt slightly short of breath. He could not do this.

He turned to leave, but then his mother was rushing down the stairs toward him.

“Alistair, dear! You did not tell us you were coming.”

She kissed him on the cheek.

“Will you stay long? I understand that Pembrooke is having a house party in Surrey next week. It’s quite close—stay the week with us before you attend.”

Alistair forced a smile. Middle age had been kind to his mother, making her more graceful and surer of herself than ever before. The ton still tripped over itself to be in her good graces. As did his father. It was no surprise to him that she knew the latest goings-on, even tucked away in the country.

But Alistair had no interest in going to house parties in Surrey, especially not ones where Violet Goodwin might be in attendance. Not until he had his investments in hand. And then he would sit her down and ask her what she wanted from her future and give it to her.

“I won’t attend,” he said. “I have too much to do. Where are Father and Darius?”

“Darius is out with the tenants today. Your father is in his study.” His mother looked at him expectantly. “I wish you would stay, Alistair. You’re always on the run.”

“I’m not running,” he said. “I’m working. I’ll go see Darius now.”

“As your mother, it is a great sadness to me the way you and your father carry on. Go visit him, Alistair.”

Alistair leaned down to kiss her on her cheek. “I never wish to bring you sadness, Mother,” he said. “Truly.”

“Then you’ll spend some time with your father?”

“Later.” He was already backing out of the door. “I’ll just find Darius now.”

Alistair rode out to find Darius deep in conversation with one of the older tenant farmers still on the estate.

“Anderson,” Alistair greeted the older man as he approached.

He’d spent every summer until he was fifteen meandering through the vast estate and knew each of the tenant farmers and their families.

“Why, if it ain’t the Lord chavie. I thought you’d gone connaught on us. Haven’t seen you in an age.”

“Good to see you too, old pile.”

Alistair grinned and shook the old man’s hand and then turned to his brother and shook his as well.

“Brother,” he said in a much more formal and intelligible greeting. “What are we discussing today, gents?”

“The land is rottin’. Every year worse. More marsh, more salt, nuffin’ grows.” The old farmer kicked a sodden, marshy bit of soil with his boot.

“He’s right about that,” Darius agreed. “Every year the tidewater increases, and we lose arable land, along with the farmers who work it.”