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“Oh, he has.” Ezra held up a letter. “Here is his request for your cousin’s hand.” He trundled over to the hearth and tossed it on the low flames; it flared once, twice, and the fire consumed the proof of Lowell’s intent. They watched it burn. “Who would countenance that a duke would offer for a mere honorable? One who is less than Incomparable in feature and form as is your cousin? The Quality can be as ruthless in matters of breeding as I am in business.”
“Will he not expect a reply?” Cecil feared his father, but the idea of the wrath of a duke terrified him.
“He may wait until the cows come home,” Father said. “Peer of the realm or no, he is naught but a man. Oh!” His voice reeked of insincerity as he made a show of picking up a letter off his blotter. “This arrived express delivery. How costly. It is addressed to you, Cecil. From Lowell Hall.”
“From the duke?” Why in the world would the Duke of Lowell correspond with him?
His father looked at him as though he’d grown another head. “It is from your cousin.”
“Idiot,” spat Rollo, who appeared irritated to have been overlooked by the postman.
“Oh.” Cecil rose and took the letter. “What has Felicity to say to me?”
“Perhaps she has always found you sympathetic to her goals?” Ah, so Father did know they had once been friends. They had not often met—Father had a hatred for Uncle Benjamin—but when they had, he remembered warm, welcoming hugs from his aunt and an ally in Felicity against Rollo’s bullying. His fond memories of the few visits to Templeton House were studded with feeding carrots to horses and running through fields, poking about his cousin’s hiding places in the house’s park and in the barn, free and full of joy. Rollo, outnumbered, had most certainly carried tales and thus had ended a budding friendship, as they were soon banned from visiting. Father intimated that Felicity had complained about the boys. She would never have done. Would she? He should know better than to believe his father. Should he not?
“What goals could a mere woman have?” Rollo huffed.
“I know nothing of her dreams or desires,” Cecil said and felt like the lowest of the low. For it was true. What sort of man was he, who neglected an orphaned cousin, who exchanged the barest of pleasantries when they did finally meet? He was no sort of man at all.
“Perhaps she is looking for an ally under this roof?” Father asked. “Seeking communication from that solicitor she’s been hounding about her father’s will?”
“She never spoke of the will to me.” This was true; after his initial shunning of her, thanks to Father’s orders to remain cold and distant, they had not spoken of anything of substance. His shame increased, and he dreaded what he would find in her letter.
“I had an arrangement with Waltham, damn it to hell, thirty percent of her portion,” said Rollo. “She’s ruined my chances with that Ashworth chit. I’ll never be able to afford her now.”
“But Felicity has no portion, so you’ve lost thirty percent of nothing,” Cecil said.
“No, fool,” said Rollo, “she’s to inherit everything if she marries, but only before her birthday.”
“No,youfool,” rejoined Cecil, “she’s to receive nothing if she does marry before she’s to turn twenty-five. She’s got nothing.”
“She’s got everything. A title, a fine house, those thoroughbreds…” Rollo sunk further in his chair and started chewing on his nails.
“She’s to lose it all, isn’t that so, Father, if she doesn’t marry? And that’s why she won’t marry the duke?” Cecil’s nose twitched in honest confusion. Neither version seemed plausible, as a woman was not to own property or inherit anything of consequence. Ifheknew that, then surely his cousin did—although her ability to see the best in all things and to charge heedlessly forward when it came to goals and challenges was a hallmark of her youth. He doubted she had changed much at all.
“All that matters is that Father knows the truth of the situation,” Rollo said. “Perhaps we can sell off those beasts for a tidy sum.”
“About those beasts…” His father returned to his grand chair and settled behind the desk. “Something must be done about them.”
“They are undisciplined and dangerous,” Rollo agreed.
Cecil snorted, ever so quietly. How frightened Rollo had been of them; one of the mares in particular, with the Biblical name, had taken his brother into extreme dislike.
“Your cousin thinks I am unaware of their presence on Templeton land and of her several hiding places. They must be found. And then they must be destroyed.”
Cecil protested. “But our aunt loved them.”
“Never speak of her! Those damned horses killed her as surely did that imbecile she married, allowing her the means to assemble such an ungovernable group.” Enraged, his father loomed over him. Cecil chose to remove his hands from hiding and wrung them with vigor, adding fuel to his father’s fire.
“I believe they are called a herd. Or a band. The horses.” What was he doing? This was madness! And yet, for good measure: “Felicity would know the correct terminology. She always loved them. Do you not think Aunt Anne meant for our cousin to take care of them?”
“Those animals do not deserve to live.” His father had turned an alarming shade of red. “You will destroy them.”
“Who?” Cecil gulped. “Us?”
“You.” Father smiled at him, the callous smile that heralded no good to any who defied him. “Rollo will hire ruffians suitable to the task. You will plot the timing and the journey.”
He laid out his plan, which negated anything Cecil might have conceived, something about guns and wagons and slaughterhouses. He watched as the flames fed by the duke’s missive died down. This…this was not right. But if he did not carry it out, he would be disinherited. Was he even convinced he was inheriting anything? Rollo had found a series of wills, hidden not only in Father’s study but also in his suite of rooms and his office at the smelting premises. Cecil suspected they were red herrings: he wouldn’t put it past Father to leave a trail of false hopes for them to find and follow, to divide and thereby conquer his sons.
