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“I had to seek permission, as you well know. Sell the commission. Wait for my second to arrive. It was not easy, nigh on impossible…” The luxury of returning this quickly to Woodfield Park was due solely to Nicholas’s father’s dirty work. In the middle of war, it would have been inconceivable if it were not for the formidable Lord Albert Woodfield calling in markers and, no doubt, bribing old cronies. Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose as if it could stem the tide of emotions battling inside him. He was formidable too, on the field, yet somehow his father still made him feel like a young boy in small clothes, as if he had dallied on his way home and was late for evening dinner.
Hidden behind the walled arm of the chair, his father merely grunted in response. Nicholas tossed back the contents, its coursing warmth providing no comfort, and set the glass on the side table. What was the point? He was too road weary to play his father’s games. He began to push from the chair.
“Sit down, boy.” His father’s voice was quiet, but it might as well have been a bellow, such strength did it toss his way.
He lowered back into the plush cushioning, irritation prickling at the ingrained submission to the man’s command.
“I know well your accomplishments on the continent. Wellesley has kept me apprised of your every move.”
What the hell did that mean? Was that convoluted praise? He had not missed this. This parlaying where he did not recognize when he scored a point or when he was in forfeiture. The fire snapped, shooting a burst of warmth in his direction.
“Bloody hot in here,” he said.
“Watch your mouth. You’re not out on some campaign with your ruffians. This is your sire you’re talking to.”
Nicholas flushed with embarrassment and anger. How did the man get under his skin so? He whirled to attack but instead choked. The man leaning forward in the chair was not his father. It was some elderly impostor. While his father had always been in good health, he’d leaned toward the rotund. Now jowls hung slack, and his eyes, even in profile, were drooping hound-dog pouches. His jacket hung loosely around his frame. He must be down a good three stone. Had Daniel’s death taken such a toll?
“Get that gleam out of your eye. I’m not dead yet.”
Any sympathy Nicholas might have felt was swept away. “I daresay Satan himself is not looking forward to your arrival.”
His father twisted toward him, glaring, although Nicholas could swear he saw a twitch of his lips. However, if the man felt the urge to smile, he did not pursue it.
“My heart failed me. Temporarily, mind you. I’m getting stronger every day and will soon be back to full health.”
“Was it…” He could not ask the question, was not yet ready to talk about it. He had seen men strewn about the field, pure cannon fodder, yet he was not prepared to speak of his brother’s death.
“No.” His father saved them from another awkward silence. “It ceased beating before.”
Nicholas pushed from the chair, grabbed his glass, and headed straight back to the brandy. He could not resist the distraction. Truthfully, he wanted to drown himself in it. When hadthisworld turned upside down? Would it have done so had he stayed? He dismissed the thought; his actions did not determine the hands of fate. After pulling out the stop, he tipped the amber liquid into his glass.
“Wouldn’t mind a bit myself, boy.”
He grabbed another glass and poured some for his father, handed it to him, and retook his seat. They both stared at the fire, the quiet surprisingly bordering on companionable. Tilting his glass, he swirled the brandy but found he did not want a sip.
“The estate needs some tending,” his father said, finally breaking the silence. “Been neglected for a while. Even before my heart played its game. I was at Parliament and didn’t realize Daniel wasn’t pulling his weight here. Brownlee didn’t tell me of it either. Then the man left to deal with family business. I’ve sent him word of your return and demanded he come back.” He took a mouthful of brandy and started coughing. Nicholas instinctively leaned forward even as the old man waved him off. “I’m not dying, and don’t you think it. Just haven’t taken a sip since…” His voice trailed off.
Well, there it was again. Time to face what lay unspoken between them.
“How did it happen?” Not knowing the details had haunted his daylight and dark hours since hearing of Daniel’s death. He knew there’d been a hunting accident. The shot had been fatal. That was all his father’s letter had stated, other than the fact that it was essential Nicholas come home. Of course, his father had neglected to mention his heart too. It would seem the man was reticent to have Nicholas privy to anything of importance.
Silence blanketed the room once again as they both nursed their drinks. Nicholas waited, fighting impatience. His father always weighed his words first—a trait he had oft admired, but it made his teeth grind now. He was glad he’d worn his collar unadorned during the ride. Heat was growing around the hearth, and he didn’t think he could abide being trussed up in a tight cravat. Even so, he pawed at his shirt, opening it further.
“Bloody fool,” Nicholas’s father said.
Was he referring to Nicholas?
“He went to the park for a hunt.”
Daniel. But the earl rarely cursed. And never in front of the boys. Despite his own tendency for profanity, Nicholas was oddly disconcerted by it but said nothing.
“A hero’s death would have been preferable. No, he was chasing grouse when he met his maker.” His father took a small sip.
Nicholas waited, watching.
“He’d fired but one shot. Hadn’t even the satisfaction of a successful shoot before getting himself killed.”
The earl tossed back the entire contents of the glass, choking only slightly this time. The old man held it out toward Nicholas, the crystal trembling in his hand. Nicholas took it, dutifully refilled it, and passed it back before retaking his seat. His father gripped it tightly, his hand shaking as he raised it to his lips. Nicholas waited, but his father shared no more.
