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“What?”
“Your brother, for whatever reason, has decided not to impart information to you, and as his doctor, I cannot breach his privacy. I have a duty of care to him.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief. Feeling winded, I watch dumbfounded as he folds his hands in his lap and sits patiently, waiting for me to say something. “Your response is unacceptable. My brother is no longer with us.”
“I’m sorry, Maxim. There’s nothing I can do. As part of his genetic counseling, prior to being tested, your brother will have discussed the implications and whether or not to tell his immediate relatives.”
“But surely—”
“My hands are tied.”
“I’ve just got married.”
“Congratulations.”
“For fuck’s sake, Renton.”
His blue eyes narrow, and his voice hardens. “There’s no call for that kind of language, my lord.”
I huff in frustration, and in my mind, I’m back in my House Master’s office at Eton, being admonished for some minor deed.
Renton sighs. “Do you have any health concerns?” He’s changing tack.
What? “No.”
“That’s your answer. I suggest you put all this behind you and respect your brother’s decision.”
“Did Kit kill himself because of his diagnosis?”
Renton blanches. “Maxim, the late Lord Trevethick died in a dreadful accident.”
“Exactly. He won’t know that you’ve told me! And what about your duty of care to me? I’m your patient too.”
“But you’re not sick,” he says gently.
I glare at him, hoping to intimidate him into changing his mind, but as he sits back with his benevolent smile, I realize he’s not budging.
Well, how bloody inconvenient is this?
A part of me admires that he’s not willing to breach my brother’s confidence, so I place a tight lid on my temper and change the subject. “I’ll need to register my wife here.” I sound petulant.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Renton says kindly. “Will that be all, my lord?”
I get up to leave. “I’m disappointed you can’t help me.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Maxim.”
My mood is bleak as the black cab trundles through the traffic on the way to the office. I’m furious at Renton. Perhaps it’s time to find someone new—someone a little younger.
Someone less ethical?
Hell.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s my mother. Finally!
Just touched down at LHR.
Need sleep.
I’ll call you later.
Fuck! No. I press Dial, and her number goes straight to bloody voicemail. “Rowena. Call me. This is not a fucking request.” I hang up and glare out of the cab window. The bright, sunny morning seems to mock my mood.
My mother is driving me insane.
Why won’t she talk to me?
As the cab pulls up outside the office, I take a deep breath and bring my irritation under control. I pay the driver and stride up the steps into the building.
Oliver has forwarded details of three properties that are either vacant or soon to be vacant for Alessia and me to consider. I peruse them at my desk, welcoming the distraction as I sip black coffee. One is a mews house that’s smaller than my flat—so I disregard that immediately.
The other two have potential as family homes.
Hell.
I want kids—one day. Part of my job is to protect the family’s legacy. But if there’s something wrong with me, how can I consider having a family?
Yet, Renton asked me how I was feeling.
Maybe that was his coded way of saying I don’t have anything to worry about.
Mate. Get a grip.
I push my fears about children aside and decide to stay hopeful.
It’s time to move. We need the space. My wild single days are over.
Who knew I’d be content to stay home, eat home-cooked food, and make love to my wife?
It’ll be good for Alessia too.
In a new place, we’ll be able to forge our own path where there are no memories of my colorful and dissolute past. It’s an unsettling idea, mainly because it’s accompanied by a pang of lingering guilt.
Why?
I’ve not done anything wrong.
Have I?
I shake off the thought.
Looking through the details of the properties, the house on Cheyne Walk has a distinct advantage. At the end of the back garden, there’s a mews house with a garage that can house two cars. We could use it for staff. I’ve not raised the issue of having help with Alessia yet, but it will mean that that part of her life will be history. I’ll always have fond recollections of pink knickers and blue housecoats, but she’ll be busy with other things—music school, with any luck. The additional advantage of the Cheyne Walk house is it’s between my flat and Trevelyan House, where Caroline lives.
Perhaps I should ask Caro to swap. She could take my flat or another, smaller property. Trevelyan House is mine, after all.
No. It’s too soon since Kit’s demise to broach that subject.
Picking up the phone, I press Caroline’s number.
“Hello, Maxim.” She sounds sniffy and aloof. Maybe it’s because I scolded her via text yesterday.
I feign ignorance. “Hi, what’s wrong?”
