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The train pulled to a stop at the Kendal station, and both of us peered out the window to where a few people were waiting for the arrivals. In the center of the platform stood Lucy’s mother’s personal assistant, whom we both affectionately called Mrs. Poppins for her tendency to carry an umbrella with her, rain or shine.
Beside her, to my surprise, loomed my uncle, Henry Parker.
“Looks like the dean called ahead and told the duke anyway,” Lucy remarked, then looked at me sympathetically.
“Sent his right-hand man, too.”
“He does look a bit peeved,” Lucy agreed.
“Secondhand irritation. I know the duke means business when he sends Uncle Henry to fetch me instead of the driver.”
“That’s because he knows Barney will let you knock off to the pub for a few hours. And possibly end up in Chelsea Nobbs’s bed, which means you won’t get to the estate until, oh, Tuesday.”
“Bah. We never make it to a bed. I can’t fit through the window anymore when her dad gets home.”
We gathered our things and exited the train, Lucy taking my hand as she stepped carefully onto the platform. She was a bit shaky on her feet but not as skinny as she used to be. That was something. Mrs. Poppins rushed to meet us, cane in hand, which Lucy shooed away.
“I can walk,” she said smartly, then clapped a hat on her head full of fine, newly grown curls and waved at me. “Xav!”
I turned back. “Yeah?”
“Tea on Sunday?”
“Tea” was Lucy’s code for “my parents will be at church, so come over and cook.” Unlike everyone else living in this mausoleum, Lucy actually liked it when I experimented in the kitchen. Especially when I made Mum’s old recipes and told her stories about Croydon.
I grinned. “You got it.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to make other plans.”
I turned to where my uncle stood a few feet away, watching Lucy leave while we waited for the porters to unload my luggage.
Uncle Henry was one of the many “family” members I’d gained three years earlier, the day when Rupert Parker showed up at my mother’s wake. While the rest of the Parker clan—including Rupert’s wife and her son—tended to treat me like an old shoe they’d prefer was left in a mudroom, Henry was one of the few who attempted legitimate conversation. I wouldn’t have called him friendly. But he actually asked me questions about myself and seemed to be interested in the answers.
Low bar, maybe. But it was something in a world where most everyone’s standard response was, “Mmm, well.”
When I’d first arrived at Kendal, Henry had been the one to show me to my room, tour the grounds, and basically get me acquainted with the ins and outs of life on a large country estate. It made sense, of course, since, as the second son, he was the estate’s steward. He managed everything about my father’s life, from bank accounts to tenants, to investments and staff. Why not an illegitimate son too?
“Looking good, Hal,” I teased him.
Henry just blinked, as implacable as his older brother was testy but otherwise looking almost like his twin, right down to the Barbour jacket and wool cap that covered graying hair. I’d inherited the family eyes and height, but that was it for our resemblance. The rest of the Parkers were as fair as I was dark, with the long noses and hunched backs of aristocrats who had spent too many centuries counting their money.
At least Uncle Henry was reasonably nice. Well, maybe nice wasn’t the right word. Respectful? Didn’t treat me like gum on his shoe?
“Xavier,” he said with a brusque nod. “You’re wanted in time for tea.”
I rolled my eyes at the dour tone. My uncle sounded like he dreaded going back to Corbray Hall as much as I did. “I suppose His Grace received the news of my expulsion.”
“From the dean himself, as it were.” Uncle Henry shook his head. “What were you thinking, fighting a royal? What could you have possibly thought you’d accomplish other than making the papers yet again?”
I shrugged. “He got in the way.”
“That cannot possibly be all.” Henry directed the porters to the exit, and we walked together behind them.
“And I didn’t like his face.” I grimaced. “Or what was coming out of it.”
I wasn’t about to explain myself to my uncle or anyone. It never mattered what my reasons were—reasons like them calling my mum a whore or Lucy a cripple. The rich pricks caught on quick that while I never cared what they called me, I couldn’t shake off what they called the few people in this world I did care about. But whenever I explained why I punched out the Viscount of Arsholebyshire or broke the Marquess of Cuntythwack’s nephew’s nose, the answer was always the same: gentlemen don’t brawl. Or at least they don’t get caught throwing the first punch.
Which, of course, only taught me one thing: I was never going to be no gentleman.
