Lord Frank was equally dressed for a morning of hunting, his Garrick coat swirling around his Hessians. He held a modern half-barrel fowling gun in his hand, likely the work of Manton, if Alex were to guess.
Both men’s breath puffed white, sending glittering crystalline clouds into the January air.
Why were they here, as if waiting for him? If the men wished to hunt, they did not need Alex’s company to do so.
Had the father-and-son pair not had their fill of quizzing Alex the night before? Long after the ladies had retired, they had devolved deeper and deeper into their cups, regaling him with tales of hunting red deer in the Scottish Borders and shooting grouse on the Duke of Marlborough’s estate. Lord Frank had continued his argument with Nettlesby, insistent that one could hunt pheasant in January.
Alex had sipped his tea and pondered the mind-numbing boredom of aristocratic life.
“My lord. Your Grace.” Alex bowed, in greeting.
Neither Ferndown nor Lord Frank returned the sentiment, their cool nods calibrated to emphasize the vast difference in their stations in life.
“Thought we’d join you this morning, Doctor.” Ferndown snapped his riding crop against the side of his coat.
“Always nice to go for a ride,” Lord Frank agreed, hefting his gun. “Besides, I have to prove Nettlesby wrong and attempt to scare up some grouse or pheasant. Pity he is too hungover to join us.”
“Hear, hear,” the duke nodded. “We leave for London tomorrow, but it seems a shame to return to Town without at least having a go at a hunt. You don’t mind, do you, Doctor?”
Alex shook his head.
Of course, the two men could come along. Alex could deny them nothing. Their rank and station made it so. It was merely a gentlemanly sense of fair play that Ferndown asked for ‘permission.’
It was, in some ways, comical to witness—a duke and his son contorting themselves to both underscore the power of their social positions and yet, simultaneously, persuade Alex that he wanted no share in that power.
Were this a play and not his life, Alex would laugh.
“I am happy tae have you both along,” he said, stopping beside them. “Provided neither of ye is planning on dispatching me back to my Maker this morning.”
He motioned toward the fowling guns in their hands.
Ferndown grinned, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you decide to be a pheasant, Doctor.”
“Or get in the way of my gun,” Lord Frank said, far too cheerfully.
Bloody hell.
A look passed between the father and son.
Alex’s eyes narrowed. Were they up to something then? Withguns, no less?
Fortunately, the pepper shot of a fowling piece was unlikely to be lethal unless fired at close range, but it jangled his already frayed nerves.
The warm scent of hay and manure and horse wafting out from the stables wasn’t helping.
It was a common enough smell. But something about the crisp morning amplified its sense ofhome.
A wave of unexpected emotion rose up, hitting Alex with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer—homesickness and crushing grief.
His father should be here.
Ian should be here.
Whynowof all times? He hadn’t felt maudlin about the past in . . .years.
Had this situation with the marquisate simply had him dwelling more on his family? On his upbringing in a similar landed estate?
Or was it the thought that his father or brother should be standing in this stable yard, not him? Or that they would expect Alex to reach for the marquisate with both hands?
