Alex knew that better than most.
“Yes,” he said, “it is all years past now. However, it explains why I was so thrown off in the stable yard. I didnae expect to see one of my father’s horses here.” Alex leaned down and patted Galahad’s neck. “I would know a colt of King Arthur’s anywhere. Galahad is the mirror of his sire. Do you own him?”
He dared a glance at Ferndown, rocking easily in his saddle. The duke’s side-whiskers were growing frost in the cold air. His Grace appeared intent, as if weighing his next move on the chessboard.
Clearly, the entire Ferndown/Whitaker clan wished Alex gone as ardently as he wished tobegone.
“No, Galahad is not mine,” Ferndown said, mouth twisting as if the admission cost him. “He was the pride and joy of the late Lord Lockheade.”
“Ah. He’s part of the estate then? Part of the marquisate?” Some devil likely made Alex say it. To hint that Galahad might be a swaying factor.
Or perhaps it was just the rawness of his senses. That feeling of having been scraped so thin that polite niceties were abruptly beyond his ken.
Lord Frank and the steward had stopped, Lord Frank prevailing on Mr. Warden to act as the hunting dog. The steward had dismounted and was working his way through the brush, clapping his hands and shouting.
Alex and Ferndown stopped to watch the proceedings—the steward stomping through the ice-crusted grass, and Lord Frank, gun in hand, calling directions from horseback.
Ferndown grunted and then turned in his saddle, his own fowling piece held loosely across his pommel.
“As you seem to be a sporting gentleman, let me come straight to the point, Doctor,” the duke said, staring at Alex. “Lockheade wanted the marquisate to go to his grandson. To Freddie. It was his dying wish. The last promise he wrung from me.”
“You promised him?”
“Yes. I swore him an oath that I would see Freddie inherit. You see . . . I considered Lockheade the best of friends.” The duke studied him and then sighed, as if relinquishing a strip of his pride. “Lockheade and I met at Eton as young lads and that was that. There’s a reason why our children married. They were thrust together from a very young age, as Lockheade and I lived in one another’s pockets over the years. Frank and Margaret’s marriage rendered Lockheade and myself family in truth. We both grieved when little Anne died, Frank’s oldest daughter.” He paused, his eyes looking off. He swallowed and when he continued, his voice was gruff. “And then Lockheade, himself, of course.”
He had lost a granddaughter, this man. He had lost his best friend. Moreover, the duke still grieved for them. The black armband peeking out from his greatcoat truly represented mourning.
The knowledge humanized the duke in a way that ruffled Alex’s composure.
He wanted to think of Ferndown as one-dimensional—haughty and aristocratic and thoroughly selfish.
But the duke’s eyes were those of a man who had suffered much loss over the past few years. And who now faced yet another disaster—losing the estate and title of a dear friend to an unknown upstart.
No wonder the duke and his cronies in the Committee on Privilege were doing everything they could to revoke Alex’s right of primogeniture in this instance.
Lord Frank yelled more commands, encouraging Mr. Warden. The steward shouted in return, hands on his hips, finally casting doubt on the likelihood of pheasants in January.
This, of course, simply further motivated Lord Frank to prove everyone wrong.
Alex watched the back-and-forth with pained amusement. Regardless of the unforeseen depths in his father, Lord Frank was the very epitome of spoilednoblesse oblige.
Ferndown shook his head.
“I’m not sure where you stand at the moment with the marquisate, Doctor,” the duke continued. “But I can sense that you are a fair man. You’ve chosen a career in medicine, though if McPherson Farms was your family’s legacy, I’m guessing you do not need to work. You likely have sufficient funds to live as a gentleman.”
Alex sat very still. Ferndown was also more intelligent than he had supposed.
Lord Frank continued to yell orders. Mr. Warden shouted back, finally losing patience with being treated as a hunting dog.
“Give this up.” The duke looked at him then, waving a hand toward the fields around them, glittering rainbows of frost. “Pleasegive this up. For this family who has known so much loss. For a cousin, the late Lord Lockheade, who you never had the chance to know but who was the very best of men. Please allow this all to stay within our bloodline. I am asking you, one gentleman to another. Please.”
Ferndown’s expression was open and painfully honest.
Alex took in a long breath.
To use his father’s beloved Scottish expression—wow.
Wow.
