His mind, however, vibrated like a rung bell.
What good could I do here?
Alex had not anticipated Michael’s argument.
That the marquisate could be ill, that it might need a healer’s hand.
Bloody hell.
If this were true, was Alex now to be a savior of sorts? The person who would fix all ills and guide a sprawling empire into a prosperous future?
He was not so naive as to think the process so simple. Nor was he confident in his abilities to succeed where so many others had failed.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Somewhere deep in the house, a servant called out. A murmuring voice answered. A door shut with a thud. Footsteps clacked on a marble floor.
The sounds of wealth.
He didn’t want this life.
He didn’t want a house full of servants to wait upon him.
He didn’t want to tromp through fields and inspect cattle, talking crop rotations and roof repairs with a steward.
He had roundly rejected that existence when he sold McPherson Farms. He hadrefusedthe family legacy and had given up the estate with its thousand precious memories of his father and Ian.
The decision to sell had not been easy, but Alex had to make a choice.
He wanted the smell of camphor and the snip of a surgeon’s stitches. He wanted banter with witty elderly women and the cry of a newborn babe.
Owning a large, prosperous stud farm did not fit with that.
Alex had made his decision then. And he would make the same choice again with the marquisate.
But now Michael had addedguiltandconscienceinto this decision, appealing to Alex’s sense of humanity. That as a gentleman and doctor, he was honor-bound to investigate and determine the true state of affairs.
How was he to do that? He was tied to this damned bed, unable to move and examineanyof this for himself. Which meant, he would need to rely upon Mr. Warden to accurately present information about the estate.
But if Mr. Wardenwerethe problem, how was Alex to assess anything? The man would be, at best, determined to hide his incompetence. At worst, he could be deliberately deceptive.
Alex stared at the shut door.
If only Lady Charlotte would return. She, at least, might have a suggestion or two.
If he apologized profusely first.
And if she were forgiving.
And if he asked nicely enough.
But those were far too manyifsfor Alex to retain much hope.
By the followingmorning, Alex was nearly out of his mind with boredom.
He had written all his letters.
He had sketched the brace based on Gooch’s design and sent the drawings on to Michael.
