And the one time he finallydidsee Kendall from across the library at White’s, the duke had studiously ignored Ethan’s gaze and left soon after, his stiff shoulders making it clear that he did not wish to exchange even one syllable.
If Kendall refused to speak with him, how was Ethan to ever reconcile matters with Uncle Leith?
The only bright spot in his week had been a letter from Malcolm. After a rather dry summary of the progress of his cow herd—his brother ran a prosperous cattle farm—Malcolm moved on to more personal matters.
As usual, he waxed voluble when speaking of his two-year-old daughter, Kirsty.
. . . Ye must come see your wee niece, Ethan. She changes from day to day. Why just yesterday, she learned the word ‘naughty’ (which comes as no surprise, as she hears it often in relation to herself), and she informed Viola that she was a ‘naughty mamma’ for refusing to lift her up. As Viola is close to her confinement, hefting a wiggly two-year-old is a bit beyond her ken—
Och . . . Viola has just entered the room and requested that I ask if ye will be attending Hadley’s house party in a few weeks’ time? Ye ken how Lord Hadley is. Every couple of years, he hosts England’s mightiest lords in order to remind them of his own economic might. ’Tis a rather devilish way to wield political influence . . .
Malcolm’s words lifted Ethan’s spirits. His brother deserved every happiness.
As for his question—
No, Hadley had not invited Ethan to the house party. Uncle Leith would be beside himself with joy were Ethan to secure such an invitation. But Hadley’s gatherings had always been about political influence and power, not literary entertainment.
The day after receiving Malcolm’s letter, Ethan was climbing the stairs to his room after yet another fruitless excursion to White’s when his uncle’s voice reached him.
“Any luck with Kendall, Nephew?” he asked again.
Stifling a sigh, Ethan turned his feet toward his uncle’s study.
“Unfortunately, no.” Ethan stopped in the doorway, hoping to keep his report brief.
“Sit.” Uncle Leith pointed at the chair opposite his desk.
Of course Ethan obliged, closing the door behind him. Any other choice would be futile.
Uncle Leith stared at him for a long moment, bushy gray eyebrows drawn down, account books spread across his desk.
The pall of his uncle’s disappointment hung in the room like a death shroud.
Ethan forced himself not to squirm.
“Is Kendall our only hope?” Ethan asked. “Surely, there are other shipping contracts to be had . . .”
“Perhaps.” Uncle Leith sat back with a huff. “But none as potentially lucrative or as consistent as transporting saltpeter. Unfortunately, that plan appears to be rubbish now, thanks to your actions.”
Ethan managed a grimacing facsimile of a smile.
For not the first time, he wondered why his uncle put so much upon him.
No matter how high Ethan climbed, no matter how many accolades he garnered, there was always something further that his uncle required—
Learn more. Write faster. Charm admirers. Befriend the nobility.
Would Ethan ever arrive at a place where affection was not transactional?
Case in point, Uncle Leith sat back in his desk chair and revisited his anger over Ethan’s reckless behavior.
“Why did you go within a mile of Gilbert House? Why not simply walk away once you encountered Lady Allegra?”
How vitriolic would Uncle Leith be if he knew what had happenedinsideGilbert House?
He listened in mute silence as his uncle continued listing the litany of Ethan’s failures. His mind, however, longed for escape. To retreat to Scotland and Thistle Muir.
Though not Thistle Muir as it currently was, where Malcolm and Viola enjoyed connubial bliss and doted on wee Kirsty.
