He leaned forward, shadow swelling across the desk.“I was a young man once. Do you think I am unaware of the disreputable establishments you frequent?”
That was not an image I wished to contemplate—my father in an establishment like that.
“Father, I will try harder, but I find the prospects to be… dull,” I murmured.
The last thing I wanted was for him to cut my funds.
He began to puff furiously on the pipe, drawing so hard the bowl glowed molten. Billows of smoke rolled through the office, stinging my eyes, coiling around my throat.
The room grew dimmer. Hotter. Smaller.
“Boy, do you think I had a choice when I married your mother?” he yelled, yanking the pipe away from his mouth. His face flushed crimson, cheeks wobbling with indignation.“Yet I made it work.”
“I apologise, Father,” I said, dipping my head in a gesture I had perfected over the years—the quiet submission expected of a son groomed to inherit but never permitted an independent thought.
He sniffed sharply.“Your mother has coddled you far too long.”
His words hung in the smoke-thick air, settling over me like another layer of suffocating velvet.
“It is time you grew up, Thaddeus. You will not sully the Wolverton lineage,” he said, his tone shifting with an abruptness that made the air change temperature.
His demeanour altered—cold, contained, the sort of calm that never boded well.
My spine prickled.
“Your ancestors worked hard to establish our place in high society. It has served us well.”
I almost rolled my eyes. The speech was older than I was.
“I’ve decided…”
My head snapped up.
He rarely paused between condemnations; hesitation meant danger.
He leaned back in his chair with calculated ease, the leather sighing beneath his weight, and regarded me with shrewd, appraising eyes.
My stomach clenched.
My allowance. Damn it.
“You’re going to the Highlands,” he announced, the corners of his mouth lifting into a self-satisfied smile.“My great-uncle Alasdair passed away and willed me his estate.”
I stared at him.“Highlands? You mean in Scotland?” I choked, unable to mask the disbelief scraping my throat.
“Yes,” he replied, almost cheerfully.“We must ensure our rightful stake is upheld. There is some unrest, and many people are being removed from their lands.” He waved a hand as though eviction and misery were mere administrative inconveniences.“You will report back to me on the condition of Eilidh Manor.”
I blinked at him, pulse thudding hard against my collar.
“Father—” I began, leaning forward in appeal, but he raised a hand and sliced through my protest with a single, dismissive gesture.
“Your tickets are booked for the first portion of your journey,” he said curtly.“You will arrange the next leg when you reach Glasgow. You may take Rowlands with you and hire someone local for the housekeeping.”
His pipe returned to his mouth with finality—a clear sign the discussion, like my freedom, had ended.
“Yes, Father,” I said, resigned to my dismal fate.
I turned stiffly and left the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me like the lid of a coffin.
