“I see you have been throwing your food again. I believe Nanny’s response was to make us clean it ourselves until we learned how to control our temper.”
His father called him a cruel name. The word was slurred, but Max understood the meaning. He also saw that the right side of his father’s face was slack and that his right arm rested in his lap with the same animation as one might find in a doll.
“Mother said that Doyle has come by. I’m sure you were very interested in the political news, such as it is. You know, you could continue to hold enormous sway over the party if you would stop acting like a child. Throwing your food and grunting in fury only convinces everyone that your mind has suffered an enormous blow.”
As expected, his father’s breath increased to a furious growl. In and out like an angry bull. And his left hand was clenched in a fist.
“I’m sure you’d like to hit me,” Max continued. He’d certainly done so throughout Max’s childhood. “But you have limitations right now, and so I will exploit them.”
He dropped his hands on his hips as he regarded his father. It was an arrogant pose, one that his father used to adopt when Max was a boy. One that allowed him to glare down like God himself delivering the Ten Commandments.
Good lord, what an obnoxious position.
Max dropped his hands to his sides, feeling small for even attempting such a petty action. Instead, he pulled over a chair. The nearest one was wet from whatever his father had thrown, so he dragged another from the far side of the bed. Then he sat down and faced a man who had shrunk so much in the last week, and yet still had the ferocity of a gentleman half his age.
“I shall be brief. You have a problem, and I will let you decide how you will handle it. Continue to throw food, torture the servants, and frighten Mother, and I shall ship you off to Ireland and the tender mercies of the people there who have no cause to love you.”
He paused while his father threw invectives at him. His left fist pounded on his leg, and he leaned forward as if to grapple with his son.
“I shan’t catch you if you tumble. Indeed, I will leave you there until…well, until someone chooses to help you. It will notbe me or Mother. Or even Emmaline. I heard what you said to her yesterday. She has been selfless in running your home seamlessly for many years.” He leaned forward. “By the way, I’ve hired a new butler. I expect he will work better with Mrs. Pizzi and relieve the burden from Emmaline. My sister needs some fun and is certainly not going to find it here. I believe she plans on a long summer of painting in Cornwall, once the Season is done.”
That would also keep her busy until they had definite news on Christopher. If they ever got it.
His father grunted something obscene about Emma. It sufficed to harden Max’s heart for the next step in this disagreeable task.
“But back to my original purpose. If you choose to stop acting like a toddler having a temper tantrum, then I shall arrange for Doyle to have an office nearby. He can write your letters for you, appraise you of the party shenanigans, and generally be your proxy in the political realm.”
“He’s Irish,” his father growled.
“Yes, he is. Which makes him the only one stubborn enough to stick around.”
“No. You.”
Max smiled. “Never.” He knew his father had long planned for Max to step into his role as de facto leader of the conservatives. Though he understood many of their beliefs, he disagreed with a great deal more. And most of all, he had no interest in devoting his life to arguing domestic policies ad nauseum. His interest had always been in other cultures, other nations, which meant he would continue to aid the work of the Foreign Office. But until he produced an heir, his focus would be on maintaining his future son’s inheritance.
Especially since he’d gotten a real look at what his father had ignored all these years.
All these thoughts filtered through his brain as he waited for his father to find control of his temper. It took a long time, and he considered leaving in the middle of it. Fortunately, his father realized that whatever he was trying to say was not getting through to his son.
The problem wasn’t the man’s failing body. The problem was that Max no longer felt the need to please his father. The man had finally gone too far when he ordered Yihui’s abduction. And in so doing, freed Max of any filial obligation.
“Now, let’s assume that you find some peace with Doyle and continue to exert political influence according to your wants. There will be no more tantrums, no more threats, no more childishness.” He waved vaguely at the set stain on the floor. “Here are the things you will have to accept.” He smiled as he ticked them off on his fingers.
“First, I have taken control over all financial matters. You were miserable at it, and I cannot believe I allowed you to be so disastrously bad without stepping in.”
Ridiculous how much satisfaction he had with saying those words. The deeper he pushed into all the things his father had neglected, the more furious he became.
“Second, we will have to economize as we put money back into the estates. Really, Father, did you think roofs would repair themselves? That our tenants could continue to deplete the land to no effect? While you scream about supporting the English industries, you have systematically impoverished our own estate.”
His father had stopped bellowing. Instead, he poured all of his fury into his glare. It was enough to chill Max’s blood. It did not, however, stop him.
“That means that the next servant you mistreat will be your last. I have already had to double their pay. They will no longertolerate your abuse. Nor would I ask them to. Not when there is an Irish estate ready and willing to equally mistreat you.”
His father’s response was a dark, angry growl.
“Third, you will be happy to note that repairing the estate will keep me out of Prinny’s circle. He’s lost interest in me, I think, without Christopher regaling him with made up tales of my…” He made another vague gesture with his hand. “Whatever came to mind.”
It had been one of Chris’s most ridiculous quirks. The man had told tale after tale—most of them fiction—of Max’s exploits as a child. It had kept Prinny endlessly entertained even after Max explained the truth behind whatever exaggerated detail had been embellished. But without Christopher at court, Max was suddenly much less entertaining.
