He swept in with all the ease of a man who never worried about the mud on his boots or the shadows on his conscience. Younger than me by five years, he’d been my constant companion in my youth, something I’d enjoyed tremendously. Until I was shipped off to Eton.
By the time I returned to Thornburn Abbey the following summer, a great distance had been carved between us. I had learned to keep my back straight, my words measured, my face impassive. Nicholas, still a child, had not. He ran to me with open arms, laughing, eager to tell me all that I had missed. I remember holding him, stiff as a soldier on parade, uncertainhow to answer his joy. Something in his eyes dimmed when he realized I was no longer the same brother who had chased him across the lawns and whispered secrets by the fire. That distance, once set, had never wholly closed.
“Nicky,” I said, rising to greet him.
He pointed to my desk. “Wedded as ever to your papers, I see.”
“Goes along with the title,” I shot back, more sharply than I intended. I regretted them almost at once. In a softer voice, I gestured toward the chairs before the fire. “Please, take a seat.”
As he settled, I added, “Shall I have something brought in? Tea, perhaps?”
Nicky gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Spare me, Warwick. After traveling through that beastly storm, only whiskey will do.”
I allowed myself the faintest smile. “Whiskey it is, then.” I crossed to the sideboard, drew out the decanter, and poured two measures. I handed him a glass before lowering myself into the chair opposite his.
“Now that we’ve observed the niceties, tell me, what brought you out today. You didn’t come all this way just to sample my liquor.”
Nicky took a long sip, savoring the warmth before he answered. “It is mighty fine whiskey, Brother.”
“My own private reserve. Now, talk.”
Nicky stretched out his legs and leaned back, cradling the glass against his chest. “I’ve had a letter from Phillip.”
Our younger brother, the black sheep of the family. “What did he have to say?”
“He’s bored.”
My temper rose swift and hot. “There’s plenty to do at Thornburn Abbey—fishing, horseback riding, reading. Our library is filled with books.”
“He doesn’t enjoy reading, Warwick, and horseback riding and fishing can only occupy him for so long.” He paused, his expression turning rueful. “The staff has hidden the spirits from him.”
“On my orders. Last thing we need is for him to turn to the bottle again. You know what Father was like.”
Nicky’s smile faltered. Our father had been drunk more often than not. When he was, he took it out on Mother—and us. Even Phillip, at eight years old, had suffered from those rages.
“Phillip is not like him,” Nicky said at last. “He’s a … happy drunk.”
“He gambles, Nicky. And womanizes. Last time I saw him, there was a woman in his bed—not the kind that gives love freely, the kind you pay to entertain you.”
“Which makes it all the more important that you find something for him to do. If he doesn’t have a worthwhile occupation, he’ll run off to the village to find some willing wench. And he’ll have no trouble finding one. Last thing we need is an irate father storming Thornburn Abbey, demanding a pound of flesh from a certain part of his anatomy.”
I barked out a laugh. “That might not be a bad thing. We might be spared a bastard or two.”
Nicky sat up sharply, his face darkening. “You can’t mean that.”
The humor drained from me in a heartbeat. “No,” I said, meeting his gaze squarely. “I don’t.” I gulped down the rest of the whiskey. “So what do you suggest?”
“He could ride the estate, see to the tenant farms. The people like him, Warwick. You know they do. They’d welcome him. Let him inspect the cottages and pitch in with repairs. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. He never has. When the harvest comes, he could lend a hand there as well. Give him honest work, and he might yet steady himself.”
“You make it sound so simple,” I said, rising to pour myself another dram. “Give him a plow, and he will turn farmer; a hammer, and he will become a carpenter.”
Nicholas’s smile softened. “Not a farmer, nor a carpenter. But he has a good heart, for all his blunders. He wants to be useful. Give him a task, and he may surprise you.”
I took a slow sip of the whiskey while I weighed his suggestion. “Very well. So long as he keeps clear of the women. Otherwise, they might put torches to Thornburn Abbey.”
Nicky chuckled. “It’s made from stone, Warwick.”
“But the furnishings aren’t.” I set my glass aside and stared at the papers on my desk. Phillip supervising factory reforms—absurd. Phillip managing tenants’ disputes—he would end up drinking with them instead. And yet, Nicholas was not wrong. My brother’s heart was too large to waste on idleness, and too reckless to be left unguarded.
