“Good day, Your Grace,” one of the snowy-haired trustees said as he left the meeting room, not even sounding that bitter as he used Hector’s title. “Congratulations.”
Across the room, Matthew was staring daggers at his brother. Hector didn’t much care.
The meeting with the trustees had gone about as well as Hector could have hoped. If anything, he had overprepared.
There had been one man, a Mr. Smythe, who was clearly and openly on Matthew’s side. He’d argued for Matthew’s cause, given even the slightest provocation, with the desperation of a man who was being paid for his loyalties and who did not want to lose a wealthy patron to a scarred brute of a duke.
But the head trustee—confusingly named Mr. Smith, because God forbid anything about this whole bloody process be easy—had been distinctly unimpressed by Hector’s younger brother.
“The codicil,” he said icily after Matthew had given a seven-minute speech on Hector’s unworthiness that had basically boiled down tobut look at his leg; isn’t it ugly,“clearly states that your brother must marry a woman of noble birth to inherit. He married the daughter of the previous Duke of Redcliff. She is related, by blood or by marriage, to half the peers in England. Are you trying to argue that she is unsuitable?”
Matthew set his mouth mulishly. “There was a scandal. Shehadto marry him.”
Mr. Smith slid his copy of the codicil over to the youngest member of their party, a mousy, bespectacled fellow of about twenty-five years of age who looked as though he was having the time of his life.
“Mr. Denerofe,” Mr. Smith said to his assistant, “does this document say anything about scandal—or lack thereof—when it comes to His Grace choosing a bride?”
“It does not, sir!” Mr. Denerofe chirped, not even needing to look at the document.
“But they haven’t got an heir!Ihave an heir!” Matthew was openly whining now.
“Mr. Denerofe,” Mr. Smith said in sepulchral tones, “does this document say anything about an heir?”
“Not a thing, sir!” Mr. Denerofe said gleefully.
Mr. Smith turned to Mr. Smythe—bollocks, this was confusing, Hector thought—and Matthew’s erstwhile ally shrank in his seat, looking as though he wished himself to be anywhere else.
“Mr. Smythe,” Mr. Smith said. “You assured me that this meeting was necessary. You assured me that there were legitimate grounds to contest His Grace’s inheritance. And this is what you bring me?”
Mr. Smythe made himself as small as possible. Mr. Denerofe looked likely to get the vapors out of sheer pleasure.
“My apologies, sir,” Mr. Smythe said.
“This is idiocy,” Mr. Smith proclaimed. He didn’t have a magistrate’s gavel at hand, but his words held the same emphasis. “Your Grace, apologies for wasting your time. The estate is no longer in trust. Good day.”
And, just like that, it was over. Hector had won.
It was practically anticlimactic.
The trustees filed out—Mr. Smythe scurrying away like a mouse before the barn cat, Mr. Denerofe practically skipping, and Mr. Smith with a sage air of a man who had done well, leaving only Matthew and Hector alone in the dining room, which had been hastily appointed the best meeting space.
“I’ll contest the decision!” Matthew said hotly, but even he didn’t sound terribly convinced.
Hector was sofuckingtired.
“No,” he said flatly. “You will get out. You’ll have an appropriate allowance, as befits my current heir.”
He put the slightest emphasis on the wordcurrent, just to remind Matthew that his situation was precarious, but, frankly, he didn’t have that much hope of replacing his brother in that role any time soon, not given how things were going with Clio. But that was a thought for another time.
“You will leave this house. I will, of course, pay for your son’s schooling when the time comes. I won’t have him suffer because he has such a bloody useless father.”
“You can’t speak to me that way!” Matthew protested, as if he hadn’t spent the past month or more speaking far more rudely to Hector.
“I think you will find that I can,” Hector said. “Because this ismy house. You have until the end of the week to leave. Do not take anything that belongs to the estate, or, God help me, I will prosecute you. I’m certain that you know by now that I don’t give a damn about the scandal.”
Matthew’s face went an alarming shade of purple, and Hector privately allowed that he would rather prefer the scandal ofhaving annoyed his brother to death. Fortunately, Matthew’s complexion quickly returned to one of the hues common to humans.
“That isn’t enough time to find a suitable place,” he said.
