His father rose unsteadily, wincing with the effort. “I cannot speak of this now.”
Algenon placed himself in his way. It was obvious his father had a megrim coming on, and perhaps that was why he’d opened up in a way he rarely did. He couldn’t let this chance pass.
“This cannot wait, Father. Did you wager Phillipa’s dowry?”
A slight shake of the head and another wince met his question. “I have been paying down my debt of honor to Falcross for a year. The girls’ futures are safe.”
“Except Phillipa’s. You must dismiss Lord Rupert. He is not a good match.”
“Can’t,” his father rasped out, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Why not?”
Lord Roberts’s hands flew to his ears, and he ducked his head away from Algenon’s shout.
Algenon tried to muster some compassion, but it seemed to have fled at his father’s continued stubbornness.
Stumbling backward, his father grabbed the side of his chair and sat. His face paled, and he reached for the bin near his feet, casting up his accounts.
Only then did Algenon’s temper cool. Perhaps his father wasn’t being stubborn. Maybe he really couldn’t speak now. It was obvious he was ill.
Even if some stubbornness fueled his words, he was in no condition to have this conversation. Algenon crossed to the bellpull and gave it a tug. A few minutes later, the butler appeared.
“Send for the physician, Ames. Lord Roberts is ill.”
Ames nodded, but Lord Roberts protested. In a raspy voice, he said, “No, no doctor. It is only an ache in my head. I shall be well after a day’s rest.”
The butler glanced between the two men, his eyes finally settling on Algenon. Interesting that the man had turned to him for the last word.
“After you send for the doctor, have a footman come help Lord Roberts to bed.”
“Very good, sir.”
As soon as the butler quit the room, Algenon’s father folded his arms on the desk and laid his head on them. Algenon thought he might have fallen asleep, but a small groan let him know he was still conscious.
“I don’t want Lord Rupert around any more than you do,” he said into his arms. “But I have no choice. Lord Falcross knows something he shouldn’t, and no doubt he’s told Rupert.”
Algenon moved closer, not quite sure he’d heard his father’s quiet muttered words correctly. “And what is that?”
“I can’t… it’s not—” His father swiftly moved back, again emptying the contents of his stomach.
The footman entered at that moment and Algenon had compassion on his sire. Lord Roberts needed to be in bed where the curtains could be drawn and no noise would filter in.
He motioned the footman forward. “Help me get him to his room.”
Apparently, the butler had sent word ahead to Lord Roberts’s valet, because by the time they reached the room, the man had already drawn the curtains and brought willow bark tea.
Face drawn and breathing labored, Lord Roberts held out his feet for the valet to remove his shoes. In the good care of the servants, Algenon moved to the door.
“Thank you, Roberts.”
His father’s soft words stopped him. When had he ever thanked Algenon for anything? A faint memory of his boyhood, before he’d gone away to Cambridge after finishing school at Harrow, rose to the surface.
During his holidays home, his father had often taken him out to the stream to fish. They spoke very little, sitting in companionable silence as they listened to the bubble of the water. He’d often thanked him when they passed fishing lines or hooks to one another.
While his father had been demanding of the most upright behavior, he’d at least been active in his life as a young man. Yes, he’d shown preferential treatment to his daughters and expected a lot from Algenon, but he’d not been absent like so many other men. Perhaps that was why Algenon had desperately wanted to live up to all the expectations he’d set. He’d seen the effort.
“You are welcome, Father. Get some rest.”
