Ugly, yes. So ugly that it had turned him from a tender-hearted young boy into a heartless, vengeful man. But this wasn’t about him. Not this time. “You said at the time that you’d be happy to provide me with the details of the transaction between Ambrose and my father, once I was ready to hear them.” Max crossed one foot over the other knee and sat back in his seat. “I’m ready.”
Sir Richard rolled his eyes. “It’s been two decades, Grantham, and you’ve made up your mind to be readytoday? On Christmas Day?”
“I’m afraid so. I beg your pardon for the inconvenience, but after waiting two decades for the truth, I’m not inclined to wait any longer.”
Sir Richard muttered something about uppity dukes, but he let out a resigned sigh and made himself comfortable in his chair. “Very well. You’re aware that your mother and Ambrose were dear friends?”
“I was under the understanding that Ambrose was dear friends withbothof my parents, Sir Richard.”
“Yes, but it was Caroline who was Ambrose’s childhood friend. Your father didn’t come to Fairford until much later, after his father inherited the dukedom, and moved his family to Grantham Lodge.” Sir Richard leaned over the desk. “Ambrose was fond of your father, Your Grace, but it was Caroline he was devoted to. Especially in the later years, after your father started drinking.”
Max stiffened, but there was no denying it. He did his best to avoid thinking about those years, but he could recall more than one incident caused by his father’s fondness for the bottle, starting from when he’d been a small boy.
“Your mother loved your father, Grantham, but poor Harcourt had his demons. I don’t know the whole of it, but I do know those demons chased him right to the bottom of the bottle. He wasn’t a bad man by any means, but he was a weak one. By the time you were out of leading strings, the liquor had already begun eating away his wits.”
“I remember his rages.” They were among his first memories, in fact. When it got too bad—when his father’s crazed shouting could be heard echoing throughout Hammond Court, his mother would snatch him up, run to her bedchamber, and lock the door behind her.
How old had he been, then? Four years? Five?
“As bad as it was, Caroline might have held on—she loved Harcourt that much—but then she became ill. She was an intuitive lady, your mother. She knew she was dying, even before the doctors diagnosed her with consumption. Harcourt had already lost a good deal of the property that wasn’t entailed by then. There was very little money left, and Grantham Lodge had already deteriorated to the point they were obliged to remove to Hammond Court. She was terrified he’d leave you with nothing. So—”
“She asked Ambrose to wager against my father for Hammond Court.” He’d been too young to understand what was going on, and his memories were hazy, but he recalled some snatches of conversation that hadn’t made sense at the time, and weeping.
His mother, weeping.
“Perhaps it wasn’t right of her.” Sir Richard gave a helpless shrug. “But she did what she felt she had to, to protect what was left of your legacy. Ambrose didn’t hesitate to help her. Not just for her sake, but for yours, too.”
“Mine?” But he knew. Before Sir Richard got a word out, he knew what he was going to say.
“Ambroseadoredyou, Max.” Sir Richard met his eyes. “He couldn’t have loved you more if you’d been his own son.”
How could that be the truth? If Ambrose had cared so much for him, why had he abandoned him after he’d taken Hammond Court away? “If it’s as you say, then why did he turn his back on me? All those years, and he never came to see me once. All those Christmas parties—”
He broke off, nearly choking on the lump lodged in his throat.
All those nights—years’ worth of them—standing alone on the drive in the dark, with Hammond Court right there, so close he could touch it, but as far out of reach as the stars. Years of watching it all unfold without him, his heart a cold, dead weight in his chest—
“He never turned his back on you, Max. Your father could never forgive Ambrose for taking Hammond Court from him. He wanted revenge, so he took the one thing Ambrose cared for the most. He took you.”
Was that how it had been? He thought back, groping for the forgotten memories. His father, raging against Ambrose, and forbidding Max ever to see him again—
“Ambrose begged your father to let him see you. He tried over and over again, up until it was no longer just your father who refused to have anything to do with him. It wasyou, as well. Ambrose never blamed you for it. He knew Harcourt was poisoning your mind against him.”
All this time, years—no, decades of raging against Ambrose, of hating him, and it hadn’t been Ambrose who’d taken everything from him.
It had been his own father. Knowing who his father was, having witnessed his rages, how could he not have seen it before?
Because he was my father, and I loved him.He had. Despite everything, he’d loved his father with the fierce devotion of a young boy who had no one else.
“Hammond Court was always meant to be yours again, Max. Ambrose promised your mother he’d give it back to you, but, ah . . . forgive me, but over the years you earned yourself something of a reputation for ruthlessness, and Ambrose was afraid to turn Hammond Court over to you. He feared you’d tear it down, and of course, he had Rose to think of by then.”
Come to Fairford, and seize your treasure.
After all that had happened between them, in the end, Ambrose still trusted him with his most precious treasure.
Rose.
“So, he came up with the rather unusual idea of leaving the house to both of you. I tried to dissuade him at first, but he believed if anyone could bring you home to yourself, it was Rose.” Sir Richard smiled. “Well, I could hardly argue with that, could I? Rose St. Claire has the kindest heart I’ve ever known.”
