Page 44 of A Portrait of Love

Wyndham had hired a woman to help him care for Simon, but even wealth and power only went so far in the days after the Battle of Waterloo and the duke and Simon’s man, Peel, had done the lion’s share of the nursing.

His brother had cared for him for six weeks, until Simon’s infection was brought under control and he was well enough to travel.

So, that was yet another thing Wyndham held that over his head, along with Simon’s inheritance: saving his bloody life.

“What do you want, Wyndham?” he asked, not having to feign the exhaustion in his voice.

“How is your arm?” his brother countered, looking at the ugly, raw mark on his right shoulder.

“It’s fine.” He paused and studied his brother; the duke looked in the pink of health. “You are looking far better, yourself.”

“I feel much better,” Wyndham admitted.

“Tell me, did Raymond ever find the fool who shot me?” he demanded, not with much hope.

“Whoever it is has also poached hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds’ worth of game. Raymond only returned from Lindthorpe this morning, but whoever the man is, he’s elusive.” His brother sounded peeved, which mean he was actually infuriated.

Simon pitied the poacher when Wyndham finally got hold of him.

He'd been shot just as he and Raymond were leaving Lindthorpe after their brief sojourn. The trip would have been a relaxing one if not for the bloody poacher, who’d not only hit Simon, but nicked Raymond’s mare, who’d then thrown his cousin.

Poor Raymond had been injured worse than Simon; so bruised and battered from his fall that he looked as if he’d gone ten rounds with Gentleman Jackson himself.

Simon had been surprised by how much he’d enjoyed that time with his cousin. They had done some hunting, a bit of fishing, explored the big estate, and had stayed up each night reminiscing.

He’d been reminded, for the first time in years, how pleasant Raymond could be when he wasn’t trying to curry favor with Wyndham.

His cousin could not seem to understand that Wyndham would never give him the sack—no matter how ineptly he might sometimes manage his brother’s many properties.

While it was true that Raymond served as a sort of steward, he was family first and always. Wyndham was loyal to a fault when it came to supporting his relatives. Of course, he also expected their loyalty and obedience, in return.

“When are you coming home.” The duke crossed an impeccably booted foot over one knee and eyed him like a surgeon wondering how much rot he would need to cut away and whether the patient would survive the procedure.

“Home? You mean to Whitcomb?”

Irritation flickered across his brother’s impassive features. “Yes, Simon. When are you returning to Whitcomb?”

“Maybe never. I like it here.”

“And how are you paying for this little sojourn?”

That made him smile. “It seems I have excellent credit in these parts.”

“Not after today,” the duke replied coolly.

Simon’s smile slid from his face. “You bastard.”

“How long are you going to do this, Simon? How long will you insist on thwarting me?” For once, Wyndham did not sound as cool as a January wind. Instead, he sounded like a man who was nearing forty and rapidly losing what little patience he had with an heir who refused to marry and propagate.

“I guess I’ll do it until I’m thirty-five.”

“Not without money.”

Simon felt his features twist into a sneer that he knew to be twice as unbecoming thanks to his injuries. “I might not have money, but I have plenty of possessions I can sell. I can live long enough on the proceeds of those sales. My existence for the next ten months won’t be luxurious, but I will survive. Trust me, your grace, living above an inn is paradise compared to being on campaign. I can wait you out.” By the end of his soliloquy Simon was beginning to enjoy himself. But then his brother reached inside his immaculately cut coat and drew out a battered and filthy piece of paper.

“What the devil is that?” Simon asked.

“Everything you have is in my name—or have you forgotten?”