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Clearing his face of humour, Gabriel nodded. “Oliver. I appreciate your concern for my family—our family—but I am not a man who takes risks. The moment I was wed to Violet, I had my solicitor draw up formal custody papers for Zachariah. Days ago, I asked my secretary to review the paperwork, and then I double checked it myself. There is no mention of my status as a peer in the conditions and requirements of the document. As my son, Zach is as safe as he has ever been, and he has his own title and lands to inherit from his grandfather.”

Oliver relaxed marginally.

“As for my daughter, she would have spurned any suitors interested only in her title or dowry anyway. And her dowry is in no way in jeopardy, as I am a wealthy man in my own right. I have always kept my family finances and investments apart from the coffers of the dukedom.” Oliver nodded, but then opened his mouth as if to interject. Gabriel continued before he could.

“After I assured myself of Zach’s safety, I sent my secretary to find records pertaining to the death of one Sarah Lioni. As it turns out, she passed away three days prior to our sire’s marriage to the dowager. While it was certainly the old duke’s intention to commit bigamy, he did not. I am but a younger son from a legitimate second marriage, and the fire-breathing dowager remains the dowager.”

Oliver leaned back in his chair with a huff. “This is ludicrous. I am not fit to be a duke. I am scarcely fit to be a duke’s gardener. Four months ago, I woke up in an alley with one boot missing and my trousers inside out. Is that really the man you would have making decisions in Parliament?”

“I’m sure the other members of the House of Lords would prefer you attend session in trousers, but honestly the robes are long and the room does get stuffy.”

Oliver pushed his chair away and stood. “I’m finished with this.”

Gabriel took a sip of water, then glanced around the table. “Excellent idea. I don’t believe anyone can muster much of an appetite tonight anyway. Let’s retire to the study.”

“No, you stubborn arse. I mean I am done with this conversation.”

Gabriel glanced at Sofia in silent entreaty.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she replied. “I think it’s ludicrous as well. Not because my brother is incapable of the task, but because you were raised to be the duke. It’s not like learning to cheat at cards. He won’t be able to pull off a passable sleight of hand as long as the players are distracted with a tavern wench and a glass full of ale. There isn’t a scandal in this world that could fascinate the aristocracy more than a brown-skinned, dead-turned-impoverished-turned-legitimate duke falling out of the sky.”

Sofia was gaining steam, her cheeks pink and her voice rising. “They’ll do everything in their power to see him fail. And I would not see my brother suffer for the amusement of a bunch of pretentious aristocrats whose antiquated government forced him into a role he did not want only to ridicule him for attempting to do the job.”

Gabriel stood, and for the first time since the start of the conversation, Christopher could see the turbulence that he’d laboured to bury. Gabriel crossed to Oliver and stopped. “I know the prospect of being a duke terrifies you.”

Gabriel’s voice lowered then, and even in the complete silence of the room, Christoper had to concentrate to hear his next words. “I am terrified at the thought of being anything else … but I am not afraid for this dukedom or for you, Oliver, because it is what you are meant to do. Parliament will rise up against you, fight your very existence, but the effort will be futile. You have beaten them at their own game. You’re everything this country needs in a peer and nothing the peerage actually wants. You’re a representative of the people in a way that inherited wealth and privilege has never allowed. Parliament will try to drown out your voice, but the common man will listen to you in a way they could never hear my words. You are special, Oliver, and I’ll not let your fear, or my own uncertain path, prevent you from being the man I know you were meant to be.”

Oliver vehemently shook his head. “It’s too much.”

Gabriel exhaled, long and slow.

The sound of letting go.

“You won’t be alone. I’m here, brother. I’ll help you learn the things you need to know. And you’ll have allies in Parliament. Not many, but I was far from alone in my call for reform. They will welcome your voice amongst them. Probate will take an eternity, even with irrefutable evidence, but by dragging their heels, they will provide time for you to become accustomed to the title.”

The door swung open then, and the dowager stepped in, her impassive gaze sweeping the room.

“I see I’m too late to join the rational segment of the conversation. I might have known mutiny was imminent when Nora and Zachariah arrived at my house for dinner without an invitation.”

Gabriel pulled out a chair for his mother and extended a hand to offer assistance. As ever, he did not rise to her bait. “It is not mutiny, and this is not a pirate ship. I am merely setting to rights the order of succession.”

“Over a meal of pheasant and sprouts, without the benefit of solicitors or the presence of your mother.” She glared at his hand, then lowered into her seat without his help.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Oliver sketched a decent rendition of a bow, blatantly drawing enemy fire away from Gabriel. “How are my niece and nephew tonight?”

The twin coals of her hard, steely eyes pinned Oliver in place, sizzling through the material of his waistcoat. Oliver bore the silent attack with miraculous fortitude, offering a slight smile in return as he reclaimed his chair.

Her gaze clipped away, returning again to her son. “We should have spoken about this privately, Gabriel. Half the household needn’t have been privy to this conversation. I have arranged for my estate in Kent to be transferred to Mr Lioni’s name. It came to me, along with other holdings, as a portion of my marriage settlement. In addition, I am prepared to settle thirty thousand pounds a year on him to assure his comfort.”

“And his silence,” Christopher mumbled.

Her head whipped around. “Don’t you have something to starch, Mr Keene?”

“That’s enough, Mother.” Gabriel poured a glass of water and placed it before her on the table. “How did you⁠—”

“Davies, the gardener.” She added the last as if everyone at the table were not perfectly aware of who Davies was.

At Gabriel’s surprised expression, she continued, and there was something decidedly less abrasive in her tone and posture. “He delivers flowers to my room every morning when I am in residence. He has done so since the morning I was wed. Sometimes he takes a cup of nettle tea for his joints … my housekeeper keeps it on hand for him.” If she had expected the explanation to dispel any lingering confusion, she had sorely miscalculated.