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Unusually ruffled at being the object of scrutiny, the dowager took a dainty sip of water then stared at her empty plate as if she had no idea how to make food appear there. “Davies recognised Oliver from the start, but how I know that isn’t relevant. I gave you sufficient time to identify and eradicate the threat to your family and title. When you failed to do so, I took matters into my own hands.”

Her lips flattened into a thin line as Gabriel began serving food onto her plate.

“You are not a footman, Gabriel, and you”—she pointed to Oliver with her fork in a show of blatantly poor manners—“are not a duke. My heavens, has this entire family taken leave of their senses? I feel like I have tumbled into one of those insipid penny novels your valet reads when he should be working. You depart in the morning, Mr Lioni. I wish you safe travels and a happy and silent life. Your sister, I see, is well enough to accompany you.”

Hackles instantly raised, Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but Gabriel silenced him with a reassuring glance. “I should have spoken to you privately, Mother. It was cruel of me to exclude you from my plans, even if they do not directly affect your title or station. I apologise for my thoughtlessness.”

The dowager’s eyes narrowed, but her shoulders relaxed in the face of Gabriel’s earnest apology. “In truth, I ambushed every one of you, with the exception of my wife, who has been privy to my thoughts from the start. I do not wish to injure you, Mother, but neither will I bury the truth for the sake of your convenience or pride.”

Amidst the frosty silence that followed, a thought occurred to Christopher and he had to take a deep swallow of water to disguise his burgeoning smile. “Does David know?”

As he had suspected, the mention of Gabriel’s younger brother brought a visible pinch to the dowager’s expression. She turned on Gabriel. “Tell me he does not, Northam. No doubt he would pounce on the news like a starving cat, eager for any excuse to avoid the responsibility of the heir apparent. How I could raise two sons so remarkably dissimilar is beyond my comprehension.”

“Of course he knows,” Gabriel said. “I dispatched a letter as soon as I knew. And yes, he is feeling rather relieved.”

“I’ve one son with altogether too much integrity and the other with none at all. Perhaps I should have tried for a third.”

“He’s not lacking in integrity. He simply wants something different from his life, and I don’t begrudge him that. As the heir, you raised me to honour tradition, to hold the line of succession above all else. My choices today reflect those values. Oliver is the rightful Duke of Northam. It falls to us to help him find his way. I do not wish to fight you, Mother. I know no one whose allegiance or opposition could more effortlessly tip the scales. We need you. We need your compassion and intelligence, and we need your ruthless defence of this dukedom to those who would rather see it crumble than allow its rightful heir to take his seat.”

Gabriel’s head bowed and his hands curled into fists on the table before him. “I know it’s not the future you wanted for me or for this family. You married a man of title and power who offered little as a husband beyond those things, and you did so with the assumption that your son would one day inherit and thrive for that sacrifice. You anticipated that the portraits of your grandchildren and great grandchildren would hang in the gallery and that they too would have their chance to do great things. I know you’re disappointed, and I’m sorry for it, but this is what is right and just. I need you to love me as a son and not as a duke.” In the silence that followed, his eyes slowly raised to hers.

There was a collective stillness as the vulnerable words settled like snowflakes all around them. Christopher’s chest cracked open at the sight of his friend’s eyes cast to his mother while she studied the untouched dinner before her without expression.

Then the dowager looked up. And she leaned back against her chair, a place her spine had likely never touched in all the decades of her life. She nodded. “We are going to have to teach you a proper bow, Mr Lioni. I suspect Gabriel will have his work cut out for him.” She cleared her throat and corrected herself. “We will have our work cut out for us.” Her voice was soft but certain, and Christopher could have kissed the old dragon for putting her son before her own pride.

Shock and unqualified chaos characterised the days after Gabriel’s announcement. Servants stammered their disbelief, some arguing as if they were set to lose a dukedom. Mrs Simmons swooned and was caught by an equally flabbergasted Bennett. Oliver and Gabriel spent long hours locked away in Gabriel’s study. Or was it Oliver’s study? Somebody’s study. There was an overall feeling of not recognising the feet at the end of your legs.

Unable to cease their long habit of referring to Gabriel as “Your Grace,” many of the servants took to accidentally calling both men by the honorific. Once, a housemaid even bestowed the title upon Christopher in a twitter of confused tongues. Each time, Gabriel smiled and gently corrected them. Christopher wondered at the toll that smile was taking. Based on Violet’s unease, he would guess each correction landed solidly on Gabriel’s heart.

Through it all, Oliver had refused to see Gabriel and Violet removed from the ducal suite. His only compromise had been to abandon the cabin, with its shredded wallpaper and bowed floors, for the comfort of a large room situated in the family wing.

While searching for his boots, which had vanished sometime during the night, Christopher whirled at the crash of wood against wood. A colourful string of baritone Italian followed the noise, and, thanks to those first weeks in the cabin, Christopher could easily translate all of it. Pulling his topcoat onto his arms, he moved briskly towards the source of the sound.

“If you’d do as you’re told and hold it from the side, your precious ducal feet wouldn’t be flattened,” Jeremy exclaimed.

“I can’t hold it from the side because you didn’t want to remove the drawers,” Oliver responded.

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Would you girls stop bickering? I’ve got stalls to muck still and I don’t want to be here all morning,” added a third voice—James, who worked in the stables, Christopher identified—above the pair of squabbling men.

At the sound of the door, three sets of eyes briefly met Christopher’s before the men shifted their attention back to their battle against a gnarled mahogany desk and gravity. Gabriel’s sleek desk remained untouched in its usual place, and it took Christopher only a moment to realise the unwieldy new piece of furniture was not a replacement, but rather an addition.

“You were too busy to break your fast with Sofia and I this morning, but you somehow found time to obtain … this.” He suspected Sofia had bullied Oliver into his recent unavailability. She was as determined to be alone with Christopher as he was to ensure they were chaperoned.

Oliver made a face. “This desk is constructed entirely of lumber from a fifteenth-century pirate ship called the Filthy Courtesan.”

Apparently, this was a good thing if Oliver’s gleeful expression was to be taken into account.

“It’s perfect.” Oliver admired the hulking, asymmetrical beast.

“It’s …” Christopher searched for a neutral adjective. Lopsided fire kindling? “It certainly looks … sturdy.” Jeremy and James milled around momentarily before taking their leave.

Oliver glanced at his stockinged feet. “Where are your boots?

Christopher waved off the question as Gabriel strode into the centre of the room, then froze in place. “Good God, what is that thing? It smells like rotting fish.” He completed his journey to the new desk, extended a hand to run across the surface, then recoiled with a disgusted expression. “Salvaged boat lumber?”

“Ship lumber,” Oliver corrected. “It’s not hewn from the discarded splinters of a rowboat, for God’s sake. It has a rich history.”

Oliver met Gabriel’s incredulous expression with a surly shrug. “I like it.”