He had things to do. An estate to run, a father to save, a reputation to maintain. There was no room for… whatever this was.
Eleven
“You are supposed to be on your honeymoon,” Albert Vestiere declared, pinning August in the doorway with a look that could have parted a smaller man’s hair. “Yet here you are, haunting my sickroom. Is this devotion or a plot to hasten my decline?”
August found the old routines came easier in this room—no need for performance, not when the only audience was a man who had once bested him at every game. “If I wished you dead, I would simply set the Duchess loose in your wine cellar.”
“Ha!” Albert barked, a laugh shredded at the edges by a cough. He patted the counterpane with a palsied hand. “Come in, then. Gloat over my mortality while you can.”
August closed the door behind him, careful to latch it without sound. The chamber was a study in slow defeat—medicine bottles crowding the bedside table, the reek of laudanum warring with the lavender sachets his mother insisted upon.Albert was propped up on a fortress of pillows, a tartan shawl around his shoulders, a ledger open at his knee. Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, pale as milk, and made the hollows of Albert’s face seem almost luminous.
August crossed the carpet, ignoring the creak of the boards. He set his hat aside then pulled a chair up beside the bed. “I trust you slept well, Father.”
Albert snorted. “Only as well as a man can, being repeatedly awoken by the sound of his own lungs.”
“You should have married a soprano,” August said, “or a lighter sleeper. Mother claims you snored even at your healthiest.”
The old man’s lips twitched. “Your mother exaggerates. She does not believe in silence or in letting a man have the last word.”
“She married a duke,” August replied. “There is no silence in the peerage. Only the illusion of it between crises.”
This earned a smile, one that lingered a moment before the next cough stole it away. Albert closed the ledger with a shaky hand. The motion left his fingers quivering, like the stem of a leaf in wind.
“I suppose you will want a report on my progress,” Albert said. He waved a hand at the bottles. “The apothecary claims I shall live to see another summer, provided I take my draughts and refrain from arguments.”
August regarded the array of tinctures, powders, and pills. “That sounds like a direct challenge.”
Albert’s eyes brightened then dulled, a candle fighting the wick. “I have never shirked a challenge, even if it means quarreling myself into an early grave.” He looked up at his son.
August’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone light. “I prefer to avoid surprises. They are never as interesting as advertised.”
For a while, the only sound was the shuffle of Albert’s hand sorting papers. August watched his father work, noting the way he paused after every third motion, as if each page weighed a pound.
“Has the Marchioness settled in?” Albert asked, without looking up.
“She has,” August said, “though I suspect she is still deciding whether to redecorate or simply burn the place down and start fresh.”
“That’s the proper spirit.” Albert coughed, a short burst. “I have always thought the house could use more fire.” He tipped his chin. “And your arrangement? Does she hate you yet?”
August allowed himself a real smile. “Not for lack of opportunity.”
Albert’s gaze was direct. “Then she is worth the trouble.” He set the papers aside. “You do not fool me, you know. All this bluster, all this management—you are terrified.”
August shrugged. “A prudent man is always a little afraid. It keeps him from walking into open graves.”
Albert studied him then took up a water glass. His hand shook so violently that a third of the contents splashed to the counterpane. August reached over and steadied it, wordless, waiting for the tremor to pass.
After a moment, Albert let go. “Thank you,” he said, quieter than before.
“You could ask for help,” August said but made it sound like a joke.
“Never,” Albert replied. “If a Vestiere starts asking, he’ll never stop.”
They sat in silence again, the morning growing brighter and less forgiving. August folded his hands, fingers knotted, and watched the dust motes drift in the shaft of light. The old man’s breathing was shallow but even. For a time, it seemed as if nothing needed to be said.
But then Albert shifted, pulling the shawl tighter. “Do you know why I was hard on you?”
August had heard this lecture a hundred ways. “Because you cared. And because you could.”