The Hunt Club Chronicles Bundle (37 page)

“The duel, Father.” Rupert pressed against the bed. “I want the details now.”

“No,” Francis growled.

Ambrose blinked in surprise at Francis’ loud denial.

Unfortunately, Rupert was not so calm about it. He stalked up to Francis and glowered. “Who the hell do you think you are to interfere? This is between my father and me.”

“I am no one and never have been, but I am heartily sick of the pair of you. Your father could have died but you, of course, had to demand all the sordid details of the duel before he was well again. And you,” Francis rounded on Ambrose. “Can you never keep out of trouble for even one night?”

Ambrose blinked at the set-down and couldn’t think of what to say. The events leading up to the duel weren’t even his fault. But he did chase pleasure as often as he could, usually in an attempt to deny how much he wanted Francis Redding. Occasionally, he got into trouble for it. But Francis didn’t know his reasons. The minute he got him alone again he would explain everything and see where they stood. Hopefully still together, or at least as near friends. He was clear headed enough to acknowledge he might never get a chance for more.

“You go too far,
Redding
,” Rupert hissed. If only Rupert knew the danger he was in. Francis could whip him in three moves if he wished to. “There are many who covet your position here. No one is irreplaceable.”

“Rupert,” Ambrose barked in alarm. “That is not your decision to make. It is mine and
Redding
remains.”

Francis ignored him and grabbed up his bag. “I do not go far enough. I’m sick of cleaning up your mistakes too, Lord Bracknell. You can choke on your own consequence for all I care.”

“Francis!” Ambrose called, but he was out the door without a backward glance and didn’t bother to return. Ambrose tried to rise but sharp pain shot through his chest and he collapsed to the pillow gasping.

Rupert sat with a thump, jostling Ambrose enough to make him grit his teeth. Was Francis the only one who gave a damn if he was injured? That seemed very likely so far. He glared at his son. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Rupert jumped to his feet like a guilty school boy. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, really?” Ambrose scowled. “Then why, pray tell, is Francis not here where he belongs?”

Rupert set his hands to his hips. “Why do you care? You ended his employment again, I’m told.”

Ambrose groaned. “Must have been when Francis took the ball out. I don’t remember. But he knows better than to believe me. I fire him every other year, but it’s always when I’m injured and when he’s stitching me up.”

Rupert shook his head. “Are you sure of that, Father, because he was definitely tempted by my intention to employ him as the family physician.”

Ambrose studied his son. Rupert didn’t lie well, at least not to him, so the conversation about Francis leaving his service must have happened while he’d been insensible. A tight knot of apprehension twisted his insides. Francis couldn’t leave his position. He couldn’t bear that thought. He swallowed. “Did he say he accepted?”

“No, he told me I was mad like you. I’m having second thoughts about offering the position now. He’d always seemed so respectful and obliging in the past. Can’t employ a man who resents us.”

A wave of uncertainty swept over Ambrose. Francis had revealed all kinds of emotions today that the man usually kept to himself. Although he’d give his good left arm to discover the depths of those emotions, he latched on to the greatest threat to his happiness. “Why do you think Francis wants to be a physician?”

In answer, Rupert lifted an unfamiliar book from a nearby table.
Annals of Insanity
. “He’s been reading this all week. I’ll speak to
Redding
about his outburst and decide what to do about his service. I’ll take care of everything.”

If Francis became a physician, he would have ample means to support himself. He would have a better position in society and would not be around Ambrose anymore. Ambrose clutched at the sheets. “No, you will not. Francis Redding has been at my side since I was a boy. He helped me resurrect the estate after father did his best to ruin us and stood by me when your mother died. If he wants more from life then I will gladly do for him what I can. He deserves some latitude. He is more a companion to me than a servant, and you will say nothing about his outburst. For God’s sake, could you prod and sew up your oldest acquaintance without feeling just a might unnerved by the experience?”

“I suppose it could have been quite difficult for him,” Rupert conceded. “He’s barely left your side since you were injured. Pendegast offered to assist but
Redding
wouldn’t allow him near you with even laudanum. Thought
Redding
would strike him at one point when he tried to get close to the bed. Pendegast won’t come back.”

The thought of laudanum on his tongue, of white-smoke filling his lungs, sent a shot of yearning through his body briefly. But then he remembered the dark days after his wife’s death and what
Redding
had done to end the drug’s hold on his mind—the risks he had taken on his own to bring Ambrose back from oblivion. No one could learn
Redding
had tied him up in his bedchamber at
Tindel
Park
and denied him liberty until he was a rational man again.

It was a period of his life that he didn’t like to examine too closely and neither he nor
Redding
had discussed the matter again. But he would never have recovered if
Redding
hadn’t been an utter tyrant about the matter and insisted he live.

“I cannot have the opiate, Rupert.
Redding
did the right thing to deny Pendegast.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “He has worried for me as much as you. Could you imagine what would happen to him if I died from this injury? He took a great risk attending me himself. Regardless of whether he did his best work, he would be blamed should I perish.”

“But he is a surgeon.” Rupert waved his hand. “He would be used to death by now.”

Ambrose didn’t think so. Not after seeing Francis after he’d attended Miss Felicity before he was shot. He’d seemed bone tired and Ambrose had been worried by his expression. Perhaps he asked too much from him. “I don’t believe that to be the case, Rupert. He doesn’t even keep the fish he catches. He tosses them back most times.”

Rupert’s frown grew. “You are overly familiar with him, Father? You’ve become blind to his faults. No servant should behave as he does.”

“And I have misbehaved more than my share, too. Leave
Redding
alone.”

“Well,” Rupert pushed to his feet. “Since my assistance is not wanted here, I will take my leave of you, Father. Do let me know should you be inclined to die. I should like to wring my hands and wail at your passing.”

Ambrose grinned to break the tension. “Cheeky cub. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His son smiled reluctantly and held out his hand. “Heal fast, Papa. Society has nothing to talk about when you are not around.”

Ambrose caught his son’s hand and squeezed. “When
Redding
says I can venture out I will, and not before. Raise hell in my absence, Rupert.”

His son nodded and strode toward the door. But at the door, Rupert turned back. “About the club, Papa. If
Redding
insists you rest even more, will you be able to manage the affair from here? I thought he would burst a vessel when you invited
Fairmont
to luncheon tomorrow. How will you manage it all?”

Damn it. The club required strict supervision to run smoothly. With everything that had happened today, he couldn’t very well ask Francis to run the place. Besides, the members would never listen to him as they would obey Ambrose.

He stared at his son and gritted his teeth. Perhaps it was time to hand over the reins now and see what was left when the dust settled. But the family had no inkling of what went on inside the club, or of the wicked entertainments offered to patrons. Rupert may very well be furious when he learned. However, the club profits kept the duchy running smoothly during the estate’s lean years and paid his son’s quarterly allowance.

He could not run the club from his sick bed, and he was likely to be stuck in idleness for at least a month if the ache in his shoulder was anything to go by. But if he gave up the club management to Rupert and then Francis left his service to take up as a physician then there was nothing left in his days worth getting out of bed for. The thought of that bleak future was worse than turning five and forty. Yet holding Francis back from fulfilling his dreams would be utterly selfish.

He gritted his teeth. When Francis got back he would apologize for the kisses, for his son, and ask him if becoming a physician was what he truly wanted. If it was, he would have his support. He owed him his life for his unwavering loyalty.

With that lowering thought in the back of his mind, Ambrose waved his arm toward Rupert to draw him back into the chamber. At least while he was injured his son might not strangle him for the potential scandal the club activities could cause him.

Chapter Seven

Francis barged in through the servant’s entrance and flung himself up the narrow stairs and along to his chamber at the Hunt Club. He was so angry that he had no clear memory of traversing the distance between the duke’s home and the Hunt Club. The only evidence was that the soles of his feet were hot and perspiration trickled down his back.

He threw himself into a hard wooden chair and dropped his head to his hands. Foolishness. The duke was almost killed over a trivial misunderstanding, and that pup Lord Silas was somehow involved, given the way he had boldly cozened up to the duke on his sick bed. He sucked in a sharp breath. Had the duke dueled over a new lover?

He must be getting old. He’d missed the signs that the duke was interested in the sniveling lord. The man was trouble, no doubt about it. He thought too well of himself to be healthy. As the duke’s lover, he would be a nightmare to manage. He’d likely expose the duke’s bedding habits to anyone who’d listen. And that could get the duke hung and could not be allowed.

Yet, Francis couldn’t imagine the duke with Lord Silas. He usually favored someone nearer his own nature—muscled, confident, and someone closer in rank and consequence like Lord Fairmont had been a few years ago. He pushed the thought of the duke and his many lovers from his mind. No matter what he’d hinted at today, there was no way in hell the duke had meant a word of it. It was only his injury and fear of dying that had affected him to act out of character and say the things he had. The duke would never want a farmer’s son in his bed.

He sat up as his door creaked as it opened an inch, then widened as Mrs. Marinari slipped through wearing a peacock blue gown. “What has happened? Is the duke all right?”

Francis nodded. “Tis early days yet but I believe he will be himself again soon.”

She let out a relieved breath and drew closer. “But why are you here? Shouldn’t you be attending him?”

He’d run from his own anger and frustration after guessing the cause of the duel before he really said what was on his mind. Lord Bracknell was a fine one to lecture his own father – he was just as reckless as the duke. And Francis had cleaned up every mess he made without acknowledgement or question. Francis had no patience with hypocrites. “I needed to check on Miss Felicity.”

She scowled at him. “That is not the reason.”

He raised a brow. Marinari might not be an actual woman but she possessed a woman’s intuition. Her dark eyes glared and he dropped his gaze. “I feared for the duke’s health should I remain.”