The Firstborn

Chapter Fourteen

Haughton kept himself to his study for the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon. He'd quickly found that just because he'd left London several weeks before, it didn't mean that his business remained in town as well. There was the running of the estate to manage, along with all of his other properties—aside from Haughton House in London, and Denton Castle, there was also a small bit of land up in Scotland which had been favored by previous generations for hunting, and also another pile of stones in Kent that was in dire need of refurbishment—and the countless investments his father had begun and Haughton was desperate not to see fail under his watch.

And, of course, there was David. It was a bit like having a servant on the payroll, one who continually pilfered from the family coffers and ran up bills that always managed to find their way into Haughton's hands.

Their last confrontation had ended in a shouting match. No, that wasn't precisely true. David had shouted, and kicked things, and thrown various breakable objects across the room. And all because Haughton had made the suggestion that he use what allowance he had to settle his debts with tradesmen—tailors, hostlers, bootmakers, and the like—before worrying about any of his supposed 'debts of honor', which were all gambling debts and money owed to friends and fellow members of the aristocracy.

David had thrown a fit, behaving no better than a child, as he'd shouted that no one would allow him into any of the clubs, that he'd never be able to show his face at any decent fighting hall. To which Haughton had responded it would do him well to avoid those places anyway.

And then David had stormed out, probably to lose a few more hundred pounds on a game of cards, and Haughton had begun preparations to set out for Derbyshire the very next day.

He leaned back in his chair, pushed his hands through his already tousled hair, and tugged at the knot in his neckcloth. He would need to go upstairs and change for dinner soon. As much work as he had before him, he knew that Bess would not forgive him if he attempted to excuse himself from the meal over mere paperwork, as she termed it.

The prospect of another meal with Mrs. Brixton did not excite him. He found himself becoming increasingly frustrated in her presence, and then this morning, when she'd told him she'd rather he continue to be an offensive boor than to make any attempt at fooling her...

So, those hadn't been her exact words, but the point was clear enough.

She disliked him. Intensely. And yet she had accepted his invitation to come here, to travel hundreds of miles beyond the boundaries of a town she called home, and all because...

He couldn't figure her out. Did she merely wish to create some sort of connection between the infant, George, and the rest of his family? After their brief acquaintance in Stantreath, he couldn't have imagined her ever wanting to set eyes on him again. But the letter containing her acceptance of his invitation had been swiftly received.

She claimed to distrust his sudden change of heart in the matter of what to do with the child. But should he have any reason to distrust her?

As he retired to his rooms to dress for the evening, he resolved to speak to Mrs. Brixton after dinner. Before she spent another night beneath his roof, he would lay out his plan for George's care and upbringing before her. And if she refused it?

No, she would not refuse. Not this time. Though she seemed willing to fight him every step of the way, there would have to be a point when she would step back and see what was best for the child. She loved the boy. He knew that. And he had to hope that she loved him enough to do the make the wisest choice for him.

He washed and shaved and dressed with care, his valet fussing about him as if he were about to attend one of the greatest ton balls of the season, rather than a quiet dinner with his sister and a guest from the country.