“I think you will be all right if you slept,” he said. Setting both glasses down, he stood. “I will leave you now and return to my quarters.”
Maximilian slid down to lay on the bed properly and fell asleep before Mallen left the room.
* * *
Outside of a headache, Maximilian felt he had returned to normal, and dined the next morning ravenously on bacon, fried potatoes, sardines, roasted chicken and a creamy sweet tart. He spoke with humor and energy with Mallen, ignored by Augusta and Wilmot. “I have not shown you some of my new crop of foals,” Maximilian said, “I would be honored if you will accompany me to the stable after breakfast. Then perhaps we might try our hand at hunting this afternoon.”
Mallen wiped his lips with his napkin. “I will agree to visiting the stable, Bromenville. But I must be on my way after. My dear wife’s parents are due for a visit, and I promised I would be there to greet them.”
“Very well. The stable it is.”
Though not a horse enthusiast as Maximilian, Mallen was nonetheless impressed with the quality of this year’s foals. With Fergus in attendance, holding each mare and baby, the two spoke of prospects and prices, what to keep, what to sell, what might make a breeder and those that would not. Mallen clapped Maximilian on the back as the pair walked from the stable.
“Whatever else you inherited from your illustrious sire,” he said, “you most definitely inherited his eye for excellent horseflesh.”
“He taught me so much, Mallen.” Maximilian gestured for the grooms to fetch Mallen’s horse. “From the day I could walk, I followed him everywhere and soaked up his knowledge. How to get the best results from each mare and each stallion.”
“You are certainly doing that, my dear chap. Now when is this ball to take place?”
“It has not been scheduled yet,” Maximilian replied with a wry smile. “But I will ensure you get an invitation.”
“Excellent. My wife has been itching to go to a ball.”
Maximilian grinned. “Give her my best.”
“I will, Bromenville. I will.”
Maximilian stood, watching his friend canter down the road, and felt loneliness stir in his heart. Since his father died, he had only Mallen to confide in, to spend time with, and Mallen’s visits were not frequent enough to give him ease. He craved someone who shared his love of horses, someone to share his dreams with, someone who liked him for who he was, and not because he was the Duke of Bromenville. Scowling to himself, he kicked a hapless rock in the stable yard and slowly walked toward the house.
“Your Grace.”
Maximilian glanced up, finding Nigel hurrying across the vast expanse of lawn toward him.
“Your brother is injured, Your Grace. You must come.”
Chapter 5
Hurrying with Nigel into the castle, Maximilian rushed up the stairs to Wilmot’s chambers after being directed there by the servants. “What happened?” he asked Wilmot’s valet as the man bowed and ushered them into the room.
“An accident, Your Grace,” the valet, a stout man named Kent, replied. “He was sharpening a knife on a whetstone when it slipped. It cut him deeply.”
“Where, man?” Maximilian demanded, seeing Wilmot lying on his bed in his bedchamber, Augusta sitting beside him. He observed the family physician, Gilbert Leary, standing behind her. “The arm, the leg, where?”
“His inner arm, Your Grace.”
With Nigel at his shoulder, Maximilian walked quickly into the bedchamber, looking first to Wilmot’s ashen face. Wilmot appeared to be asleep, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even. Only then did he glance to Augusta and notice her smooth, implacable expression. She met his eyes but offered no greeting.
“Will he be all right?” Maximilian kept his voice low to not wake Wilmot.
Mr. Leary bowed at his entrance. “Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured. “I stopped the bleeding and stitched the wound closed. At the moment, he sleeps with the help of the laudanum I gave him. But I fear he lost a great deal of blood.”
Maximilian stood over his brother, watching him sleep, feeling an odd sort of affection for him. Because of Augusta and her possessiveness of her son, they had never had much of an opportunity to become close. Once again, Maximilian fervently wished he could have taken Wilmot from her before the boy became reclusive and withdrawn.
“How did this happen?” he asked, eyeing Augusta.
She shrugged. “It was an accident, Maximilian. He took it upon himself to sharpen a blade rather than ask a servant to do it. Foolish boy.”
Maximilian could not help but notice how her words held little affection and no worry at all over her son’s near death.
