“There are quite a few,” Elizabeth chimed in, taking a rather dainty bite of toast.

“And the cousin husbands always invent a competition between them,” Elinor added, sipping her tea again. “Mr. Layton never wins, but Mr. Tyson, Mr. Clarke, and Mr. Burley-Pratt get quite vocal about the whole affair.”

Hugh blinked at her, trying to comprehend. “And Lord Winthrop?”

“Wins every year,” they recited together.

It was madness. Absolute madness, the sheer number of people that were in this house.

He shook his head. “That is a fair number of men on a hunt.”

Elinor laughed rather darkly. “Oh dear, Mr. Sterling. All the men of the family go on the hunt. And all guests. You’ll be quite surrounded, and I fear all the ones related to us are quite nosey when it comes to guests. Do warn the others, won’t you?” She smiled what should have been a sweet smile, but it churned his stomach uncomfortably.

He’d opened his mouth to retort when the butler came to the door and bowed. “Mr. John, Mr. Sterling, if you gentlemen would be so good as to follow me.”

There was nothing for it, then.

Hugh rose, shaking his head and glaring at Elinor.

She waved her fingers almost merrily at him.

“And what will you be doing?” he demanded.

“We’ll be ice skating,” she informed him. “If we don’t sneak over to watch.”

Oh lord, the very idea.

Elinor waved him farewell again, and this time he left, following the somber-faced butler without another word.

“I’m afraid I’m not suitably dressed for the hunt, Hopkins,” Hugh admitted with a sheepish smile. “Not much of a sportsman.”

“Not to worry, sir,” Hopkins replied in a completely unconcerned tone. “The family is quite accustomed to such occasions. There’s an excess of coats and scarves and the like set aside for such things. I’ve had the footmen fetch your own coat and hat, sir, and anything else you might need will be provided.”

Well, there went that excuse.

Hugh hummed softly in thought. “I take it the family values this particular tradition, Hopkins.”

The butler nodded as he gestured to the footmen to help Hugh with his coat and hat. “Indeed, sir. Mr. James and Mr. George never miss an opportunity to have the Christmas hunt, and were Mr. Asheley here, he’d be part of it, too.”

“That’s Howard Asheley, yes?” Hugh queried as he shrugged into his coat, his mind racing through the ridiculous number of names he was tasked with keeping straight for the time being.

“Yes, sir.”

Hugh exhaled, looking towards the path to the gamekeeper’s cottage where the other men were gathering. “Any advice, Hopkins?”

The butler raised one dark eyebrow. “On what, Mr. Sterling?”

“Keeping them all straight,” he suggested, his mouth curving slightly. “Topics of conversation. Managing to maintain a good impression if I’m a terrible shot.”

Impossibly, the butler seemed to chuckle. “Don’t address anyone by name, keep to festive themes, and be relatively self-deprecating. That should keep you safe, sir.”