Hugh stared at the butler in shock, wondering if the lines at the man’s eyes were actually from restrained laughter rather than stoic disapproval. “Hopkins, you are a treasure of untold wealth.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hopkins replied with an almost cheeky bond. He gestured for the door, seeming to smile a bit more fondly.

Nothing for it, then. Hugh bit back another heavy exhale and trudged his way out into the snow.

The gamekeeper’s cottage was not far, which was another unusual feature of the estate, though it was hardly strange. In fact, at the moment, he was quite pleased it was so close.

Trudging through snow had never been a particular fondness of his.

“Ah, Sterling,” the one they called Uncle Dough said, grinning with warmth. “Come to engage in this mess, are you?”

“For my sins, yes,” Hugh admitted, nodding to the few others who had noticed his approach. He drew closer to the large man and rubbed his hands together against the cold. “I’ll admit it, sir. I’m a terrible shot.”

Uncle Dough chuckled heartily and patted him soundly on the back. “Not to worry, lad. You’ll find that most of us are poor shots, but the worst shot of all is Rupert there.” He indicated the beefy, red-faced younger man currently holding a rifle as though it were a grand walking stick of sorts.

It was the most inane spectacle he’d ever seen.

Which was saying a great deal.

There was no recourse but to shake his head. “Is it wise to give him a firearm, sir?”

“Of course not,” came the chortled reply. “But it’s a far cry safer than giving one to Walter.” He gestured to a scrawny, timid, almost skittish-looking man with the same looks as the other, only appearing to be rather starved by comparison.

Hugh watched as one of the cousin husbands said something to him, and the man twitched and crossed himself before responding.

“I can see that,” Hugh muttered.

“You feel better now, don’t you?”

Hugh grinned at the older man. “I do, indeed.”

Again, he was thumped on the back. “Good. Stick with me, Sterling. We’ll get through this.”

That seemed a strange thing to say, but he had no opportunity to ask about it, as the gamekeeper and his lads appeared with the hounds, and they were off to begin the hunt.

Which, as it turned out, was more of simply shooting at grouse and pheasant that the dogs scared out of hiding places.

Hugh probably ought to have known such a thing, but his claim of not being a sportsman was not an idle one. He truly could only count the number of activities out of doors he had participated in on one hand.

Including this one.

“You can fire that gun, can’t you, son?” Uncle Dough asked, his tone rife with amusement as he handed his gun off for reloading.

Hugh cast a hard look at him. “Of course.” Then his expression broke for a sheepish grin. “Though it would likely be around fifteen years since I have done so, and the first time I’ve had permission.”