“Oh, allow me to clarify. This is a third son,” he quickly supplied with a shake of his head. He felt as though he’d taken a thump to the skull. It was all very bewildering. “Birchwood’s eldest and third son has expired. The three are gone now.”

All three.

Gone.

The Duke of Birchwood’s three sons were all gone from this earth. Constantine had received word of Malcolm’s and Albert’s untimely deaths not even a year ago, and now Winston was gone.

How did three brothers perish in the span of one year? All from different ailments? What were the odds? Winston from a splinter. Albert from choking on a bit of venison. Malcolm from a broken neck.

The duke now had no heir in which to hand down his title and property, entailed or otherwise—at least to no direct issue of his own. A circumstance that could never have been predicted considering his fruitful union with the duchess.

“Bloody hell,” his batman muttered, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

Constantine rose and made his way toward the nearby bottle of brandy. He rarely indulged in spirits. Too often, he’d been roused from bed to attend to one matter or another and he did not wish to be muddleheaded on those occasions. This felt an appropriate exception.

He poured the amber liquid into his glass and downed it in one gulp. “Bloody hell, indeed.”

“Who could have imagined such a tragic thing? All his sons lost in the span of one year?” Morris’s voice faded away.

He’d seen evidence enough of tragedy in his service to the empire. But three coddled, privileged sons of a duke dying in England was wildly irregular.

Constantine turned and faced his batman. The two had been in service together for over a decade. Con knew he would honorably serve whoever arrived as his successor.

“And yet there we have it,” he said. “All are dead,” he finished. “And I am now the duke’s heir.” He took a deep breath. One that felt necessary for lungs that felt suddenly too tight and starving for air. “I’m leaving for England tomorrow,” he announced grimly.

He had been summoned. Responsibility demanded he go.

Morris nodded grimly. “Never have I imagined you would leave all this”—he motioned around them—“to become a bloody nob.”

Nor would he have envisioned such a fate either. He had thought the military would be the totality of his life. He’d wanted nothing else for himself. “I haven’t any choice.”

Constantine would do what every soldier did in battle. He’d carry the flag. Pick it up where it had dropped from the hands of the fallen and carry on.

He’d become the duke and take on all the duties that had been meant for the true heir, for the three before him, and continue on.

Because that was what a proper soldier did.