What his father’s note had not indicated, however, was why he’d traveled to Berkshire. Hugh was not particularly surprised by this omission; his father had never believed in explaining himself. He was at the White Hart, he wanted to speak to Hugh, and he wanted to do so immediately.

That was all he wrote.

Hugh generally went out of his way to avoid interaction with his father, but he was not so stupid as to ignore a direct summons. He told his valet to pack up his things and await further instructions, and then he set off for the village. He wasn’t sure that Daniel would look kindly upon his using one of the Winstead carriages, but as the rain was still beating mercilessly against the earth, and Hugh was a man with a cane . . . He really didn’t see how he had much choice in the matter.

Not to mention that this was his father he’d been forced to go see. No matter how furious Daniel was with Hugh—and Hugh suspected he was irreversibly furious—he would understand the necessity of meeting with the marquess.

“God, I hate this,” Hugh said to himself as he climbed awkwardly into the carriage. And then he wondered if some of Sarah’s propensity toward drama was rubbing off on him, because all he could think was—

I’m off to meet my doom.

The White Hart Inn

Thatcham

Berkshire

“What are you doing here?” Hugh demanded, the words spitting from his mouth before he had taken more than two steps into one of the White Hart’s private dining rooms.

“No greeting?” his father said, not bothering to rise from his seat. “No ‘Father, what brings you to Berkshire this fine day?’ ”

“It’s raining.”

“And the earth is renewed,” Lord Ramsgate said in a jolly voice.

Hugh gave him a cold stare. He hated when his father pretended to be paternal.

His father motioned to the chair across the table. “Sit.”

Hugh might have preferred to stand, if only to countermand him, but his leg ached, and his desire to thwart his father was not great enough for him to sacrifice his own comfort. He sat.

“Wine?” his father asked.

“No.”

“It’s not very good, anyway,” his father said, tossing back the remains of his glass. “I really ought to bring my own when I travel.”

Hugh sat in stony silence, waiting for his father to get to the point.

“The cheese is tolerable,” the marquess said. He reached out for a slice of bread from the cheeseboard on the table. “Bread? They can’t really muck up a loaf of—”

“What the devil is this about?” Hugh finally exploded.

His father had been clearly waiting for this moment. His face stretched into a smug smile, and he leaned back in his chair. “You can’t guess?”

“I wouldn’t dare try.”

“I’m here to congratulate you.”