“Well enough for a man of my age, I suppose.” Uncle Roland shrugged. “I take regular exercise. I am not able to eat everything I used to, which is to be expected but is nonetheless annoying. My bones creak a bit, but, all in all, I think I am holding up rather well against the vestiges of time.”

“You haven’t been . . . ill?”

“Oh, I had a nasty bout with a head cold a few months ago.”

“That’s all?”

“It was a very unpleasant cold,” Uncle Roland said firmly.

Gray chose his words with care. “Then you’re not . . . dying?”

“Dying?” Uncle’s Roland’s eyes widened. “Do I look like I’m dying?”

“You do look in good health, but—”

“We’re all dying, Cousin. Some of us sooner than others.” Win strode into the library, dressed in riding clothes, a broad grin on his face.

Gray rose to his feet and stared at his cousin. Irritation at Win’s obvious lie mixed with delight at seeing once more the man he considered his brother. “You wrote he was dying.”

“He is.” Win shrugged. “We all die eventually. Can’t escape it.”

Uncle Roland’s forehead furrowed. “Winfield, what have you done?”

“What I have done, Father, is given you and Mother what you want most for Christmas, second only to my marrying and providing an heir, that is. And that shall have to wait for another Christmas.” Win cast his father the infectious smile that had been the downfall of more than one reluctant lady, the irresistible smile that very nearly always got him exactly what he wanted.

“Well.” He stepped to his cousin and met Gray’s gaze straight on. The two were both tall, with no more than half an inch difference in their respective heights. They were of similar builds as well, both physically fit. “Do you want to admit that you were wrong? Confess that you should have come home years ago, and you are secretly pleased that I have at last forced you to do so? Or shall I take you out into the garden and thrash you thoroughly, as I used to do when we were young.” His grin widened. “You uncivilized American.”

“You couldn’t then, and you can’t now.” Gray’s grin matched his cousin’s. “You pompous English prig.”

Uncle Roland groaned.

Win clasped his cousin’s shoulders. “Forgiven, then?”

Relief battled with annoyance, and affection won. Gray shrugged. “Well, after all, as it is Christmas. . . .”

Win laughed and embraced him. “Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back.” Even as he said the words, he knew the truth of them. He had been away far too long.