“I’m disappointed.” He sounded cold to his own ears.
A flush spread over Peregrin’s nose and cheekbones, making him look oddly boyish. But at nearly nineteen, he was a man. Sebastian had taken over a dukedom at that age. Then again, he probably had never been as young as Peregrin.
His gaze slid past his brother to the wall. Six estate paintings to the right of the door, the one depicting Montgomery Castle still to the left. Sixteen years ago, he had ordered all paintings to be hung on the left side, the daily reminder of what his father had lost, sold, or ruined during his short reign. Granted, the foundation of the dukedom had been crumbling for decades, and his grandfather had broken most of the entails. But his father had had a choice: to fix the spreading financial rot eating away at their estates, or to surrender. He had chosen to surrender and he had done it like a Montgomery did all things—with brutal effectiveness. The recovery process had been distasteful, an endless procession of arms twisted, of favors asked and granted and traditions flouted. Sebastian almost understood why his mother had moved to France; it was easier to ignore there what he had become—a duke with a merchant’s mind. Anything to get the castle back. It wasn’t even that he felt a great attachment to the place. It was dark and drafty and the plumbing was terrible, and having it back would be another deadweight in his purse. But what was his was his. Duty was duty. Come March, Castle Montgomery would finally be on the right side of the door. Yes, it was a bloody inopportune time for his heir apparent to play the village idiot.
He gave Peregrin a hard look. “You spent the tuition on entertaining friends, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited.
“And I . . . I played some cards.”
Sebastian’s jaw tensed. “Any women?”
Peregrin’s flush turned splotchy. “You can hardly expect me to own it,” he stammered.
Privately, Sebastian agreed; the doings of his brother behind closed doors were none of his business. But few things could trip up a wealthy, idiotic young lord more than a cunning social climber.
“You know how it is,” he said. “Unless I know her parents, she is out to fleece you.”
“There’s no one,” Peregrin said, petulant enough to indicate that there was someone.
Sebastian made a mental note to have his man comb through the demimonde and have Madam, whoever she was, informed to take her ambitions elsewhere.
He tapped his finger on the letter. “I will take compensation for the rain pipe out of your allowance.”
“Understood.”
“You are not coming to France with me; you will stay here and study.”
A moment’s hesitation, a sullen nod.
“And you will go to Penderyn for the duration of the New Year’s house party.”
Peregrin paled. “But—”
A glance was enough to make his brother choke his protest back down, but the tendons in Peregrin’s neck were straining. Incomprehensibly, Peregrin enjoyed house parties and fireworks; in fact, the more turbulence engulfed him, the more cheerful he seemed to become, and he had been jubilant to hear about the reinstatement of the New Year’s Eve party. Nothing ever happened at the estate in Wales.
“May I take a caning instead, please?” Peregrin asked.
Sebastian frowned. “At your age? No. Besides. You need more time to reflect on your idiocy than a few minutes.”
Peregrin lowered his gaze to the floor.
Still, he had seen it: the flash of emotion in his brother’s eyes. Had he not known better, he would have said it was hatred.
Oddly, it stung.
He leaned back in his chair. Somewhere during the sixteen years he had parented Peregrin, he must have failed him, as he was obviously not growing into the man he was meant to be. Or perhaps . . . Peregrin was growing exactly into what he was. Someone like their father.
Not while I live.
Peregrin still had his head bowed. The tops of his ears looked hot.
“You may leave me now,” Sebastian said. “In fact, I do not want to see you here again until term break.”
* * *
Peregrin Devereux was not what Annabelle had expected. With his twinkling hazel eyes and dirt-blond hair, he looked boyish, approachable . . . even likable. Everything his brother was not.
She, Hattie, and Catriona found him leaning against one of the pillars of St. John’s with a half-smoked cigarette, which he politely extinguished as they approached.
He eyed their little group with faint bemusement. “Ladies, color me an optimist,” he