“And you can only be civil and cordial to someone you’ve known for ages?” Wes raised one brow. “You’ve got a lot in common with Wessex, you know. He also inherited young. You might find him an interesting acquaintance.”
The expression on Justin’s face was just shy of incredulous. “I doubt it. He’s old enough to be my father.”
Not quite; Wessex was only a few years older than Wes, if memory served. “Your father would be pleased for you to know him,” he said instead.
Justin did not reply. He turned to gaze moodily out the window again. After a few minutes, Wes drew out his travel atlas. He smoothed open the pages and his irritation subsided. The illustrations were remarkable, and he was able to locate their location to within a few miles. The travel guide provided plenty of description of the surrounding countryside, and he lost himself in vignettes of Roman ruins and splendid castles and manors.
“It’s snowing,” Justin muttered.
Wes turned a page, still reading about the stone circle found not far from here. “We’re almost there.”
“What if we have to stop and become snowed in at some dreary little inn on the side of the road?”
“I doubt that will happen.”
Justin was quiet for a moment, then burst out, “We’ll be trapped at Kingstag, won’t we?”
Wes glanced out the window. It was indeed snowing, but not hard. “It’s not likely, this far south. We’re not in Russia.”
“Might as well be,” was the grumbled retort.
“You have no idea what Russia is like.”
“Nor am I ever likely to!”
Wes closed the book with a snap. “Your behavior is the reason,” he warned. “This is why your mother wanted you to come with me—I daresay she was sick to death of listening to you complain.” He glared at his nephew. “If you wish to be treated as a man of sense, worthy of respect, you might begin acting the part.”
Justin gaped at him. “I didn’t ask for my father to die!”
“Neither did I,” Wes retorted. “I was only five years older than you when my father died. Don’t imagine I’ve forgotten what it was like.” He softened his voice as Justin’s eyes grew round and his lower lip jutted out. “Life serves us all some hard turns. Carousing at the pub and chasing the miller’s daughter isn’t something you are owed, and either one can cause long-lasting regret. Do you want to cause your mother even more anguish, on top of her sorrow at your father’s death?” Justin jerked his head no. “I should hope not.” With that stern pronouncement, Wes sat back and opened his book again.
For the next hour Justin said nothing. Once or twice Wes stole a glance at him under pretext of checking the weather, but Justin was simply staring out the window, shoulders hunched. He hoped his nephew managed to comport himself graciously at Kingstag. Wes didn’t know Wessex personally, and his mission would be greatly complicated by a surly nephew. If Justin behaved like a moody child and cost Wes a chance to get that atlas . . . He breathed deeply and assured himself that would not happen; he would not allow it to happen. One way or another he would rein in Justin.
Finally the carriage slowed to turn into a winding oak-lined avenue. Wes put the book aside for good; it had grown too dark to read anyway, even with the lamps lit. Outside the window, one of the outriders galloped past on his way to announce them at the house. “I believe we’ve arrived.”
Justin nodded.
“I recognize this is not how you planned to spend your holiday,” he went on, trying to be understanding. “A viscount will be subject to duty and obligation, and not all of it is exceedingly pleasant. However, you can make anything as bearable, or as horrible, as you choose by how you approach the matter. Conduct yourself with grace and good will, and you will find yourself master of the situation instead of a victim gnashing his teeth over the gross indignity of everything.”
“What am I do to here, Uncle Winterton?” asked Justin plaintively. “I know nothing about atlases or old books. I’ve never met the duke. It’s the middle of winter and I shall miss Christmas with my mother and sisters. It feels like punishment.”
“We’ll be back in Hampshire by Twelfth Night. If all goes very well, perhaps sooner. And I don’t view it as punishment—a change of scene, nothing more.” He waited, but Justin merely heaved a silent sigh. He accepted his fate, but without understanding. “Buck up, lad,” said Wes bracingly. “When you were a child, you used to beg to come along on my travels.”
“The East Indies sounded a great deal more exciting and exotic than Dorset in winter.”
Wes laughed. The carriage had reached the front of the house, which was indeed a castle, though one shorn of moat and outer wall. “True enough! But you never know where adventure may be lurking.” The footman opened the door, and Wes stepped out.
Justin followed, pulling his greatcoat tightly around him as he peered up at the massive stone walls of Kingstag Castle, doubt written on his face. “In Dorset? I can’t imagine.”
“Try.” He strode forward through the swirling snow. An inch or two had accumulated, suggesting it had been snowing for some time here. With a sharp jangle of harness, the carriage started off again; the coachman would want to get the horses out of the cold as soon as possible. The butler was waiting in the wide open doorway of the house, holding a lantern aloft like a beacon.
The cavernous hall inside was dim, the candlelight no match for the soaring vaulted ceiling above. A footman pulled the tall doors shut with a clang behind them, while another servant took their hats and coats, and a third instantly stepped forward with a broom to whisk away the snow that had blown in with them. The butler bowed. “Good evening, my
