Page 5 of A Lady’s Rules for Seaside Romance (The Harp & Thistle #3)
“I know.” Fergus looked out into the room with an empty gaze. “The fact remains that I am over ninety years. But alas, unlike our twentieth great-grandfather’s half-magical children, I will not reach one hundred. But most in our line do live exceptionally long lives.”
Victor felt darkness roll over him. “Except my father, right?”
Fergus’s eyes immediately snapped to Victor.
“Generation after generation, we have an abnormal number of centenarians. But we are not immortal.” His voice sharpened.
“Your father chose to abandon his responsibilities, take up with a woman from a low class, and then die from one of his insipid locomotives.”
Thirty years had passed since Victor had abandoned his responsibilities as well and run away from his grandparents—this house—at sixteen years of age. A big reason behind his decision to leave had been arguments regarding his father and comments about his mother.
Victor rubbed a hand over his face. Defending his parents for the thousandth time would not solve anything and he would rather just leave instead.
“All right, fine, you’re dying,” Victor redirected.
“But you said you’re not sick.” Victor was trying to figure out what in the blazes was the point his grandfather was trying to make.
“Just because you’re over ninety doesn’t mean you’re about to die.
You could still have several years left, and for my sake, I sincerely hope you do. ”
Fergus sunk back into his seat and knit his fingers together. “I am fit as a fiddle, aye. Feel as healthy as can be. But I will be dying this summer and I know that as fact.”
Victor leaned forward, concerned. “You aren’t planning to—”
“Och, no.” Fergus waved a hand, but there was a long pause as he weighed what to say next. “There was a point to my selkie story. While we may be one thousand years out from it, magic remains in our blood, though it has lessened over time.”
Victor lifted an eyebrow and thought about Dantes’s lifelong bad luck.
Or good luck, depending on how you looked at it.
And Ollie had once commented a few years ago about being able to talk to ghosts.
At the time, Victor had suggested Ollie visit a doctor.
But could that have been… No, that was ridiculous.
Victor waved that thought away. Selkies weren’t real, and the McNabs didn’t have magical blood. Victor certainly didn’t.
Fergus leaned forward and said in a low whisper, “I can predict my death.”
Of course, Victor didn’t believe this for a moment, but he decided to humor the old man anyway. “And how do you know you’re going to die this summer?”
“A feeling.” Fergus tapped his head.
“Right.” With a sigh, Victor slapped his palms down to the arms of his chair. “I should go.”
“You are missing the key piece here, Victor.” The elderly duke rose at the same time. “I know I will die in the next few months. I am giving you fair warning, something other heirs do not get the benefit of.”
“You’re not going to die this summer.”
“Aye, but I am, whether or not Marjory or I—or you—like it.” Fergus began leading him to the door but then went a bit off to the side to a table. There was a thick stack of paper atop it, tied neatly with twine. Fergus took it and handed it to Victor.
“What is this?” Victor asked as he took it.
“Everything about the dukedom you’ll need to know. The properties, the servants at each property, tenants, financials, etcetera.”
A flush of heat hit Victor. But, no, the duke dying this year was preposterous.
Victor gave his grandfather one last look over.
Yes, the man was old. But he was still spry, though a bit creakier than he had been his younger days.
He could hear just fine, see just fine, and still had the bulking form typical of the McNab men.
If Fergus lived another ten years, Victor wouldn’t be surprised in the least.
But he did remain the heir, whether he liked it or not.
“Any chance someone else could take over instead?” Victor asked. “Someone far more suitable than myself? I think we both would agree of my brothers, I am the least suited for the position.”
Fergus let out a grumbling noise as he looked over his grandson. “In truth, I can’t imagine you rubbing elbows with aristocrats. Perhaps you should find a way to make yourself more suitable, then.”
Victor lifted an eyebrow as he hefted the mass of papers in his arm. “And how do you suppose I do that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. The one good thing about knowing you’re going to be dead soon is you find you stop caring about things that don’t matter. And, frankly, I could care less what happens to the dukedom once I’m gone. If you make a fool of yourself, it has no effect on me.”
As there was nothing more to say on the subject, and he desperately wanted to leave, Victor moved to the door.
“Ah, just one last thing,” Fergus said. “Do you think…?” The elderly man was, for the first time Victor had ever seen, at a loss for words. Fergus cleared his throat. “Could we have been better grandparents?”
“Yes,” Victor replied.
Fergus nodded, considering this. “Dantes came back around. And Oliver never left us once we brought you boys in. Could we have done something to get you to come home before now?”
Victor stared back unblinking, feeling darkness trying to overtake him. “That depends. I know you were upset with my father when he married my mother. They had us. Didn’t you wonder what happened to us after he died? After she died?”
“Victor, laddie, your mother was a laudanum addict from the slums. And Irish, at that. Look at where we are right now.” Fergus glanced around the opulent room. “She didn’t belong here. And do you think she’d wanted anything to do with us?”
Victor scowled, remembering the times he hadn’t eaten for days in order to feed his younger brothers. The violence they’d witnessed. The never-ending peril and worry as he, a child himself, had taken care of two small, orphaned children. “You didn’t answer the question. Ollie was a toddler!”
There was no emotion in Fergus’s eyes. The man did not seem affected by this at all. And his answering shrug solidified that.
“Then, no,” Victor said in a dangerous voice. “You couldn’t have done anything to bring me back.”
“Fair enough, then.” Fergus opened the door but didn’t pass through it to walk Victor out. “Good luck, then, laddie.”
Victor walked out of the room without responding. And he didn’t look back as he walked out the door.