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H ECTOR’S THROAT BURNED from the endless talking he’d done in the past hours.

Quentin had asked him dozens of questions about the storm and his life on the island, about how he’d been rescued and what he remembered of his life in London before the tragedy.

He’d inquired about some personal events of the family, things only a Wentworth could know.

Likely, he tried to understand if Hector was an impostor.

Funny, but Hector wondered the same thing about his cousin.

Hector had answered with brief replies, and yet, his throat burned. He rubbed his forehead, exhaustion weighing him down. “Enough questions. I need to sleep.”

Quentin’s smile tightened for a moment. “You must be tired. Your room should be ready. Jones will take good care of you.”

An ache pounded against Hector’s temples when the butler showed him to his bed chamber.

Not the one he’d occupied years ago but a guest room at the end of the corridor.

He didn’t recognise the house. The ground floor was the same, but Quentin had apparently renovated the other two floors, bringing down walls to create a large suite for himself and changing the white wainscoting with brown panels.

Even the white doors had been replaced with dark ones.

The result was an oppressive, dim surroundings.

His small guest room was an improvement compared to his shelter or even the cabin on the Empress .

But knowing that Quentin was asleep in the room that had belonged to his parents started an itch along his skin.

Not even Robert had dared take the master bedroom, despite Mother’s insistence.

He’d wanted to let her stay in the main bed chamber she’d shared for more than fifty years with her beloved husband.

Yes, Mother was dead, and Quentin wasn’t her son.

But Hector couldn’t help the wave of annoyance overtaking him.

“Do you have any luggage, sir?” Jones asked, the tip of his nose tilting up.

“Only my satchel.” With his precious book.

Jones eyed the satchel as if it were a rat. “Would you want to come down to the dining hall for dinner?”

“No. I’d rather stay here.” He paced around the room. It didn’t take long.

“I’ll have supper brought here, then.” Jones bowed his way out.

Finally, Hector was alone in peace. Although London’s traffic didn’t allow for much peace.

He lay on the bed, staring at the gloomy ceiling.

What had possessed Quentin to paint the ceiling grey in a city that was mostly grey?

The sky didn’t offer a better view. The clouds and smog obscured the stars.

Only the city’s lights blinked in and out of view through the mist. He rubbed his chest where an ache spread.

Maddie’s absence screamed in the room. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, be a burden for anyone.

He’d survived on a damn island; he could survive in London.

Eating toast and marmalade after years of living off fruits and fish was an experience that shook Hector to his core.

Not even on the Empress had he tasted such delicious bread, butter, and marmalade. He ate slowly, savouring every piece, and ignored his rumbling stomach demanding to be filled quickly.

He’d given up trying to find a familiar spot in the house. Quentin made so many changes Hector hardly recognised anything. But the dining hall was mostly untouched and by far his favourite place.

His precious journal lay in front him, its worn dark cover in stark contrast to the white tablecloth.

The butler had glanced at his book with horror and suggested he would be happy to toss it into the rubbish for his lordship.

Rubbish?After he’d catalogued, described, and drew all the plants and animals he’d seen on the island as best as he could for those eight years.

He’d been lucky to find it among the flotsam.

“No waistcoat?” Quentin asked, lowering his ironed copy of The Times . Just looking at him, all buttoned up in a crisp white shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and jacket made Hector nervous.

Hector shrugged. “I have no need for it.”

“What about shoes and a jacket?”

Another shrug. He was hungry. He’d think about his clothing later. He was in his own house, for crying out loud. There was no one he had to impress.

Quentin raised his brow, casting a long glance at him.

“Is this how you wish to present yourself?” he asked, buttering a slice of toast. “Quite inappropriate attire for a Wentworth,” he added after Hector didn’t say anything.

“And for God’s sake, what’s that awful thing?

” He stretched out an arm to touch the book, but Hector growled, scaring him away.

“It’s mine.” He scowled at Quentin from across the table.

His cousin paled, pursing his lips. “There’s no need to growl like an animal. People might think you are one.”

Who cared? “Why did you change the house?”

The abrupt question flustered Quentin. “Modernisation and improvements. The house has a more efficient plumbing system, and I needed more space.”

“What have you done with the pieces of furniture my parents chose?” He didn’t know why he was so obsessed with the house and its furniture, but the changes felt like a violation, although the plumbing might have needed to be redone.

Quentin took his time answering, stirring a teaspoon in his tea. “The furniture wasn’t to my taste. I prefer a Continental style.”

Right. Hector had to remind himself Quentin had believed everyone was dead. A different taste in furniture wasn’t an insult...but something else was. He sipped his tea, enjoying its rich, aromatic taste before focusing his attention on his cousin.

“I heard my mother isn’t buried in the family crypt next to my father and Robert.”

Quentin squirmed in his tailored white suit, a colour too bright for Hector’s liking, but then again, tastes and all that.

“You have to understand that the circumstances of her death were difficult. The physician, who examined her body, didn’t offer a definite conclusion.

” Quentin fiddled with his silk ascot tie.

“I had to make a decision, and with Robert’s body being shipped here, a quite complicated affair if you ask me, I had too many things to take care of. ”

“Too many things?” Hector ate even the breadcrumbs and the few drops of marmalade on his plate before licking the butter knife clean. “I want my mother in the family crypt where she belongs, where she wanted to be buried.”

The fiddling and stirring stopped. A hard glint flashed in Quentin’s icy gaze.

“You want . I understand your sentiment, Cousin, but I’m afraid you aren’t in the position to make demands, much less to give me orders.

I am the Duke of Blackburn. I make the decisions regarding the estate.

” His expression relaxed. “But I won’t hold you accountable for your lack of tact.

You’re obviously recovering from a harrowing ordeal, and I, as the only member of your family left, have every intention of taking good care of you. ”

“You don’t have to.” Hector had never given a toss about being the one in charge, but he was talking about his mother. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I believe I proved it these eight long years. It’s my mother’s resting place I’m worried about.”

Quentin let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a snort. “You have nothing to worry about.”

A flare of heated anger surged to the fore. Hector slammed a fist against the white tablecloth, causing the cups to rattle in the saucers.

“I’m not the same man as I was. I won’t play the propriety game with you. My mother is going to rest in the family crypt. I don’t need your permission to have her moved.”

He wasn’t sure about that, but he’d be damned if he let Quentin stop him.

On top of that, he hadn’t slept well. Too many noises.

Carriages driving on the cobbles, horses, partygoers returning home inebriated, and someone nearby had to own a donkey, judging by the loud brays that had jolted him.

His patience wore thinner than a spider’s silk.

Quentin’s hands balled into tight fists. Fists that were too delicate and refined for someone who knew how to fight. Hector guessed he could knock out Quentin with a single punch if needed.

“Hector, we should leave this conversation for a later time when you’re less temperamental, and—” The rest of his sentence was cut off by Jones entering the dining room.

“Sir.” He bowed from the waist. “Mr. Merriweather wishes to see you immediately.” Jones cast a disapproving glance at Hector. It had to be a favourite activity of his. “He has been insistent on wanting to see you now. Very insistent, your grace.”

Quentin’s gaze shot towards the ceiling. “Show him to the ground-floor parlour.”

“Actually, sir, he wishes to see Your Grace and…” Jones regarded Hector as if he had no idea what to do with him. “And Lord Hector.”

Both Quentin and Hector scowled. Who the hell was this Merriweather?

Quentin pressed his lips together and folded his napkin neatly. “I see. Well, then, show Mr. Merriweather in.” He waved dismissively, and Jones left the room.

“Who’s this gentleman?” Hector asked.

“A pain in the neck. A solicitor with an opinion on everything. The worst thing our society could ever produce,” Quentin said. “I’m glad I gave him the sack.”

Hector scratched his chin where a stubble had grown since Maddie shaved him. Why would a solicitor want to see him?

Jones opened the door and bowed again. Hector had forgotten how many times the servants bowed. Too many.

“Your Grace, Lord Hector… Mr. Merriweather.” Jones barely finished announcing the guest before a brawny, bronze-haired man strode inside, chest thrown out and shoulders squared.

Holding a leather folder for dear life, Mr. Merriweather walked into the room with long strides and came to a halt in front of Hector, not Quentin. A boyish smile stretched his wide mouth.