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T HAT NIGHT, IT wasn’t the noise from the streets or the donkey that disturbed Hector’s sleep, but his constant worry.

The gaunt faces of those workers would appear in front of him every time he closed his eyes.

His chest would tighten in worry, and shame would burn at the back of his mouth.

Robert had been right. Hector hadn’t cared about a duke’s responsibilities or appreciated a duke’s work.

But now it was personal. He had to do the right thing, not only for the employees, but for his family name as well.

If he wanted to honour Robert’s principles, he had to take control of the dukedom.

He perked up when footsteps padded from the corridor. Quentin’s voice sounded too low for Hector to understand what he said, but another voice came. Someone had to be with him. Two different sets of footsteps reached his ears, muffled by the carpet. He huffed. A lover, perhaps. He didn’t care.

He rolled onto his back. Becoming a duke meant learning how to deal with politicians and solicitors.

Not what he longed to do. He probably wouldn’t become the scientist he’d dreamt to be, but at least he could publish his book with all the things he’d learnt on the island, and he could keep studying botany at his leisure while dealing with the House of Lords.

A scream jolted him. He sat bolt upright. Another muffled sound, like a child whimpering, echoed from the other room.

“Be still!” Quentin said in a raspy voice.

What was going on?

He jumped off the bed and inched the door open. The cold wooden floor chilled his bare feet. More muffled noises came from Quentin’s bedroom. It sounded like a struggle. A new feminine scream shocked him. He marched to Quentin’s room and pushed the door open without knocking.

Half-undressed, Quentin towered over a shivering, crying girl.

All the air rushed out of Hector’s lungs. Hell, she had to be barely fifteen. A child. The front of her gown was ripped, and she clutched the torn fabric with trembling fingers.

“Leave. Now!” Quentin strode to him, muscles tensing under his unbuttoned shirt.

Hector didn’t move. Quentin’s pupils were so dilated the blue irises were barely visible, and even in the dim light, his face appeared flushed and glistening with sweat.

Hector ignored him. “Do you wish to leave, child?”

She nodded, rouge smearing her cheeks.

Hector didn’t need to hear more. He shoved Quentin aside and headed for the scared girl.

“Get out.” Quentin’s voice sounded cracked and raspy. He lunged, staggering on his feet, but Hector blocked him by grabbing him by the shoulders.

“You are…” He was about to say drunk but wasn’t sure his cousin was just drunk. He shoved him again and crouched in front of the girl. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, curling up in a corner.

“Do you need a physician?”

“I want to go home,” she whispered.

He moved to haul her up and take her out of the room but paused, not sure how she’d react. “Leave. Wait for me in the hallway. I’ll take care of him. He won’t hurt you.”

She sprang up like a rabbit and fled the room in a flutter of torn silk and dishevelled hair.

“No!” Quentin went to grab her arm, but Hector pushed him away easily.

Quentin tottered back and fell over, groaning and clutching his stomach.

Hector snatched a few guineas from the dresser and a coat before leaving his cousin muttering nonsense on the floor. One word arrived loud and clear though.

“Bastard,” Quentin said.

As if Hector cared. He walked over to the girl who was halfway down the stairs. “Here.” He handed her the coat and the money. “Take a hansom cab. There’s always one or two passing by. Would you like me to escort you home?”

Her horrified face said it all. He didn’t look reassuring, barefoot, shirtless, and with wild hair.

“No.” She rushed down the stairs faster than he could ask her if she wanted a maid’s company.

Well, he couldn’t blame her. He shuffled back to his bedroom, pausing at Quentin’s door. Nausea roiled his stomach. If he needed one more reason to claim the title, Quentin had just given it to him.