Free Fortune's Son by Emery Lee Page B

his will for the much-dreaded interview, Philip strode purposefully up to the door of Hastings House.
    ***
    Grayson, the faithful retainer, answered the door. “Master Philip, what a delight to see you home.”
    Philip noted, with a degree of pleasure, the almost-smile that registered on the butler’s stolid face. “I don’t know that I ever called this place home,” he said upon entering. His gaze swept the twenty-foot ceiling, Italian marble floors, and luxurious appointments, as if retrieving the entire layout from a distant memory. “Indeed, I’m not sure I was ever here but twice in my life.”
    â€œIt was meant figuratively,” Grayson explained. “Home is the bosom of the family from which you have been absent for far too long.”
    Philip grinned. “Is that a scold, Grayson?”
    The butler gave a dignified sniff. “Suffice to say, you have been missed.”
    â€œThank you. It means much, but I still wouldn’t have come at all were it not for his lordship’s summons. Do you have any idea what he wants?”
    â€œI would have little notion. The earl does not confide in his servants.”
    â€œTrue enough.” The Earl of Hastings was a man who held his cards closely and kept his own confidence at all costs. Two separate charges of treason, even though acquitted, might do that to a man, Philip decided cynically.
    â€œHe wishes to see you in his private chambers.”
    â€œGout attack?”
    â€œIt’s one of his longest episodes, I’m afraid. He refuses to follow the physician’s recommendations.”
    â€œWhat a surprise that is. He’ll no doubt be in a damnable humor.”
    Grayson offered only a tight-lipped smile in reply.
    With the exception of their two sets of echoing footfalls, they continued in a protracted silence through the long corridor to the earl’s private apartments. The foreboding starkness penetrated into Philip’s very bones.
    Philip was bleakly reminded of his last encounter with the earl. He’d been sixteen years old and certainly no wilder than most of his cohorts at Harrow, but less prone to feigned contrition. He’d also failed to govern his tongue, for which he’d suffered many a lashing at the master’s hand, and finally expulsion.
    He’d been falsely accused of leading the other boys astray, when in truth he’d learned gaming from the very schoolmates who’d peached him, once he began to clean out their pockets. After the requisite caning, he’d been expelled in disgrace with no opportunity to defend himself. When he’d faced Lord Hastings, who would believe the worst of him in any case, Philip had maintained an obdurate silence under his interrogation, resulting in a reopening of the stripes on his backside that had only begun to heal.
    For a young man of sixteen to be publicly whipped by a servant, at his father’s command, it was more humiliation than Philip could bear. Rather than facing the daily opprobrium of a father who despised him, Philip had obstinately struck out on his own, determined more than ever to live down to his father’s expectations.
    This, to his anguish and regret, had also broken his mother’s heart. In the first six months, he’d written her only one letter to inform her he was well, and shortly thereafter she was gone, consumed by the wasting disease.
    The guilt had nearly been his undoing. He’d taken to heavy drink and low company shortly after that, and might well have lost his life on three occasions. The experience had taught him the three rules he would come to live by: trust no one, as every man is a cheat; always follow one’s instincts when in doubt; and lastly, depend upon no one, as ultimately every man will fend for himself over and above any other. These three cardinal rules had guided him well enough until now.
    Grayson preceded him into the earl’s chamber to announce his arrival.