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you men must talk of serious things? I noted his lordship is riding a splendid fellow of mature years with a story emblazoned on his quarters.”
    Aaron slid his arm around Marjorie’s waist, his expression bemused. “The girl is horse mad. One of her many fine qualities.”
    Another blush, but softer, and directed at Aaron by his own wife. Gabriel was reassured by the exchange, because surely a woman didn’t blush at a husband she resented?
    “Soldier was at the knacker’s when I found him,” Gabriel said, “stoically awaiting his fate with a great gash on his backside from one too many skirmishes with the French or the local bandits or heaven knows whom. He was all I could afford, but he has excellent conformation, and all the sense and bottom of a seasoned campaigner, provided I make allowances for his injury.”
    “He looks like he’d be a keen jumper,” Marjorie said, and the topic of horses and the current population in the Hesketh stables served to get them through dinner. Marjorie excused herself thereafter, leaving the gentlemen to their drinks.
    “Shall we remove to the library, so the kitchen can clean up?” Aaron suggested.
    “We shall.” Gabriel rose and moved across the hall with his brother. “And so these old bones can rest by a roaring fire, because the night is getting damned chilly.”
    “Your back bothers you when it’s cold?” The question was posed casually, because even a brother trod lightly in certain areas, and Aaron was careful to be busy poking up the fire as he spoke.
    “My back bothers me constantly,” Gabriel admitted. “I’m like my horse. I manage well enough, but if I overdo, I pay dearly. And sometimes, when I don’t overdo, I pay just as dearly.”
    “Laudanum?”
    “Not on a bet.”
    “This might help.” Aaron passed him a glass of brandy. “These past two years, you were close by?”
    “For most of it.”
    “You came by, didn’t you?” Aaron poured his own drink and studied the decanter upon which, Gabriel knew, he would see the Hesketh wheat sheaves etched—the heraldic symbol for hopes realized. “At times, I felt as if you were watching, but I’d turn around, and no Gabriel. Gabriel was dead. I was almost sure of it.”
    Gabriel said nothing, because admitting he’d spied on his brother wasn’t going to help their situation.
    “I know what you’re about, Gabriel.” Aaron set the decanter aside. “You’ve been trying to decide whether I attempted to have you killed. And you couldn’t come to a conclusion from a safe distance, so you’re bearding the lion, so to speak.”
    Gabriel lowered himself into a well-padded chair—though the seat still wasn’t as comfortable as his chair in Polly Hunt’s kitchen. “If I ask the question directly, you’ll have to call me out.”
    “Suppose I will.” Aaron took the other chair while Gabriel envied him his ease of movement. “You’re suffering more than a twinge in your back now, aren’t you?”
    “Not really. It knocks me on my arse from time to time, but mostly it’s stiff without being painful. I meant it when I said the place is prospering. You’ve done well, Aaron.”
    “I’m not sure if I should resent that comment or appreciate it, coming from you. I’ve made some changes, but it’s all right there in the estate log.”
    “What’s the estate log?” Gabriel didn’t make the effort to rise. The day had been long, the ride down from Town grueling, and the estate book wasn’t going anywhere.
    “I’ve found dear George doesn’t have perfect recall,” Aaron said. “He isn’t one for noting exactly which herd dropped the first lambs, or which farm the scours started on, and so forth, so I started keeping a log. It’s useful.”
    “Useful?” The heat from the fire was the most useful thing Gabriel had encountered since finding Polonaise Hunt lurking in his portrait gallery.
    Aaron’s portrait gallery.
    “George was going to let three hundred acres fallow three years in a