by Alyssa Cole
“I get it. I’ll go now,” she said.
“What the bloody hell, Portia? You come in here presenting this Sherlock Holmes shite, solve the greatest mystery of my life, and then call yourself an arsehole?”
She blinked at him.
“You’re not an arsehole,” he said.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that with such conviction,” she countered.
He remembered her sitting across from him that first morning.
I . . . really need this.
“Well, I guess I will soon enough. You were offering to help me with this, right?”
“Right.”
“What’re you charging?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m your apprentice. It’s covered.”
“Charging me nothing for something I’m sure costs a song. You’re right. You’re a raging arsehole. Get out of my sight.”
She just looked at him. Tav ran his hands through his hair, then took a deep breath.
“Look, I need to talk to Jamie. And my mum. We have a lot to discuss, it seems. But if I do this. If. I wouldn’t mind the help. I have to pay you, though. This is more than what you signed up for.”
“I’ll invoice you later.” She snatched the tablet from him. “If, that is.”
She hurried out, likely to find some new way to disrupt his life, and Tav sat alone with what looked to be a pretty clear truth: he was royally fucked.
“MÍRALO, MY SON has finally figured out how to use the video chat, I see.”
His mother looked lovely as she always did; her smooth tan skin didn’t show her sixty years, and all that she’d gone through. Behind her, he could see the artwork she and his dad had collected each trip to Santiago until they’d finally retired and made their vacation home a more permanent one. Tav focused on the art because he hadn’t realized until the moment her face popped up on the screen that he was angry at her, too. Really angry, it seemed.
“Hola, mi amor,” she said, beaming at him.
“Douglas. Tavish. McGuinness. Dudgeon,” he replied, the words edged with razor wire. He’d thought he’d start off with “hello” and ease into the whole “did you forget to tell me I was next in line for a dukedom?” thing, but life was full of surprises, he was discovering.
To her credit, she didn’t flinch, or sigh, or react much at all. Instead, she smiled her beatific smile and shook her head like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“Ay dios,” she said quietly, as if she’d forgotten her metro pass or some other mundane setback. His mother had always been good at making things seem less serious. When boys at school teased him, making fun of his mother and father and the fact that he looked nothing like them, she’d always gently said, “We know better than to indulge foolishness, m’hijo. And besides, the Kinley boy’s mum ran off. He’s just acting out.”
She always had reason to forgive, and she always asked the same of Tav. One day, tired of her beatific nature he’d had the cheek to ask, “So you forgive Pinochet then?” His mother had slapped him, reflexively, then cried for days afterward every time she’d looked at him because she’d been so racked with guilt.
Tav didn’t want to see her cry again, and he tried to leave his anger to cool on the sill.
“I have never cared who my father was,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “My biological father. Because Dad is my real father, and I love him. But I need to know. If what Portia has dug up is true . . .”
“Portia? Is this the woman your brother told me about? The apprentice?” Her eyes went wide and speculative, as if possible matchmaking might be more important than the truth around his background.
“Mum. Please.”
She sighed. “Look. I was young. I was scared. I found asylum in this strange country, where I no longer had to worry that I might be tortured or killed, like so many of my family and friends.” She looked around her slowly, and not for the first time he wondered if going back to Santiago meant constantly walking through the ghosts of her past. She remembered herself and looked back at him through the screen. “I’d lost everything. Then, after going through hell, I showed up in Scotland expecting the worst, and everyone was so kind! A parade met our bus as we pulled into town, and people began giving us clothing and gifts as soon as we stepped onto the ground.”
She had told him this part before, in different variations throughout his life, but she had never cried before. Now the tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
“Mum,” he said. This was why he hated this video shite. His teeth pressed together as he watched his mother weep on a cold, flat screen, unable to do anything about it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not crying because I’m upset,” she said. “I’m crying because I was so happy and proud to be in Scotland, with these kind people, if I could no longer be in Chile. First, we had to stay with strangers in their homes, until things were sorted. And because I could speak English very well, I began to translate for the other refugees and helping the organization that was handling our care.” She laughed a bit. “We didn’t think of ourselves as refugees, of course. That’s what everyone else called us. We just thought of ourselves as lucky.”
“Is that where you met him? Translating? I saw he ran a program that worked with refugees,” Tav said. “I guess he used it to troll for innocent young women, too? What a hero.”
His mother wiped at the tears in her eyes. “I thought not telling you was best, but before anything, I have to say this—your father was a good man. He cared so much about helping people, and we thought we could help people together.”
“Then he ran off on us,” Tav said.
“No. Then, his father died. And his responsibilities fell onto him like a thunderclap from the sky.” She shook her head and took a deep breath. “His father had lost most of the family’s money on bad investments, and he was expected to fix their finances, join the peerage, produce an heir . . . but not with a Chilean refugee by his side.”
She shrugged.
Tav was furious on her behalf. “If he really loved you, he would have fought for you.”
His mother laughed. “You think that’s what love is? I told you that all those books about knights and chivalry as a boy would warp your expectations.”
His mother sighed and shook her head.
“He did. Fight for me, as you say. It was me who ended things. I told him it was over because I didn’t know him anymore. He’d already begun to change. To grow harder. To drink more. To get angry at me when he was really angry at the world for forcing him to fill this role. It broke him, I think.”
“You expect me to feel bad for him? That he was given power and property and, eventually, wealth?”
“Yes, I do, Tavish. Because I raised you better than to hate someone because it’s the easy thing to do. And if you want to hate someone, hate me. He didn’t know about you until years later.”
“Wha?” Tavish was so stunned he couldn’t even hit the last consonant. He hadn’t thought much about his biological father as a child—his real dad had been enough. In fact, it wasn’t until he’d inherited the property that he’d first felt the sting of resentment. That was when what he’d supposed had happened to his mother had solidified into the truth in his mind—but he’d had it all wrong.
She let out a stream of Spanish he couldn’t understand, then continued. “I didn’t tell him because I saw what that life did to him, and I didn’t want that forced onto you. And . . . I was scared. He was a powerful man who had become even more powerful, and I was a refugee. I had already learned once what the powerful were capable of. He could have done anything he wanted if he decided to keep you for himself. I couldn’t take the chance of losing my child, after everything else I had lost.”
Her tears had stopped and her chin was up. This was by no means an apology. It was an explanation. He felt like he deserved more, but it was simple if he thought about it. It was a lie of omission that had snowballed out of
control and nearly squashed its teller. She’d thought she was doing the right thing. Tav couldn’t say that she hadn’t. He couldn’t say she had. He was too busy being squashed by the out-of-control snowball on its return trip.
“If he didn’t know about me, how did he give me the armory?” he asked. That was an easy question. Easier than dozens of others he had.
“He found out eventually. He saw us walking—saw you—and figured it out. But by that time he was married, for the second time, and bound by even more responsibility than before. The tabloid columnists were always on his tail, talking about his drinking and his mistakes, and he knew being linked with him would hurt you.”
“So he was a saint,” Tav said, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“No. He was a man who wanted a simple life but was handed a complex one. And he understood that if he acknowledged you at that point, you wouldn’t have that choice.”
Tav felt the urge to throw things return. Goddammit, where had all these feelings come from? He needed to go forge or grind until he’d burned or abraded all his feelings away. He thought of Portia’s hand resting on his trembling fist and exhaled slowly.
“This is a lot to take in, Mum.”
She smiled. “I know, m’hijo. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You are happy with your life, yes?”
Tav paused. He was generally satisfied, though stressed described the last year more accurately. Happy?
An image of Portia popped into his mind. Portia holding a blade she’d forged herself. That they’d forged together.
“I get by,” he responded gruffly. “But now, I have the possibility to do more. I can expand the breakfast program, set up more programs for kids . . . do something about the shite the rich bastards are pulling in the neighborhood instead of just whinging about it.”
His mother looked truly upset for the first time since the conversation had started. “You really want to pursue this?”
Tav thought of the developers ravening through his neighborhood like locusts that shit condos and coffee shops. He thought of the kids who pretended not to want breakfast and snuck muffins in their pockets when they thought no one was looking. He thought about Jamie, and Cheryl, and all of the people who voted dutifully and hoped for the best, but had no one that knew what their lives were really like schmoozing with the rich and telling things from their perspective.
“I always wanted to be a Sir Tavish McKenzie rather than Lord, but Your Grace will work,” he said.
She smiled sadly.
“I know you think you hate him, but you’re more like him than you know,” she said. “Always helping others, and always underestimating the cost of it.”
There was a knock at the door to his mother’s office then, and his father suddenly appeared onscreen, holding a tray with two ceramic teacups. Tav could only see the bright green button-up shirt he wore and his dark arms holding the tray. His mother looked up. “He knows, corazón. And he’s talking about what he could do if he claimed the title.”
His father placed the tray on the desk, then knelt beside his wife to peer at Tav through the screen. His mustache was now more silver than black, but he looked well rested. “Oh I know that look,” he said. “You gonna do this thing, then, son?”
“I don’t know, Dad.” Tav scraped his hand over his stubble. “What do you think?”
“I think the monarchy and peerage are parasites, sucking the lifeblood of the working man, but you would be my favorite parasite.” His father paused and seemed to consider the possibilities. “And I have to admit, getting to have a word with the Queen would be something.”
Tavish imagined his father explaining why the monarchy should have been abolished along with slavery and didn’t know whether to immediately accept the title because of that or to immediately reject it.
“Do you think anyone has ever called the Queen bumbleclot to her face?” his dad asked, stroking his chin as if pondering a philosophical question.
“Henry!” His mother slapped at his father’s arm, but then her hand slid down until their palms touched and their fingers interlaced. He saw his father’s fingers flex, giving silent comfort though he’d cut the tension with his jokes. His parents worked well that way, one shoring the other up when necessary. In the end, he’d realized that was what had been missing with Greer. They’d never been able to figure out that delicate dance of support.
He thought of Portia offering to help him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t sure he was the right kind of man to take on a dukedom, but he was positive he wasn’t the kind who deserved Portia’s unswerving support.
“I’ll see if I can get you an audience,” Tav said, then something occurred to him. “Would it bother you? Me getting involved in this stuff with my biological father’s world?”
“I’m worried about you getting involved with this because I love you and I don’t want you hurt. But I’m your father and you’re my son, and nothing is going to change that, understand? If I could deal with you from the ages of twelve to eighteen and still love you, nothing can shake that, not even a title.”
Warmth flowed through Tav’s chest and he nodded. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said.
“What are you on about?” his father asked. “I told you I’ve seen that look before—it was the same one you had when you told us you were going to move into the armory place and fix it up yourself, and when you told us you were getting married, and then when you were starting the business. It’s your look of stubborn determination. You inherited it from me, so I would know.”
The warmth in Tav’s chest coalesced into a sensation that made his eyes burn. He fought against a sniffle.
“Let us know when you figure out you’ve decided to do it,” his father said. His mother wore a faint smile, but her brow was creased, worry creating the wrinkles time and genetics hadn’t.
They traded some more pleasantries and after the call disconnected Tavish sat staring at the blank screen for a long time.
How was one even supposed to start the task of becoming a duke?
Chapter 14
Portia opened the copy of Debrett’s she’d picked up from Mary and turned to the section about sending emails to members of the peerage. She had maybe been a bit too hasty with her offer of help to Tavish. She’d hobnobbed with the rich and powerful all of her life, but her mingling with royalty was relatively new, and was via one degree of separation.
She had gotten him into this, though, so she couldn’t let him down. She had spent the past two days with her face stuck into the high society etiquette guide as if she was cramming for a test. In a way, she was—that is, if Tavish decided to pursue his claim to the dukedom.
He still hadn’t decided, or so he’d said, but three days had passed and instead of focusing on invoices and sandpaper orders, her mind kept formulating plans for how to proceed if he decided to go for it. This was exactly what her parents had always scolded her over—already thinking about the next pipe dream before this one has even run its course. But to Portia, what seemed disparate to other people made perfect sense to her. For example, her parents saw her apprenticeship as a lark, instead of a way of testing the years of crafting classes, art history studies, research, and her innate talent at putting other people’s best face forward. If Tav was about to become a royal duke, that was just another way in which she could help.
She ran through the list she’d created in her Brain Basura under the heading “Project: New Duke.” Not entirely original, but if it worked for her it could work for Tav. She had subheadings like “style upgrade,” “dinner etiquette,” “not cursing at people,” but she was currently staring at “contacts.” She couldn’t work on any of those other things—maybe ever—but she could get an email drafted and ready to go. She had to do something. She’d come to Scotland to learn how to make swords, and to put the Bodotria Armory on the map. This was so much more than that.
In the days since she’d told
Tavish the news, the immensity of her revelation had had time to sink in. Whatever he decided, her actions had changed the course of his life, completely. Unless they perfected a memory erasing serum sometime in the next week, he couldn’t go back to not knowing he was technically a duke. Whether he acted on it or not, that knowledge would be with him forever, all because of her. Her actions had consequences and she couldn’t fuck up.
“You can’t even manage not to flunk philosophy 101? Do you know how much we’re paying for school? It’s not like you got scholarships like your sister.”
“Dad, I told you I’d do better next semester.”
“Portia, why can’t you manage even a portion of what Reggie is handling? Sometimes I wonder why—”
She closed the Debrett’s for a moment and pressed her hand to her chest, taking deep breaths against the panic. She’d always reached for a drink whenever she’d felt this sick sensation take hold of her. It had been like a more enjoyable version of an IV drip, because once it hit her bloodstream, the tightness in her chest would release and she’d be the fun-loving Portia that people enjoyed being around. Perhaps a bit too fun-loving, as her friend Ledi had tried to gently point out over the years. But it wasn’t until Portia had cut it out of her life that she’d realized it had stopped being fun and started being a coping mechanism, long, long ago.
She inhaled through her nose, then out through her mouth. Breathing through her anxiety would have to suffice for now. She had work to do. Maybe work was just another coping mechanism, but at least it was productive.
She re-opened the Debrett’s to “How to email a royal secretary” and began composing her email. It turned out, there wasn’t exactly a tactful way to say “I am writing on behalf of His Grace’s secret baby,” so she stuck with some approximation of that and attached her evidence.
“Oh my gosh!”
Cheryl burst into the office, the strings of her TARDIS apron flailing behind her and her phone caught in a death grip.
“What’s wrong?” Portia had learned to ask before immediately going for the mace.
