FINGERS SPEARED THROUGH HIS hair and hand bracing his head, Oliver scratched yet another amendment to the document before him. His eyes felt sandy and swollen, his brain muzzy, and he was desperate for sleep, but there was too much to do. It had been another long day after an even longer night, where he hadn’t returned to Roxegate until the early hours of the morning. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his brow. That was something he’d done more times than he cared to remember in the last week, and he was again to attend a dinner that evening.
The quiet snick of the study door heralded Rajitha’s entry. The heel of his hand pressing into his forehead, Oliver continued to work on the report before him, knowing his secretary would wait silently. It would not be anyone else. After the Fanning ball, the faint hope it might be Lydia was all but gone.
“What is it, Rajitha?” he asked.
“Your secretary is still in his office.”
Surprise jerked his head up. Out of all the people who could have entered his office, he would never have expected it to be his brother.
Stephen lowered himself into the seat opposite, his expression carefully blank. His brother was a rangy fellow, a leanness contradictory to Oliver’s own more solid build. His deep-set eyes were the same grey as Oliver’s but his hair a lighter shade of golden brown and his cheekbones boarded on sharpness. They looked like each other except when they didn’t. Perhaps Maxim would have bridged the gap. If he had lived.
“What brings you to Roxegate, brother?” It had been a good six months since he’d last seen Stephen, and then it had been at a dinner hosted at Torrence House. Before Lydia had returned.
“I am here to beg for funds.” Stephen’s expression remained impassive.
“You do not have to beg for funds.” Christ, his brother made him out to be a cruel fiend, jealously holding the purse strings and making him beg for the smallest of crumbs. He did no such thing. He was judicious in the release of funds, because Stephen too often sought to waste his. Their mother had left each of them funds independent of Roxwaithe, and Stephen had burned through his by the time he was twenty-five. Oliver would not allow him to do the same with what the Roxwaithe estate gave him.
Stephen’s eyes hardened. “I should like funds to allow for the continued study of the mythic.”
Oliver blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he finally said.
“The mythic. The spiritual. That is what Alexandra calls it, isn’t it? You know. Ghosts and such.” He smiled thinly.
“The spiritual.” Oliver shook himself, but it still made no sense. “You wish to study the spiritual?”
“As I said.”
“Since when?”
“Since when what?”
He gritted his teeth. “When did this interest begin?”
“I have always possessed an interest.”
“Not that I have observed. You were more likely to be outside occupying yourself with some sort of ball sport than traipsing through halls with Alexandra and Maxim hunting ghosts.”
“And if Lord Roxwaithe didn’t see it, then it must not have happened?”
“No, I—” He exhaled. “I did not mean it such. It is a surprise. What do you require the funds for?”
“For my studies.”
“Yes, I understand, but what specifically? Is there equipment that must be purchased? Dues to be paid? Are you looking for further study? Where, exactly, does one study the spiritual?” He frowned. “I do not recall Lord Demartine mentioning Alexandra petitioning him to fund her interest.”
Scowling, Stephen turned his cheek. “I should have known you would not help.”
Irritation nipped at Oliver. “I did not say that. It is good practice to ask these questions.”
“It is because I come to you with the study of the spiritual, isn’t it? If it were an investment or a charity, you would have no concern.”
“That is not true, Stephen. You—”
“These funds are mine. They have been invested on my behalf. I am entitled to them.”
God damn, his brother could be— Letting out a controlled breath, Oliver counted to ten. “I am the trustee and I would be remiss in my duty if I did not question what you will do with these funds. You have announced this interest out of the blue and you give no basis for the release of funds. You have not given any evidence you have done even a cursory exam.”
Sullenness soured his brother’s expression. “You are being unreasonable.”
Oliver’s temper snapped. “It is unfortunate, then, that you must seek the permission of an unreasonable man. Demonstrate when you first displayed this interest.”
“As I’ve said. Always. I cannot remember when it began.”
“Then what am I to think, brother? Or is this like the time you wanted to run Excott Manor?”
Stephen looked to the side, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Or when you wished to oversee the shipping concern. Or when you studied botany. Or when you thought a life of academia would suit. You tried all these things, and none of them suited. There is nothing about this latest endeavour that makes me believe it will be any different. You have approached me with an idea, not a proposal. I have nothing against ideas, Stephen, but substance is required. Reports. Evidence. Christ, the reason you are even interested. You have offered none of these.”
Staring to the side, Stephen’s jaw tensed. “Then, there is nothing more to say.”
“There is more. Bring me the evidence. A plan. Show these funds will not be wasted. I do not wish to keep you from pursuing your interests, but there has to be some basis.”
Stephen’s lips twisted. “And there it is. You believe me frivolous.”
Oliver cursed. “Stephen….”
“I shall bother you no longer. Good afternoon, Roxwaithe.”
“Brother, do not—” But Stephen had already left, wrenching the door shut behind him.
Oliver sank back into his chair. Bloody hell. Bloody goddamned hell. Every bloody time a discussion ended in a war between them. He did not know when this animosity had started, but it grew worse each year. Stephen would be sullen and defensive, Oliver would respond with highhandedness, and so the cycle continued.
He palmed the knot of his hair at his nape. Why could Stephen not see he only had his best interests at heart? Stephen had run through the inheritance their mother had left them, and he did change his interest as one would change waistcoats. Oliver was looking out for his brother, ensuring his happiness. Why couldn’t Stephen see that?
His gaze centred on her chair, the books stacked high beside it. He missed her. If she were here, if she still sat in that chair, he would have paced and pulled at his hair and she— A smile tugged at him. He could just see her sitting there, rolling her eyes at his dramatics and arguing him into a good mood.
His smile faded. He had acted poorly at the Fanning ball; he didn’t need her to tell him that. This distance between them had to end. He would rather she were in his life than suffer the lack of her. He could keep his opinions on her amorous pursuits to himself. She wished to win herself a husband and he would not stand in her way. He was only grateful her sights were no longer set on him and they could resume their friendship. Those young men would court her and flatter her, and she would turn her smiles and attention to them. She would turn her love to them.
Brows drawn, he stared at the report before him. Lydia. Her attention on the man she would marry. Her smile for him. Her counsel for him. Her love for him.
Exhaling, Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. And that was good. That was right.