It was the first asthma attack he'd had since Caroline died. The worst since the one that had almost killed him when he learned of his mother's death. With grim humor, he reflected that women had a lethal effect on him.
Catherine. The mere thought of her caused his lungs to clench again. But this time he was able to control his reaction and stave off another attack.
When he had regained the rhythm of breathing, he opened his eyes. Most of his anger had been scoured away, leaving him limp as a rag but relatively sane.
The window was open, letting in the fresh night air, and the cigar was gone. His brother sat on the edge of the bed beside him, his face pale with strain. "Drink this," he ordered, placing a glass of water in Michael's hand.
Michael obeyed, swallowing thirstily. The cool water washed away the bitter, vegetal aftertaste of cigar smoke. After he emptied the glass, he said in a rasping voice, "Thank you. But why did you bother? Letting me choke would have been a simple way of removing the blot on the family escutcheon."
"If you don't drop the Shakespearean melodrama, I'm going to pour the rest of this pitcher of water on your head." The duke got to his feet and built the pillows up against the headboard so that Michael could rest against them, then stepped back. "When was the last time you ate?"
Michael thought. "Yesterday morning."
The duke tugged the bell pull. Within seconds, Barlow's voice called through the door, "Yes, your grace?"
"Send up a tray of food, a pot of coffee, and a bottle of burgundy." Turning back to his brother, Ashburton said, "I thought you would have outgrown the asthma, like I did."
"Mostly I have. That's only the second attack I've had in over fifteen years." Michael's brows drew together. "You had asthma, too? I don't think I knew that."
"Not surprising, when you spent so little time at home. My asthma wasn't as bad as yours, but it was bad enough." His brother looked away, his expression rigid. "I'm sorry about the cigar. I wouldn't have smoked if I'd known it might kill you."
Michael made a deprecatory gesture. He occasionally smoked himself, largely because it was a minor triumph to be able to do so. "You weren't to know. That attack was totally unexpected."
Moving restlessly across the bedchamber, Ashburton said, "Was it? My asthma usually struck when I was badly upset. Given Father's wonderful deathbed performance, you have every right to be distressed."
After all that had happened, it was a mild surprise to realize that the old duke had died only a fortnight before. "I accepted that reasonably well. This is different. Woman trouble." Such an easy, man-to-man answer. Much better than explaining that his heart had been neatly sliced out of his breast, taking with it most of his faith in himself.
"I see," his brother said quietly. "I'm sorry."
Wanting a change of topic, Michael said, "If you haven't any legal issues, why have you been writing me? As I said in London, I won't trouble you or the rest of the family. I'm no more keen on airing the Kenyon dirty linen than you are."
"You know that Father's revelation was as much a surprise to me as to you?"
"I guessed that from your reaction."
The duke stared at the burning candles. "That day, I suddenly recognized what had happened," he said haltingly. "Because Father and his brother hated each other, he ensured that you and I would do the same."
"You weren't alone in that. Claudia has no use for me, either." Michael's mouth twisted. "From what I know of family history, it's traditional for Kenyons to hate each other."
"It's a tradition I don't like one damned bit. When I looked back, I saw how badly Father treated you. Constant criticism, contempt for everything you did, frequent whippings. You were the family scapegoat." Ashburton grimaced. "Being monsters like most children, Claudia and I sensed we could torment you with impunity. And we did."
"That's an accurate analysis of my childhood, but what about it? The duke's revelation of my parentage explains his behavior." Michael's jaws clenched as he thought of the vicious beatings he had endured. "I'm lucky he didn't kill me in a rage. He might have, if I'd been at the Abbey more." It had been the unspoken terror of his childhood.
Instead of looking shocked, Ashburton said somberly, "It could have happened. I can't believe he would have deliberately tried to murder you, but he had a wicked temper."
"Another trait that runs in the family."
"Too true." Ashburton leaned against the mantel and folded his arms. "It wasn't until Father blamed you for your superior abilities that I realized how much resentment I felt. I was the heir and raised to have a high opinion of myself, yet my younger brother was as intelligent as I, a better rider, a better shot, a better athlete." A gleam of humor showed in his eyes. "I rather resented God for not arranging matters more suitably."
Michael shrugged. "I don't know if my natural abilities were greater than yours, but I tried harder. I guess I thought that if I achieved enough, the duke would approve of me. I didn't know the cause was hopeless."
"You certainly proved you had more than your share of Kenyon damn-your-eyes arrogance. No one could pierce your armor." Ashburton smiled faintly. "I also resented the way you disappeared for years at a time, spending holidays with your Eton friends instead of coming home. It was one thing for us to reject you, quite another for you to reject us. Besides, I suspected that you were having more fun than I."
"You're wrong about my armor," Michael said with wary honesty. "It was pierced regularly and bloodily. That's why I avoided the Abbey as if it were a plague site. But what's the point of rehashing the past? I've done my best to forget it."
"Because the past is part of what we are now and will be in the future," Ashburton replied gravely. "And because Father cheated me out of having a brother."
"Bastard half-brother."
"We don't know that."
That startled a laugh from Michael. "You think the old duke made up his story? I doubt it. He had all the warm charm of a flint wall, but he didn't lie. It would have been beneath him."
Ashburton made an impatient gesture. "Oh, I don't doubt there was an affair. That doesn't necessarily mean that Roderick was your father."
Michael pointed out, "The duke said Mother admitted I was Roderick's child."
"She might have said that out of sheer contrariness. She was probably sleeping with both of them and wasn't sure who had fathered you," Ashburton said with iron detachment.
Both fascinated and repelled by the conversations, Michael asked, "What makes you say that?"
His brother smiled cynically. "Father couldn't resist her. Even when they were fighting in public, they still slept together. That's why he resented her so much. He hated anyone having such power over him."
"But the old duke said I have Roderick's green eyes."
"That means nothing," Ashburton retorted. "Claudia's daughter has the same green eyes even though Claudia doesn't. There is no way to be sure who your father was, nor does it really matter. If you're not my full brother, you're my half-brother and first cousin. Either way, we have the same four grandparents, and you are my heir. No one else can ever fully understand what it was like to grow up in that house." He stopped, a muscle jerking in his cheek. "Though it may be too late for us to become real friends, at least we can stop being enemies."
There was a knock at the door, which was fortunate because Michael didn't have the remotest idea what to say. Ashburton admitted Barlow and two servants bearing savory-scented trays.
As they laid out the food, Michael realized to his surprise that he was hungry, though he was still so debilitated that it took all his strength to rise and walk to the table. The Red Lion's best sliced beef, ham, and trimmings, washed down by good red wine, went a long way toward restoring him. Ashburton ate little, preferring to drink coffee.