That Scandalous Summer by Meredith Duran Page A

said Michael. Nothing like the prospect of wielding a rifle to cheer up a boy raised on vengeful fantasies. Only, as Alastair had pointed out, duels had been outlawed decades before—and the fight would not have been equal, their father having been a crack shot in his time.
    “What stopped you, then?”
    Michael shrugged. “Decided to save lives, rather than take them.” That, and he’d ultimately found his attempt to enlist in the infantry foiled by Alastair’s interference. What his brother had arranged instead—a commission in the Horse Guards, a regiment that rarely stirred beyond the shadows of Buckingham Palace—had not suited him.
    Damned difficult to make something of oneself when one’s brother consistently purchased one’s successes. For years, during university and shortly thereafter, Michael had chafed beneath Alastair’s doting regard. But with age had come a new view. In their boyhood, Alastair had played the role of father and mother both, protecting Michael from the worst of their parents’ excesses. Such a very old habit was hard to break.
    And until recently, Michael had been content to let his brother do as he might.
    “Well, I call it good luck for us both,” said Pershall. “Had we enlisted, we no doubt would have died of dysentery in the first week.” As Michael laughed, he added, “And how could I complain? I ended up in God’s own village—if you’ll forgive me the blasphemy.”
    Michael followed Pershall’s look as it traveled overthe scene. Bosbrea was pitched along a gentle slope of limestone. The bright faces of shops and flower-fronted cottages clustered along either side of the main road, which led upward to the old cairn marking the apex of Bosbrea Hill. In the opposite direction, the cobblestone lane spilled downward to span the River Cuby, a gurgling rush of water that glittered in the noonday sun.
    “Picturesque, indeed,” Michael murmured. The beauty made him feel downright itchy—smothered, almost. His calling lay elsewhere, with people who depended on him because they had nowhere else to turn. Alastair might fund the hospital, but it was Michael who saved lives there, and formulated policies that had produced the lowest mortality rate of any medical institution in the country.
    Damn it, he wanted to be in London. The air here was too clean, the residents too healthy, and his time too idle. He knew his brother well enough to guess that the mystery of his whereabouts would goad Alastair into a healthy temper, but the waiting was hard, indeed.
    And a line had been crossed now that Michael could not tolerate.
    As though the other man had read his thoughts, Pershall said, “Any word from your brother, then?”
    Michael shook his head. Pershall knew the bare outline of the story: a violent quarrel, an untenable demand, no choice but to retreat as far as possible from his brother’s range of influence. What he did not know was how very far that range extended. “It would make no difference if I had done. If he wishes to reconcile, he’ll have to come himself.”
    Pershall’s eyes widened. “As bad as that, is it?”
    A very good question. Michael did not think Alastair would follow through on his threat. Through all their parents’ travails, the affairs and the depositions, the whole nasty divorce that had kept the public so titillated—through it all, Alastair had been there for him: a rock in an otherwise stormy sea. Over the past year, Michael had done his best to return that favor. Even this act of concealment was ultimately for his brother’s sake. Surely Alastair would see that, soon enough. He would not betray the trust between them.
    Yet if he did . . .
    Interference was easy to bear, so long as it was the work of love. But closing the hospital would be nothing more than brute malice.
    Frightening thought: Michael might never be able to forgive him for it.
    “Let us say, he would win no prizes for congeniality,” he said to Pershall.
    The vicar