“Tav.” He heard it in her tone, knew before he swiped the screen and saw the obituary.

“Well, good riddance.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this must be a lot for you to take in.”

Tav scoffed. “Yes and no. I always knew he was a right bloody bastard and now I have confirmation, that’s all.”

Her brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “I think you need to read to the end of the obituary.”

He snatched the tablet, trying to concentrate on the words through the haze of his rage.

. . . as he produced no heirs, the estate and the Dukedom have passed on to a distant relation . . .

. . . as he produced no heirs . . .

. . . no heirs.

“Fuck,” he said. “No. I appreciate you telling me but I want nothing to do with this scum.”

“Tav, I know you’re upset right now, but think about it.”

“Think about being a bloody duke? Having to chat with rich arseholes like the one who knocked up my mum and abandoned her? The ones who make their little charity visits to the poor and then go home to huge estates that could house every homeless person in Scotland?”

Portia took a deep breath. “The estate is valued at basically a shit ton of money. Think about what you could do with that. You could fix up the armory. Expand the community programs you’ve started. You’d be able to make an even bigger difference.”

She was clever, Portia was.

He exhaled, realized that his body was taut with restrained anger, and that Portia’s hand still rested on his. She was close beside him, how people hovered around brats taking their first steps. It should have annoyed him, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had been there to catch him. His family was loyal and supportive, but he’d made his role very clear: he was the protector, even when no one needed protecting. Seeing Portia look at him the way she was added more confusion to his already sparking emotions, even as he was grateful for it.

“Thank you. For telling me,” he said. “I’ll be honest, my head’s kind of fucked right now.”

She smiled. “I think that’s the normal reaction to news like this, from what I’ve seen.”

“You have experience with this?” He gave an incredulous laugh, but she did that lip licking thing he’d learned was a tell that she was nervous about something.

“Actually, I can help.” She was looking at him with that pleading look again, which didn’t make sense. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I imagine you haven’t had a lot of interaction with rich assholes. I have. I am one, actually, a rich asshole with years of experience who can help you navi—”

“Stop,” he growled, and she flinched.

“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.”