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which was much too fitted for John's taste. How did the man breathe? And, equally tight breeches in a dismal shade of eggplant. His cravat, too, was a sight to behold, such twists and turns. It must take forever to tie.
    "Has the solicitor departed then?" John asked.
    "Very nearly so. I believe he is paying respects to your dear Mama."
    John brushed past him, but his uncle's arm snaked out. "Seymour, are you going somewhere?"
    "I have an appointment with the estate manager. You will have to excuse me."
    "Excellent." Bartholomew's face brightened. "I had desired an outing and an opportunity to observe the estate. It has been years since I scouted around. I will join you."
    "I will be riding."
    "I know how to ride, young buck. Don't think you can get rid of me that easily."
    John swallowed the rebellious feeling that surged through him. "Why, Uncle, whatever can you mean?"
    He turned and climbed the stairs.
    "I'll be waiting at the stables," his uncle called after him. "I need to select a suitable mount. I would not advise forcing me to send someone for you. I'd be sure to take my displeasure out on the servants."
    John missed a step as his vision blurred with anger. Could his uncle be such a monster? "I will come down directly…Uncle."
    When John reached the cobbled courtyard, his horse stood saddled, and he saw his uncle had chosen his father's favorite stallion, Vanguard, a spirited horse only a strong rider could control. If only the man fell and broke his neck.
    Bartholomew, in a dove-grey riding jacket far too pale for a man of his coloring, held a wild gleam in his eye as he swung up over the saddle.
    They rode from the manor house with nary a word, careful to maintain a sedate pace in the close confines of the back courtyard. As they approached Mr. Timmons, Bartholomew cast John a sneer. "I knew you'd rush down straightway. You're as weak as your pitiful mother."
    Rage surged through John, but he kept it in check. No one denigrated his saint of a mother, not after the hell she'd lived through. He'd bide his time then repay his uncle for every barb. He took several deep breaths, practicing the control his father had forced him to learn. "It will take several days to view all our holdings. I assume you will be content today to follow where the steward leads."
    "If the estate is still so large, how is it you and young Robert Westley, not to mention your fetching young fiancée, are able to jaunt about together? Seems to me it would take you hours to meet up."
    John hid the frustration he felt each time his uncle referred to Kitty. With face averted, he concentrated on Timmons' approach. The steward rode the outskirts of a field ready for harvest, his head turning from side to side in a habitual study of the crops.
    "Not at all, Uncle. Cutting across the estates for a ride is far different from inspecting the holdings. Westley and I use short-cuts."
    John reined in a few yards short of Timmons and leaned back in his saddle. It brought his height a good three inches above his uncle, sure to infuriate him.
    "There is nothing you have to offer me or this estate, and if you so much as touch any of my people, you will live to regret it."
    Bartholomew leaned toward John with a peculiar light in his eyes, which John found chilling. "I find your tone…offensive. Do not force me to take action against you. You would not be comfortable with the results. You might not live through them."
    Had his uncle threatened his life?
    John's gut reacted as if he'd been kicked by a horse. He felt the need to lean over and wretch but swallowed down the hot bile. Weakness in the face of this adversary would mean defeat, and John had too much to lose.
    Timmons brought his horse closer, studying John's face. Did he understand the drama he'd just witnessed? John forced his voice to appear calm. "Uncle, may I introduce you to my estate manager, Mr. Timmons? My uncle is visiting for a short while, Timmons."
    Bartholomew's thin lips spread in