“If he didn’t know about me, how did he give me the armory?” he asked. That was an easy question. Easier than dozens of others he had.

“He found out eventually. He saw us walking—saw you—and figured it out. But by that time he was married, for the second time, and bound by even more responsibility than before. The tabloid columnists were always on his tail, talking about his drinking and his mistakes, and he knew being linked with him would hurt you.”

“So he was a saint,” Tav said, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“No. He was a man who wanted a simple life but was handed a complex one. And he understood that if he acknowledged you at that point, you wouldn’t have that choice.”

Tav felt the urge to throw things return. Goddammit, where had all these feelings come from? He needed to go forge or grind until he’d burned or abraded all his feelings away. He thought of Portia’s hand resting on his trembling fist and exhaled slowly.

“This is a lot to take in, Mum.”

She smiled. “I know, m’hijo. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You are happy with your life, yes?”

Tav paused. He was generally satisfied, though stressed described the last year more accurately. Happy?

An image of Portia popped into his mind. Portia holding a blade she’d forged herself. That they’d forged together.

“I get by,” he responded gruffly. “But now, I have the possibility to do more. I can expand the breakfast program, set up more programs for kids . . . do something about the shite the rich bastards are pulling in the neighborhood instead of just whinging about it.”

His mother looked truly upset for the first time since the conversation had started. “You really want to pursue this?”

Tav thought of the developers ravening through his neighborhood like locusts that shit condos and coffee shops. He thought of the kids who pretended not to want breakfast and snuck muffins in their pockets when they thought no one was looking. He thought about Jamie, and Cheryl, and all of the people who voted dutifully and hoped for the best, but had no one that knew what their lives were really like schmoozing with the rich and telling things from their perspective.

“I always wanted to be a Sir Tavish McKenzie rather than Lord, but Your Grace will work,” he said.

She smiled sadly.

“I know you think you hate him, but you’re more like him than you know,” she said. “Always helping others, and always underestimating the cost of it.”

There was a knock at the door to his mother’s office then, and his father suddenly appeared onscreen, holding a tray with two ceramic teacups. Tav could only see the bright green button-up shirt he wore and his dark arms holding the tray. His mother looked up. “He knows, corazón. And he’s talking about what he could do if he claimed the title.”

His father placed the tray on the desk, then knelt beside his wife to peer at Tav through the screen. His mustache was now more silver than black, but he looked well rested. “Oh I know that look,” he said. “You gonna do this thing, then, son?”

“I don’t know, Dad.” Tav scraped his hand over his stubble. “What do you think?”

“I think the monarchy and peerage are parasites, sucking the lifeblood of the working man, but you would be my favorite parasite.” His father paused and seemed to consider the possibilities. “And I have to admit, getting to have a word with the Queen would be something.”

Tavish imagined his father explaining why the monarchy should have been abolished along with slavery and didn’t know whether to immediately accept the title because of that or to immediately reject it.

“Do you think anyone has ever called the Queen bumbleclot to her face?” his dad asked, stroking his chin as if pondering a philosophical question.

“Henry!” His mother slapped at his father’s arm, but then her hand slid down until their palms touched and their fingers interlaced. He saw his father’s fingers flex, giving silent comfort though he’d cut the tension with his jokes. His parents worked well that way, one shoring the other up when necessary. In the end, he’d realized that was what had been missing with Greer. They’d never been able to figure out that delicate dance of support.

He thought of Portia offering to help him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t sure he was the right kind of man to take on a dukedom, but he was positive he wasn’t the kind who deserved Portia’s unswerving support.

“I’ll see if I can get you an audience,” Tav said, then something occurred to him. “Would it bother you? Me getting involved in this stuff with my biological father’s world?”

“I’m worried about you getting involved with this because I love you and I don’t want you hurt. But I’m your father and you’re my son, and nothing is going to change that, understand? If I could deal with you from the ages of twelve to eighteen and still love you, nothing can shake that, not even a title.”

Warmth flowed through Tav’s chest and he nodded. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said.

“What are you on about?” his father asked. “I told you I’ve seen that look before—it was the same one you had when you told us you were going to move into the armory place and fix it up yourself, and when you told us you were getting married, and then when you were starting the business. It’s your look of stubborn determination. You inherited it from me, so I would know.”