The sun sat barely above the horizon as Brock wearily locked the final foal in the last available stall in his newly renovated stables. The ride home had proven uneventful but chaotic. It was without question in his favor that Mr. Cale had been able to escort them most of the way.
“Shall we return to the house? I find myself in need of a bath and a substantial meal,” he asked Harold.
“A meal would not be remiss.”
“I think you need a good scrub more than the food.” Brock laughed at the hurt expression on his friend’s face. “We can only hope Rodney has retired for the evening. The man is a good-for-nothing dandy if I’ve ever encountered one.”
“Ha! He’s changed for the worse since he’s been unable to ride the coattails of the twins.”
The reminder of his brothers’ deaths sucked the jovial mood from Brock. It seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without someone mentioning them. He’d enjoyed the day at Foldger’s Foals, being so occupied that no one brought up the tragedy of his past. It was unlikely Lady Posey or Mr. Cale knew his painful family history; neither looked as if they’d attended a season in London in recent years—if ever. Now, Miss Ruby was a different story. Harold assured him on the trip home that he knew the girl, but couldn’t place her.
“Brock.”
Brock shook himself from his thoughts.
“Something always seems to bring up the past—”
Brock held up one hand to silence him. “Don’t. I must engage in conversation about them with others, but not you . . . we have so much else to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“Such as our trip to London to find me a suitable bride. It is time the estate is again filled with laughter and pounding feet!” Brock slung his arm around Harold and steered him out of the stables and toward the main house.
“We did have fun running amuck, did we not?”
“That we did, my friend!” They took the steps two at a time. The front door swung open before Brock had the chance to reach for the knob. “Good evening, Buttons! Please have Cook prepare dinner for two and have it waiting in my study in one hour’s time.”
“Certainly, my lord,” the short, portly butler responded as he bowed his head. “I will also have warm water sent up for you.”
“Very good. Send some to Harold’s room as well—but do not waste the warm water on him.” Brock laughed.
“Very kind of you,” Harold said. “If I sought to be mistreated, I would head home to my father.”
“I will have water brought up.” Buttons turned on his heel and started for the kitchen.
“You’ve scared my poor butler with your complaining,” Brock teased.
“As if we haven’t scared our fair share of servants over the years. Remember that time—” Harold stopped walking mid-sentence, his brows drawn together in confusion. “By gawds! I figured it out!”
“How to get away from your overbearing father? I could have told you—”
“No! How we know her.”
“How we know who? You are not making sense.”
“Miss Ruby! She is Ruby St. Augustin.” Harold smiled, a look of pride crossing his face.
“St. Augustin? How do I know that name?”
“How can you not remember? She’s the chit from the estate next to yours. The ragamuffin who constantly followed us about as children.” The satisfied look didn’t leave Harold’s face.
“Well I’ll be a poppy’s colored feathers! You just might be right. But however did she end up all the way in Hampshire? ‘tis a long way from Kent.”
“True. I expected the girl had attended a London season and was quickly swooped up,” Harold continued. “While her family did not come from money, her father was in possession of a title.”
Brock began up the main staircase to his bedchambers, Harold at his side. “Did you fancy her?” he couldn’t help but ask. The girl was nothing but a fuzzy memory of a dirty child with stringy dark hair scampering after them as they embarked on adventures around the estate.
“Would it have mattered if I did?” Harold sighed. “She was far out of my class. Her father’s a baron, for heaven sakes.”
He often wondered why Harold held such a low opinion of himself, but then he visualized Vicar Jakeston, all full of hell’s fire and brimstone. Their trip to London would do both of them good. “She would have been lucky to have you as a husband, my friend.”
“Whatever you say, Brock.” Harold stopped in front of the door to his guest chamber. “I will meet you in the study in one hour.”
“One minute late and I’ll have Cook’s meal eaten.” Brock again laughed and continued down the hall to his own door.
It was unfortunate the way Harold’s father treated him, as if he had not a single upstanding qualification in life. While Brock had done everything in his power to escape his distant, sometimes absent father, his friend had been left with a man who’d continually and without mercy crushed Harold’s will. His friend had needed him, but Brock had been too concerned with his own troubles to be bothered. He’d not only run from those troubles at home, he’d abandoned his best friend when he’d needed him most.
He only hoped that, as with the newly renovated stables and high expectations of his London trip, Harold would also flourish anew. Brock meant to see his friend happy and carefree once more.