Brock watched as his stable hand put the young foal through its paces, starting with a walk and moving into trot, gallop, and eventually a run. There was barely room in the small grassy area at the back of his London townhouse, but they managed. The transitions were smooth, with nary a hitch. The entire crop of young had exceeded his expectations thus far. How the woman gained such acclaim for her stock, he now knew.
“My lord?”
He turned to see a stable lad, envelope in hand, and head bowed.
“Yes, Charles,” Brock said. It had been difficult convincing his staff to be at ease in his presence. He was not a harsh man, which he had learned was a rarity nowadays in society.
“You tol’ ye valet to bring you ye post as soon as it got here.” The boy held out the envelope.
He’d been expecting a reply from Lady Viola for the last several days. For his plan to be executed, he had to get the insufferable woman to town. “Thank you.” Brock broke the seal and removed the letter, written on pale pink parchment.
“Beg’n ye pardon but may I be go’n, my lord?”
“Of course. We would not want the stable master thinking you are tarrying in your duties now, would we?”
Charles straightened in surprise, but when Brock followed his statement with a wink, the boy relaxed and hurried on his way.
Brock returned his attention to the letter in his hand.
As he read, his mood darkened and he couldn’t help the explicit phrase that fought its way out. “Bloody, unbearable woman!”
“What has Lady Viola done to anger you now?” Harold asked behind him. “I cannot think over much, as she is not even in the same shire.”
“I would not be so sure her person cannot cause my foul mood just because she is hours away.” Brock handed the letter to Harold.
“Ah. You are upset because the woman will not rush to London at your beck and call.” He looked up at Brock and handed him back the letter. “She may be the cause behind your family tragedy, but she is no fool. She has successfully kept her identity hidden from everyone she does business with, it is not logical for you to expect her to travel here to meet with new clients.”
“I am sick of your insight into the human mind.” Brock pushed past his friend and headed through the garden, back to the house. Why could things not go as he planned? Life in London was very different from his life as a military man. His men had done what he commanded, in exactly the manner he commanded it done.
Harold hurried after Brock, his footsteps quick to catch up. “What will you do now?”
Brock stopped and Harold almost crashed into him. “Is it not obvious? I have to organize a meeting with potential clients for Mr. Cale to meet with.”
“I was unaware you actually have people interested in purchasing foals . . .”
“I do not, but I am fairly certain we can collect a few ‘clients.’”
“We?”
“Of course.” Brock started for the house again. Again, she’d found a way to elude him. “Mr. Cale should arrive on the morrow. That gives me the next few hours to figure this out,” he called over his shoulder.
“I will get my coat and we will be on our way.”
“Oh, I do not plan to look farther than my own home.” It was not as though he needed to actually find someone willing to spend the money needed to buy foals; Brock only needed to produce a few people who appeared willing.