CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brock jumped into the coach before someone had the opportunity to follow him out of White’s or hail him on the street. He took the forward-facing seat, the anxious visages of his servants staring back at him. The scene was a bit comical, with all three men crammed on the one velveteen bench. The evening attire they wore would certainly be wrinkled beyond repair. The three were stacked into the tight spot, their wide eyes gazing about uneasily. Sardines ready for the tin.
The coach shifted and they pulled onto the busy street, bound for Brock’s townhouse. “Wonderful job, gentlemen,” Brock said by way of greeting to the men.
Buttons, his butler, craned his neck to look at Parsons before speaking. “My lord—may we refer to you as ‘my lord’ now?”
“That is preferable.”
“Well, my lord,” Buttons started again, “will this be an ongoing occurrence? Not that I am complaining about the fine clothes and night away from my duties, but…” His voice trailed off as uncertainty crossed his face.
“I assume my request is rather confusing to you, and I do not foresee another episode such as tonight.” He had been oblivious to his staff’s interpretation of what had been transpiring—why Brock needed to hire his own servants as friends and acquaintances. He hadn’t been lord long enough to command or ask certain things of his staff, and it was understandable that they might question his judgment. “We will return home and the three of you are free to spend your evening any way you see fit.”
All three men nodded, and a look of relief was exchanged.
What Brock wouldn’t do to live the unburdened life of a servant.
As they traversed the crowded streets of London, Brock realized he had spent the majority of his day free of the weight that acquiring justice for his family entailed. He had not hatched a new scheme to bring Lady Viola to London, nor contemplated ways to bring down Foldger’s Foals. He had focused solely on this meeting with Mr. Cale, and he’d pulled it off wonderfully.
The men continued to exchange glances as Brock contemplated his next move.
“My lord?”
“Yes, Jeffers.” The men clearly had something they wanted to discuss, but were hesitant to speak. “Please speak freely.” He feared he’d frightened his staff by requiring them to dress as gentlemen. Had it been cruel to show them a life they would never lead?
“When I shook Mr. Cale’s hand, he spilled me a note.” Jeffers produced a folded scrap of paper. “It says—”
Brock grabbed the note, ripping it from Jeffer’s hand, startling him into silence. The note was more of a calling card than a letter or missive. “I will be in town until tomorrow. Please call on me at your convenience to discuss a better purchase of superior-stock foals. I will reside at Smythe’s Guest House for the duration of my stay," he read aloud. “What in the blazes?” He flipped the card over. “D & C’s Fine Foals?”
“I was confused as well, my lord. I was under the impression we were meeting with the man from Foldger’s Foals,” Buttons said.
“We did meet with Foldger’s Foals,” Brock mused. “That son of a bitch!”
The men sank into their seats as if to distance themselves from Brock’s outburst, uncertain how to take his expletive.
“Relax, will you? My words are not directed at you.” His servants did not seem to believe him. “For heaven’s sake! Buttons, you have known me since I was a wee lad. Am I a cruel man?” Brock tried a new tactic.
Buttons didn’t respond for what seemed like a lifetime and the realization struck that his servants, in fact, did not know him. They had once known the hurt and sad child who’d lost his mother; they remembered the carefree youth who tramped around the estate with his two younger brothers in tow, but they were unfamiliar with the man he’d become.
“Jeffers . . . Parsons, you have not known me as long, but I am sure that other servants talk.” Brock looked between the three as the coach slowed before his townhouse.
Brock sighed. His door swung open and steps were set down for him to alight. There was naught more he could say; it was out of his control what his staff thought of him. Perhaps in time he could change their opinion or at least soften their reserved nature around him. If he was unable to find a wife and sire an heir, it would be only him and his servants for the duration of his life. What a dreary thought.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Brock said and departed the crowded coach to retire to his empty suite of rooms. He took the steps two at a time and paused for his front door to open. He’d neglected to remember that his butler was just now departing the coach behind him.
Grasping the handle, Brock pushed the door open and headed up the staircase to his chamber. He’d never had the opportunity to feel lonely surrounded by the men he commanded; there had always been plans to evaluate, sick and injured to tend to, and disputes to mediate.
Thankfully, he had much to think about. Most importantly, why Mr. Cale appeared to be working for another business whilst sabotaging Lady Viola and Foldger’s Foals. A war waged within him by the time he reached his door. She deserved any misfortune that should befall her, but he found himself unaccountably piqued that someone should take advantage of the woman in such a way. Could he suppress his honorable nature and forsake his integrity by turning a blind eye?
“Damn.”
“Only home a few minutes and you are already cursing? I take it your meeting did not go as planned.” Harold sat in front of Brock’s fireplace, a crystal flute in his hand—filled with sherry, no doubt.
“You are becoming a might too comfortable entering my bed chambers. We would not want the staff getting the wrong idea now, would we?” Brock raised an eyebrow in question, hoping to dissuade further talk on the subject of his meeting.
Harold started, straightening in his seat.
Brock’s bid at humor and distraction failed. “Whatever is the problem? I met with Mr. Cale, introduced him to several potential clients, and then we left. No one the wiser.”
“Then why the horrid mood?” Harold pressed.
The man was too perceptive. “Our good Mr. Cale slipped one of my men a business card as we departed.”
“So . . .?”
“So, the card invited my men to meet him at a future time to discuss a business transaction unrelated to Foldger’s Foals.” Brock slipped out of his coat and collapsed onto the chair next to Harold, the warmth from the fire penetrating his booted feet.
“Interesting.” Harold raised his glass of sherry to his lips.
“It is, indeed.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Why do you assume I would do anything?”
“As a man of worth, it is highly unlikely that you would allow a woman, no matter your feelings for said woman, to be taken advantage of.”
“It is a pity that my servants do not view me in the same light.” Again, he tried to change the subject. He was shocked when it worked.
“Give them time, Brock. You have been absent for over fifteen years. You were nothing more than a lad when you fled.”
“I did not flee.”
“Truly? Did you bid your father farewell?”
Brock shook his head.
“Your brothers?”
Again, he shook his head.
“It is hard to believe that the only person you told was I—under the cover of night, no less. You know, it took your father months to find out how you paid for your commission.” Harold laughed.
“So I heard.”
“He was livid you’d sold your mother’s jewels.”
“They belonged to me to do with as I pleased.”
“I understand that. Your father did not.”
“What did he expect me to do? Continue to live on the estate, spend the season in London, holiday in Bath . . . and all the while plagued with the twins. They were the spitting image of my mother.” His gut tightened at his flippant remark about his brothers. Truth was, he’d give anything to have them underfoot now. Brock stood from his chair and
poured a tumbler of scotch. With one large gulp, he swallowed the liquid and slammed the tumbler on the sideboard. “I could not spend every day continually reminded of the mother I lost.”
“They lost their mother, too.”
“I know that!” Brock turned to face Harold, sure his anger and regret was evident on his face. “But they did not know her. She did not tuck them into bed, ever. She did not sing them to sleep. They were unaware of all they had lost. I was not.” His war-worn hands scrubbed at his face and through his hair.
“You still had your father.”
Brock worked to calm the pounding of his heart. It had been years since he’d thought of the rejection and loneliness of that time: His father busy with infant twins and Brock left to his nurse maid. Yes, his father had still lived, but he had rarely bothered with his eldest son. Never again had Brock had someone to tuck him into bed or regale him with tales of far-off lands. Instead, it had been up to Brock to take care of his brothers as they grew older and their father became more distant. The heartache of losing his wife had worn heavy as the years passed, and he preferred to spend more and more of his time in London.
“Brock?”
“Yes, you are correct. I did have my father . . . at least his person.” If not his mind nor heart.
“He did the best he knew how.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Be glad that he did not rule with an iron fist, as mine does.”
“At least I would have known he was about,” Brock countered.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. At last, Harold sighed. “What is our plan now?”
“I wish I knew.” The statement had never been truer. He had no clue what his next move would be or if he even had another move to make. Maybe it was time he focused his energy on finding a wife and integrating into society instead of ruining Lady Viola. But how could he give up on the rage that had fueled his very being for the last eight years?
“There are always the Unker twins.” Harold waggled his eyebrows.
Both men laughed, the tension in the room dissipated.
Even as they relaxed, however, Brock’s mind returned to his predicament. Ruin Lady Viola, or forget her and at last begin to live his own life? And if he did that, could he in good conscience ignore Connor Cale’s clear sabotage of Foldger’s Foals? Conflicted and not desiring to dwell any longer, Brock sought to lose himself in the company of his friend once more. One way or another, he knew a decision must be made soon.