CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I do apologize, my lord, but I am unfamiliar with any horse business other than Tattersalls.” Lord Galles turned his nose up at Brock’s mention of the working class.
“Thank you for your time.”
“Certainly. Do you plan to attend the musicale and poetry reading Lady Galles and Lady Sophia are hosting this afternoon?” he asked, perched high on his horse. His boots gleamed in the late morning sun.
Matchmaking fathers were almost as tiresome as the marriage-hungry mothers. “I do believe that I responded and included a guest. An afternoon surrounded by classic music and the latest poetry sounds divine.” Sage shifted under his weight. Brock wondered if Galles caught the sarcasm in his voice.
“A guest, you say?” The lord visibly squirmed in his saddle.
Brock was torn between letting the man think he intended to attend with another woman on his arm—possibly a mistress, which would be highly inappropriate—or informing the lord that his guest happened to be his best friend, Harold. Better to let the man sweat a bit. He had probably overstepped his bounds and promised an introduction to his most-likely pale and fragile daughter. Ignoring his question, Brock continued. “I look forward to meeting Lady Galles. Her reputation as a hostess of the first water is legend in London.” He bowed his head and moved Sage further down the lane into Hyde Park.
The white lie had rolled easily from him, when in truth he had never heard of Lord and Lady Galles before receiving their invitation two nights prior. Their affirmative response was solely due to the high likelihood that sherry would be served as the afternoon refreshment. Harold did not miss an opportunity to drink the vile watered-down stuff in socially acceptable place.
Brock had come to Hyde Park not to frolic with the haut ton, but to view the place where his brothers had lost their lives. A weakness toward Lady Viola had been worming its way inside over the last few days, particularly after their unexpected meeting in the rain two days’ prior. He could not take the chance of missing the opportunity to avenge his family for the wrongs this woman had done.
He hoped that visiting this site, though painful, would renew his sense of purpose.
The milling crowd slowly began to dissipate as he moved deeper into the park. Women no longer walked on the arms of their beaus with a maid close behind; men no longer rode the finest stock money could buy in hopes of attracting the eye of a certain female; vendors could no longer be heard hocking their wares. As the area fell into silence, he could not help thinking that this was what his brothers must have heard: Utter tranquility. But no, that would not be right. They had attended in anticipation of pointing a gun at each other. Had they thought it was a lark? That someone would intervene before it was too late?
What could they have been thinking when they pointed their weapons at the mirror image of themselves? He would give Lady Viola Oberbrook one thing: The woman was captivating, resplendent with her long hair and crystal-blue eyes. She had taken command of their prior dealings, a true business woman. Had his brothers been business dealings? The thought that she might not have even remembered their names crossed his mind. The possibility that she had not even known Brock as their brother slammed into him.
Sage moved slowly as they approached the legendary open area used over the last two hundred years for duels. Heaviness settled over Brock, the weight of many lives lost. It had been the same on the battlefields, the souls of the dead attempting to seek him out. He removed his foot from the stirrup and dismounted. The urge to be closer to the earth where blood had run over the years was strong.
A part of him had thought about asking Rodney to accompany him, as he would know the exact spots his brothers had lain and taken their final breaths. In the end, Brock had wanted to be alone to contemplate his future, so influenced by the past. He dreamed of leaving all this hurt and anger behind and starting anew. That would mean not seeking retribution for the deaths of his brothers and, in turn, his father.
Brock walked across the open field and dragged his feet on the hard-packed ground. Truly, he did not want to be here; had not planned on coming. Leaning down, he plucked a few blades of grass and brought them to his nose. They smelled of freshness and promise, not of death and despair. Was a person meant to learn from the smallest things in nature? What could be taught by a blade of grass? He rubbed his fingers together. The grass fell from his hand, to be picked up by the faint breeze and carried away.
He looked forward to a day when he could plan his future rather than attend his past, but today was not that day.
Sage nuzzled his shoulder from behind, ever the faithful servant.
“Let us be away from here,” he whispered. Brock swung up on the horse’s back and kicked him into a full gallop, back toward the crowded part of the park. He vaguely registered people moving out of the way as he and Sage thundered through the most crowded section. Men shouted in his direction and woman hurried off the path to avoid the dirt that his horse’s hooves kicked up.
With the wind beating hard against his face, he did not care about a thing; not his quest in London to find a wife, nor his past.
Sage slowed of his own accord as they reached the main street bordering the park. At a fast walk, they traversed the busy thoroughfare to Brock’s townhouse and he took the lane in back to his stables. Jeffers materialized at his side when he entered.
“My lord,” Jeffers said, and took hold of the reins Brock threw to him.
“Please ready the coach, Jeffers.” Brock dismounted and strode for the house. A stiff drink would help clear his head before an afternoon filled with young ladies pounding on various musical instruments and dandified men reciting sonnets. He sincerely hoped the sherry was worth it.
Brock entered his room and threw off his riding coat. As always, Parsons had his afternoon attire pressed and laid out for his approval—not that Brock ever saw the need to judge his man’s choices. He dipped his hands into the large bowl of water that stood on his dresser and cleansed the dirt and grime from his face.
The door creaked, and he assumed that Parsons had arrived to dress him. “I find myself not ready. Leave me.” His voice was harsh.
“I see you went against my advice and visited Hyde Park.”
He turned and Harold handed him a tumbler of scotch.
“From your look, I will take that I am correct.” Harold moved to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace.
“Again, your familiarity with my room is very suspect,” Brock snapped.
“Your ill nature today will not affect my mood.” His friend closed his eyes and took a large swallow from his goblet. “This is truly heavenly. What are the chances you can pilfer another bottle from Lady Garnerdale’s personal stock?”
“For you? There is no chance. Find your own way to indulge your personal taste for women’s drinks.” Brock knew he had gone too far when his friend stood and made for the door.
“I will let you deal with your demons in private.” Harold inclined his head. “Do send for me when you are ready to depart.”
What in the blazes did the man know of his demons? “I will be ready shortly.”
“I do hope your mood improves, or you will scare the young ladies away.” The door clicked shut as his friend left him.
Brock needed to get his mind back in balance. He grabbed the towel next to his water bowl and patted his face dry. Throwing the towel down, he moved to his massive four-poster bed. The sheets and coverlet lay smooth with nary a wrinkle. The coils compressed when he sat to remove his riding boots. He needed to prepare; it was in bad form to be tardy to a recital.
After he removed his boots, Brock started on his shirt and then stood to remove his soiled breeches.
“My lord, may I assist you?” Parsons appeared from Brock’s dressing room. His valet’s small living quarters lay beyond.
“Please,” Brock sighed.
The man began his duties, seemingly gathering courage before he finally spoke. “If it is not too forward of me, your brothers would
not want you dwelling on their passing.”
“You overstep your bounds,” Brock said, his mood growing darker by the minute. “How do you claim to know what my brothers would want?”
“I attended both men in the year leading up to that fateful day.”
“I was unaware you knew my brothers.” Brock raised one brow, his interest piqued.
“They were such confident men. I dressed both the morning of their duel. It was with great sadness that I learned of their demise . . .” The man’s words trailed off.
Brock knew he had more he wanted to say. “Please go on.”
“It is only that they were best friends, and enjoyed every bit of their lives. Did you know they prepared in the same room?”
“I did not.”
“Yes, they were hardly out of each other’s sight most days. They attended the same functions, clubs… They frequently shared their female companions.” A small smile lit his valet’s face and Brock felt a twinge of jealousy.
He had not known his brothers on such an intimate level—had not seen them since they wore knee breeches. At the time, Brock could think of little more than escaping his childhood home and the memories that came with it. The twins were children when he fled.
When Brock failed to respond, Parsons continued. “All I mean to say is that they died doing what they wanted. Your presence in London would not have changed that. If they had not died in that duel, they most likely would have perished in a carriage accident or met an untimely death at the end of a cuckolded husband’s pistol.” Parsons paused and took a step back from him. “You are ready, my lord. Enjoy your evening.”
Brock highly doubted the evening would be enjoyable, let alone bearable. He eyed his cane leaning against the wall closest to the door, but decided against taking it. “Indeed.”
The stairs passed slowly beneath his feet as Brock descended to meet Harold in the foyer, pausing before his friend noticed him watching. Harold paced back and forth. Worry marred his face. Brock could not help but wonder what weighed heavy on his mind. Did it have to do with Brock, or with his own father?
“Buttons,” Brock called, gaining Harold and Buttons’ attention. “Please retrieve Mr. Jakeston’s cane and we will be on our way.”
“Where is your cane?” Harold asked.
“I will not need it.”
“Wait a minute! If you are not carrying one of those infernal things, then neither am I.”
“Oh, but you are.” Brock infused his words with the authority he'd used with his men. “It lends a certain air of nobility to the gentleman using it.”
“Then why do you not have one?”
“Because, you see, I am a earl by birth, therefore my nobility is unquestionable.” He despised alluding to his status, but the statement was true. He did not have anything to prove to the ton. Harold, on the other hand, had quite a lot to prove if he intended to marry well and escape his father’s clutches. “Shall we be off?”
Brock did not wait for Harold’s reply. He exited the front door and entered the coach that waited at the curb, his friend close behind.
The Galles’ townhouse was situated about three blocks away, and they arrived fairly quickly due to the lateness of the afternoon. Most of the working class were still at their places of employment and the nobility were in their homes preparing for their evening entertainments. There were few carriages waiting outside the Galles’ residence, however, which increased Brock’s unease. He did hope that the musicale had not been set up for his entertainment alone. Upon his arrival in town, Rodney had warned him of the dangers of matchmaking mothers. He was thankful to have Harold at his side.
“Do wipe the doom-and-gloom expression from your face, Brock,” Harold said.
Brock shifted his gaze from the window to his friend. “I most assuredly do not have a ‘doom-and-gloom’ expression. I am actually excited to hear the latest sonnets composed by Byron.”
A bark of laughter escaped Harold. “I do not believe a word of that. I am glad you can put your plans aside to enjoy an afternoon, however.”
“I would not say I plan to enjoy my afternoon, but I will suffer through.”
The door swung open and the footman set down the steps for them to depart. The front door to the Galles’ home opened before they had climbed the steps.
“Do come in,” the butler said. The strings of a harp could be heard from within. The melody sounded familiar, and was played with a measure of skill.
Brock and Harold handed over their coats and a servant led them down a long hallway to the rear of the house. They were greeted as they entered by their host and hostess, then escorted to seats in the front row of the sparsely filled room. Lord Galles seemed rather relieved that Brock did not come with a female in tow. They took their seats and a server delivered glasses of Madeira to both of them. Brock could almost feel the happiness radiating from his friend.
The young girl before him, really no more than a child, picked at the harp strings and created a soothing melody that even Brock could not deny was exquisite. He sat though several sets as a variety of young ladies took their place behind a mélange of instruments, each girl appearing as youthful as the first.
His gaze traveled the room, which was mostly filled with doting parents and other eligible men of the ton. To his left, Brock caught the eye of Rodney, who inclined his head in greeting.
“Whatever is your cousin doing here?”
Brock noted the distaste in Harold’s usually positive tone. “I am sure he is here to keep an eye on me. He has a vested interest in my future.” He turned back to the performance when a lady seated behind him ‘shhhh’d their conversation.
With a flourish the girl currently at the pianoforte strummed a final note and stood to curtsey to the cheering crowd.
Their hostess, Lady Galles, stood before the group to speak. “If everyone will adjourn to the gardens, we will start the poetry portion of our afternoon.” The lords and ladies moved as if they were a herd of colorful cattle, through the door and onto the veranda where chairs and blankets had been arranged for relaxation in the sun.
To the right stood a refreshment table with light foodstuffs. Brock and Harold moved in that direction, Brock intent on procuring a drink with a little more substance than the wine he currently held.
“Lord Haversham?” A young gentleman met him in front of the laden table. “I had heard you were back in town.”
Brock could not remember meeting the man. He appeared years younger than himself and Harold, so the possibility of them knowing each other was low.
“I am sorry. My name is Lord Darlingiver. I attended school with your brothers.”
Of course—he was an acquaintance of the twins. “May I introduce Mr. Harold Jakeston,” Brock made the formal introductions.
“It is a pleasure.”
“Indeed,” Harold said, imitating the one-word phrase Brock had perfected since his return to society.
“I have heard you are on a quest to improve your country estate, as it has been neglected in recent years.” Lord Darlingiver took a glass from the table and directed Brock and Harold toward a grouping of chairs farthest from the gathering poets.
“I am indeed.” Brock raised an eyebrow at Harold. Perhaps this man would know about Connor Cale’s secret dealings. “I am currently looking to further expand my stables. Have you heard of D & C’s Fine Foals?” Brock ventured as they sat in the straight-back chairs set out for them.
“D & C’s? I was under the impression you were working exclusively with Foldger’s Foals.”
Where had the man gotten his information? Brock had not set out to keep his business dealings a secret, but his social circle in London was rather small—as in nonexistent.
“I have dealt with Mr. Cale in the past, however I recently heard of another foal ranch I am interested in. Unfortunately, I have been unable to acquire the location of the establishment.”
“Of course, it is completely understandable you would not want to as
sociate yourself with Foldger’s Foals.” The man reclined in his seat.
“Pardon me? Whatever do you mean by that?” Brock caught Harold’s questioning glance out of the corner of his eye.
“Have you not heard? I do not like to be the messenger of bad news, but I assumed you knew.” The man paused to take a sip from his glass. “I cannot blame you for cutting ties with Lady Viola Oberbrook—her being responsible for your brothers’ deaths. Very unfortunate incident, I must say.”
Brock kept his mouth shut, debating the consequences of denying his knowledge of Lady Viola’s part in Foldger’s Foals. Would it be detrimental to him if he admitted ignorance of the fact?
Harold did not give him time to answer before he spoke up. “Lord Haversham’s family misfortune is long in the past—water under the bridge, as they say. Oh, please excuse us. I see our host is desperately seeking our notice.”
Harold stood and motioned for Brock to do the same.
As they made their way toward Lord Galles, currently conversing with his wife, he asked, “What was that all about? You know that naught water travels under that bridge.” Brock tamped down his anger in order to avoid garnering the attention of Lord Darlingiver or other partygoers.
Harold motioned with his cane to encompass the notice they had received since arriving. “You understand there was no way for you to save face during that conversation. To admit that you recently found out the woman had duped you again would be foolhardy. And acknowledging that you were unaware of her owning Foldger’s Foals would have insinuated a lack of intelligence on your part.”
“How very fortunate I am to have a friend such as yourself,” Brock said honestly. If it had been Rodney, the man would have been happy to make him look the fool. “Who do you think is spreading the news about Lady Viola?”
“Not you?” Harold paused and turned to Brock in question. “I assumed it was part of your master plan to ruin her life.”
“While she deserves her life to be ruined as she ruined the lives of my brothers, it was not I.”
“Then whom?” Harold asked the question that Brock himself had been wondering. The two men reached their host, effectively cutting off their conversation.
“Lord Haversham, may I introduce my daughter. Lady Sophia, this is the Earl of Haversham,” Lord Galles said as his daughter dropped into a low curtsey.
Brock determinedly pushed any thoughts of Lady Viola aside, focusing instead on the young lady before him. If comparisons were made in the back of his mind as to this girl’s waifish figure versus Lady Viola’s feminine curves, the child’s bland smile compared with the wit and fire he had first encountered in Viola, he refused to acknowledge such thoughts. He bowed to the vapid girl with a forced smile.
“Indeed a pleasure, Lady Sophia.”