Brock strolled into Haversham House and nearly fell to his knees. It was hard to enter this place without memories flooding his mind. Memories of his beautiful mother, heavily pregnant with the twins. Or his young brothers sliding down the main balustrade during their games of pirates. Of his father, voice raised in anger over the improper escapades of Winston and Cody.
Eventually, his thoughts always came back to her--Lady Viola Oberbrook. How he despised the woman! Lord help him, and everyone around him, if he ever came face to face with that Siren. He was unsure of what had become of her, and he had no desire to inquire as to her current whereabouts. He knew the unpredictability of his siblings, their tendency toward rash decisions and their scorn of consequences, but why had only his brothers suffered that day? With both dead, the blame should have fallen on her shoulders, no matter the unfairness of that fact.
“My lord.” His butler bowed before him. “May I relieve you of your overcoat?”
“Thank you, Thamston. Please have water brought up for a bath. I’m afraid after two days in the saddle I smell worse than the stable I visited.” Brock shrugged out of his coat and started for the stairs.
“My lord?”
“Yes, what is it?” He stopped mid-stride, turning back to Thamston.
“Mr. Jakeston awaits your presence in the front parlor.”
“Well, why did you not say so sooner?” Brock changed direction and headed to the closed door off the main foyer, throwing it wide to greet his oldest friend. “Harold! I distinctly remember saying I’d send word when I returned from Hampshire.”
His sudden appearance startled his friend, who looked to be dozing off in an overstuffed chair, his feet resting on an ottoman. Mr. Harold Jakeston snapped up straight and lifted his booted feet from the delicate, cream cushion of the ottoman. “I apologize for lurking when not invited.” His hair stuck out at odd angles and his eyelids were heavy with lack of sleep.
Brock snorted. “You are always welcome in my home, my friend. You look exhausted. Another row with your father?”
“Is it that obvious?” Harold rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Not to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I. They would assume you always look this downcast and bleak. Has Thamston or Miss Styles been in to offer you refreshments?” Brock asked.
“No, no. I did not seek to impose upon them.” Harold flung his hand in front of him, warding off Brock’s concern.
“Is it the vicar debate again?”
“Whatever else would it be?”
“You must come clean and tell him you have no intention of following in his footsteps.” Brock moved to the sideboard and poured two healthy fingers of brandy.
“But as the third son, I have no other options. Without a shilling to my name, the path may well be forced upon me.” Harold’s hand swiped at the hair falling across his forehead.
“Have a drink. Everything will appear better after.”
Harold relieved Brock of a tumbler. “No sherry?”
“The situation calls for something a bit stronger, would you not agree?”
Harold nodded and tipped the glass to his lips, draining the amber liquid.
“Another?”
“No, thank you.” Harold moved back to his napping chair and sat, his overly stressed body crushing the cushion under its weight.
“I will be traveling to London soon to start my quest for a bride,” Brock said. “I insist you accompany me. Maybe we can marry you off to an heiress. Then you would not have to worry about your father or his vicarage.”
“It is almost too much to hope that things would transpire thus.” The tension melted into despair and he sank further into the chair.
Brock tilted his own drink to his lips and pondered his friend’s predicament. He hadn’t thought about Harold accompanying him to London before, but it would be advantageous for them both. Harold could get away from his father, and Brock would not be alone during his first foray into society in over fifteen years. He had been no more than a lad when he’d chosen the career path of a military man, against his father’s wishes.
As Harold seemed lost in his own thoughts, Brock surveyed the room in which they stood. His parents’ last portrait hung regally above the fireplace. The downward gaze of his mother’s eyes hid the grin that sought to overtake her face. She’d just found out she was again pregnant, after many years of trying. His father immediately commissioned the painting.
His father, the fifth Earl of Haversham, beamed with pride behind Brock’s mother. Neither had any way of knowing that in seven months’ time she would be dead and his father would be tasked with raising twins, with only the help of a twelve-year-old Brock and a household of servants.
And now, they were all gone: His mother, his father, and the unborn boys just thought of in that painting. If it hadn’t been for Lady Viola Oberbrook, his brothers would still be alive; his father would never have died of a broken heart. She had taken his family.
“Are you not listening to me?” Harold chided.
Brock tamped down the inner rage that constantly boiled at the thought of Lady Oberbrook, and turned away from his parents’ portrait. “I apologize. My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?”
“I asked how it went at Foldger’s Foals. Did you find their stock of good quality?”
Oh, he’d found something of quality there, although he wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the livestock for sale. “I was quite satisfied with the animals I saw.”
“How many did you return with?”
“They are not ready at the moment. In a fortnight, I will return and bring home eight foals.” While Mr. Cale had insisted on delivering the animals to Haversham House, Brock had expressed his desire to collect the animals himself. Would he gain another glance of the fair Lady Posey? His hopes were high on that front. “Until then, I will work on repairing the stables here. You are welcome to stay and help.”
“That may be just the thing I need.”
“I was going to bathe and get a fresh start in the morning, but we might as well start now,” Brock said. “Before your father says play time is over.”