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Brock surveyed the progress they’d made over the last several days. He’d been hesitant to undertake the repairs on the estate himself, but was glad he had. There was something comforting about being busy again. This was the type of life he was used to, and craved—one that showed his worth. He did not look fondly on the idle hands of his English countrymen who were born to privilege.
“What next, Brock?” Harold asked, similarly studying their handiwork.
He ran his hand through his hair in the hopes the sweat he’d worked up would keep it out of his eyes. “Why don’t we tend to the tack room? It will be important that the saddles, horse blankets, and leather are kept dry from the elements.”
“Fine. You still haven’t told me why you are in such a hurry. You haven’t properly mourned the loss of your father, and you’ve rushed into rebuilding the estate—the very estate you couldn’t get far enough away from when we were younger.”
Harold was an inquisitive and intellectual man, and Brock had known it was only a matter of time before his friend would question his haste to move forward.
“I seek to prepare my home for a family, to once again fill the halls with laughter. If I can’t achieve that in the near future, at least I’ll be occupied with the horses. Training and the like.” He feared he’d shared too much, opened himself to the jests of a hurried marriage and the rumors of financial destitution, which could not be farther from the truth.
“I see,” was Harold’s only reply as he started toward the tack room.
“What in the blazes do you mean by that?” Brock followed closely on his heels.
“Not a thing. Do you not plan to hire someone to run the stables for you, to train the new foals?” Harold inquired as he entered the tack room.
“Whatever for? I am completely capable of the job, am I not?” Did his truest friend think him weak? Lacking, in some sense?
“Why yes, some would say overly capable. But with that responsibility weighing on your shoulders, however do you plan to meet, woo, and marry a chit in London?”
The man had a good point, one Brock hadn’t pondered as yet. Images of Lady Posey invaded his mind: her dark hair—would it hang down her back if released from the severe knot she kept it in? Her blue eyes, as clear as the seas along the French coast… But most of all, her presence itself. While they’d only met on two brief occasions, he was positive she would light any room she entered. “I will manage.”
“I have no doubt that you will.”
Brock lifted the stack of new wood and carried it into the room, dropping it at Harold’s feet, against the far rotting wall. “Enough talk. We sound like two old dowagers chatting over afternoon tea.” He grabbed a hammer and knelt by the section of wall in the most disrepair.
Before Harold could respond, Brock heard footsteps behind him.
“Well, well, well. So nice of you to improve my inheritance, cousin.”
Brock’s head came up and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. “If it is not my well-connected cousin, Mr. Rodney Swiftenberg.” He added extra emphasis to the ‘mister’ before his third cousin’s name. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I’ve merely come to check on my forthcoming asset,” Rodney replied. “I do hope you are not emptying my coffers to repair this shell of a stable.”
“I would never dream of squandering your life blood, cousin. You remember Mr. Harold Jakeston, do you not?” Setting down his hammer, Brock stood to face his cousin.
“Ah, yes, your childhood shadow. How could I forget the meek and meager vicar-to-be?” Rodney responded in his usual condescending manner, nodding in Harold’s direction.
Brock didn’t venture a look at his lifelong friend, but a distinct heat came from Harold’s direction. It was tempting to react in a violent way—to grab his cousin by the throat and slam him against the rotting wall of the tack room, or use the man’s creatively tied cravat to wring his scrawny neck.
Instead, he smiled.
Rodney sought a reaction at every turn when they were growing up, and that hadn’t changed.
“You’ll never let it go that Harold and I excluded you from our adventures as children.”
“That is untrue. Winston, Cody, and I were very content to seek out our own adventures,” Rodney said.
There was truth in his cousin’s statement. Only a year older than Brock’s twin brothers, Rodney had kept himself entertained at their expense. When cook’s pies had gone missing or a full chamber pot had been launched over the railing from the second story, landing in the foyer and coating Mrs. Pearl St. Augustin in fecal matter, Rodney had been present but quick to blame the incident on the twins. His father had indulged the trio at every turn. His proclamation that ‘boys will be boys’ still rang in Brock’s mind.
“Do you plan to stay on at the estate? Harold and I could use another set of hands to finish this project before we set off at the end of the week.” He hadn’t seen Rodney since his return to England, and he found it suspect that his cousin should appear now. Brock had learned upon his return that Rodney hadn’t even seen fit to show his face at his uncle’s funeral.
Could he blame his cousin for not attending a funeral that he, himself hadn’t attended? Brock liked to tell himself that if he’d known his father had passed, he would have made the journey home, taken the time to see to all the details and to honor his father.
“I had planned to spend a few days restoring my constitution. The season can be quite draining, if you recall.” Rodney leaned against the door jamb, eyeing the room in which Brock stood.
His cousin hadn’t worked a day in his life, never needing to provide for himself or his family. Brock assumed he’d been upset to hear the heir to Haversham House had returned, alive and suitable to inherit.
Kneeling once again, Brock ripped a half-rotted board from the wall, tossing it over his shoulder, aiming for Rodney. “Be of some help, cousin, and fetch me the satchel of nails outside the door.”
“And taint my new Hessians? I think not.”
“I’ll retrieve them,” Harold said, leaving Brock alone with his cousin.
“That’s a good little boy,” Rodney taunted.
Brock leapt from his crouched position and fairly flew across the small room. He itched to wrap his hands around Rodney’s perfect, pale-colored neck. “Cousin! I will warn you only this once. Do not disrespect guests in my home. Do you understand me?”
“Do you not mean our home, dear cousin?” The ignorant man held his ground and dared challenge Brock.
“You may have been allowed to live here by my father, the Lord rest his soul, but I am not the compassionate man he was.” Brock took a step closer, forcing Rodney to retreat. “This stable, the Hall, and everything else entailed to the Haversham title belongs to me and me alone. You are permitted here and at my other residences because I see fit to allow you entrance.”
Rodney took another step back, his foot catching on a length of wood, and he tumbled haphazardly to the ground.
Brock continued forward to tower over his cousin, driving his point home. “Until the unfortunate time that I pass, deprived of an heir, you will not be known as anything more than Mr. Rodney Swiftenberg.” He found bullying in any form distasteful, but his cousin needed to learn his place now, before Brock allowed him too much leeway. At that point, it would prove difficult to rein the man back in.
“I apologize for giving you the impression that I take for granted all your father has done for me since my own mother and father died,” Rodney backpedaled. “I do not mean any disrespect.”
A bit of his anger fled at Rodney’s words. Rodney had seen many hardships in his life as well, losing his own father at a young age and then his two best friends and cousins.
He had not been the only one to suffer with Brock’s brothers’ passing.
Brock offered his hand and his cousin grasped it. His clammy hand almost slipped from Brock’s. With a small tug, Rodney lurched to his feet and brushed his palm
s down his trousers to remove the straw that clung to the material.
“If you do not plan on assisting Harold and me, you can return to the main house. We will meet you for supper,” Brock said.
“Yes, I could use a bit of time to freshen—”
“Will we be needing all of these?” Harold lugged a brown satchel full of nails into the room. “I can feel the blisters now.”
“What are your plans here, anyway?” Rodney looked between the pair.
“Brock is readying the stables for the foals arriving soon,” Harold answered before Brock could stop him.
“Foals? When do they arrive?” Rodney inquired.
“They are not arriving. Harold and I will leave in a few days’ time to collect them and bring them here.” Brock wanted Rodney out of his hair—the sooner, the better. If that meant he and Harold would have to leave the estate as well, then so be it.
“Brock, but I thought you said—”
Brock silenced Harold with a glare. “There has been a change of plans, I thought I told you at the noontime meal? Something has come up, and we must travel back to Foldger’s Foals to collect the horses.”
“Foldger’s Foals in Hampshire? I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting a horse ranch in many years. I do believe I will tag along.”
Brock’s worst nightmare looked to be coming true. “You do realize the journey is over five hours on horseback?” he asked in hopes of discouraging him. “The trip may require us to stay a few days. The inns in that part of the country are quite primitive.”
“I have no obligations until the ball at the Duke of Essex’s townhouse a fortnight hence.” Rodney cast a sly smile in Brock’s direction, clearly enjoying the discomfort he caused his cousin. “I do believe a jaunt to the country will be a bracing way to pass the days.”