Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 13
“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 Jeffers’ 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 nursemaid. 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.
Chapter 17
“Why are you hiding out here?” Connor walked into her office, a look of concern on his face.
Her fingers brushed away the wayward tear clinging to her cheek. Vi hoped the redness had faded from her eyes. “I have nowhere else to go.” Her sigh sounded overdramatic, even to her own ears. “How did the meeting go?”
“Efficient change of subject. You are lucky I cannot help but indulge you at every turn.” Connor bowed and his hair flopped in front of his eyes. “The meeting did not go well, I fear.”
Another setback. “But Lord Haversham wrote that it was imperative to meet with them posthaste,” she mused. She’d been hopeful that these men would turn into clients—preferably clients with deep pockets.
“I’m sorry.”
The look of pity on his face made her sick to her stomach. It was truly over.
Connor had always been supportive and understanding. Along with Ruby, he knew all her secrets . . . and stuck with her still. Over the years, she’d wondered what it would be like to marry him—to let him take care of her. Would he be a good, fair husband and father? She dismissed the thought. One day he would make an excellent husband, but not her husband. It had nothing to do with his advanced age, for his youthful rugged handsomeness had only matured since they’d met, lending him a distinguished look. Her father had hinted the union would please him.
Was it time for her to think about what would please others, instead of herself? She feared that time had arrived, yet she could not justify settling—not that attaching herself permanently to Connor would be settling. It was only, she’d never anticipated marrying anyone. While she kept her regret hidden, deep inside that spot where she kept things she couldn’t change, it clawed at her every so often. While she would have no family of her own, she did have her father, Ruby, her staff and her horses who all depended on her. She told herself that their companionship and love was no different than that of a husband and children.
She didn’t let herself dwell on the eventuality of her father’s passing, or the transfer of the estate and title to his cousin. The thought that she’d be forced to sell her ranch and live off the generosity of a relative who was more stranger than family was also something she kept tucked safely deep within.
Yes, regret was not something she had time for.
“If it pleases you, I will feed the stock before I retire for the day.” Connor’s words shook her from her reverie.
“A few more things before you go.” Vi squared her shoulders. She’d more important things to worry over. “Were you able to deliver the envelope?”
Connor dipped his head. “Yes. I handed it to Hutton as you asked.”
“Thank you. I understand the area is not the most affluent part of London and at times unsafe—”
“No need to explain yourself.” Connor waved a hand in dismissal.
“Well, thank you all the same. Now, tell me more about the meeting.”
Connor sat in the blue gilded chair in front of Vi’s desk. “There was something off about the men. While they listened intently to what we had to offer, they seemed uncomfortable and nervous—”
“Nervous how?” Vi asked.
“A bit uncomfortable. I may be making this something it is not, but they glanced quite frequently at Lord Haversham for what seemed like approval before speaking. It was odd for men of the ton.”
It was out of character for any man, at least in her experience.
“I was unable to arrangement any further meeting.”
“You did what you could.” Vi stood to signal the end of their conversation before asking nonchalantly, “Did Br—Lord Haversham inquire as to my well-being?” She had thought of nothing else the two days Connor had been away. She hoped Brock had inquired, as much as she dreaded the possibility that he would.
Connor eyed her suspiciously and turned his head in thought. “I do not remember him mentioning Lady Posey.”
“Well, that is as it should be,” she said to cover her interest. “It would not do to have London abuzz with fresh gossip. People may wonder about who indeed owns Foldger’s Foals.” Now that things were over, it would be ironic for word to spread.
“Indeed, it would not.” Connor’s chair creaked as he stood and moved to the door. “I will eat and return in the morning. Please, do not stress overmuch.”
The door clicked shut behind him and Vi gazed out the window at his retreating form. She’d never wanted to put herself in such a position again; the lying was a trait she’d abhorred in her younger self. It was hard to convince one’s self that one had changed with all the deceit swarming around.
Mere moments after Connor had disappeared from view, her office door burst open. Vi’s stomach jumped to her throat in surprise when Ruby rushed in, breathing hard.
“Vi! There you are.” Ruby bent at the waist and placed her hands on her knees.
“Here I am. Whatever is the matter?” Vi’s hands went naturally to her hips in Ruby’s usual pose.
“It is your father—”
“What about him?” Her voice broke slightly on the last word.
“He is at the estate and wishes to see you immediately.” Ruby swallowed large gulps of air as her breathing calmed.
“It cannot be so important that they sent you rushing over here.”
“But it is . . . they carried him into the house from the carriage. Lady Darlingiver will not stop her pacing.” Ruby straightened, her hands wringing with her own worry. “She says he fainted at a ball last evening.”
Vi sprung into action, blowing out the numerous candles lighting the room, and grabbed her shawl from the hook behind her desk. “Let us be off.”
Ruby grasped her skirt, lifted it nearly to her calf and dashed out the door, Vi close behind. They navigated around the many puddles in the stable yard and made their way to the path that led to her father’s estate.
Her father was not a young man. He had shared his concerns about his health and Vi’s unmarried status many times over the last few years. In fact, she could remember twice in as many months.
They flew through the gate separating the properties and moved quickly up the steps and into the foyer, the butler pulling the door wide for them to enter.
“Where is he?” Vi’s voice echoed in the cavernous room, bounced off the walls.
“This way, Lady Viola. He is resting in the parlor.” Smith, the butler, attempted to lead the way, but Vi found herself with zero patience. Walking in a ladylike manner was out of the question.
The skirts of her dress brushed against the man when she slipped past him. The familiar hall of the house rushed past as she hurried out of the foyer, down the hall, and finally into the parlor.
“Father—”
“Lady Viola, do quiet down!” Lady Darlingiver’s voice cut Vi off. “He is resting. The journey here was an arduous one.” The woman huffed where she sat on a chair pulled up close to the lounge her father reclined upon. Her veiny hand grasped Lord Liperton’s limp fingers.
The strong, rotund figure that had been her father just a fortnight before had been replaced by a frail, sallow-complexioned man she hardly recognized. “Whatever happened?”
“We attended the Everheart’s ball last night—their youngest daughter was introduced to society—and your father was discussing politics with several gentlemen.” The dowager’s voice rose as her story progressed. “I left him for only a few moments when a servant rushed to alert me that Lippy, I mean your father, had fainted dead away.” The woman released her father’s hand to push a lock of hair from his closed eyes.
“I sent for his doctor as soon as we arrived at his townhouse. Doctor Durpentire gave him approval to travel here.”
The name struck Vi as oddly familiar.
Vi pulled up her own chair and sat next to the woman she’d spent more time in argument with than civil conversation over the last ten years. “Why did you bring him here? He must need rest. You could have sent for me.”
“I did not bring him here to you.” The woman’s face clouded in confusion. “We traveled here because we are now away from the prying eyes of society. If we had remained in town, I would not have been able to stay and attend to him—it is just not done.”
This was the Lady Darlingiver with whom Viola was familiar.
Vi pasted a smile on her face. “I do so much appreciate you caring for my father while he is in town. If you had not attended the ball with him last evening, I fear what could have happened to him.” If the woman detected Vi’s sarcasm, she did not let on or take the bait.
“I cannot agree with you more, my dear.” The dowager released her father’s pale hand again and took hold of Vi’s as if to soothe her.
