Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 8
“Now that the required introductions have been made, I assume you are in a hurry to begin your journey home, my lord,” Vi said, in hopes of breaking the odd staring match currently under way between Ruby and Lord Haversham’s friend.
“Have we met, Miss Ruby?” Jakeston asked.
The man would not stop.
“I do not presume so.” Ruby averted her gaze.
“Connor, please instruct Alexander to bring the foals round again—”
“I beg your pardon, but you look like one I once knew. Where do you hail from?” Jakeston continued.
“Again, you must be mistaken.” Ruby avoided the question.
“My family’s parsonage lies on the Haversham estate. Do you have family in the area?”
Yet again, Vi’s deception was in danger. Why had she run from her office to assist during the commotion? She cursed her foolishness. Surely Connor could have handled the foals.
“I find myself in a hurry to return, cousin,” Rodney spoke up. He was the only person present who wished her identity to remain a secret almost as much as herself.
“Of course,” Brock said. “Lady Posey, thank you for the fine stock.”
Vi sighed in relief. “My lord, thank you for your business. I trust with the help of Mr. Cale, your return trip should be smooth.”
“I do not foresee any troubles.” Brock took the reins of his horse back from Jakeston. “Let us be on our way, gentlemen.”
Several minutes later, Viola and Ruby watched the group depart down the lane, Connor and the foals in tow.
“I fear we were almost discovered.” Vi crossed her arms across her chest.
“We? This is your deception, not mine.”
“You were quick to cut me off when I nearly revealed your family name,” Vi countered.
“It was for your sake, not my own. I do not agree with lying, but I do understand why you must.”
“Do you know Mr. Jakeston?”
“Yes. He and I grew up together with Lord Haversham and his brothers, but shortly into my eighth year my father insisted I act more the lady. Then started my years of dresses, tutors, and training in all things a woman should know. It has been many years since I’ve thought of him,” Ruby said with a sigh.
“Why ever would you think of him?” Vi prodded. Was there a man and a relationship in Ruby’s past that Vi wasn’t privy to? She’d never known her friend to speak of anyone. Maybe this explained the lack of communication between Ruby and her family now.
“I was not thinking of him in particular, but of all of them. I did spend my childhood amongst a horde of boys.” Ruby winked at Vi, lightening the mood. “Now, let us not think about boys any longer, and finish our repast.”
“Indeed.” Viola wouldn’t push her friend. The possibility of Ruby turning the tables and questioning her about Brock might lead Vi to explore her own uncomfortable connection to the man . . . and the kiss she could still feel on her lips.
Chapter 8
The sun sat barely above the horizon as Brock wearily locked the final foal in the last available stall in his newly renovated stable. The ride home had proven uneventful but chaotic. It was without question in his favor that Mr. Cale had been able to escort them most of the way.
“Shall we return to the house? I find myself in need of a bath and a substantial meal,” he asked Harold.
“A meal would not be remiss.”
“I think you need a good scrub more than the food.” Brock laughed at the hurt expression on his friend’s face. “We can only hope Rodney has retired for the evening. The man is a good-for-nothing dandy if I’ve ever encountered one.”
“Ha! He’s changed for the worse since he’s been unable to ride the coattails of the twins.”
The reminder of his brothers’ deaths sucked the jovial mood from Brock. It seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without someone mentioning them. He’d enjoyed the day at Foldger’s Foals, being so occupied that no one brought up the tragedy of his past. It was unlikely Lady Posey or Mr. Cale knew his painful family history; neither looked as if they’d attended a season in London in recent years—if ever. Now, Miss Ruby was a different story. Harold assured him on the trip home that he knew the girl, but couldn’t place her.
“Brock.”
Brock shook himself from his thoughts.
“Something always seems to bring up the past—”
Brock held up one hand to silence him. “Don’t. I must engage in conversation about them with others, but not you . . . we have so much else to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“Such as our trip to London to find me a suitable bride. It is time the estate is again filled with laughter and pounding feet!” Brock slung his arm around Harold and steered him out of the stables and toward the main house.
“We did have fun running amuck, did we not?”
“That we did, my friend!” They took the steps two at a time. The front door swung open before Brock had the chance to reach for the knob. “Good evening, Buttons! Please have Cook prepare dinner for two and have it waiting in my study in one hour’s time.”
“Certainly, my lord,” the short, portly butler responded as he bowed his head. “I will also have warm water sent up for you.”
“Very good. Send some to Harold’s room as well—but do not waste the warm water on him.” Brock laughed.
“Very kind of you,” Harold said. “If I sought to be mistreated, I would head home to my father.”
“I will have water brought up.” Buttons turned on his heel and started for the kitchen.
“You’ve scared my poor butler with your complaining,” Brock teased.
“As if we haven’t scared our fair share of servants over the years. Remember that time—” Harold stopped walking mid-sentence, his brows drawn together in confusion. “By gawds! I figured it out!”
“How to get away from your overbearing father? I could have told you—”
“No! How we know her.”
“How we know who? You are not making sense.”
“Miss Ruby! She is Ruby St. Augustin.” Harold smiled, a look of pride crossing his face.
“St. Augustin? How do I know that name?”
“How can you not remember? She’s the chit from the estate next to yours. The ragamuffin who constantly followed us about as children.” The satisfied look didn’t leave Harold’s face.
“Well I’ll be a poppy’s colored feathers! You just might be right. But however did she end up all the way in Hampshire? ‘tis a long way from Kent.”
“True. I expected the girl had attended a London season and was quickly swooped up,” Harold continued. “While her family did not come from money, her father was in possession of a title.”
Brock began up the main staircase to his bedchambers, Harold at his side. “Did you fancy her?” he couldn’t help but ask. The girl was nothing but a fuzzy memory of a dirty child with stringy dark hair scampering after them as they embarked on adventures around the estate.
“Would it have mattered if I did?” Harold sighed. “She was far out of my class. Her father’s a baron, for heaven sakes.”
He often wondered why Harold held such a low opinion of himself, but then he visualized Vicar Jakeston, all full of hell’s fire and brimstone. Their trip to London would do both of them good. “She would have been lucky to have you as a husband, my friend.”
“Whatever you say, Brock.” Harold stopped in front of the door to his guest chamber. “I will meet you in the study in one hour.”
“One minute late and I’ll have Cook’s meal eaten.” Brock again laughed and continued down the hall to his own door.
It was unfortunate the way Harold’s father treated him, as if he had not a single upstanding qualification in life. While Brock had done everything in his power to escape his distant, sometimes absent father, his friend had been left with a man who’d continually and without mercy crushed Harold’s will. His friend had needed him, but Brock had been too concerned with his own troubles to be bothered. He’d not only run from those troubles at home, he’d abandoned his best friend when he’d needed him most.
He only hoped that, as with the newly renovated stables and high expectations of his London trip, Harold would also flourish anew. Brock meant to see his friend happy and carefree once more.
Chapter 9
“Thank you, Parsons. That will do.” Brock looked into the mirror at his reflection. His cravat was tied perfectly and his Hessians shone in the dim light of his dressing room. After years as a soldier, he’d become accustomed to never seeing his reflection. He’d been satisfied with the lack of looking glasses available in the soldier encampment because it gave him ten years without staring into his mother’s eyes . . . his eyes. He did not have to see his dark-chocolate wavy hair, also the mirror image of his deceased mother.
And in turn, if Brock was away from home he didn’t have to see the hurt, the sorrow and pain, in his father’s eyes every time he looked at his eldest son. Brock’s parents had been a love match between two members of the ton, both from excellent lineage. He often wondered what the outcome would have been if both his parents hadn’t been born to wealthy, powerful families. Would his mother have forsaken her wealth and privilege to live a meager existence with his father? Or would his father have married his mother if she’d been a lowly maid? In Brock’s dreams, they would have been together no matter the circumstances of their birth.
“Brock?” Harold called from his bedchamber. “Are you ready to get this infernal evening underway?”
“Infernal evening?” Brock exited his dressing room to find Harold lounging before the fireplace in his chambers. “You seemed to enjoy yourself last evening.”
“I enjoy being anywhere my father is not, but these clothes are confining.” Harold stood and pulled at his artfully tied cravat. “And look at this cane! Of all the absurd things. What man would willingly carry this thing around when they can walk perfectly without assistance?”
“Ha! You have spent too much time among the common folk in Kent.” Brock moved to the sideboard and poured himself a healthy tumbler of scotch. “Pick your poison,” he said.
“Do not get me started on my aversion to spirits!” Harold threw himself back into his seat as if he were a child of five refusing to go to bed. “I positively do not understand the allure of getting utterly sloshed each evening and losing a fortune at a card table.”
“I do believe you’d make a wonderful wife, my friend. Would you like a nice glass of sherry to start your evening?” Brock barked with laughter. He’d not tease his friend thus in the company of others, but when it was just the two of them, Brock enjoyed tormenting the man.
“Sherry I can handle. Sweet and light. Everything that scotch and whiskey are not.” Harold sat forward expectantly.
“It is unfortunate for you that I would not stock sherry in my private quarters. Shall we be off?” Brock asked, then gulped down his tumbler of scotch.
“If you wish.” Harold rose and followed Brock out of the chambers and down the stairs.
When they gained entrance to the main foyer, Buttons was ready with their overcoats. “My lord, your carriage waits.”
“Marvelous.” It was time he got his priorities in line: wife, estate, family. Would there be room for vengeance once his home and stables were full once more? The never-ending drive to see justice done hadn’t ebbed since his return, but he needed to focus on moving his life forward, regardless of whether that meant never seeing the past righted. “Please inform Parsons not to wait up for me. I sense the evening will be a late one.” Brock slipped into his coat and winked at Harold, who dragged his cane behind him. The night air was punctuated only by the thump of the cane as it hit each step.
Though the evening was growing late, Vi remained behind her desk at Foldger’s Foals. She’d hoped things with the business would change, perhaps even improve as fast as they’d declined. Alas, her financial situation had taken another turn for the worst. She smoothed her hand across the day’s post that had arrived shortly before the evening feeding. Now resting on the cool surface of her desk, the two letters held completely different messages, but both signaled doom.
She dashed a wayward tear away that had escaped without her notice. Tattersalls had written to void their longstanding agreement with Foldger’s Foals. The letter, written in a man’s heavy hand, stated they wished to seek out “more affordable foals” closer to London.
She pushed the paper out of her sight, uncovering the second letter—this from her father, begging her to reconsider her decision to stay in the country.
Her head dipped to her hands, propped on the desk. Helplessness coursed through her. Before being shunned by the ton, she never remembered feeling like she’d been set adrift at sea, unable to swim and with neither a paddle nor lifesaving device.
With the way things were progressing, she’d have no other alternative but to travel to London or stay completely idle at her father’s country estate. Neither option suited her in the least.
Foldger’s Foals had been the premier breeding ranch for almost as long as she’d been in business. Ironic, but she’d never viewed the ton fickle in their opinions when it came to business. Now, it seemed that many had decided to buy elsewhere with little or no explanation. It should not wound her so, but she felt abandoned all over again. As if she was being shunned for the second time.
Enough!
She straightened in her seat and squared her shoulders. “I will not fail,” she uttered to the empty room. She, with the help of Connor, would discover the reason for the decline in clients and set things to right. She had no other options available to her.
An image of Lord Haversham flitted through her mind: His strong arms, his deep laugh, his smile. Had she ever seen him smile or did she only dream of it, a gleam lighting his eyes? Had he thought of her after he left? Most assuredly not. He was now a man about town. No doubt he was currently waltzing at a grand ball dressed in London’s finest.
She sighed and collected the letter she’d shoved across the desk in her moment of weakness. Tomorrow, she thought to herself. Tomorrow was a new day, and she would figure out the problems facing Foldger’s Foals.
Brock loathed the idea of telling Harold he’d been correct. So far, the evening had been a tedious affair filled with money-hungry, matchmaking mothers with less-than-suitable, often downright homely, daughters. A part of him had assumed he would waltz into a ballroom, pick out a gorgeous young debutante, court her, and marry within the year. Alas, the young women who raised his blood pressure immediately had him running for the hills with their insipid conversations and lack of . . . Well, he was unsure what they lacked, but he was certain something was missing.
More than once, he found himself wondering what Lady Posey would wear to a ball such as this. Would her dance card fill quickly? Did she have the permission of Almack’s to waltz? Would she even care to gain the approval of a group of stuffy elderly ladies long past their prime?
“What are you smirking at?”
“Naught of importance.” Brock pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and took the drink Harold held out to him. “How are you faring this evening? Better than myself, I hope.”
“I must admit, Lady Garnerdale stocks the most delicious sherry I’ve had the pleasure of tasting. Do you think she’d mind if I take a bottle home?”
“We will never know because if you dare ask such a thing you will not make it out of this ball alive.” Brock looked into the glass he held. “This isn’t sherry, is it?”
“Of course not. Although I will have to keep that in mind next time I play your nursemaid and fetch you a drink.”
While he’d been away, Brock had missed the easy companionship he and Harold shared. It still surprised him that they’d been able to rekindle their friendship as if a day hadn’t passed since their youth.
“Have you placed your name upon any lucky young woman’s dance card?” he asked Harold.
“Come now. After setting sights on you, none will give me the time to even be introduced properly,” Harold sighed. “I fear I’m doomed to return to the vicarage and live a solitary life.”
“Solitary? I’m sure you’ll spend much time tormenting me and my family. I’m sure my children will love their Uncle Harold.”
“Your wife as well, no doubt.” Harold waggled his eyebrows.
“Ha! I only hope you’re wrong on that account. Now, let’s meet some young ladies so we are not doomed to spend eternity together, just the two of us.”
“Would that be so awful?”
“Unbearably awful, my friend.” Brock slapped Harold across the back and his friend’s sherry sloshed from his cup and landed on the floor. “You’d better hope our hostess didn’t witness that. She is quite particular about her ballroom floor. And where is your cane?”
“I hid it behind the potted plant over yonder. I’ve tripped on the blasted thing three times this evening—and that was before the band had the opportunity to warm up.”
“Make sure you retrieve it before we depart.” Brock surveyed the crowded ballroom. Pale-colored dresses swirled to and fro as women adorned in outrageous head pieces moved to the music in the arms of dandified men of the ton. Finding a suitably appealing wife would be harder than anticipated. Everywhere he looked he pictured Lady Posey; handing her a sherry, talking to a man of the ton, or moving to the strings of a waltz.
“Do not look now, but our hostess is headed our way with a lovely pair of girls in tow,” Harold said beside him.
“Let us hope she did not witness your faux pas and is here to throw us out.” Brock smiled when Harold paled. “Buck up, Harold. It appears she is about to introduce us to two young eligible women.”
“I surely hope they are not both for you,” Harold mumbled.
Brock smothered his grin as Lady Garnerdale skidded to a stop in front of them, the two ladies behind her almost running her over. “Lady Garnerdale, this ball is quite the success.” He bowed to their hostess, elbowing Harold in the stomach when he failed to follow suit.
