CHAPTER NINE
“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 is 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.
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