CHAPTER TWELVE
Brock reclined in the overstuffed chair and gazed at the fire before him. The flames licked at the dry log and reflected off the wall behind him. He’d arrived in London only an hour before and, after trading his drenched clothes for proper evening attire, he had rushed out of his townhouse to avoid Harold. The last thing he needed at the moment was his friend’s level-headed study of the situation.
Not fit for societal interactions, Brock had made his way to White’s, where he currently sat with a bottle of scotch in one hand and bourbon in the other. He’d waved away the man who offered him a crystal tumbler. He preferred his liquor straight from the bottle in situations such as this. Although, he could not remember being in such a situation before. In fact, the last time he’d imbibed this quantity of alcohol, he’d been mourning the loss of his twin brothers.
Strange how such things tended to come full circle.
He took a large swig of scotch; the amber liquid burned a path down his throat. He’d obviously not consumed the proper amount if it still burned going down.
The entire ride back to London, his thoughts had been absorbed with the need to understand how Lady Viola had hidden her identity from him—and from society as a whole. He’d conferred with several business men before seeking out Foldger’s Foals. No one had linked the shunned Lady Viola Oberbrook to the operation. The woman had probably deceived the good people of England for the last eight years. Could he let it continue?
Images of the woman singing softly to the young foal after a hard training session invaded his mind, unbidden. At the memory, he again recalled his mother lulling him to sleep as a child. How he wished this woman had not turned out to be the only one he could never be with, let alone stand to be in the same room as.
He sighed.
The sweet girl his foal seemed to adore was indeed the cold-hearted wretch responsible for his family’s demise. How could they be one and the same? Alas, the love letter he discovered on her desk proved she’d not changed.
“Ah, dear cousin. Lord Hurst was indeed correct,” Rodney spoke behind him.
“Leave me be, Rodney,” Brock called over his shoulder. “I find myself not in the mood to spar with you this evening.” He continued to stare blindly into the flames of the fire.
“Spar with me?” Rodney sounded affronted. “I only seek to find what has sent my dear cousin so far into his cups.”
“That,” he said, lifting his cup in mock salute, “is none of your business. I bid you good night.”
“I ventured by your townhouse today and was shocked to learn you had departed London on course to Foldger’s Foals once again. Has a certain young lady caught your eye?” Rodney laughed and moved around the chair Brock lounged in, taking the seat next to it.
He straightened in his seat and focused on his cousin. “You knew?”
A deep laugh issued from Rodney.
Brock threw one of the half-drunken bottles. It narrowly missed Rodney’s head, smashing against the wall behind him. “You bloody son of a bitch!”
“And you call yourself a man of war with that aim? Tsk, tsk,” Rodney said, eerily calm in the face of his cousin’s fury.
“I will ask you one last time. Did you know the woman we met with was Lady Viola Oberbrook?” Brock held his cousin’s stare. He may no longer wear the uniform of a man of war, but he certainly would kick Rodney’s arse from here all the way to the continent and back again if he continued this charade.
“Does it truly matter if I knew?”
“Cousin, you walk a thin line.” Brock tightened his grip on the remaining bottle, not wanting to waste more alcohol when he would probably again miss his mark. “Of course it matters. That woman is responsible for the deaths of my brothers and your supposed best friends! Did you even mourn their loss, or did you only see it as bringing you two steps closer to my title?”
Rodney signaled a servant for a tumbler of brandy.
Brock waited until the servant had left them before he continued, not seeing the need to lay out his family drama before the prying ears of the help. “Answer me.” His whispered command echoed through the room.
“You demand an answer from me?” Rodney tilted the tumbler to his mouth. “I was here. It was I who helped your father bury Winston and Cody, my best friends. It was I who watched your father’s slow decline in health. His heart broke a bit more each day. And all while you frolicked with your soldier gents.”
“There was nothing enjoyable about my time serving His Majesty. There was death and sorrow and depression where I was, as well.” Brock forced himself to relax into his seat when two gentlemen sat in a pair of chairs across the room.
“Be that as it may, I was here and you were not.” The glass returned to Rodney’s lips as he drained the amber liquid.
“When did you know it was her?” Brock asked again.
“The second I laid eyes on her.”
“And you did not tell me. Which makes me wonder why that is.” Brock had imbibed such an enormous amount he was unable to keep his inner thoughts to himself. Verily, it was long past time he made his way home.
“What I would entertain knowing is how exactly you discovered who she truly is.”
“I do not doubt you would like to know this.” Brock pushed himself from the chair and stood. His legs lacked stability. “Unfortunately, I do not have the time or energy to waste here with the likes of you.”
Brock grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the table at his side, and made for the exit.
“Dear cousin, one question before you depart.”
He turned to face Rodney. “Of course.”
“Whatever are you doing in London after you and Harold worked so diligently to repair the stables and stock new foals?”
“That is a question I do have time to answer.” Brock grinned. “I am here to obtain a wife, so that the eventuality never occurs that you inherit my title.” He laughed bitterly as he departed the room. The urge to peek over his shoulder to see Rodney’s reaction was great, but it was an urge he would rather die than indulge in.
Shunned No More Page 21
