Anne McAllister - Blood Brothers

Gabe groaned. “Can’t trust ’em to keep their mouths shut, can you?”

“I’m sure Aunt Elaine is the soul of discretion. Usually. Wait until we’re in the car, and you can tell all,” Randall said.

Like hell he would. He and Randall might have shared a thousand secrets as boys, but when it came to women, Gabe drew the line. He followed Randall out to the parking garage, and whistled at the sight of Randall’s silver-colored Rolls-Royce.

“Does this come from the ancient family fortunes, or did Stanton Publications pay for it?”

“Stanton Publications,” Randall told him. “All the family estates do is soak up money. It’s the firm that makes it.” He settled behind the wheel and looked avidly at his cousin. “Come on. Give. All I know is, it’s something to do with a floozie called Tracy.”

Gabe cocked his head. “Do I detect a little envy in your voice, cuz?”

Randall scowled, then shifted his gaze to focus intently on fitting the key into the ignition. “Of course not.”

“It’s not a crime, you know. Every red-blooded male ought to meet a Tracy or two.”

“Or twelve or twenty,” Randall said drily. “Or have you had more than that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gabe grinned as he leaned back against the leather seat and flexed his shoulders. “You should have a few floozies in your life, bud. It would make you a better human being.”

“Like you, I suppose?” Randall snorted.

Gabe shrugged negligently. “All work and no play makes Randall a dull boy.”

“Better than all play and no work,” Randall said firmly.

One of Gabe’s dark brows lifted. “Just a little testy, are we?” he asked as Randall negotiated the narrow lanes of the parking garage.

“You’d be testy too if you had Earl breathing down your neck every minute of every day.”

They called Cedric Stanton “Grandfather” to his face; they called him “the earl” when speaking about him to acquaintances; but they called him “Earl” behind his back because one summer in Montana when they were boys, an old camp cook had actually thought it was the old man’s name and kept yelling, “Hey, Earl! Come an’ get it, Earl!”

Now Gabe grinned. “Hey, that’s Earl. Just tell him to buzz off.”

Randall gave a short sharp laugh. “I’d as soon tell a pit bull to play nice.”

“So buzz off yourself. I don’t see any chain around your neck. Invisible leash, is it?”

Randall almost unconsciously tugged at his collar. “Feels like it sometimes.” He didn’t say anything else, just concentrated on the road. Morning traffic around Heathrow was a good excuse for silence. But in fact, he had to admit Gabe had touched a raw nerve.

The death of Randall’s parents in a car crash when he was eight had made him heir to the earldom and all its rights and responsibilities. His fearsome grandfather had left him in no doubt that he expected both sides of the equation to be kept up. Randall had learned estate management so that he could run the ancient family domains. He’d loved that part of his life. But it hadn’t been profitable. At least not profitable enough. He’d also needed the skills to run the publishing empire by which the Stantons stayed one step ahead of the game.

He enjoyed that work, too, but he hadn’t bargained for it eating away so much of his life. He’d bowed his head to the burdens, but sometimes a voice whispered in his ear that there was more to life than this; that it would be great to toss his cap over the windmill and forget the duties for awhile.

And when he was with his charming, light-hearted, devil-may-care cousin, the whisper threatened to become a roar.

Now his hands tightened on the steering wheel, so slightly that only the sharp-eyed Gabe could have noticed.

“So when do we hear of your engagement?” Gabe asked him.

Randall’s head jerked around. “What engagement?”

“To Lady Honoria, or Lady Serena or Lady Melanie Wicks-Havering, or whoever. Time you did your duty to the House of Stanton, my lad.”

“Stop sounding like Earl,” Randall said in a harassed voice.

Gabe laughed. “So you’ve evaded the pack so far? But how long can the fox stay ahead? Tally Hoooo!” Gabe’s imitation of a hunting cry was excruciating.

“If I had my hands free I’d ram something down your gullet,” Randall muttered. “We can’t all flit from flower to flower with no thought for tomorrow.”

“Like I said, the ol’ green-eyed monster seems to have bit you but good.”

“Go to hell, McBride!”

“Oh, I reckon I will,” Gabe said cheerfully, and settled back as if satisfied that he’d done his bit for international relations.

Earl was looking older.

Of course Gabe had seen him last three years ago when the old man had come to Montana for a month’s visit. Then he’d seemed spry and ageless, his thick shock of white hair framing a relatively unlined face, his bright blue eyes brimming with enthusiasm and his every word outlining some new plan-mostly, Gabe remembered, ones that involved work for Randall.

But now he saw lines in the old man’s face. He saw a faint tremble in Earl’s fingers when, at the eightieth birthday bash, the old man had raised his glass at his grandsons’ toast to “eighty more years as adventure-filled as the last eighty.”

He saw that some day Earl wouldn’t be around anymore.

But he also saw that it was just possible that Randall would die first-of overwork.

Gabe had been in England two days, and while he’d spent a fair amount of time with the earl, he’d barely seen his cousin after Randall had dropped him off at Stanton House in Belgravia and had left.

“Got to be in Glasgow for a meeting,” Randall said apologetically. “Catch you later.”

But he hadn’t. Since Gabe’s arrival, Randall had been variously in London, Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff and Penzance. The most Gabe heard from him was a phone call or another apologetic message. He barely even made it to Earl’s birthday bash.

He rang to say he’d be a bit late, and when he finally blew in, he stayed long enough for the toast and a piece of cake, and then he excused himself to make calls about a buyout.

Gabe, on the other hand, had a wonderful time. He discussed horseflesh with a couple of his grandfather’s cronies, wrapped himself around a fantastic meal. He danced with all the pretty ladies-of whom there were plenty-and flirted with the prettiest of the lot-a stunning blonde called Natasha, who looked at him with big violet eyes and said, “You’re not much like your cousin, are you?”

“Nope,” Gabe replied cheerfully. “Thank God.”

When the party finally ended, Randall still hadn’t returned. He was probably off somewhere making more money for Stanton Publishing or stopping the cash from flowing out of the Stanton ancestral coffers.

Gabe glanced at his watch. “Have you ever considered giving him a day off?” He and the earl were in the library, cozily ensconced in deep leather chairs, quaffing the best single malt scotch Gabe had ever tasted, and Gabe thought the old man looked mellow enough to allow him to consider broaching the subject.

“Day off?” Earl snorted. “Day off? Nobody ever gave me a day off! Earls don’t get days off.”

Gabe smiled thinly. Poor old Randall. “Reckon I’m glad I’m just a lowly commoner then.” He raised his glass in toast. “To the rabble. Long may we loaf.”

Earl made a harrumphing sound. “You needn’t be so almighty proud of it, my lad. Most men, by your age, have something to show for their lives.”

“You, for instance?” Gabe knew damned well the old man had been a wastrel in his salad days. It had taken a very determined Lady Cornelia Abercrombie-Jones to take Cedric David Phillip Stanton in hand, get a marriage proposal out of him and put an end to his frivolous ways.