Page 8 of Hearts of Briarwall

“As am I.”

“And your parents?”

Spencer swallowed, smoothing the furrow between his brows with his thumb. “Mother is well. Still in Saltley.” He couldn’t help the upward turn of his mouth. “Still a force to be reckoned with.”

Andrew smiled knowingly.

Spencer’s mother was the reason Spencer had applied to Eton and—if he was honest—that he had been accepted. She’d absolutely approved of Andrew Wooding’s friendship and, despite the disparity in the boys’ stations, made Andrew welcome at their modest home whenever possible without apology or simpering. She simply made the best of everything and knew she had the talent and mind to do so, and she believed the same of her children. Ironically, Spencer had never felt shame in what his family lacked until he’d been sent to school. Unfortunately, he hadn’t borne the differences as well as his mother had.

But when young Andrew Wooding, gentleman-heir to Briarwall Manor, visited for the odd weekend, he was simply Andrew, Spencer was simply Spencer, and the boys filled their time with the usual bouts of ignoring their studies, practicing cricket, eating whatever concoction Mother had baked until it was gone, and playing chess, badminton, or whatever else they could conjure up in Ward End without getting into too much trouble.

“And your father? How is ol’ William Hayes these days?”

This time, Spencer’s frown could not be smoothed away. “I hope he is at peace,” he answered quietly. He met Andrew’s questioning expression. “He died last year. Failure of the heart.” That was one way of putting it. Failure was, in Spencer’s mind, precisely what had killed his father.

“I’d no idea.”

“We kept close to ourselves for a time.”

Andrew grew quiet. “My condolences. To be honest, and with all respect, I pictured your father retired after some brilliant scheme of his came through.”

Spencer chuckled, the sound tinny in his ears. He simply nodded, swallowing the truth. Now was not the time. “That is a generous thought.” Too generous. “Thank you.”

“Did you take over the livery, then?”

“No.” Hayes Livery and Carriage had been lost. “It is now called Johnson Livery and Carriage. And I wish Mr. Johnson the best of luck with it.” He spoke with sincerity, but his words earned a dubious look from Andrew.

“I recall your studies taking you in that direction—taking over for your father’s booming business.”

Spencer nodded, staring ahead as the city thinned out. Paddington was already on the outskirts of London, and he knew the Wooding manor house to be south, in the wooded foothills of Surrey.

“That was the original plan, yes. But things change. Sometimes very quickly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrew nod. “That, I understand.”

“I know you do. It’s one of the reasons I sought you out.” Spencer paused. He didn’t want to talk business now. He sat back in his seat, glancing around, needing to change the subject. “Do you come to London often?”

Andrew’s expression brightened. “As little as possible.” He tipped his head toward Spencer, allowing the change of subject, for which Spencer was grateful. “What we can’t find in Albury, we can in Guilford. Our social circle is small, but I’ve a good club. Do you play tennis?”

“Very poorly.”

He barked a laugh. “Good. I’ve arranged for a game the day after tomorrow. Oscar Burke and Sir Lawrence Piedmont will be joining us. You remember Piedmont, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Spencer answered out of the side of his mouth. He remembered young Lawrence Piedmont as an arrogant, patronizing twit.

Andrew chuckled as if he’d read Spencer’s thoughts. “Ah yes, I’d forgotten how well you two got along. I assure you, the man has improved with age and his time spent in South Africa.”

Spencer straightened. “The Boer War?” His imagination strained to picture Piedmont as a soldier.

Andrew nodded. “He and Oscar are good chaps. I hope you don’t mind.”

“And if I did?” Spencer asked good-naturedly.

Andrew shrugged, laughing.

Spencer shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“If you mean I’m still devilishly handsome, somewhat conceited, and exceptionally focused, then no. Not a bit.”

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