Blood Brothers

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.

“We aren’t talking about me,” Earl said huffily.

“You’re not,” Gabe agreed, “because you know it will undercut your case. I don’t care that you were a hellion. In fact, I’m all for it, as you know.” He grinned. “I just think you ought to allow Randall a shot at a little hell-raising-before you croak and make sure he never gets a day off.”

“You think I’m about to stick my spoon in the wall?”

“Does that mean die? No, probably not. But someday you’re going to. And if Randall hasn’t lived, who can tell what he might do with the Stanton legacy, with all those ‘burdens’ and ‘responsibilities’ you keep loading on him. He might just throw it all away!”

Earl’s face turned bright red. “Randall would never-!”

“How do you know? Have you ever let him out past ten o’clock? Except on business?”

Gabe never heard the answer to that question because the next moment the library door opened and Randall returned. A satisfied smile lit his often sober face. “We’ve done it. We’ve got the Gazette!”

“Another Gazette?” Gabe groaned. “How many Gazettes, Echoes, Advertisers, Recorders and whatever else does that make?”

Stanton Publishing specialized in local newspapers, and owned eighty, all over the country.

“This is the Buckworthy Gazette,” Randall said triumphantly. “We’ve been after it for years.”

“Ah.” Gabe nodded in comprehension. The family seat was situated near the little town of Buckworthy, right down south in the county of Devon. It had always galled the Stantons that they couldn’t get their hands on the paper for their own locality. Now, at long last, Randall had triumphed.

Earl, of course, was over the moon. He leapt from his chair, rejuvenated, and slapped his grandson on the back, hollering his delight. “About time! Another few months and it would have gone right down the drain. Now you can turn it around, make it shine.” He glanced at his watch. “If you leave early enough tomorrow you can be down there by midday. It’s a Thursday paper. You’ll be in time to have some input on this week’s issue. No time like the present to begin putting things to rights. Sales haven’t been what they should be. You can start up an advertising campaign, too. And some sort of weekly contest. The one you did in Thrush-by- the-Marsh worked like a charm. Something like that!” Earl rubbed his hands together in glee.

But as Gabe watched, the enthusiasm seemed to drain right out of Randall, as if it were being choked off. As it probably was-by the added tug on the noose of even greater responsibilities.

“Whoa. Hey, hold up. You’ll choke him!” He looked at Randall and slid a finger around the inside of his collar.

Randall hesitated. His hand crept up and loosened his tie. His mouth opened. And closed again. He didn’t say a word.

Idiot! Gabe glared at him. Was he going to let the old man run him into the ground? Randall glared back.

Earl looked from one to the other of them. He frowned. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Randall said at the same moment Gabe said, “Big problem! Here you go pushing more work off on him! I just told you, he needs a break!”

“And I told you there’s work to be done!”

“Get someone else!”

“Someone else?” Earl sounded as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He was working himself up, breathing hard and going red in the face. “The Buckworthy Gazette is the Stanton paper,” he roared. “Ours by right. And failing badly. It’s going to take a Stanton to turn it around.”

“But why does it have to be this Stanton?” Gabe demanded.

“Because Martha is on the other side of the world.”

“Martha is not the only other Stanton!”

“Well, no, there’s you,” Earl said witheringly, “I’d as soon ask a fourteen-year-old to run a bank as send you to turn the Gazette around!”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“It’s work,” Earl pointed out.

“You don’t think it’s work to raise cattle? You don’t think it’s work to sort and ship and doctor a herd?”

“Your father worked hard,” Earl allowed.

Big of him! Gabe gritted his teeth. “I worked with him!”