by Archer, Kate
Lord Dalton shrugged. “As you prefer. We’ll see you at the club.”
Cabot had only nodded. Though he’d had every intention of telling his friends he would not stay at the club, he had not quite got the idea out. His rooms there would be empty, while he would be ensconced in Lord Mendbridge’s house a quarter mile away. He knew his friends were deeply suspicious of Miss Darlington, though they had been momentarily soothed after hearing of his contretemps with the lady at the Hathaways’ Tudor ball.
In any case, he had very mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the one hand, he both dreaded and looked eagerly forward to seeing Miss Darlington again. He had been rather brutish at their last meeting. He did not even know why! She had teased him, and it had rankled. Then she’d challenged his knowledge of a horse’s physiology and it had rankled even more. He had offered a set down.
Too much of a set down, as it turned out. The lady had left in near tears and all had witnessed it. He had been given a cool reception by everybody that had overheard him after the lady had departed. Even Lady Hathaway had shaken her head sadly at him as he left the house.
The very next day, he’d run into Lord Mendbridge at White’s. He’d approached the lord with trepidation, but Mendbridge had been as friendly as ever. They’d had a lively debate concerning the talent likely to turn up at the upcoming races. They’d had many such conversations before, as they were both equally keen on horses. The lord had suddenly offered Cabot hospitality while he was in Newmarket. It was a singular honor—everybody wished to ensconce themselves in the lord’s comfortable house and have access to his vast knowledge. For all that, Cabot had almost declined. But then, what was he to say?
My lord, thank you, but I best not as I have recently insulted your daughter at supper?
Of course he could not say such a thing. He could not break with Lord Mendbridge. It was Mendbridge, for God’s sake. The man knew horses like he knew the back of his hand.
So, he must face Miss Darlington. In her own house. He could not say what his reception would be. Might they laugh it off? He was hopeful of it. Miss Darlington was exceedingly good-humored. And if she did not laugh it off? Well, he supposed he’d clear that fence when he got to it.
But surely, she must laugh it off. He had not been himself on that blasted evening. It had been such a shock to see Ashworth carrying Miss Farnsworth into the ballroom. Ashworth had positively disliked the lady. How was it that he would choose to marry a lady he disliked, when he did not even wish to marry at all?
The spectacle of it, and how bewitched Ashworth had looked at supper, had begun to give Henry the feeling that women were as his uncle had always said. He claimed they were full of trickery and witchcraft. If they meant to wind you round in circles like a sailor’s rope on a ship’s deck, he’d said, they could do it in a blinking of an eye.
He’d vaguely wondered if Miss Farnsworth had done that to Ashworth, and if Miss Darlington were not doing that to himself. After all, what reason had he to think of her when she was not before him? What else could account for his visions of her jauntily making her way down an avenue, expertly driving her phaeton? Or her upturned face at dinner? Or her copper curls, the like of which he’d never seen? Or that these same curls had a different hue in daylight versus candlelight? For that matter, what compelled him to seek her out so often at a ball, when another lady would do perfectly well?
Somehow, from those ideas, had come an urgent need to prove she had no effect upon him whatsoever. Her charms would not defeat him. He had done so—spectacularly, rudely, and even ungentlemanly.
He’d since seen the nonsense of such flights of fancy. For one, he did not believe in any supernatural forces. For another, if women could wind all men round their finger, they would have far more power in the world than they had. And for another, his uncle was married to a shrew and so had very particular ideas on how that had befallen him.
Whatever the cause of Ashworth’s marriage, Henry had no doubt he’d get the whole story from his friend when he returned from his wedding trip. He suspected it would be the most commonplace explanation in the world and have not a thing to do with being bewitched.
Meanwhile, in his sulk, or whatever it had been, he’d acted cruel. And to Miss Darlington, of all people! He had been stupid to deride her expertise in horses, as he very well knew she was educated beyond most men. She might even be more educated than himself. He’d often learned something in their conversations, though he’d be loath to admit it publicly. For all he knew, she was entirely correct about the Arabian’s wider windpipe. Over the course of two seasons, he’d found he did not like to have any other as a dinner partner—other ladies generally understood so little.
Just the evening before, he’d suffered through an interminable supper with Miss Juniper. She’d not had the least interest in horses and claimed she almost trembled when even finding herself in a carriage pulled by the beasts. He supposed he was meant to be struck by the lady’s delicacy. He also supposed he ought not have said, I presume, then, that you do not get out much. She had given him rather short shrift after that particular comment.
What was wrong with him? Why should he care that Ashworth had tied himself? It had no consequence to himself. And why should he take out that irritation on Miss Darlington?
Well, he would just trust to her good nature to carry them past the scuffle. In any case, he ought not to be dwelling on it. He had a far bigger problem at hand. He’d entered his filly into the thousand guinea stakes, though he did not currently have the stake. He’d have to borrow it from somebody, and likely somebodies were beginning to run thin on the ground.
Dalton and Grayson had none to spare and Hampton had not even answered his letter. Burke claimed he’d lost too heavily at hazard these past weeks. Ashworth would have been a likely source. The fellow always had money lying around from his gambling and he was remarkably free with loans. But that was not to be. Just now, Ashworth and his bride would be sliding down an Alp or singing folk songs in a Spanish taberna or whatever one did on the continent.
Despite the difficulties, the money must be found. All of his efforts must be concentrated on that. To turn up at Newmarket, in full view of Mendbridge, and be found lacking the stake would ruin his reputation forever.
Chapter Two
Penny had done her utmost to appear unfazed by the idea of Lord Cabot as a houseguest. After her father left the drawing room, she rose and went to the window that overlooked the stables in the back of the house. The sight of grooms rubbing down horses just back from exercise usually cheered her, but now it had little effect.
How could he? How dare he accept an invitation from her father and push into her own house?
Since the awful exchange at the ball, she’d only attended smaller affairs. She had not seen Lord Cabot, nor had she expected to. She had prepared herself to see him at the races. That, she had known she could not avoid. And, most likely, he would turn up at some of her engagements while she stayed in Newmarket. But she need not have any prolonged conversations with him. She intended to be cool, to let him know their interesting discussions were at an end. Then, she would sail off to some more friendly acquaintances and leave him standing alone like a fool.
What was she to do with him in her own house?
Though she had not told her aunt any of what had occurred at Lady Hathaway’s ball, she thought she might do so now. She would need reinforcements and Mrs. Wellburton was as fierce a defender as a badger of her cub.
Her aunt had come to live with them when Penny was just five years old. Penny’s mother had died and when her aunt became widowed before having children of her own, it seemed a likely arrangement. She’d acted as mother, advisor, and friend, and commiserated with Penny through all the little heartbreaks of childhood. As Penny had been a sensitive child, those heartbreaks were plentiful. Mrs. Wellburton suffered through them all with great patience. Despite her ridiculousness, Penny always had the comforting feeling that her aunt entirely approved
of her.
Though, Mrs. Wellburton did not wholly agree with her brother’s habit of encouraging his daughter so much when it came to horses, and really did not approve of the new phaeton or the tiger that went with it. Still, she was an agreeable lady who did not fight battles she could not win. Rather, she had early turned her attention to seeing that her niece was always suitably dressed and had all the pretty manners of a well-bred young lady.
Her aunt had the further benefit of being generally suspicious of men outside of her brother and her late husband, and particularly suspicious of the gentlemen of the Dukes’ Pact. She had already cautioned her niece regarding Lord Cabot’s continued attentions. Penny supposed she would be delighted to discover that the lord was no longer favored.
Montrose softly knocked on the door and entered. “Petit and Doom would wish Miss Darlington to know they are in the stable meeting room at your convenience.”
Penny turned and straightened her skirts. She had quite forgot about the appointment. “Very well,” she said, forcing her thoughts to the matter at hand. “I shall come presently.”
*
The Lords Dalton and Grayson contemplated one another. Lord Cabot had made some hurried excuse and rushed from the house not a minute before.
As Lord Dalton pulled aside a curtain and watched his friend leap on his horse, he said, “Do you suppose we trust him? Does Cabot really need to go to Newmarket so early?”
“I know what you think of,” Grayson said. “I heard Lord Mendbridge goes up on the morrow. Does our friend follow his daughter, Miss Darlington?”
“Precisely.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” Grayson said. “They’ve had a falling out. I was told by one who was nearby at the supper that Cabot was beastly to the lady. One cannot be beastly to a lady one admires.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dalton said. “Considering our recent experience, I’ve given up attempting to guess at how attachments may form.”
“You do not think he goes to attempt to heal the rift?” Grayson asked.
Dalton tented his fingers. “I do not know. But perhaps we should repair to Newmarket early ourselves so we might find out. It is you and I who have the strongest reasons to avoid marrying, and I do not like to think of us being the last holdouts.”
“Ah, you think the old dukes realize we have ever been the hardest two to crack?”
“I do.”
“And so we must hold fast to Cabot,” Grayson said. “He will be forever the shield we raise in front of ourselves.”
“Such as he is.”
“I cannot say I mind setting off early,” Grayson said. “Though I will make a visit to old Crackwilder before I go. The man is perennially buried in his books and would starve if one did not remind him to eat.”
“Why do you go on with the fellow?” Dalton asked. “It’s all well and good that he was your lieutenant, but he’s an odd sort of person.”
“Precisely why,” Grayson said. “He cares nothing for the ton or my title. I might be a baker as soon as a marquess. I find it does me good to sometimes be treated as a nobody.”
“Yes,” Dalton said drily. “I suppose it makes the regular fawning seem as new.”
“Just so.”
*
Lord Mendbridge’s London stables were like no other. He’d long ago bought the three houses that sat behind his own and the one directly next door, tore them all down, and built his own equine utopia.
There were stalls for forty horses, an enormous carriage house, and a roomy yard to walk the horses as a cool down after they’d taken exercise. The stablemaster had his own cottage, the senior grooms each commanded their own apartment, and the junior grooms were doubled up in spacious rooms. The stable staff’s meals were prepared in the lord’s own kitchen and were of the same quality that were served to the family, though for practical reasons perhaps not as many courses. A fair ration of ale was given each hand, along with a small glass of port for after their dinner.
This assured the lord that he would attract and retain the best talent in the country—who of them would leave for another stable, only to sleep in what amounted to a hayloft? Who of them would suffer stale bread and meat nearly gone off after having feasted on Lord Mendbridge’s largesse? Who of them would settle for a late-night cup of tea when they might regard each other over glasses of port like any swell? His staff was loyal, and they had every reason to be.
The tack room was unrivaled. It contained everything a groom might wish to have at hand, and all the first quality. There was a relatively constant influx of new conveyances to admire, each new design that emerged to market quickly snatched up by the lord. Most recently, Miss Darlington’s Hooper High Flyer had been the subject of much admiration and debate amongst them.
Especially unique to the lord’s plans, there was a meeting room replete with comfortably worn-in furniture and a housekeeper to keep things in order. Any member of the stables might come in for tea and a biscuit when they chose, or arrive with a scratch that needed dressing, and be cossetted by the doting Mrs. Payne. The walls of the dwelling were covered in various genealogies, going back to the Byerley Turk. It was in that room that all plans regarding their horses were made, and Penny had been one of its regular visitors since she was a young girl.
Penny hurried out the back of the house and down the well-worn path to the meeting room. She slipped in the door and found Mrs. Payne fussing over Petit and Doom.
Mrs. Payne was always a wonder to her. She was a very motherly sort of person and was not put off by the roughness of the stable hands. In truth, Mrs. Payne seemed to have little comprehension of rank or manners and looked upon all the world as her own children. She had never called Penny Miss Darlington in her life, though she had called her a variety of pet names. She was just now ruffling Doom’s hair, though he seemed irate about it.
At the sight of their mistress, Petit and Doom leapt up from their chairs. Mrs. Payne said, “Ah, there you are, dove—you’ll want tea.” The good lady hurried off to fetch it.
Petit, Lord Mendbridge’s stablemaster ever since they had both been young men, was a slight and grizzled individual. He lived for horses and anybody not talking about horses was just wasting his time.
“Miss,” he said, tugging his cap.
“Yes, hello Mr. Petit, Doom,” Penny said, knowing full well they’d all like to be done with the niceties as quickly as possible, “let us sit down and talk about Newmarket.”
Doom, though he was but a boy and his real name was in fact Daniel, looked fiercely at Penny and crumbled a biscuit in his hand. This did not put Penny off—Doom acted as her tiger when she took out the phaeton and he was in the habit of appearing threatening. When he’d come to them a year ago, he’d been forced to reveal his real name. It was all for naught, as he’d leap upon anybody that dared to call him Daniel and once bruised up another hand who’d had the bad luck to call him Danny.
After Doom had assured himself that he’d laid waste to the biscuit, he said, “I say I’m ready, Petit say I ain’t.”
Penny was aware that this eloquent speech was meant to point out that she must decide if Doom were to ride Zephyrus, or whether it would once again be Billy.
Petit knocked Doom on the head. “I didn’t say nothin’ against ya, I said there’s facts to consider.”
“The facts is only one fact—Billy is gone and run to fat,” Doom said derisively. “Too many potatoes, he shoves ’im in like he was stokin’ a fire. How’s Zephyrus supposed to carry that lumpy lug?”
Doom had made a salient point. The boy was small and thin; he would weigh no more than Penny herself, they both being slight and of a narrow frame. Billy was experienced, but he’d seemed to have encountered a growth spurt that had gone both vertically and horizontally.
“Nobody questions your riding ability, Doom,” Penny said. “It is only that Mr. Petit knows the pressures of Newmarket. Many a boy before you has felt it and failed to hold up against it.”
As soon as she’d said it, Penny knew she’d chosen the wrong words to soothe the temperamental Doom. He did not consider himself a boy and could not imagine what he could not hold up against.
His tanned face deepened in color, his hand reached for another biscuit and crushed it. Petit laid a hand on Doom’s arm and said in a low voice, “I’ll not have any of your outbursts in front of the miss.”
Doom relented and opened his fist, allowing the crumbs of the biscuit to fall on his plate.
Mrs. Payne bustled back in with the tea. She looked upon the scene with a discerning eye. As she set the cups down, she said soothing words to Doom. “I can see your hackles are up, love. Do be a dear and put them back down again. Calm yourself and, after you’ve had your dinner, I’ll tell you the story of my great-grandfather what sailed the ocean blue.”
Penny thought it was only Mrs. Payne that could settle Doom like a snake charmer calming his viper. The lady was a fearless sort and approached every matter with practicality dosed with firmness and topped off with honey. Not even Doom could hold out against it. The boy breathed out slowly and nodded.
“Mr. Petit,” Penny said, “it would of course be ideal if Doom had another twelvemonth to train, but that is not the case. And, I am afraid he is right—Billy has grown too big. We would put ourselves at a severe disadvantage if we saddle Zephyrus with more weight than necessary.”
Doom balled up his fist and pounded the table in agreement.
“Let us look at our competitors and see what we’re up against,” Penny said.
She walked over to the wall at the far end of the room and traced with her finger the most recent genealogies of those horses that would race in the four-year olds’ on the Rowley Mile. She then began to trace the bloodlines back in time.
“You see here,” Penny said, “Mephistopheles belongs to Lord Burke. He goes all the way back to Jigg and then the Byerley Turk. I suspect him to be swift. Artemis, we cannot be so sure of, he’s changed hands under some odd circumstances, though I have heard he bears a remarkable resemblance to Highflyer. Dover’s lineage comes down from Eclipse—Lord Mendbridge has seen him and thinks him exceptional. I believe those three will be our fiercest competitors and I’ll wager none of them will carry much weight on their back.”
