“Kkhhhhgg,” contributed Howard.
“Not as quick yet, that’s true. He’ll soon catch on. Ah! There’s the door now.” Through the open study door, Rowena heard their manservant, Jafferty, greeting Simon downstairs.
Though business had slowed a bit since Fairweather’s moved from Bond Street, the lower rent still left them with more available funds—as did the stipend from George IV that had been paid each month since George III, the poor mad monarch, passed away in January.
They’d hired Jafferty soon after their wedding, greatly lessening Alice’s workload. The former maid-of-all-work now served as upper housemaid and an occasional lady’s maid to Rowena. Other servants had been hired for the house and to help Cook, now employed in the house rather than for a mere three days per week.
Rowena’s favorite use for their free funds was the help she’d been able to give Nanny. After arranging a pension, she and Simon had found a block of rooms nearby for Nanny and her old friend Mrs. Newland in a house formerly owned by a man who used a wheelchair. Instead of the steps that were so difficult for the aging women, one reached the ground-floor rooms with a gentle ramp from the street. Rowena also gave Nanny a magnifying lens for reading, and she’d bought the two women a subscription to a circulating library.
“It’s too much,” Nanny had protested, her round face marked with tears.
But it wasn’t. When someone had shown a body how to live a confident life, the least one could do in return was give her the means to enjoy the books she loved.
Rowena and Simon were also setting money aside for the future. One day the king might halt the stipend. One day Rowena and Simon might choose to stop working. Or they might need to for reasons of health, like Mrs. Newland and Nanny. Or there might be more children.
“Though not yet, please,” Rowena said to Howard, melding thought and conversation. “You’re a delight, but you don’t sleep nearly enough. Babies are supposed to nap during the day. You’ve got to work on that.”
“Mg,” replied the baby. Cotton dozed on.
Simon rapped at the doorframe. “Hullo, dears. Rowena, want me to finish reconciling the accounts? You could work on your violin.”
“What a lovely offer.” She rose from her chair and gathered her husband in her arms, inhaling his fresh scent of soap and bergamot—and of cut wood and coal smoke, the smells of a Londoner who’d spent hours in the luthier workshop and then walked outdoors. “I’ll happily turn over the accounts to you, though I’ve nearly finished. Your skull-cracker personage might need to pursue only one or two outstanding debts.”
“Excellent.” Simon gave her a hearty kiss on the lips, then grinned with unholy mischief. “It’s nice to be manly and aggressive every once in a while.”
Besides skull-cracking, which in reality consisted of assertive individual reminders, Simon had taken on most of the shop’s other administrative tasks. He made clever advertising cards for the windows. He visited theaters to consult with the orchestras’ string players—and sometimes, even, he played his horn. He checked printmakers’ shops for the latest fashions and scandals and made window displays based on them.
And most happily for Rowena, he’d learned to tune pianofortes over the past long, laborious year. Today marked the first occasion he’d done the tuning completely on his own, after the couple had carried out dozens of tunings together.
“How did the tuning go?” Rowena asked. “I hope you didn’t find it deadly dull.”
Simon laughed. “Not at all. I liked it, though it took me twice as long as you’d have needed. I’ll improve eventually. And the footmen gossiped with me the whole time, and the housekeeper brought me tea and biscuits.”
“How lucky of you! I rarely get tea. The gossip is by far my favorite part of tuning a pianoforte.”
“If that’s the only part you like, you needn’t do it anymore. Eventually I’ll get quicker at the job, and I’ll pass along all the interesting news I hear. Such as a few rumors about our new majesty. Lady Templeton’s footman says the king is renovating Buckingham House for his use as a palace, and he’s planning a month of festivities for his coronation. He’ll be needing a lot of string players, and they’ll be needing a lot of repairs.”
“Wonderful news. Though the coronation’s about a year away, so we shouldn’t count those chickens yet.”
“Aaaaa,” added Howard.
“Speaking of chickens.” Simon released his wife, crossed to the cradle, and swooped up the baby. “Look who’s stayed awake again, hmm? Go on, Ro, work on your violin. I’ve got this little one, at least until he’s hungry.”
One more kiss for each of her fellows, and Rowena was off. Down to the ground floor, where the formal parlor had been fitted to her specifications as a workshop. Here she carried out all the repairs, her time freed by Simon’s work on other aspects of the business. And when she’d caught up on repairs, she worked on her violin—a slow process as she experimented with each wood, each varnish. She even tinkered with dimensions, as Guarneri had once done.
At present, she was working on a new piece: a small platform to position the chin, so the instrument wouldn’t need to be pinched in place between the chin and shoulder. If she could get the material and position and size correct, the left arm would be freed to extend brightly up the whole length of the strings.
Just because something had always been done a certain way didn’t mean she couldn’t try something different. Maybe it would turn out wonderfully; maybe it would be a disaster. But it would be her way, and she wouldn’t have to do it alone.
She had a loving husband and a distracting but darling baby. She had the help of trustworthy servants. She had an apprentice, even. Thirteen-year-old Amelia Howard attended a prestigious London girls’ school, Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies, then stayed in Rowena and Simon’s Marylebone house over the weekend to work with Rowena on Saturdays.
It was a full home, a shop serving its purpose. It was everything Rowena had always wanted Fairweather’s to be.
Of course, she still kept her library subscription. When she and Simon read Gothic novels together, they knew that whatever happened in the books was ridiculous—but whatever happened in life, they could handle together.
Thank You
THANK YOU FOR READING this historical romance! I hope you enjoyed Simon and Rowena’s love story. If you have a chance to leave a review, I’d appreciate that so much. Reviews help other readers decide what to read next.
For more about How to Ruin a Duke, read “When His Grace Falls” by Grace Burrowes. All of Grace’s books can be found on her website.
To find out when my next book will be out, you can sign up for my newsletter at http://theresaromain.com or follow me on BookBub. And please read on for an excerpt from The Sport of Baronets, the enemies-to-lovers novella that begins the Romance of the Turf series!
About Theresa Romain
THERESA ROMAIN IS THE bestselling author of more than 20 historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, the Royal Rewards series, and the Romance of the Turf series. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), she has received starred reviews from Booklist and was a 2016 RITA® finalist. Theresa is hard at work on her next book from her home in the Midwest.
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Read on for an excerpt from The Sport of Baronets, the enemies-to-lovers novella that begins the Romance of the Turf series!
Hannah Chandler, raised at the heart of the Regency horse-racing world, knows two things for certain.
First, the rival Crosby family cannot be trusted. Ever.
And second, she’s just bought the champion colt Golden Barb for a fortune-making stakes race.
But when Hannah tries to
claim the colt from handsome young baronet Bart Crosby, Golden Barb’s current owner, everything she believes falls apart. The prize colt is stolen—and with it go both families’ dreams of rebuilding troubled reputations.
Is Bart to blame for the theft, or is he truly as honest and determined as he seems? As Hannah and Bart rush to solve the mystery before race day, they uncover scandalous family secrets—and learn that enemies might just make the best lovers...
One
LATE APRIL, 1817
Newmarket
“I am here for the colt, Crosby.” The female voice addressing Bart was clipped and unfamiliar.
Despite his preoccupation, the speaker’s femininity was enough to trigger a mannerly response. As Bart crouched on the damp turf of the stable yard, trailing his fingers down Golden Barb’s cannon bone, he spoke over his shoulder. “It’s Sir Bartlett, please. I’ll be with you in one moment.”
His wiry groom swung down from the bay colt’s back as Bart finished his examination of Golden Barb’s foreleg. The colt’s tendons felt sound, but the week before the Two Thousand Guineas Stakes was no time to make assumptions. Bart squinted up at his groom. “You say he favored the leg during his gallop, Northrup. What about during the walk back?”
“His walk seemed all right, Sir Bartlett. But walkin’ won’t serve him in the race, if ye pardon me sayin’ so.”
“Of course.” Bart studied the colt’s black-stockinged legs for another long moment as Golden Barb shifted his weight. Like so many mincing ladies of the ton, the horse hated to get his feet wet. Perhaps the soggy ground, dampened by a persistent spring drizzle, had caused him to break stride today.
Bart could only hope.
“Goin’ to hurt the odds on him if he doesn’t get a good run,” observed the groom. “Bookmakers—they’ve an eye out for ever’thing like this.”
“My first concern must be for the colt, not the bookmakers.” Bart stood. “Cover him with a light blanket and walk him around the yard slowly until he has cooled. Take a stable boy with you, and if the colt favors his foreleg at all, send the boy to find me.”
As he spoke, Bart rummaged through the capacious pockets of the old gray coat he wore at the stables. Finding a small apple, he split it over the nearest stall door and extended it on a flat palm, one half at a time, to Golden Barb. The horse’s ears pricked forward, and fixing Bart with a warm brown eye, he lipped up the apple. His stub of a docked tail swished, sending an insect careening away. Lucky colt, to dismiss unpleasantness so easily. He seemed wholly unbothered that a week hence, he was to carry not only Northrup as jockey, but also the fortune and reputation of the Crosby family.
It was a dreadful weight to bear, and Bart felt every bit of it on his own shoulders. As the day of the race grew closer, the burden only grew heavier and more taxing. Northrup seemed to unsaddle Golden Barb far too slowly, and Bart bit back the urge to hurry the groom along.
Instead, he prepared to respond to the woman who had addressed him a few minutes before. How may I help you? was almost on his lips as he turned toward her.
“Damnation,” he blurted instead. “Hannah Chandler.”
If one were a Crosby, damnation and Chandler were practically synonyms.
He hadn’t seen her in years, but there was no mistaking that freckled nose or stubborn chin. The dark gold hair that used to fall straight and thick as reaped wheat was now pinned up beneath the black moss-silk of her round hat, but nothing could hide the triumphant sparkle in her hazel eyes.
“Damnation Chandler? Dear me, those years in London have stripped away your manners. That ought to be Miss Chandler, Sir Bartlett.” This time, she deigned to use his honorific correctly. Cursed woman; she knew perfectly well that Bart was a baronet, and she certainly knew how a baronet ought to be addressed. Her own father had been granted a baronetcy for outfitting cavalry regiments during the recent wars against France.
“Why are you in my stable yard, Miss Chandler? Is this some sort of subterfuge?” Usually the sight of a pretty young woman sent Bart’s tongue into a tangle, but Hannah Chandler was first and foremost a rival.
“As I said, I am here to retrieve my colt.”
“Of what colt are you speaking?”
“Golden Barb, of course. Your mother sold him to my father on my behalf yesterday, and I’ve come with a groom to take him back to the Chandler stables.” From a pocket in the long, green skirt of her riding habit, she took a folded paper and shoved it into Bart’s hand. “I’ve the bill of sale, if you wish to examine it.”
Bart’s fist closed on the paper, its corners biting his palm. “My mother would rather expire than do business with your family.”
“Unless she passed on to the afterlife this morning, that seems not to be true. The bill was drawn up by a solicitor and signed by all parties. It is quite binding.”
“With the small but significant exception that Golden Barb is not my mother’s to sell.”
Miss Chandler’s jaw hardened. “I assure you, the bill of sale—”
“You can assure me until your head falls off. None of my horses are for sale now, and I certainly have sold none to your family.”
“That is not the impression held by anyone else involved in the transaction.” Again, her hazel eyes held a wicked sparkle—almost as though she were enjoying Bart’s discomfiture.
Almost? There was no almost about the matter.
He wiped his expression blank, then unfolded and smoothed the paper.
As a condition of the sale of Nottingham (chestnut) to Margery, Lady Crosby, in January 1801, Sir William Chandler claims his right to purchase any colt sired by that stallion...
Nottingham, that stalwart old chestnut, had indeed sired Golden Barb—along with many other colts and fillies in the years since his triumphant retirement from the turf. If this bill were true, conditions had been placed on the horse’s purchase about which Bart had never known.
Dense lines of legal-looking language—surely far more than there ought to be?—were followed by the scrawling wreck that had become Lady Crosby’s signature. Below that, Hannah’s signature was tidy, and the engraving-sharp lines of Sir William Chandler’s name seemed smug and superior.
Why had his mother ever—in the distant past, and especially now—trusted a Chandler in any matter of business? Just as Bart’s parents had taught him how to train a colt to obey without fear, they had taught him to be wary of the treacherous Chandlers. The two families had been racing and training Thoroughbreds for decades, just as long as they had been undermining one another. Poaching staff with promises of higher salaries. Tampering with bookmakers’ odds. Bribing jockeys.
The Chandlers had begun the offensive; everyone knew that. The Crosbys had to retaliate in kind for their own protection. Kill or be killed. Cheat or be cheated.
Win, or be lost.
Bart passed a weary hand over his eyes. The strain of the past year—of his mother’s illness, of their ebbing fortunes—was telling on him. Every week brought some unforeseen complication, some dip in the race back to solvency.
When he met Hannah’s gaze, she arched a brow. “Are you satisfied, sir?”
No. Never, until the race is won. His sigh ran as deep as his marrow.
Bart craned his neck to check on Golden Barb’s progress around the yard, which was bounded on three sides by stables of light gray-brown brick. A few curious equines poked their heads over the lower halves of white-painted wooden stall doors.
Fewer horses than in past years. Far too few.
But all they needed was one colt. One champion, and the two thousand guineas he would soon win, if all went well. If all went as it ought to.
The paper was sharp-edged in his hand as he tried to summon a cutting reply. But the only phrase that came to mind was, “Let us speak in my office.”
JERKING HER CHIN TOWARD her groom—stay here, do as we’d planned—Hannah then followed Sir Bartlett Crosby down the row of stables.
The baronet walking ahead of her h
ardly appeared to be the frivolous dandy about whom Hannah’s father had often complained. Though she had glimpsed the edge of a brightly checked waistcoat, Sir Bartlett’s worn coat was the color of gravel and cut with unfashionably large pockets. He wore no hat, and the misty spring sun traced a few silver strands in his near-black hair. His stride was quick and determined, and had Hannah’s not been equally so, she would have had difficulty keeping up with him.
That young Crosby is not the horsewoman his mother was, not by a long shot, Sir William had often said as he gazed from Chandler Hall’s windows toward the stables of Newmarket. His hands are too careful.
Hannah knew better than to interrupt such reveries with I doubt he is a horsewoman at all, though the idea of such a response always made her smile.
Bart Crosby was only three years older than her twenty-five, but for more than a decade she had seen him in Newmarket only rarely. The turn of the seasons had drawn him away to Eton, to Oxford. To London to dance through the city’s lavish ballrooms, and sometimes to his country estate and tenants in Lincolnshire.
Now that Hannah was able to observe him closely, she was not sure her father was right to belittle careful hands. The baronet had handled the Thoroughbred with calm and confidence, and the horse responded in kind.
A man who could win the trust of a horse might not be completely worthless.
Might not. But it did not matter, did it? She was here for the colt. That was all.
Working open a lock, the baronet shoved at a stall door at one end of the angular U of stables. “Come in and sit, Miss Chandler.” He held the door ajar with one shoulder, allowing her to pass.
Rhapsody for Two Page 12
