His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3)

by Theresa Romain

  “I know all about that life. Foundling homes in Wales and across England, training up girls in your image. Rebellious, sly girls.”

  “You make it sound like a paradise on earth,” she replied crisply. “Would that the world contained more rebellious, sly girls. But you give me both too much credit and not enough. Most of the girls in my foundling homes and…” She paused. “And in my other ventures simply receive care and education.”

  “And what about the people they interact with? Your rebellious, sly girls? You hurt my horses.” Sir William bit into the cream cake, savoring the destructive, sweet squish. “You had someone feed them sand so they developed colic. All to distract me so Rosalind Agate could search my papers.”

  “The horses recovered, didn’t they?”

  “Only because I’m so skilled.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Good for you.”

  “You harpy.”

  “Now you’re catching on.” Her smile was lovely, but not at all nice.

  He selected a berry, chewing it deliberately. “What did you hope Rosalind would find among my papers? Something with which to blackmail me?”

  “Yes. But not in the way you think. If I had some hold over you, I could use it to prevent you from interfering with our daughter’s life. And I was right to do so, wasn’t I? You’ve had people looking for her, and me, ever since you learned of her existence.”

  “Because she’s my blood,” he said.

  “No, because you want to control everything within your sphere.”

  “You’re looking in a mirror, not at me.” He poured out a cup of tea, wishing it were brandy. “Are you going to have anything to eat?”

  “Should I?”

  “It’s only polite. My butler set out all these good things, and I can’t eat most of them.”

  She looked as if she’d been planning a blistering reply, but the last phrase halted her tongue. “Why can’t you?”

  He gave the wooden rims of his chair a little push. “I keep fit, but I have to be careful with what I eat and drink. Just certain amounts. Too much or too little and…it’s not ideal.” He was able to use a chamber pot on his own, and he’d keep it that way as long as possible.

  “I see,” Anne replied. “Well, to spare you the sight of them, I suppose I could eat the fruit tarts.” Good as her word, she filled her plate with the treats.

  Sir William finished his berries, then sipped at the inadequate tea. “You said most of your girls are only cared for and educated. You don’t turn them all into spies and criminals.”

  Above a mouthful of fruit tart, Anne Jones rolled her eyes.

  “How do you decide?” he asked.

  She swallowed, then dabbed her lips with a serviette. “I look at their strengths. Some I choose for family influence, some for flash and fame, but far more because they interest me. They have a strong character, or a unique gift, or sometimes they simply charm me, and I want to help them on to bigger things. Greater opportunities. Just so do I choose my staff.”

  Sir William clattered his teacup back into its saucer. “You made Rosalind Agate work for you as a slave.”

  “Never.” Anne selected another tart. “She was paid. And I paid first, to save her life. I would have even if she hadn’t been a bright, resourceful girl, but the fact that she was…well, she was a natural.

  “Could I do it again, I’d give her two good choices rather than one based in fear. I do prefer loyalty over guilt. Once loyalty is gone, there is no purpose to keeping them any longer. I was inexperienced when I began working with Rosalind.”

  “Is that what you do now? Give the choice between loyalty and guilt?”

  “It’s not so simple as that. I’m not the saint on earth your daughter-in-law’s family once called me, but I’m no villain either. I offer a chance to girls who need one. I don’t make them take it. They can take it if they want to. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s wrong that you collect secrets to line your pockets,” he retorted. “That you control dependents who enrich you.”

  “There’s another way of looking at it,” Anne pointed out. “I’m better off, and others are too. And don’t you also control dependents who enrich you? Your elder son works on your stud farm, I believe.”

  “What’s this? Is Irene one of your spies too?” Sir William fired at her.

  Anne leveled a direct look at him. “You can’t possibly think your stud farm is a secret. Now, are you done accusing me of things? You’ve found me. We’ve talked. I’m not going to tell you anything else.”

  He sighed. Stubborn woman. “Not even in exchange for all the tarts?”

  “Not in exchange for anything. If I tell you anything, it’s because I think the world will be better for my having told you.”

  His brows lifted. “That’s a rather high bar to clear.”

  “Then you’d better be convincing.” She poured out tea of her own, then extended the pot to him. “More?”

  “Best not.” He looked at the dregs of his cup. Some people swore they could read a man’s future in the leaves. He could hardly make sense of his past. “Truth is, part of me hated you when I thought of our affair. Because when I recovered my health, as much as I was able to, I could no longer walk or ride. And you’d stayed behind in Spain, a woman of pleasure.”

  “There’s little pleasure for a woman of pleasure. And you didn’t know I bore your child, alone.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know.”

  “Would it have made any difference to you to know it?”

  “I hope it would have. It makes a difference now.” He put a heavy hand over hers. “Anne—Mrs. Jones. I wish it had all gone differently. I wish I hadn’t left you alone.”

  “What would you have done if I told you about the baby at once? As soon as you’d regained your health?”

  “I would have married you.”

  She laughed, pulling her hand back. “You would have asked, you mean. Don’t take my agreement for granted. Why would I want to marry a man I hardly knew, one who didn’t love me, just to gain respectability? I’d already given it up and found out I could support myself.”

  “And I was in the wheelchair.”

  “If we truly cared for each other, the chair would be no obstacle. But we are too much alike.”

  He considered being offended by this, but in the end, he had to admit the truth of it. They’d made use of each other in Spain, then come back to England both changed and ruthless.

  Sir William smiled. “You might be right. You must let me know if I can ever help you.”

  “It’s too late for that.” She finished her tea, then set down the cup in ladylike silence. “I don’t need your help now. I’ve made my own way and made my own fortune.”

  “Wouldn’t you like help? Anyone could stand to have things made easier.”

  One brow lifted. Cool gray eyes pierced him. “Are you looking for praise?”

  “I’m looking for forgiveness,” he said.

  “I don’t need to forgive you. I don’t need you for anything.”

  “But I need it,” he admitted. “Your forgiveness. I have regrets.” He sighed. “Much as I ought to regret leaving my family to travel and sell horses, drinking too much, raising my younger son to do the same—I wouldn’t undo any of that. That all worked out all right. But I do regret how things went with you. The only relationship that can’t be repaired is the one that’s severed. I didn’t see you or our daughter.”

  Anne waved a hand. “You were dying. For a while. I’m glad you recovered, Gwilym. It’s rather annoying that you’re interfering with my plans now, though.”

  The old pet name—his heart lifted, foolishly, at the sound of it. It was hardly a term of affection. It meant only William in Welsh. But no one else had ever called him that. He felt younger hearing it, with fourteen years of mistakes yet unmade.

  Well. There was only one thing to say that mattered now. “I want to know more about our daughter.”

  She t
ilted her head. “Why?”

  “I wasn’t much of a father to my grown children. I was gone all the time. Making a fortune for them, caring for them in that way. But they hardly knew me. I was unfaithful to my wife. She didn’t know, or pretended not to. We all lived separate lives.”

  “And you think this girl will allow you to be different? She’s already living a separate life. She has been since I gave her up.”

  “It doesn’t have to stay that way,” he said grimly. “I can do right by her.”

  “What does that mean, precisely? Does ‘doing right by her’ mean you’ll do as you wish, or that you really will do what’s best for her?”

  He tilted his teacup, looking for the right answer. Finally, he said, “They’re the same thing.”

  “No. They are not. And until you understand that, I won’t tell you anything else.” She pushed back her seat and stood, preparing to leave. Then she paused in the doorway. “Thank you for the tea and sweets, Gwilym. They were excellent. I do believe there’s hope for you yet.”

  ***

  The copper salts didn’t look like Jonah had expected them to. They were blue-green crystals, some as big as pebbles. He considered stealing the cook’s mortar and pestle, but decided Mrs. Green’s tongue-lashing wouldn’t be worth the effort he saved.

  So he used an old bit of wood—actually, part of the feed bucket Bridget had kicked to pieces—and the blunt handle of a hoof-pick, grinding the salts into a fine powder. It was careful work, but it allowed him to remember. The pleasure he and Irene had given each other in the cocoon of the landau. Laurie’s delight after an afternoon with the carriage builder, Nick Karmakar, who said the boy had saved him hours of sanding and welcomed him back anytime.

  Jonah wished he were as sure of what he wanted as Laurie was. Over the years, he hadn’t wanted enough. He’d been content to be the convenient husband for occasional meetings, the dutiful son who saw his father’s dreams branded into horseflesh. Now, he suspected that simply running the stud farm with Irene at his side would not do.

  Not for either of them.

  The salts crunched, crunched, until they were ocean-colored dust. He poured some into a bucket of water, mixing the solution until the salts were dissolved, then opened Bridget’s stall door. “Time to put your foot in it, my boy.”

  Bridget kicked out a hind leg, but Jonah could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Not with Mouse sleeping at his feet. “Now, how did she get into the stall with you?”

  “I let her in,” came an American-accented voice at his back. “They were nosing at each other like they had secrets from the world.”

  Jonah turned to greet the man. “Mr. Baird. Good morning to you.”

  Irene’s father looked fresh and pleased with himself. Jonah saw little resemblance between father and daughter in feature or expression, but he couldn’t deny that the man had taken the right action with Bridget’s Brown. “This fellow was having a difficult time of it. Thanks for letting his friend visit.”

  “The dog, you mean?” Victor strolled over to the stall and peered at those within. “Easy enough to make a fellow creature happy. Now, what are we doing to get this horse back on his feet? A racehorse, isn’t he?”

  The sprightly flow of words took Jonah a moment to understand. “He was a racehorse once.”

  Pushing straw bedding aside next to Bridget’s foreleg, he placed the bucket of medicated water on the bare floor. “Come on, then, put your foot in it.” When he tapped the foreleg, the horse lifted his foot…and stomped it down, right into the bucket.

  “Well done!” Victor said. “I see you haven’t given up on him. If he was a racehorse once, he can be again.”

  “Not exactly. His hoof’s in bad shape.” Gently, Jonah held the leg still in the bucket.

  “Doesn’t seem to pain him, though, does it? Why should that keep him from racing?”

  “Because if it cracks more, he won’t be able to walk on it, and he’ll have to be…” Jonah didn’t want to finish the sentence. Not with Bridget’s Brown listening. “I’ll just say that if I can fix his hoof, he’ll have a much better life.”

  “And that’s what the bucket’s all about, is it?” Victor folded his arms, leaning on the door of the adjoining empty stall. “Your father doesn’t understand why you’re giving this horse a chance, but I do.”

  “Oh?” Jonah hadn’t realized there was any particular reason except that it seemed right.

  “Sure, sure. You and I, we’re men of vision. I see what you’re planning with this horse. He’s got great promise.”

  Indeed he had, once. Hands still on the impatient foreleg, Jonah looked up at the gelding. He saw Bridget’s Brown as the horse he had been two years before, strapping and glossy and eager to run off his feet. One couldn’t train a horse to love the turf, or to love winning. Bridget was born with that love in his heart.

  “He loved being a racehorse,” Jonah remembered. “He had a good career as a colt.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  The rabbitries, Jonah reminded himself. The stolen purses. Victor Baird was a man of schemes and opportunities.

  But it seemed that all Victor wanted to do now was listen, and there was no harm in that. So as Mouse dozed and Bridget fidgeted, Jonah held the horse’s hoof in the copper-salt water and told Victor Baird about the horse. How he’d been born on the stud farm, how Jonah had seen his delivery and given him his first training in stable manners. How he’d loved to run, especially against other horses. His first races, and then the theft two years before when he’d been turned loose by a criminal groom, a stolen horse put in his place. Victor listened with rapt attention as Sir William never did.

  “He’d been a bit lame before then, but after that…” Jonah let the horse lift his hoof from the water. “Hand me those salts, will you? And a snip of a stable cloth.”

  Cradling the foreleg against his chest, Jonah tipped the rest of the pounded copper salts into the damaged part of the hoof. It looked thrushy and soft, and he could only hope the salts would choke off the infection. The bit of cloth, he pressed over the salts to hold them in place. Would it work?

  “Tie a cloth around the whole thing. A nappy for his foot,” Victor suggested.

  Not a bad suggestion at all. Jonah took the rest of the cloth and softly cradled it around the damaged hoof. With a bit of twine, he secured it, then studied his handiwork. “Bridget, you look a fool, but this might be just what you need.”

  In her sleep, Mouse sneezed.

  Jonah shuffled the stall’s bedding back into place, then left and latched the stall door. “Finished here,” he said.

  “We’ll check on him tomorrow,” Victor suggested, “and see how our treatment has helped. What are we looking for?”

  We? “I’ll be feeling his foreleg to see if it’s cooler. Over the next few weeks, I’ll check the crack to make certain it’s not spreading upward.”

  “Excellent. We’ll have this fellow ready to race again in no time. When can we shoe him again?”

  “You really don’t need to worry about it,” Jonah said firmly. “I’m taking care of him.”

  Victor laughed. “Clear-eyed Jonah. You and I, we’re a lot alike. We want to make sure everyone’s taken care of.”

  His head was spinning a bit. There were so many words. “Do we?”

  “Of course! Why, only yesterday, I was in a hackney on my way here and saw a woman carrying a great load upon her back. I had the hackney driver stop so that I might wish her well. I told her not to overtire herself, because she might become ill.” He beamed, awaiting Jonah’s reply.

  “That was an interesting thing for you to do,” Jonah said.

  “Yes!” Victor replied. “I thought so too. I’m so glad we’ve had this chance to talk. You and I, we didn’t get off on the right foot, did we? Or hoof, should I say?”

  “Foot will be fine.”

  “Right, well, I know you invested in one of my rabbitries—and very sporting of you, that was. All I was ever trying
to do was make money for my family. You’re a family man too. You understand.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Now,” Victor talked on, “my son needs school tuition, and my wife needs a new home. What would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d get a job,” Jonah said dryly.

  Victor laughed, elbowing Jonah in the ribs. “Fine words from a man who doesn’t have one himself.”

  Jonah bristled. “I do. I just don’t get paid a salary.”

  “Ah, well, then you understand! We work harder for our money than anyone, we fellows without a regular job. Always risking a fortune, even one’s skin. It takes a toll on a man, doesn’t it? It takes. A. Toll.”

  “That’s not…quite my experience.” Jonah was losing the thread of the conversation. Of a sudden, he desperately wanted to leave the mews. “Excuse me, won’t you? I need to—”

  “Right! I need that too. One more score.” Victor spread his hands, beatific. “That’s all. One final score to clear my debts and put money in the bank for Laurie and Susanna.”

  “And then?” Jonah tried to move past him.

  Victor caught Jonah about the shoulders, then slung an arm about them. “Why, then I’ll be like you. I’ll settle down and be a family man.”

  When Jonah only stared at him, Victor added, “That’s what Reenie wants from us both, isn’t it?”

  In truth? Jonah had no idea.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sir William had overseen many changes to his London house in the past two years. The most important of these was the addition of a lift that allowed him to access each floor of the house, and the most luxurious of these was the piped-water bathing chamber upstairs.

  He’d never changed the artworks, though, and now he wondered why. Why keep this portrait of his younger self? The William it showed—for he hadn’t been Sir William yet—was hale and handsome, surrounded by hounds, the reins of a horse in one hand and a gun in the other. A man of supreme confidence in his own abilities. In his indestructibility.