His Lordship's Filly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Bridget shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense either.”

  Aunt Sophie laughed merrily and Andrew laughed with her. For a moment Bridget felt a surge of irritation at both of them. These tonnish people had some peculiar ways of looking at life.

  She moved closer. She could at least be polite to Andrew’s relative. “I’m glad to meet you, Aunt Sophie. And I appreciate your coming to help me. I’ll try to be a good learner.”

  Andrew smiled at her, giving her that warm feeling inside, the feeling that made her glad he was her husband. “I know you’ll do your best, my dear,” he said. And she wanted to—she wanted to please him.

  Aunt Sophie looked at Andrew. “And now if I may—”

  “Aunt Sophie?” Bridget asked. She knew Andrew’s aunt was probably tired from her trip, but she really needed to know.

  “Yes, Bridget?”

  “Do you know how to embroider?”

  “Of course,” she said, sending Andrew a look of amazement. “Do you want me to help you with yours?”

  “Yes,” Bridget replied with relief. “And—And do you like horses?”

  “I love them,” Aunt Sophie said brightly, waving a beringed hand, “especially when they’re racing! It’s so terribly exciting.”

  “Oh, how marvelous,” Bridget cried. “I think we shall deal well together.”

  “I think so, too,” Aunt Sophie said with a smile. “Yes, I think so, too.”

  * * * *

  By the next afternoon when the two sat together over Bridget’s stitching, they had already become great friends. They had spent an enjoyable morning discussing gowns and bonnets, dinner parties and dances. With much laughter and fun, Aunt Sophie had instructed Bridget in the intricacies of the waltz. But when, after some hilarious attempts, she declared her pupil competent to accept any partner, Bridget had frowned and said, “I don’t know that I want just any partner. It seems an improper sort of dance.”

  Aunt Sophie grinned. “No more improper than riding through London’s streets in leather breeches.”

  Bridget felt the color rising in her cheeks. “How—How did you know?”

  “Mrs. Purvey,” Aunt Sophie said. “She has glimpsed you on the stairs more than once. But she didn’t feel it her place to tell Andrew about it.” Aunt Sophie frowned a little, pulling at a stitch. “She’s worried about you, Bridget. It seems that your morning rides are becoming common knowledge. Servants talk, too, you know.”

  Bridget sighed. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get the knack of this tonnish business. There’s so much to learn.” She pushed at a straggling wisp of hair. “Tell me, Aunt Sophie, what harm does it do for me to ride? No one is about at that hour. The park is quite empty.”

  Aunt Sophie put down her stitching. “You’re right, my dear, your riding harms no one. But the ton feels it has the right to control its members.” She sighed even louder and began twisting her wedding ring. “And if you go against its wishes, you will be sorry. I know.”

  The last words were spoken with such sadness that Bridget leaned forward impulsively. “Aunt Sophie, what happened to you?”

  Aunt Sophie laughed, a sound of great melancholy. “What always happens, I suppose. I loved a man, a man of the wrong class.” She sighed. “And my family would not hear of my marrying him. So I ran away to Gretna Green and married him anyway. There was a tremendous scandal. I was cut by everyone—for a long time.” She straightened. “He has been dead some years now.”

  “Oh Aunt Sophie, I’m so sorry. It was kind of you to come back to the city to help me.”

  “It was all long ago,” Aunt Sophie said, stitching industriously and not looking up. “The ton has long since had other tattle to whisper about.”

  “Still—”

  Purvey appeared in the doorway. “Lady Linden, milady, and her daughter.”

  Bridget smiled. “Tell them I’m not—”

  “And the Duke of Wellington.”

  “Oh no! She turned to Aunt Sophie. “Now what shall I do?”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to receive all our callers or none,” Aunt Sophie said with a wicked smile.

  Bridget sighed. “Show our guests in.” She couldn’t turn the duke away. That would be too rude.

  “Imagine.” Lady Linden began speaking even before she was entirely through the door. “Imagine who we met just outside!”

  She came sweeping in wearing a gown of carnelian satin adorned with row upon row of stiff ruching. After her came the daughter, in her usual drab grayish green, her person and her gown entirely devoid of ornamentation. And immediately behind the two of them strode the duke, his military bearing in great contrast to their feminine persons.

  “Good day,” the duke said. “I hope I won’t interfere with your other guests.” The twinkle in his eye told Bridget that he was aware of the predicament his arrival had caused her.

  “Indeed not,” she said. “Do sit down.”

  The duke nodded, but before he seated himself, he bowed before Aunt Sophie, raising her hand to his lips. “Sophronia. I heard you were in town. You’re looking lovely as ever.”

  A slight flush rose to Aunt Sophie’s cheeks. Evidently these two had known each other before. For a moment Bridget wondered how well.

  Then the duke turned to her. “You’re looking lovely, too, Lady Haverly. Your usual delightful self.”

  He nodded briefly to the other two and settled into a chair.

  * * * *

  It was a most instructive afternoon. As the time passed, Bridget watched the duke skillfully sidestep every effort of the Lindens to spread gossip or blacken anyone’s good name. Before she had thought him a great man, now she also thought him a good one.

  In his presence Aunt Sophie seemed to sparkle. Lady Linden, however, looked almost deflated—like one of those French air balloons that had crashed and was losing all its gas. Without the gossip that was her stock in trade, she could scarcely function.

  “So,” the duke asked finally. “How is that wonderful stallion of yours? You still think he’s the fastest thing on four legs?”

  Bridget grinned. “Of course I do. He won against Sable, didn’t he? He can beat any horse living.”

  The duke smiled, a demon of mischief lurking in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” Bridget replied, sitting up straighter. “Why do you ask?”

  The duke settled back expansively. “Oh, I’ve acquired a new stallion—better tempered than Copenhagen. A rousing boy he is. I’d like to see him run against a real horse. See what he can do.”

  Bridget leaned forward. “His name, Your Grace. What’s his name?”

  “Blackberry,” the duke said. “Inelegant name for an animal, but at least original.”

  “Blackberry,” Bridget repeated. “By Cobblestone, out of Lady May.”

  The duke nodded, his eyes bright. “You’ve seen him run?”

  “Yes.” Bridget was aware of the disdainful looks the Lindens were exchanging, but she didn’t care. Here at last was something she enjoyed talking about. “He’s a little short in the withers, but a good horse.”

  “But he can’t beat Waterloo?” the duke persisted.

  “Of course not. I told you, no horse—”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind a race?”

  Bridget’s heart jumped up in her throat. Mind! She’d love it. Racing was the most exciting thing. “Any day in the week,” she said. But common sense raised its head, if only for a moment. How would Andrew feel about this? Proper, proper Andrew. A glance at Aunt Sophie showed that her eyes were sparkling like the duke’s. Bridget swallowed. “But are you sure Andrew won’t mind?”

  “Of course,” the duke said. “What harm can there be in a little friendly competition?” He smiled. “Which of Andrew’s men will ride for you?”

  “None,” Bridget said. “I shall ride him myself.”

  The gasp that issued from Lady Linden’s red mouth turned all their heads. “Yourself?” she squeaked. “Oh dear. Oh dear!�
�

  Bridget flushed. Was she always to be getting herself into the suds? Well, it was too late to back out of this now.

  “Do you care to make a small wager on the side?” the duke asked, his smile devilish.

  Bridget shook her head. “No, Your Grace. I don’t wager. It’s a dangerous habit.”

  For a moment, looking deep into his eyes, she thought that he knew, that somehow he had discovered the wager that had made her Andrew’s wife. But that couldn’t be. No one but the four of them—Papa, Andrew, Peter, and herself—knew. And none of them would tell.

  “Well then,” the duke said. “It only remains to set the time and place.”

  “The time and place for what?” Andrew inquired from the doorway. It appeared he’d returned home just in time. Something was going on, something he didn’t like the feel of. The Lindens looked about to explode with a surfeit of information. And Aunt Sophie, Bridget, and Wellington were all bright-eyed and eager.

  “Your wife has agreed to race Waterloo against my Blackberry,” Wellington said.

  Andrew frowned. “I see.” Some help Aunt Sophie was. Why hadn’t she stopped this thing?

  “It was entirely my idea,” Wellington went on. “I wish to see how well he can do against the best. And Waterloo is the best.”

  That was true enough. But a race . . .

  “Do you prefer Tattersall’s or your father’s track?” Wellington asked Bridget.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “Let’s make it Tattersall’s then. Neutral ground, so to speak.”

  Bridget nodded. “Fine.”

  “And how about Tuesday week? One in the afternoon?”

  “Fine again,” Bridget said, her face all aglow. Horses! Horses always made her light up like that.

  “You won’t back out?” Wellington said. “You’ll be there as promised?”

  “Of course!” Bridget looked almost insulted.

  “Of course,” Andrew repeated. “Bridget always keeps her word.”

  Wellington got to his feet. “See?” he told Bridget. “As I said, it was perfectly proper. I’ll see you then. I’m looking forward to watching you ride.”

  And while Andrew stood there in shock, Wellington nodded to the ladies and left.

  Lady Linden pulled her bulk erect, though with some little effort. “We must go, too,” she chirped, her chins quivering. “Other calls to make, you know. So many calls.” And she rolled out, the stickish daughter right behind her.

  He managed to contain himself until he heard the front door close behind their guests, then he rounded on the women. “What is the meaning of this?” he yelled, conscious that he was behaving in an unseemly fashion, but unable to stop himself. “He wants to watch Bridget race?”

  Aunt Sophie had the grace to look a lime sorry, but Bridget stared right back at him. “He told you. The duke wanted a race.”

  “A race, yes,” Andrew blustered. “But that doesn’t mean you must—”

  “Of course it does,” Bridget said, her color high. “I told you, Waterloo’s woman’s horse. He’s come to be friends with Ned, of course. But Ned’s not good at racing.”

  He wanted to give them both a good thrashing, though of course he’d never really strike a woman. “Aunt Sophie, how could you? How could you let such a thing happen?”

  She had stopped looking embarrassed and met his gaze squarely. “Be reasonable, Andrew. Would you have Bridget refuse the Duke of Wellington?”

  “Of course not.” Even in his anger he could see that that couldn’t be done. “But she doesn’t—”

  “Yes, she does,” Aunt Sophie said, with that false patience that women use when they think a man unreasonable. “She wants the horse to win. As you should. And so she must ride it.”

  “Women!” Andrew exploded. “You just wait. The Lindens will have this all about town in no time.” He glanced at the clock. “I dare say that by now they’ve already told at least a dozen people.”

  “Now you are being quite unreasonable,” Aunt Sophie said in the tone she used to take when he was a small misbehaving boy. “Neither Bridget nor I is responsible for the Lindens’ capacity for gossip-mongering. And,” she went on before he could open his mouth again, “the duke arrived at the same time they did, so if we were ‘at home’ to him we had also to be ‘at home’ to them.”

  What she said made a certain sense, but she had missed the main point. With the Lindens gabbling about the race, all of fashionable London was apt to show up to see his wife in leather breeches, riding astride!

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day of the race dawned bright and clear—a blue sky and a warm breeze. Looking at the sun streaming in through the window, Bridget sighed. The day might be sunny, but her heart wasn’t.

  Andrew had been so different lately. Since the day the duke had set up the race, Andrew seemed always at outs with her, always picking at her. Do this. Don’t do that. For several nights he hadn’t come to her bed at all.

  She’d missed him dreadfully, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. And then, when he had come to her, he’d left in the middle of the night, as though he’d only been there for one thing and once he had it, he couldn’t bear to stay with her.

  She sighed again. His not being there this morning meant she could get out for her ride in the park, but even that had lost its glow. If it hadn’t been for Elsie waiting on her corner, she wouldn’t even have gone riding. But Elsie must have her bread and meat, and Bridget must buy her nosegays. Otherwise the child might starve—or just as bad—be beaten by the man who drank up all the money.

  She turned on her side. This whole business of the ton was quite difficult for her to understand. Whatever was wrong with Andrew? He’d certainly known when he married her what sort of person she was—that horses were her whole life. If he hadn’t wanted a wife like that, why had he stuck to the wager? He could have given all kinds of excuses to get out of the marriage, but he hadn’t. And there was still something very odd about that race. If only she knew what had made Waterloo lose. He’d never lost a race before then.

  She threw back the covers. Well, there was no time to puzzle about races now. Elsie was waiting. And she was hungry.

  * * * *

  Later that day, when it was time to leave for the race, Bridget met Aunt Sophie in the front hall. She felt strange to be there in her breeches but she held herself straight. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

  Aunt Sophie looked marvelous in a gown of soft blush pink. For the first time Bridget thought with longing of the new gowns in her armoire. Well, she told herself with disgust, you wanted to race. You thought it would be marvelous. So now enjoy it.

  “Have you seen Andrew?” she asked. “Is he coming to watch?”

  Aunt Sophie shook her head, twisting her wedding ring as she did when she was nervous. “I’m afraid not. I saw him earlier and he said he was off about some business.”

  She let her gaze travel over Bridget’s breeches and boots. “I can see why he might object to your running around town in such an outfit.” She pursed her rosy lips into a pout. “Really, my dear, that getup leaves very little to the imagination.”

  “Well,” Bridget replied. “He must know that I can’t ride in a gown. Why, at first I could hardly even walk in one.” She stuffed her hair up under her cap. “Tell me, Aunt Sophie, if you know, why is the world so unfair to women?”

  Aunt Sophie frowned. “I don’t know, Bridget. It’s just another of the things that are. We should be grateful that we have men who take care of us and—”

  “But that’s just it,” Bridget cried. “I can do anything my father can. I know more about horses than even he does. He’ll tell you that himself.”

  Aunt Sophie nodded soothingly. “I’m sure he will.”

  “But that’s what is so unfair! What I know doesn’t matter! What I know doesn’t matter because the instant a man sees I’m female, he starts looking for another man to deal with. If somet
hing happened to Papa, I could run the stables. But no one would let me.”

  Aunt Sophie patted her hand. “What can I say? Now come, my dear. We don’t want to be late.”

  “But—”

  “It’s quite true what you say. But neither you—nor I—can fix it in a day. Or a month, or a year. We can only chip away at the edge of injustice by showing people that we can do things. Like you are doing today.”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. Perhaps Aunt Sophie did understand. “I’m going to show them. They’ll see. I’m going to win.”

  * * * *

  Tattersall’s yard was packed with people, happy, boisterous, fashionable people, all talking about the race, and bookies taking bets. Bridget stood with a hand on Waterloo’s neck, gazing out over the great crowd. “All these people,” she told him, “have come to see you race. To see you win. And that’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to win.”

  She stroked his great muscled neck. “You’re a marvelous horse, Waterloo. The best and most beautiful horse in all of London.”

  “So,” said a harsh voice behind her. “Still talking to horses, I see.”

  The cold chill that crept up her spine told her as much as the raspy voice. Bridget turned to face Wichersham, keeping a comforting hand on the stallion’s neck. Surely Wichersham wouldn’t try anything with so many people around. “What do you want?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  His smile made her flesh crawl. “Why, just to wish you good luck,” he said.

  “She don’t need luck. Not from the likes of ye.” Papa came from round the corner. “She’s got the best horse in London. She knows it and he knows it. Don’t need no more.”

  Papa came up on Waterloo’s other side and put an arm round his neck, his hand close to Bridget’s.

  A sneer appeared on Wichersham’s face. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not.” He gave Papa a look full of menace and moved off into the crowd.

  “Don’t let him worry ye none,” Papa said. “He can’t do ye no harm.”