To Win the Lady

by Mary Nichols

  He opened the door for her and she passed through ahead of him into the foyer. The lights were so bright they dazzled her and she stood blinking for a moment before moving off. She was aware that he had put his hand under her elbow and to anyone who glanced in their direction it seemed that they had been out strolling together. Short of being downright rude and thereby drawing attention to herself, she could do nothing to rid herself of her escort. Jutting out her chin and walking very upright, she made her way back to the music-room with his lordship close beside her. Not until she had taken her place again beside her aunt did he bow with exaggerated courtesy and take himself off.

  Richard had watched her progress with more than a little interest and seen the smile of satisfaction on Mrs Bertram’s face and the smirk on Lord Barbour’s. So that was how the land lay! Poor girl, she was in for a stormy life if she married that thatchgallows. But she was so self-possessed, so independent, why would she agree to such a match? Unless it was for the sake of the Rowan Park stables.

  He allowed himself a wry smile; the marriage, if that was what was in the wind, would not be between a man and a woman but between two businesses. When Sir Henry was alive, Rowan Park had been Lord Barbour’s main rival; now he was taking the opportunity to swallow it whole and that without parting with a groat. Should he warn the spirited Miss Paget? No, he decided; she would take it ill and possibly accuse him of being prejudiced. And perhaps he was. But a man who could cheat to win a wager was not a man to be trusted with a lovely young woman.

  He turned to scrutinise her as everyone’s attention was drawn to the end of the room where the string quartet was beginning the second half of the entertainment. She was lovely. Fashion might dictate that she was a little too tall, her hair a little too red, that her complexion had been over-exposed to the elements, but he could see no defect in having a healthy glow and strong limbs and her sparkling eyes drew him like a magnet.

  A sixth sense must have told her she was being watched, for she turned to face him suddenly and their glances met and held for what seemed an age before she put her nose in the air and began vigorously fanning herself. It had only been a second or two, but it was time enough for him to see that the sparkle was caused in this instance by unshed tears; they lay on her lashes like diamonds. That the cool, self-possessed Miss Paget should be reduced to tears was something so unexpected, he found himself wanting to reach out to her, to comfort her, to tell her he would make all well with her. The strength of his feelings took him by surprise. He turned away, only to meet her sister’s limpid gaze. He smiled; she smiled back at him.

  He stayed in his place, pretending to listen to the music because there was little else he could do, and because sooner or later he must make a push towards marriage himself and it seemed his bride had been chosen for him, not only by Mrs Bertram and the elder Miss Paget, but by his father, whose approval of Miss Felicity he had made known. Although far from well and disliking the city as he did, his lordship had insisted on staying at Baverstock House until his son had ‘come to his senses’, which was his way of saying compliant. The devil in Richard rebelled, but for the life of him he did not know why. There would never be another Maria, he would not know love like that again, so why hesitate? Felicity Paget was eminently suitable and he did not doubt that they would deal well together; what more could he ask? And, judging by the smile she had given him, she thought so too.

  The evening drew to a close at last and he escorted Mrs Bertram and her nieces to their carriage and saw them safely installed before setting off on foot for St James’s and his club. It was too early to go home to bed, and besides, he did not feel in the least sleepy; a hand or two of faro might induce slumber. John fell into step beside him and they walked in companionable silence for several minutes until the Captain said, ‘I noticed Barbour seems to have his eye on Miss Paget.’

  ‘Hmm. More like Rowan Park.’

  ‘Yes, I heard he was in Dun Territory. I suppose a merger of interests would put some prime cattle together without need of stud fees.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘He’ll use Victor.’

  ‘Don’t I know that?’ Richard countered irritably.

  ‘I’m sorry, Richard. It’s my fault.’

  Richard’s answer was merely a grunt, which could have betokened assent or denial; either way John felt his culpability keenly.

  ‘Are you going to challenge him to a rematch?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing good enough to beat Victor and it is Victor he’ll run, you may be sure.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then? I suppose if Barbour were to marry Miss Paget he would be responsible for Miss Felicity’s dowry; you could ask...’ He stopped suddenly, unable to comprehend why his friend’s expression had become so thunderous. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Richard did not answer but lengthened his stride so that John was all but running to keep up with him. ‘I’m sure I meant no harm. If you don’t mean to offer for Miss Felicity...’ There was something very akin to a hopeful note in his voice which was lost on Richard, deep in his own thoughts. ‘Only, if you don’t want her, I could make her an offer, get your horse back that way. I’d ask Barbour to give him to me as part of Miss Felicity’s portion. He ain’t to know I’d hand it over to you.’

  Richard came to an abrupt halt and turned to face him. ‘Zounds! That’s a monstrous idea! My horse is not so important to me that I would allow you to leg-shackle yourself for it. Anyway, I thought you were pledged to Juliette Hereward.’

  ‘No, it ain’t got to that yet. I don’t reckon we should suit.’

  ‘Even so, I will not hear another word on the subject.’ He strode in at the door of Watier’s, leaving John to follow or not as he pleased. But the fact that his friend could even consider so drastic a step on his behalf made him feel humble and unworthy. He could not and would not countenance such a sacrifice; his wooing of Miss Felicity Paget must have more purpose but he would make no formal offer until he had retrieved Victor himself. No one was going to say of him that he had married for a horse! His decision made, he was almost cheerful and even glad to see Lord Barbour when he arrived at the club in the early hours of the morning.

  They did not play at the same table but Richard, whose mind was most definitely not on the cards in his hand, could tell that his lordship was losing heavily, and very soon he threw down his hand in a fury and left the table, passing behind Richard’s chair as he went. Richard turned to smile up at him. ‘Lady Luck not with you tonight, my lord?’

  His lordship stopped. ‘No, but you know what they say: unlucky at cards, lucky in love.’ He nodded towards the pile of coins at Richard’s elbow. ‘I see you have not done so badly in the card stakes. What about the ladybirds?’

  ‘Well enough,’ Richard said evenly.

  His lordship laughed. ‘By that I am persuaded there will soon be an announcement.’ He waited for Richard to make a reply but when none was forthcoming went on. ‘If you are planning to win Victor back, you had best make it soon. I am beginning to think I do not want to part with him, after all. He would be a valuable asset at stud, don’t you think? And with all the Rowan Park brood mares to choose from...’

  ‘Have you acquired Rowan Park?’ Richard asked blandly.

  ‘Not yet, but I will, very soon now.’

  ‘I had not realised Miss Paget was selling.’

  ‘She ain’t, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We may well become brothers-in-law.’ He paused, watching Richard’s efforts to control his temper with some amusement. ‘So, what about this challenge? Have you got a horse to put up against Victor or haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ Richard said, aware that everyone in the room had stopped whatever he was doing and was paying rapt attention to the exchange. ‘I’ll challenge you to ride from London to York between supper and breakfast. Two hundred miles in nine hours or thereabouts. First man in wins.’

  His lordship laughed. ‘There ain’t a nag can do that.
’

  ‘No, but a string of them could. Are you up to it, my lord? No jockeys either. You stay in the saddle the whole time.’

  A ripple of comment went round the room, some saying it was a capital rig, others that someone as portly as Lord Barbour would never stand the strain even if his horses did. ‘It’ll take a deal of blunt, what with horses and ostlers and peck for both,’ he said at last. ‘More’n Victor’s worth.’

  ‘Then let us make it worthwhile. Loser to pay the winner’s expenses and a brace of monkeys besides the horse. How does that suit?’

  Lord Barbour looked thoughtful and everyone began to urge him to accept because it promised to be the best sport they’d had all year. ‘Come on, Barbour,’ Lord Hereward said. ‘You’ve got the best stables in the country; everyone knows that.’

  ‘Bar Rowan Park,’ Richard said.

  ‘Bar none,’ his lordship growled. ‘Since Sir Henry died it’s gone downhill; no one will deal with the new owner.’ He laughed harshly. ‘And I’ll have both soon.’

  Richard resisted the temptation to give him a leveller by neatly stacking the coins he had won, clinking them as he placed them slowly one on top of the other. ‘Then what’s holding you back?’

  ‘Nothing,’ his lordship said, realising he had been placed in a corner and could not retreat with honour intact. ‘Fetch out the betting book and draw up the rules. If this young jack-at-warts thinks to make a flat out of me, he’ll find the boot on the other foot.’

  John sat at the desk near the window, fetched the betting book out from one of its drawers and dipped a quill into the ink bottle. ‘Lord Cedric Barbour bets Major the Honourable Richard Baverstock that he can beat him riding from London. He stopped writing and turned to the two men. ‘Whereabouts in London?’

  ‘Tyburn,’ Richard said. ‘We don’t want to startle the inhabitants by setting off in the middle of the city.’ He turned to Lord Barbour. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  John returned to his writing. ‘From Tyburn to... Where in York?’

  ‘The Castle Gardens,’ Richard said. ‘We set off at ten in the evening. Thirty horses to be posted at intervals along the route. Referees too. Agreed, my lord?’

  ‘Agreed,’ his lordship said, but he was not looking particularly happy at the prospect. ‘The day?’

  ‘You may choose the day,’ Richard said magnanimously.

  ‘It will take some time to organise. Shall we say three weeks from today?’

  ‘Done,’ Richard agreed, holding out his hand.

  Lord Barbour looked down at the proffered hand for several seconds before taking it to seal the wager and then he excused himself and left the room, presumably to go home to bed.

  As soon as he had left there was a hubbub of chatter and several people came forward to add their own personal bets to the book, not all of them for Richard; a young cavalry officer who was probably a bruising rider, but little else, was not necessarily a safe bet. He was an unknown quantity whereas Lord Barbour, if not actually liked, was well-known and respected for his knowledge of all things equestrian. John wrote all the wagers down, heading them with his own, backing Richard to the tune of five hundred pounds.

  ‘My winnings will fetch me out of the River Tick,’ he said, when Richard demurred at the amount.

  ‘And if you lose you will drown in it,’ his friend said cryptically. ‘I wish you had not done it.’

  ‘Too late, can’t back out now,’ John told him, complacent as ever. ‘If I’d had the mint sauce, I’d have come in on the race with you.’

  ‘Then I’m glad you have not. This is between me and Lord Barbour. Now I’m for my bed.’ He rose and picked up his pile of winnings, jingling the coins in his hand as he went towards the door. ‘There is much to be done so do not expect to see me for a few days.’

  ‘What about Mrs Bertram’s ball?’ John called after him.

  Richard stopped and turned; it was still there, still to be faced, but now he felt easier about it. ‘I shall return for that, never fear.’

  It seemed that Mrs Bertram was going to be right. The ball was set fair to be a glittering occasion and even some of the ton who had already left for the country were constrained to return for it. It was a dreadful crush in the vestibule as everyone began to arrive, taking their turn to be greeted by Colonel and Mrs Bertram and the Misses Paget, both of whom looked stunning, although the elder was really too old for bringing out. No matter, rumour was rife that Lord Barbour meant to offer for her, which was perhaps all she could expect. Widower he might be and with a brace of children, but he had a title and an estate, run-down though it was, and they did not suppose Sir Henry had left either girl high in the stirrups.

  The younger, Miss Felicity Paget, was another matter; she was a plum ripe for the picking and it looked as though that scapegrace son of Viscount Dullingham would come up to the mark. There was a story that he had fallen out with his papa years before and left home to go to war. Such a ramshackle thing for an heir to a great estate to do. Now he had returned and the gabble-grinders could only suppose he had come back to claim his inheritance, for the Viscount was not in plump currant. That would put William Baverstock’s nose out of joint, to be sure.

  And there was that proposed ride to York. All London was talking about it and every betting book in every club, not to mention Tattersall’s, was full of side-wagers, from whether the race would take place at all to whether it would finish because one or other of the riders had died of a seizure, or fallen off through fatigue. Bets were being laid on the probable finishing point, seeing as few expected either man to reach York; the time it would take in the unlikely event of one or both men finishing; the weather at the start and how many horses would survive the gruelling gallop. And anyone who had a half decent horse for sale or hire was hoping to make a good profit. It was going to be a lively couple of weeks.

  Georgie was perfectly aware of the wager, for who could not be when London was on fire with it? And she knew it was Richard who had instigated it, for he had hinted that he might, but she wished it could be otherwise. Whatever the quarrel between him and Lord Barbour, she did not believe it was worth injuring either men or horses.

  She stood at the head of the stairs, in dove-grey gauze embroidered with silver, receiving her aunt’s guests with a smile and a polite greeting, but her thoughts were elsewhere. In her head she was back at Rowan Park, riding Grecian Warrior across the heath, feeling the saddle between her thighs and the wind stirring her hair, laughing for the sheer joy of riding.

  And that jump. She had been reckless, she knew that, but oh, how marvellous it always made her feel! And how angry the Major had been. He had no right to anger; she would never ride a horse into the ground for the sake of a wager. She could almost hate Richard Baverstock for that. But she knew that was a lie.

  Would he be too busy making plans for the race to come tonight? Did she want him to come? She glanced towards Felicity. She was looking beautiful in soft white silk with a high bodice and a low neckline made decorous with an infill of silk flowers. She had their mother’s pearls about her throat but wore no other ornament. Georgie reached out and took her hand. Felicity, who had been staring at the floor, looked up and smiled.

  ‘Nervous?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Georgie, I...’ She stopped and looked into Georgie’s face. Their aunt was right; how could she disappoint the sister who had been a mother to her for so long, and a father too, this last year? Georgie had made so many sacrifices for her, it would be churlish to throw it all back in her face. Oh, how she wished Aunt Harriet had never come to Rowan Park! She became aware that Georgie was waiting for her to finish what she had been saying. ‘I expect I shall feel more the thing directly.’

  ‘Of course.’ Georgie turned back to her duty as another guest arrived and found herself looking into the searching eyes of Major Baverstock. Once again she was almost turned into a quivering jelly by his tall, lithe figure, enhanc
ed by the white breeches and blue regimental coat he wore, and by those dark eyes, which were even now burning into her. Her knees felt weak and she knew her face was flooded with colour. He had already greeted his host and hostess and was waiting for some acknowledgement from her. She ought to offer him her hand, but it was shaking so much that she dared not bring it out from the folds of her dress. And if she curtsied she would surely collapse in a heap on the floor.

  `Miss Paget, your obedient,’ he said, making a leg and breaking the spell.

  She dipped quickly and forced herself to smile. ‘Good evening, Major.’ Then she turned to her sister. ‘Look, dearest, here is Major Baverstock; why don’t you take him into the ballroom? You do not need to stay here on display all evening.’ She turned to Mrs Bertram. ‘Does she, Aunt?’ She was aware of the brittleness of her voice, the stiffness of her smile, but she could not help it.

  ‘No, run along,’ Mrs Bertram said. ‘Enjoy yourselves. After all, this is your evening.’

  Richard bowed to Felicity and offered her his arm and together they went into the ballroom, watched by a despairing Georgie.

  ‘They make a delightful couple, don’t you think?’ Mrs Bertram said to her husband. ‘He is handsome to a stare and well-breeched too; she is so lovely and such a good, obedient child.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps too lovely and too obedient,’ he commented.

  ‘And what am I supposed to make of that remark?’ she demanded.

  ‘What you will, my love.’

  ‘I am not disposed to solve your riddles,’ she said, tapping his arm with her chicken-skin fan. ‘I believe the Major will ask to speak to you tonight.’

  ‘Why should he speak to me?’

  ‘Because, husband, Felicity has no father, nor mother either; we stand in their stead and it is to you he will apply for permission to speak to her.’ She turned to Georgie. ‘Is that not so, my dear?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper as she contemplated the prospect.