Scandalous Ever After

by Theresa Romain

  “New horse,” Sir William grumbled. “As though one needs to buy a carriage horse during a Thoroughbred race meeting.”

  “It was a good bargain for precisely that reason.” The gravelly voice of Kate’s twin accompanied his weighty footfalls. “Besides which, I had to buy Bassoon. Kate left with the carriage and stranded me in Cambridge.”

  She twisted in her seat. “Slander! You told me to take it. After, I might note, you’d removed extra tack from it. Before we set out, you were preparing to ride home.”

  Jonah grunted, but a faint smile softened his features. “I didn’t think you’d spotted the extra tack.”

  “I have two children. I notice everything. For example, you said you would tidy up after visiting the stable, but there’s still straw dust on your boots.”

  Jonah cursed.

  “And Papa asked for coffee instead of tea, which means he plans a long day at the racetrack.”

  Sir William cursed.

  “Though that’s not much of a guess,” she added, “the day before a race meet begins. As for Evan, he—”

  “No, no. Don’t you turn your gimlet eye in my direction.” Evan pointed his fork at Kate. “I never denied your infallibility. By the way, you look lovely this morning. Did I mention that?”

  “—is far too polite to tell you that what he likes for breakfast is a nice Irish porridge with treacle.” She waved at his plate. “Toast? A kipper? Pitiful English fare. See, he’s hardly had a bite.”

  “That is because I only just sat down.” He eyed Kate, then decided to admit the truth. “As much as you like Irish whisky? That’s how much I like porridge.”

  “Whisky for breakfast? Tut, tut. Our little drunkard,” Jonah murmured, sitting at his sister’s side—not far away enough to dodge her thrown elbow.

  “I didn’t realize.” Her head tilted, a considering posture. “All those mornings at Whelan House…”

  “Had much in common with the evenings?” If you could keep us company with a tumbler of whisky, I could certainly choke down porridge for a chance to sit at your table.

  “Yes.” A faint color rose in her cheeks as she turned her attention to her plate.

  It was no more than a hint of pink, but it was enough to banish any grayness that had clustered about Evan that morning.

  * * *

  On so many mornings, Kate had played the perfect hostess with tolerable skill. She had never guessed her favorite guest—practically part of the family—hated every bite of breakfast he took.

  Was that the price one paid not to be alone? Sipping whisky that burned one’s throat? Slurping porridge that lay in one’s belly like a swallowed blanket?

  Surely not. Surely it didn’t have to be that way—especially not going forward, when Kate ran Whelan House as she wished.

  With advice and lamentations aplenty from the elder dowager. Good Old Gwyn.

  Kate spooned up some of her porridge, cooked by the kitchen staff at Chandler Hall for “the Irish countess.” Boiled over a fierce coal fire, it didn’t taste like the oaty breakfast she enjoyed in Ireland. That porridge was simmered slowly over peat, thickening until it clung to a lifted spoon.

  She ate her breakfast anyway. Take that, Evan.

  Before she could speak again, the door to the room opened. “Good morning, all! No, thank you, James,” said a quick-spoken female voice to the footman. “I’ve already eaten, and so has the baby.”

  The newest arrival was Kate’s sister Hannah, youngest of the four Chandler siblings at twenty-six years of age. “Lady Crosby,” Kate greeted her with feigned formality.

  Hannah had married the previous year, the scion of the dreadful Crosby family that lived nearby. What exactly was so dreadful about them, Kate didn’t know. Their dreadfulness was simply imparted to her as an essential bit of her upbringing, along with letters and math.

  Since arriving in Newmarket a few days earlier, therefore, Kate had taken every opportunity to tease her sister.

  Hannah groaned. “Stop calling me that, Biggie. Even though I’m a Crosby now, I’m still Chandler enough that the name sits ill in my ears.”

  “Crosby, Crosby, Crosby. Congratulations all the same.” Kate rose from the table and enfolded her sister in an embrace—mindful of the infant supported across his mother’s chest in a cunning sort of sling.

  Hannah was a sunned and stretched version of Kate herself, with golden-brown hair and freckles and the lithe build of a natural horsewoman. For years, she had served as Sir William’s secretary. Of the four Chandler siblings, she resembled Sir William most closely in his determined pursuit of excellence on the turf. To them, victory was everything.

  Kate gave her sister one more hug. “May I hold baby John?”

  “Please, yes. Take him.” Hannah extracted her plump little son, handed him to Kate, then freed herself from the sling. “There, it’s good to be out of that harness. A bit like a horse myself, am I not?”

  “I’ve always thought so,” said Jonah.

  “And that’s why the baby’s name is not Jonah.” Hannah put out her tongue. “I did think the sling was clever. It keeps the baby steady and allows me both hands to drive over.”

  “What of your illustrious husband?” Sir William said through teeth that were almost not clenched.

  “Preparing for tomorrow’s races. I believe he’d like to live at the racecourse this month. Golden Barb is running well, and—”

  “Not that damned horse again.” The baronet stabbed at a kipper with his fork.

  “Yes, that damned horse. Stab all you like. He’s going to win, see if he doesn’t.”

  Fortunately for Kate’s comprehension, Hannah had recounted the story by letter. For Evan’s benefit, Kate explained, “Last year, an unscrupulous groom switched one of my father’s horses for one of Sir Bartlett Crosby’s. For a time, Golden Barb had—how many people wanting to own him?”

  “Everyone wants to own him, because he’s a champion,” said Hannah.

  Evan’s brows lifted. “Sir William, I think your life could fill an entire library.”

  “Oh, we have a visitor!” Hannah rounded on Evan. “Good morning, sir. Are you a friend of Jonah’s?”

  “I don’t have any friends,” Jonah said. “Too much trouble.”

  “You haven’t changed at all, my dear twin.” Kate shifted the drowsy baby to one hip. “Hannah, this is Evan Rhys, a friend from Ireland. Or should I say Wales?”

  “I am a man with no country,” sighed Evan. “Or maybe I possess all of them. I haven’t decided which would be preferable.”

  “You are Con’s friend!” Hannah exclaimed. “The scoundrel. I mean, the charming scoundrel.”

  “Charming scoundrel?” Evan set down his fork, as though tasting these words. “Yes, that’ll do. I can live happily with that description.”

  Con’s friend. Why wouldn’t he say he was Kate’s friend?

  But then, she hadn’t exactly said it either, had she?

  “Now that everyone knows everyone else,” said Sir William, “I’d like to visit the stables. Kate, you ought to come along and meet all the horses. You’ll be leaving after this week’s meet, won’t you? Got to get back for the Thurles steeplechase.”

  In October, Newmarket played host to two horse-racing meets, each a week long, and only a week apart. This was the highlight of Sir William’s autumn. He could hardly fathom that one would miss a race—unless it was to attend a different race.

  “No, Papa,” she said. “I’m not basing my travel plans around the steeplechase, but the behavior of the Irish Sea.”

  “Even the sea wants to bring Irish people home for the steeplechase,” decided the baronet. “Now, imagine how well you could run it with one of my horses. With Pale Marauder? Thoroughbred speed, solid bone—you’d lead the pack.”

  “Is that the same horse who false started ele
ven times at the Derby last year?” She tickled the baby’s belly, and he rewarded her with a gummy yawn.

  “Only ten false starts,” Sir William replied. “But he’s much calmer this year. Sometimes.”

  “Pale Marauder’s legs would snap off the first time he tried a jump,” Jonah said. “Thoroughbreds aren’t built for pounding races.”

  “That is disgusting,” said Hannah. “And so is…whatever you’re eating, Jonah.”

  “That’s not my plate. That’s Kate’s breakfast.”

  “I knew I couldn’t be the only one who disliked porridge,” muttered Evan—though Kate wasn’t sure whether anyone heard him except herself.

  And the baby, who yawned again. He smelled sweet and clean, a well-washed new little being. Plump pale skin and the slow-blinking eyes of one who hadn’t quite brought the world into focus. She kissed him on his fuzzy little head—only to be rewarded with a spot of drool on her bodice. With a smile, she drew out her chair again and sat, arms full of infant nephew.

  Around the table, the others were still debating the steeplechase. “Thoroughbreds want to win,” said Hannah. “Which carries them over any obstacle. Even if their legs snap off, which they won’t.”

  “Not off, but they could break,” said Jonah.

  “You could break,” Hannah huffed. “What do you think, Mr. Rhys?”

  “I think I don’t want you to tell me I could break.” Evan put a hand to his heart. “Such an insult would positively…unhorse me.”

  “That is the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” said Kate. “If you can call it a joke.”

  “Kate,” said Sir William. “We look to you to defend the honor of Irish horses.”

  “Must I?” She tucked the baby’s head beneath her chin, letting him settle against her front. “What if I like your horses best?”

  “You might as well be honest. The title will fall to Jonah, but I have willed each of my offspring the same amount of money.”

  “Thus dies primogeniture,” said Jonah. “How will I keep the others under my thumb?”

  “Did you think we would allow that? Not a chance.” Kate laughed. “Besides, you are far too benevolent to serve as dictator.”

  “Should I put forward Welsh horses as the best?” Evan said. “Not for a share in your will, Sir William. Merely to muddy the waters.”

  He had taken to the quick, cheeky pace of the conversation with an ease that pleased Kate. How did he do it? She had required days in Newmarket to settle in, to feel herself not an interloper with people who had known her all their lives.

  “Welsh horses are the kindest,” Kate said. “They are imps, full of good-natured mischief.”

  “My countrymen—er, beasts—thank you.”

  She lifted a staying hand. “But they’d never win a race. They aren’t terribly quick to act.”

  Evan narrowed his eyes. “You underestimate them, Irish lady. Given the right motivation, they might surprise you.”

  “The baby prefers Arabians,” piped up Hannah. “Who will speak for them?”

  Everyone ignored this. “Biggie. What do you think of the horses of Ireland?” Sir William looked to Kate—really looked—as though he wanted her answer.

  He was not talking only of horses, she knew.

  She could never resist an entreaty coupled with the old family nickname Biggie. Taking another whiff of the drowsing, powder-sweet baby, she considered. “Irish horses are best for what they’re bred to do: throw their hearts over every obstacle. They’re less costly and far hardier than Thoroughbreds. There, do you like that?”

  Sir William rubbed at his chin. “Go on.”

  “Ah…that’s all I have to say. Why?”

  “I’m glad you’re proud of Ireland. You’ve lived there a great while, yet I never knew if it felt like home to you.”

  Oh. So many curious eyes on her now, from footman to friend and every relative imaginable. “It…can feel that way. Yes. I’m proud of our horses. But I wouldn’t love them so if I hadn’t been raised among horses here.”

  “Chandler blood will tell,” said Hannah.

  Sir William counted his remaining bites of breakfast, then folded his serviette and rolled back from the table. Kate recalled this ritual from her last visit: he calculated and balanced his own nourishment as carefully as he did that of his racehorses.

  “I’m off to the stables.” He directed his wheelchair toward the doorway with easy, practiced movements. “Daughters, care to accompany me? You too, Rhys, if you want to see what a real champion looks like.”

  “The kippers have made you mischievous, sir,” Evan said.

  “He’s that way no matter what he eats,” Jonah replied. “I’ll be after you in a few minutes, Father. To see whether Bassoon is still faring well.”

  “I should not come with you,” said Hannah. “That would be treachery. I’d spy on you and tell Bart all your secrets.”

  Sir William regarded her over his shoulder. “And you’d tell me all of his in return?”

  “You know I would. Fair is fair.”

  “As if Crosby knows anything I don’t,” he shot back before exiting the dining room.

  It was today or not at all. Kate had to speak with her father. She’d been hesitating, waiting for both of them to grow comfortable with each other again before she inflicted her request for a fortune to save her family’s lands. Acting proper. Smiling. Helping.

  But what had propriety got her? A husband who strayed. A lifetime of debt. An empty bed. A friend to whom she could not write. Propriety was nothing but a burden.

  Damn propriety, then. She should have damned it long ago, seizing every opportunity that came her way.

  When she looked at Evan, something knowing in his gaze made her feel warm—almost as though her whole body were blushing. Whether he realized it or not, he had caught her in a secret decision, and that made him a part of it.

  She kissed baby John on his head, letting him drool all over her gown. Then she stood, handing him back to her sister. “I need to speak with our father, Hannah. Be good to our guest. Not that I am any less of a guest here than he is.”

  “You could be.” Hannah settled the baby into her arms. “You could come as often as you liked, Biggie. Any time.”

  To this place? Kate had never lived in Chandler Hall, built years after her marriage on the wide, smooth lines needed for Sir William’s wheelchair. Here, cheer and money seemed inexhaustible.

  She thought of Whelan House, short on both, and the memory was a pinch between her brows.

  Maybe she’d have returned to Newmarket more often if the family home had been like this when Kate was seventeen. If her father were here instead of traveling the world and piling up a fortune, and her sister were happy.

  If that had been the case, maybe Kate wouldn’t have wed so young.

  Maybe Jonah wouldn’t have married a woman who promised the moon and stars, only to vanish after their wedding night.

  Maybe Nathaniel wouldn’t have been rootless, and Hannah wouldn’t have been left alone.

  If. Maybe.

  These were fruitless words. The only phrase she should allow herself was…what now? She could damn propriety, but there was nothing to put in its place.

  Yet.

  Yet was a word with far more possibility to it. An idea would come. And maybe it would involve Evan Rhys, who knew with uncomfortable, familiar, delightful accuracy her every worry.

  “I’ll see you later,” she told Hannah and Evan.

  Knowing this was true was a pleasure, sweet and sincere. But that knowing look Evan had cast her…that damn propriety that seemed written all over her skin…there was something more than friendship in the nature of that exchange.

  What it had been instead, there was no time to consider right now. She sped in the direction of the stables, where she intended to beg her
way out of debt.

  After all, she was an Irish horse now. When an obstacle arose in her path, she would batter at it until she had achieved victory.

  Five

  “Does she know you love her?”

  Evan was now alone in the dining room turned breakfast parlor with Hannah, Lady Crosby, and her sleeping blanket of baby. As peaceful and silent as little John was, so his mother was alert and sharp-eyed.

  Though Lady Crosby’s question caught him off guard, Evan did not pretend to misunderstand. “No. Considering how many times your sister has mentioned I was like a brother to Con, she has no idea.”

  It was a cruelty that she valued him so much and wanted him not at all.

  As if in agreement, the sleeping baby released a stream of spittle.

  “I wondered about that.” The young baronetess snatched up a serviette and dabbed at her soiled gown. “It’s possible she does know you love her, but she doesn’t want you to say anything about it. Because that would spoil your friendship.”

  “Lady Crosby, I did that well enough already.”

  “Call me Hannah, please. And how did you spoil the friendship?”

  Evan pressed at his temples. “I should have tallied the number of times she mentioned yesterday that she’d had no word from me since Con died.”

  “You never even wrote?” Hannah goggled at him, then slapped the serviette back onto the table. “Never mind, never mind. I’m sure she said a great deal on that subject.”

  “You are correct.”

  “Yet you are staying in our father’s house, and after the race meet you’ll travel to Ireland together. Is that something not-friends do?”

  “Travel alone with a woman he can never have?” Evan said drily. “That’s not something any man in his right mind would do.”

  “‘They are in the very wrath of love,’” murmured Hannah, patting her son’s back. The baby released a great belch of air. “That’s from As You Like It. My brother Nathaniel’s favorite play, because there is a Rosalind in it, and that is his wife’s name. I learned quite a bit of the play. For several months I had nothing to do but sit about and read Shakespeare and grow an enormous baby.”