The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

  “Good Lord, I had no idea! That’s…well, you’re a capital fellow, blowing the whistle like that. Even at such personal cost.” Tarquin kissed the top of Chris’ head. “You did the right thing, and not enough people do these days.”

  “I was never very good at playing the markets, but I was good enough.” He took another spoonful of crumble. “And I had a reputation for having a bit of a conscience, which I imagine made me an easy mark. The bastards at the top got away scot-free, but I hope they slip up one day. The fund’s frozen, they can’t get their hands on the cash, but until they’re caught, neither can anyone else. I’ve written that money off—they’re probably in Rio by now mocking stupid old Hardacre who thought he was helping preserve, not funding bloody raiding parties! What matters most is that the treasures they stole are being found and returned to their rightful places—that’s more important than an idiot’s money. You would’ve liked one of them. Little tiny soapstone fellow with an enormous hard-on three times his size! Belonged to a Nepalese Shah, supposedly. They’re still looking for that one though!”

  “Well, thank goodness some of the damage can be undone!” Tarquin put his empty bowl on the bedside table and slipped his arm around Chris. “If I can help at all, you just say. And I don’t just mean with the pig-wrangling.”

  “My biggest regret is that I was planning early retirement. I wanted to find somewhere in this neck of the woods and—don’t laugh—I sort of fancied a little smallholding, a world away from London. Just me and some animals who might need a place to live out their days being spoiled rotten.” He reached out to put his own empty bowl safely aside. “There is something you can do, actually. Keep the kisses, snuggles and amazing sex coming?”

  “I’d be more than happy to.” Tarquin kissed a dab of ice cream from Chris’ cheek, then held him close. “And I can help you with the smallholding, wherever you end up living. But let’s hope it’s here—I like the idea of having a handsome next-door neighbor who has a taste for being spanked.”

  “I was never very good at being a city boy, but I did it because it’s what Hardacres do,” he admitted. “The only thing that Great-Uncle Beardsley and I had in common was that we couldn’t stand to see an animal in need. I bet you didn’t know that about Beardsley, did you? He was happy to publicize the boozing and mistresses and greed, not so much the charity side of things.”

  Tarquin shook his head. “I had no idea! Other than the Oracle, he didn’t seem much interested in animals.”

  “The one time we met, he decided to take me to see Guys and Dolls in town for my ninth birthday—thought I needed to develop a love of show tunes to match his.” Chris smiled. “Halfway to London we saw a little tabby cat in the gutter, she’d obviously been hit by a car. Well, we both said together, pull over! And we took the cat into the Daimler and off to the vet but…oh, she was in a dreadful mess, her leg was broken. We never saw the show because we sat nursing the moggy instead and eventually Uncle B took me back to school and the now three-legged cat came to live here, where I believe she had a long and happy life. She was called Cleopatra, do you remember her?”

  “Cleo?” Tarquin blinked. “Cleo as in the Cleopatra Cup Drag Hunt? I thought Beardsley had named the hunt after a girlfriend—not a cat! But goodness me, yes, I do remember the three-legged cat. She used to come over to Bough Towers. I had no idea she was Beardsley’s! She lived to a grand old age. And to think she was here partly through your doing!”

  “She was! And after our little excursion, Uncle B and I used to exchange letters, so maybe…” Chris shrugged. “Perhaps that’s why he remembered me in his will? He hated most people, but maybe he grudgingly respected my giving up Guys and Dolls for that little kitty.”

  “Did he give you updates on Cleo?” Tarquin kissed Chris. “Do you know, you could be right—and it’s why he wanted you to have the Oracle. Because he thought he could trust you with his pride and joy.”

  “He used to tell me all about Cleo’s progress and the various cows and donkeys and what have you that he’d lodged with sanctuaries and willing adoptive homes around the country,” Chris recalled, snuggling against Tarquin. “But he never mentioned the Oracle. I wonder if he wanted that to be a surprise once his will was read!”

  “It bloody well was!” Tarquin chuckled. “My opinion of that curmudgeonly old sod is changing, I must say. I had no idea about all this work he was doing with animals!”

  “Mr. Driscoll’s still unpicking it all. Beardsley was on this charity board and that charity board, all over the world. Not bad for a chap who proudly hated his fellow man.” He grinned. “When—if—I get this inheritance sorted out, I’m going to do what I can for those same animals. Not exactly the squire’s city slicker, but I hope he won’t mind!”

  “Charity boards!” Tarquin stared at Chris, amazed. “Well, he certainly kept those to himself. My goodness, and to think I dismissed him as a rude hedonist! Which he unquestionably was, but the charities… I never knew.”

  Chris smiled and told him, “I think, though, he’d prefer to be remembered as a rude hedonist, you know. Far more him.”

  “You can say that again.” A thought occurred to Tarquin. “Hmmm… Beardsley was the one who insisted on the village having a drag hunt instead of a fox hunt. I assumed he’d done it to annoy everyone, but now I think I can see why he did it.”

  “I can’t wait to see you in your hunting pinks tomorrow for the Cleo Cup, which you now know was named after a legless cat!” He widened his eyes. “Don’t let on though, let’s keep everyone guessing!”

  “I do cut rather a dash in my pinks, even if I do say so myself! As do you, I’m sure,” Tarquin said. “But don’t worry, I won’t say a word about Cleo. We’ll let everyone go on assuming she was some glamourpuss who your uncle couldn’t resist.”

  “Perfect.” Chris lifted his head and kissed Tarquin. “I’m so glad I met you, darling. And I’m so glad you wanted to help with my DIY.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vulcan was in an energetic mood as Tarquin waited to start the Cleopatra Cup Drag Hunt. The lane was crowded with horses and dogs, and people who’d come to see the hunt off. As Master of the Hunt, Tarquin was playing a very public role, a complete contrast to the very private role he had played the day before.

  And it wasn’t easy to concentrate on the hunt when memories of his and Chris’ sordid day of not doing DIY came to mind. It was a wonder he could keep awake, but far from exhausting him, all that sweaty fun had invigorated him. He was the squire and, as Tarquin sipped his drink, observing the dogs and the horses, he felt as squirey as he ever had.

  “You could try to smile. Look at Bryan, he’s sparkling,” Petunia told him in a hiss as she steered her horse closer. How perpetually grumpy she had been these last six months, Tarquin thought, and how often he had been in the firing line. “I’m surprised you didn’t insist on bringing that bloody dirty pig along.”

  “Her legs are too short to reach the stirrups,” Tarquin replied. “Look at you, eh, sort-of-but-not-quite the mistress of the hunt!”

  “But soon,” she said. It sounded more like a threat than a promise. “Oh, look at Christopher, back on board Longfellow’s Arabian!”

  Tarquin tightened his grip on Vulcan’s reins. Chris, oh, Chris, lovely Chris. He was an extraordinary sight, his figure shown off to perfection by his pinks, and those firm legs against the horse’s flanks…

  “He’s very erect in the saddle,” Tarquin remarked with a terse smile. “An impressive ride.”

  “Morning, squire!” Chris called, raising his hat to reveal a glimpse of that tousled dark blond hair. “Lovely morning for a good, hard gallop?”

  “The very best!” Tarquin nodded. “Looking forward to it, captain?”

  Bryan rode up alongside Chris and replied, “Yes, I bloody well am.” He looked Chris up and down, his lip curled. “Sorry to do this to you, Chris, but I’m very likely to win. Is that okay?”

  “Are we in competition here too?” Chris
laughed and Bryan scowled. “I rather think the squire might best us both!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that!” Tarquin gave his riding crop a nonchalant swing, then tutted at Bryan. “You really ought to be polite to the joint masters of the hunt, Mr. Reeve!”

  “You think I wasn’t?” came Bryan’s blustery reply. “Just a little bit of schoolboy joshing with the new boy in the village, that’s all, squire!”

  “Oh, I’m not the joint master yet,” Petunia simpered, earning a quickly hidden smile of amusement from Chris. “Not until that ring’s on my finger!”

  “Won’t be long, will it?” Bryan remarked. “But you look like the Queen of the Hunt already! You look stunning, Petunia. As ever.”

  Smarmy git, Tarquin thought. Although Petunia didn’t seem to mind and was in fact absorbing his compliments.

  “Are you sure you weren’t at Leadbetter?” Chris peered very close now. “Never teased a younger lad and called him Queen of the Riverbank for out-rowing you?”

  “No!” Bryan spluttered. “I told you, I was at Shillinglaw.” He wore a forced grin as he said, “Really must find who this bally doppelganger of mine is before he causes trouble!”

  “He was a Reeve too, must be a cousin.” Chris shrugged. “But since it isn’t you I feel no guilt in saying he was a cheating, bullying little rotter.”

  Bryan knocked Chris on the arm. “Was he indeed? What a bastard, eh? Not like me.”

  “Not like you at all!” Petunia agreed. “Bryan’s the fairest, best man in our trade. So many shysters in antiques, but not him.”

  Bryan jabbed his thumb toward his chest. “Honest as the day is long, that’s me. Not like this Leadbetter chap Chris keeps chuntering on about!”

  Chris gave one of the most beguiling smiles Tarquin had ever seen as he turned his horse round and whispered, “I’m sure it’s him.”

  Tarquin glanced back at Bryan, then said to Chris, as quietly as he could, “Good God! What’s the man trying to hide?”

  “Maybe he really has reformed,” Chris remarked. “I’d better let it go, I suppose.”

  Tarquin patted Chris’ arm. “Maybe it’s for the best. Put it aside for today, at least. Anyway, I think we’re about ready to begin the hunt, don’t you?”

  “Lead the way, squire!” Chris reached across and gave Tarquin’s knee a matey, not-at-all intimate pat.

  “Right, off we go, then!” Tarquin winked at Chris. He put his glass on the salver presented to him and took up the hunting horn. Tarquin tipped back his head and blew.

  The drag hunt had begun.

  The horses thundered down the lane after the dogs and off into one of Tarquin’s own fields as the supporters gave a cheer of motivation. Chris was there at Tarquin’s side as they retrod the steps of their steeplechase, the sound of barking and galloping hooves filling the air. He’d done it. He was Master of the Lower Bough Hunt and at his elbow was the most handsome man he had ever met, the man he wanted more than anything. And Christopher Hardacre wanted him too.

  Dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves stung Tarquin’s eyes and pitted his face, but still he rode on, Vulcan more than equal to the task. They jumped over a fence and Vulcan didn’t lose his footing, and Chris landed safely too.

  If we can do this, couldn’t we—Isn’t there a chance that we—

  Tarquin’s memories of yesterday came flooding back and he forced the images away. He’d think about them later, not now, but still the temptation was there. The pull on the silk cords, the tensing of Chris’ muscles and the joining of their bodies were distracting images that appeared in his mind unbidden.

  Focus, Tarquin!

  But Tarquin was sure that even the squire would allow his thoughts to wander into bedrooms and tack rooms if a man like the captain would be waiting for him.

  The dogs suddenly gave a pack-wide chorus of excited barks and streamed off toward the trees. From somewhere behind him Tarquin heard Petunia bemoan, “Oh for a real fox to really tear into! I miss the good old days!”

  “We could always set the dogs chasing you next time, Ms. Rudd,” Chris called with guileless cheer. “If you’re so desperate for live quarry!”

  Tarquin cupped one hand around his mouth and shouted, “Tally-ho!”

  He caught Chris’ quick glance and in it saw such affection that it almost bowled him over. But he forced himself to focus as they sailed over hedge after hedge, chasing the hounds toward the horizon.

  Tarquin was so happy at that moment, with Chris there beside him, and he turned his head to smile at him. Only to see Chris’ horse rear up as Bryan came galloping by.

  “I’m winning! I told you!” Bryan yelled.

  His cry of jubilation was drowned out by Oscar’s whinny as horse and rider were flung into the thorn-studded hedge that rose up on either side of the wooden gate which the horses were jumping, but Tarquin had no thought for the hunt. Instead he saw only his lover as Oscar bucked forward, sending Chris sailing into the fearsome tangle of branches.

  Tarquin watched the dogs’ whip-like tails up ahead, knowing they were nearing the hunt’s end, but he couldn’t leave Chris. He pulled up and let the other riders pass.

  “Reeve!” Longfellow bellowed in fury as he galloped past in pursuit. “What the devil! Reeve, that’s my bloody horse, you cheating bloody bastard!”

  Bryan? He’s done this?

  Tarquin dismounted Vulcan and hooked his reins over the gatepost, then pulled at the thorny branches, trying to reach Chris. “Are you hurt, Chris? Answer me, please, for God’s sake!”

  “Only my pride and a few scratches,” Chris gasped, emerging from the thorns with a wince. “How’s Oscar?”

  “In one piece!” Longfellow called from the other side of the hedge. He trotted to the gate and opened it, leading Chris’ steed through. “Did you see what happened? Did you? The bloody little worm! Typical Upper Bough bastard! He’ll not get my custom again at his bloody auctions!”

  “Lean on me, Chris.” Tarquin put his arm around Chris. He looked up at Longfellow. “What did Bryan bloody well do? I was ahead of him, all I saw was poor Oscar rearing up. Did he hurt the horse?”

  “Oscar’s a hardy lad, but he’s thrown a shoe so he’s out of the hunt for today.” He patted the riderless horse on its neck. Chris sank against Tarquin and unbuckled his hat. “Bloody Reeve has to turn everything into a competition, always has. He let Oscar have it with his whip, right on the rump! No doubt he’ll claim an accident, but I know what I saw.”

  “Oh, hell, I’m sorry, old boy!” Tarquin shook his head. “Some hunt master I am! I’ll speak to him. Chris, do you want to carry on—you can have Vulcan if you like—or would you rather go home and clean up?”

  “You go and rejoin the hunt,” Chris said. “I’ll be fine. Just need a hot shower to soothe away my aches. If I thought he was Aubrey before, I know it now. He holed my boat at school, nearly bloody drowned me!”

  “I’ll get Oscar home,” Longfellow decided. “Reeve deserves a bloody good thrashing!”

  “He bloody well does. Thanks, Longy.” Tarquin sighed. “And, Chris—I’ll help you home. I should’ve kept an eye on Bryan—this is my fault. I’ll pop you up on Vulcan.”

  As Longfellow trotted away, Chris finally let out a long breath of relief and admitted, “That was a close shave. Few too many thorns in there for me.”

  “You’ve rattled Bryan, haven’t you? He’s a bloody idiot to do that—you and the horse could’ve broken your necks!” Confident no one could see, Tarquin kissed Chris’ cheek. “Right, I’ll give you a boost up into the saddle.”

  “The squire walking?” He shook his head. “You ride, darling, that wouldn’t be right.”

  “I’m not the one with a twig sticking out of my collar.” Tarquin plucked out the offending piece of foliage, then patted his saddle. “I won’t hear a no, captain! Up you hop!”

  Chris kissed Tarquin’s cheek and let him boost him up into the saddle, giving Tarquin a front-row seat of his bottom as he did
. It always paid to be helpful, one way or another.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tarquin was glad to be back in Chris’ house, although he’d have preferred it to have been a happier occasion.

  “Do you need help getting your boots off?” he asked.

  Chris closed the door and threw his hat onto the staircase, then stretched his arms over his head as though testing his bruises.

  “You could give me a tug?” he suggested. “Or I could keep it all on and we could go upstairs and make the most of our unexpected moment? I’m only a little bit stiff from the fall.”

  Tarquin took in Chris’ pose.

  What a figure!

  “I—I wouldn’t say no to going upstairs. Are you sure you’re not sore? No scratches from the thorns or anything?”

  “I imagine one or two, but I’ll survive.” Chris grinned and reached to take Tarquin’s hand. “Being alone with you is worth a few scratches!”

  “Lucky old us!” Tarquin brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed them. “Gosh, I’m all dusty, aren’t I? What a mess! I hope I don’t ruin your new carpet.”

  Chris drew Tarquin closer and whispered, “What’s a bit of dust between lovers?”