The Duke's Secret Wager: Regency Romance (London Season Matchmaker Book 4)

by Lucy Adams

  Silence met his word, and it was not until they began to resonate all about him that Matthew realized what the lady must think he meant. It sounded that he was simply filled with his own self-worth, telling her that she should relish the opportunity to dance with him simply because of who he was.

  “I-I mean to say,” he stammered, a little embarrassed, “that your courage might grow if the other ladies and gentlemen present here this evening see you dancing with the host of this evening’s ball. Not because I believe myself to be somehow the most important fellow in the room!”

  “But you are, I suppose,” came the quiet reply. “Although I do believe I understand what you mean, Your Grace. I thank you for your suggestion. I shall ensure that I keep a space for you should I find the courage to step out of the shadows.”

  Matthew inclined his head, a little unsettled to discover that his face was a little flushed with embarrassment. “I thank you, Miss….” He trailed off, realizing he did not know the lady’s name and that, if he did not discover it, he would not be able to seek her out for a dance later on in the evening. Lifting his head, he made to ask her what her name was so that he could do as he intended, but as he did so, he saw that she had gone. It was as if she were a wraith who had slipped into the shadows and disappeared, leaving him filled with a sudden, urgent desire to seek her out and discover who she was. It was most mysterious for he had never had such a desire before, given that a lady had never once spoken so candidly nor so boldly to him. As a duke, most young ladies seemed to sink into the floor at his presence, their voices breathy and wispy if they tried to converse. Not so with this young lady. Without introduction, she had boldly made a remark that had both caught his attention and made him laugh, and, in return, he had been entirely honest with her about what struggles were going on in his own mind.

  “How very odd,” he murmured to himself, thinking about his own reaction to the mysterious lady and wondering why his mind was suddenly caught up with her instead of fixing itself on the responsibilities that were now his. Shaking his head to himself, Matthew stepped forward and, with a long breath, went to greet two young ladies who were already making eyes at him. It was time to begin.

  “Your Grace.”

  Matthew turned around in surprise, astonished to see his butler standing near to him, although there was a deeply apologetic look on his face and his brow heavily lined.

  “Jones,” he replied, frowning as he took a few steps away from those he had been conversing with so that they would not overhear him. “Is something wrong?”

  “Indeed.” The butler cleared his throat, still looking deeply embarrassed. “Your jockey has appeared at the stables, Your Grace, and is making such a commotion that we are afraid that some of the guests may hear him when they retire to bed. As it is getting later in the evening, I began to worry what might occur if that was to happen.” He drew in a long breath, looking Matthew straight in the eye. “I hope you know that I would not have come to you if I did not think that it was necessary, Your Grace,” he finished, clearly a little concerned that this was precisely what Matthew was going to think. “Your jockey is refusing to leave the premises until he has spoken to you.”

  Matthew let out a long, frustrated breath. He had, only yesterday, spoken to Nathanial Rigby and stated that he had decided to find another jockey in place of the man. His arrogance had grown far too much to contain, and Matthew did not like how the man spoke to him. There was no respect in Rigby’s manner nor in his words, for he considered himself to be the best jockey in all of England and would not take any advice from anyone, not even Matthew himself. If Rigby was, in fact, the most competent jockey in all of England, then Matthew might consider retaining him even with his ridiculous behavior, but Rigby was not always consistent in his competing. On top of which, Matthew had been unable to forget how that young fellow had spoken about Beauchamp with such obvious knowledge and understanding of the horse when he had only just come across the creature some minutes before. It was more than could be said for Rigby, and it was this knowledge, combined with Rigby’s lack of decorum and respect that had forced Matthew to act.

  Now, it seemed, his jockey was not about to accept such a fall from grace. Even though Matthew had warned him, even though he had spoken to him about his speech and manner, Rigby had done nothing to improve himself. Therefore, it was right and fair that Matthew do as he had stated – but apparently, Rigby did not agree. And now he was making a commotion in order to either irritate or anger Matthew in some way. Perhaps as an attempt to place some sort of consequences on Matthew’s head for what he had decided to do.

  “You say he will not leave?” Matthew enquired, seeing the butler shake his head. “And staff have attempted to remove him?”

  “He has threatened Beauchamp,” the butler replied, his voice dropping lower. “He states that unless he speaks to you, he will injure the horse. That is why I came to fetch you, for I do not want to make any decision that will bring injury to the stallion.”

  Matthew’s stomach dropped, his heartbeat quickening with anger. “I see,” he replied, shaking his head. “I shall come at once, of course. In the stables, you say.” Glancing behind him, he saw his mother, the Dowager Blackwell, looking at him askance, as though speaking with the butler was once of the most improper things one might do. Her grey hair was set beautifully upon her head, her gown very fetching, but it was the keenness of her dark brown eyes, so like his own, that had him wary of her sharp tongue. “Let me just inform the dowager what has occurred so that she might take hold of these proceedings, and then I shall be out in a moment.” He glanced about him as he made his way to his mother, seeing how the ballroom had grown a little quieter. Some of the guests had already retired, and he certainly did not want any of them disturbed by Rigby – and nor did he want any gossip about this evening to be spread by his guests!

  Quickly informing his mother that there was a grievously urgent matter that he had to attend to immediately, he hurried from the room without so much as a backward glance, feeling his mother’s eyes resting on his back as he quit the room. He had no doubt that the Dowager Blackwell would do very well in bringing the proceedings to a close should he be out of doors for long.

  The night air was colder than Matthew had expected, although a welcome relief from the stuffy air in the ballroom. Matthew could hear Rigby long before he could see him, realizing that the fellow was in his cups already. As he walked, he started violently, suddenly seeing something scurrying across his path – only to tell himself to find his courage and that it had only been a fox or some such thing. Letting out a long breath, he finally came across Rigby, who was holding onto the doorframe of the stable, his head lolling to the left.

  “You have arrived, Your Grace!” Rigby staggered forward, leaving the stable door open as he came nearer to Matthew, his face lit by the moonlight. Nearby, Matthew caught sight of two footmen and one of his stable hands, clearly a little wary as they drew nearer to the drunk man, and it was not until Matthew saw the knife glinting in Rigby’s hand that he realized just why they were being so cautious.

  His gut twisted as he prayed that Rigby had not harmed Beauchamp in any way. “What is it you want, Rigby?” he asked loudly, seeing how the man’s footsteps now appeared to be a little firmer than before. “Why are you here?”

  “I want to be your jockey,” Rigby said, his voice echoing across the gardens and a dark look now on his face. “You have no right to–”

  “I have every right,” Matthew boomed, silencing Rigby at once. “You are hired and you are dismissed depending on what I feel to be correct. Your conduct was found wanting, and now, at this present moment, you are proving to me that I was correct to do so.”

  Rigby let out a harsh laugh, swiping the air with his knife as if frustrated. “My conduct was just fine,” he replied, although his voice now held a little less anger. “I was the best jockey in all of England. I knew your horses. I knew how to ride them, what they were like. And then, out of n
owhere, you decide I’m no longer good enough for you?” He shook his head again, his eyes now glinting in the moonlight, making him appear almost malevolent. “That isn’t right. And there’s going to be consequences for it.”

  Matthew did not know specifically what it was Rigby intended, but the steel blade in the man’s hand gave him a fair idea. However, it was not towards Matthew that Rigby began to advance but rather that he began to move towards the stable once more, backing away slowly with the knife raised.

  Beauchamp.

  The dawning realization about what it was Rigby intended to do hit Matthew with full force, and he began to stumble towards Rigby, who was, by now, at the stable door. He could not draw too near to the man, however, given that the man’s knife was still being held ominously out towards him as Rigby retreated. Matthew began to panic, realizing that even if he managed to reach Rigby within the stable, it might be too late to save Beauchamp. His heart thundered furiously, sweat beading on his brow as he shouted out for Rigby to stop.

  The man did not listen. Instead, he pulled the door open wide, making to step through it – only for a big black shadow to come thundering out of the stable doors, knocking Rigby to the ground and flinging the knife from his hand.

  Someone had saddled Beauchamp and was now riding across the gardens with him, leaving Matthew behind to deal with Rigby.

  Chapter Four

  Creeping out into the dark gardens at three o’clock in the morning had been more difficult than Catherine had expected. For one, it had taken her longer to bind her chest and then dress in her brother’s clothes than she had thought it would, for she had forgotten just how difficult it was to remove oneself from one’s gown without the help of a maid. Thereafter, she had needed to tie her hair back tightly and then had pressed her wig on top. Pinning it there had been a little painful, but Catherine had endured it without complaint. Sneaking from the room had frayed her nerves, but eventually, she had made it outside. Her thoughts were filled with the Duke of Blackwell, even as she made her way towards the stables. To her great surprise, she had enjoyed talking with him, even though he had not been able to see her face. Her mother, of course, had been gratified by Catherine’s conduct at the ball, for once she had gained some courage, she had stepped out into the light, rejoined her mother, and had allowed gentlemen to write their name on her card. The duke, of course, had not done so—even though he had promised to do that very thing—but she had made certain that he did not know her name nor who she was, for then he might recognize who she was when she was dressed as Leighton.

  Trying to push the duke from her thoughts, Catherine had practically run into the gentleman, whilst scurrying about in the dark! She then had to rush forward – something which was much easier in pantaloons than in her voluminous skirts – and escape out of his way, only to realize that there was a matter of great severity occurring just in front of the stables.

  She had hidden herself as best she could but had overheard how Rigby had been speaking to Lord Blackwell and had felt her heart leap into her throat. Rigby had a knife, which was a threat in itself, and what he was saying to Lord Blackwell made things all the worse. Torn between remaining here and doing what she could to aid Lord Blackwell or returning to the house without delay, Catherine had remained undecided until, horrified, she realized that Rigby might very well intend to hurt Beauchamp.

  It was just as well that the night brought with it a good many shadows, for without them, Catherine was quite sure she would not have been able to move into the barn without being noticed. The shadows were long, and she, being both short and slim, had clung to them carefully, pushing the door ajar a little more and slipping inside.

  Now, pulling the door shut closed as carefully and as quietly as she could, Catherine looked about the stables, seeing how only one horse was stabled here. Most likely, Lord Blackwell had other stables with his other horses, for it was clear that he prized Beauchamp and wanted to ensure he had everything that was required, which meant, most likely, a stable solely dedicated to the creature.

  Two lanterns gave the stable an eerie glow, making Catherine shudder violently as both fear and anxiety began to melt into her bones. What was she doing? What was it she intended to do? Looking towards Beauchamp and hearing the sound of Rigby’s voice still shouting obscene remarks towards Lord Blackwell, Catherine set her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was not about to let Rigby hurt Beauchamp.

  “Hello,” she murmured, seeing how Beauchamp’s ears were held up straight, snorting as she drew near. “Do you remember me?” Carefully approaching the stallion, she held out one hand slowly, taking care to be as gentle as possible.

  Keeping her voice quiet for the sole reason of not being overheard by anyone outside, she crooned softly under her breath, relieved when the horse nickered quietly in response.

  “Will you let me come in?” she murmured, opening the stall and running her hand down the horse’s neck as she stepped inside. Thankfully, Beauchamp did nothing other than turn his head towards her, as though surprised she had come into his stall. His head swung back violently, and he snorted at the raised voices that came from outside the stables – and Catherine knew she had to act quickly.

  Grateful for the way the groom and stable hands back at home had shown her how to saddle a horse and how they had, oft times, permitted her to do it on her own, she began to saddle up Beauchamp, surprised when he did nothing other than snort in either displeasure or anticipation. Her fingers slipped on the buckles as she heard Rigby’s voice grow louder, clearly coming closer to the stables. Looking about for a mounting block, the horse ready and prepared, she discovered that there was none present. Licking her lips and trying to think clearly about what she might do, despite the growing fear in her heart, Catherine led Beauchamp out, wondering if she should just let him free in the hope that this would be enough to protect him from Rigby.

  But no, it was not going to be enough. It was a risk she could not take. If she simply let Beauchamp free, then Rigby might catch his bridle or the reins and do as he intended. The memory of the knife as it flashed in the moonlight made sweat break out over Catherine’s forehead. The moment was upon her. She had to find a way.

  Closing her eyes for a moment and taking in a long breath, Catherine settled her shoulders and reminded herself that she was the only one at this present moment who was able to keep Beauchamp safe. With as much strength as she could muster, Catherine put one foot in the saddle and reached up to grasp the pommel, feeling as though she were being squashed into a most unnatural shape. Her muscles screamed as they were stretched taut, her other leg now standing on tiptoe as she tried to haul herself up.

  With every last bit of strength she had, and with an exclamation flung from her lips, Catherine managed to throw her leg over and haul herself up into the saddle. Breathless from the exertion, she grasped the reins and Beauchamp moved towards the door, only for Catherine to pull them tight. It was as though Beauchamp knew precisely what it was she was asking of him, for he waited patiently, even though she could feel his flanks quivering with anticipation.

  Catherine struggled to keep a hold of her anxiety, her breathing ragged and her stomach tight with tension. Swallowing hard and telling herself that she had more than enough knowledge and experience with which she might do this, she held her breath and saw the door begin to be pulled aside.

  The moment it was opened wide, Catherine thrust her heels into Beauchamp’s sides and he moved at once, quickly and urgently as though he could tell that something was wrong. The moment his hooves hit the grass of the gardens, he took off at speed, galloping with such a great speed that it took every ounce of Catherine’s concentration to remain on his back. Behind her, she could hear shouts and exclamations of surprise, but she paid them no heed. Bending low over Beauchamp’s neck, she gave him his head and allowed him to gallop across the gardens. The moon lit the wide-open space ahead of them, and Beauchamp seemed to relish it, for he ran for a good length of time before finally b
eginning to slow. Catherine, finally able to catch her breath, reigned him into a canter, beginning to feel her anxiety and her fear draining away as she began to enjoy the ride. Beauchamp was a magnificent horse, faster than anything she had ridden before and certainly more responsive than even her own mare back at home. Stroking his neck as she pulled him back into a trot, Catherine smiled despite the circumstances. This had been a wonderful night in its own way, for not only had she been able to see Beauchamp again, she had managed to take him for a ride and had felt her connection with the horse grow even stronger. This horse was bound to be a champion, if only Lord Blackwell could find a more suitable jockey.

  I would have been a wonderful jockey.

  The thought sent the smile from her face immediately, knowing that such a thing was very unlikely to happen. She was a woman, whether she dressed in gentlemen’s clothes with her chest bound or not. The only way she would ever be able to achieve such a thing would be if someone like Lord Blackwell agreed that she could do so – and given what he had said, she doubted that he would ever give her the opportunity.

  “Hoi! You there!”

  The sound of an angry voice came through the darkness towards her, and she patted Beauchamp’s neck as he slowed down to a walk.

  “Your Grace,” she stammered, suddenly realizing that she had not given any consideration as to what she might say to the duke when he found that it was she who had saddled and ridden Beauchamp out into the night. “I-I do hope that you are uninjured.”