His Lordship's Filly (3 page)

* * * *

Across the paddock Victor Durabian swallowed a bitter curse. “You can’t mean it.” He kept his voice carefully down. Couldn’t let Bridget know what was going on. He tried to think, to keep his voice reasonable. That was it. He had to reason with the man.

“Oh yes,” Wichersham said, his eyes bright with evil intent. “I mean it. I have your vowels, you see. To the tune of a thousand pounds.”

“A thousand—” Durabian lowered his voice still more. “Ye can’t. I’ve never wagered with ye.”

Wichersham shrugged and patted his coat pocket. “Nevertheless I have them. And I want the stallion.”

“Ye can’t—” Durabian swallowed hastily. He couldn’t give the stallion to Wichersham. The horse wouldn’t live long with the likes of him. He couldn’t do that to any beast. And Bridget herself would die if anything happened to that horse.

“And if I don’t pay—” He wouldn’t concede that he couldn’t. Not yet.

Wichersham shrugged. “You mean no money and no horse? I shouldn’t think that would be wise. I hear debtor’s prison isn’t a particularly healthy place.”

“I’ll get the money.” Durabian said it calmly, firmly.

But Wichersham just laughed. “There is another possibility,” he said.

Durabian didn’t allow himself to hope. Wichersham was enjoying this. And he was not the sort to give any man quarter. “And what is that?”

“Give me the girl instead.”

Holy mother of God! “Bridget?” he asked, his heart gone cold, his voice carefully controlled. “Ye want me daughter?”

“Yes, your darling Bridget.”

“Ye want to—”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“I want to
have
her.” Wichersham smiled evilly. “For my paramour. For a while, at least.”

Durabian bit his tongue and thrust his clenching fists deep into his pockets. He had to keep his temper under control. He needed all his wits about him. And knocking Wichersham to the earth and stomping on his face wouldn’t change things a bit. The man would still hold his IOUs, and after a beating he’d be even more vindictive.

Wichersham chuckled, a sinister sound, turning Durabian’s blood still colder. “I’m in no hurry. I’ll give you a week to talk her into it.” He sneered. “She’ll do it to keep her papa out of prison. One week, and I’ll be back.”

Fighting the urge to throw something after him, Durabian watched the man go. The dirty, lily-livered bastard! He’d never give innocent Bridget to that evil-eyed rotter. At least he’d kept his temper. He’d bought them some time.

Time. But what could he do with it?

* * * *

Andrew arrived at the Durabian stables in mid-afternoon. Something, he wasn’t sure what, had prompted him to make the ride out to Pentonville. He told himself he was just going to see the bay colt, to check on his progress, but he knew there was more to it than that. He felt, somehow, that Bridget was in danger.

Durabian came out to greet him, pipe in hand. “ ‘Tis good to see ye, milord.”

“Good to be here,” Andrew returned. “Thought I’d come have another look at the bay.” Durabian didn’t look quite up to snuff, but Andrew couldn’t say exactly why.

Durabian nodded. “He’s in the south paddock, milord.” He hesitated, seemed about to say something more, then clamped his teeth on his pipe.

Leaning on the rail fence, they looked the colt over, a sturdy fellow, lively and quick. Andrew decided he’d been foolish. Nothing was wrong here.

And then Durabian spoke again. “Milord, I been thinking.”

“Thinking?” Andrew repeated, turning.

“Aye, milord. Thinking ‘bout a little race.”

“A race?” Andrew felt ridiculous, repeating phrases like a child, but this had taken him completely by surprise.

“Aye. And a wager.”

“I don’t—” Andrew bit off the words. Durabian knew he didn’t wager. There was something about the man’s face, something that told him this wasn’t just a race they were discussing. “What kind of wager?”

Durabian took a deep breath. Andrew heard it plainly and it told him this was serious business indeed.

“Well, it’s like this, milord. Everyone’s been talking ‘bout Waterloo and yer filly Sable. And I been thinking, that is, mebbe we should have us a race—’tween the two of ‘em.”

“Go on,” Andrew said, controlling his voice. “And the wager?”

Durabian shuffled his feet. “If Waterloo wins, I get Sable.”

What kind of race was this? What was Durabian after? He had to know the stallion would win. “And if he loses?”

Durabian didn’t meet his gaze. “If the stallion loses, you get him and . . . and Bridget to wife.”

“Wife?” Andrew felt like he’d been dealt a sharp blow to the breadbasket. Surely he couldn’t be hearing right.

“Aye. I’m worried ‘bout the girl,” Durabian said. “She needs a husband. And she ain’t about to get one on her own. She likes ye well enough, I think.
Ye could deal together.”

Andrew tried to meet the man’s eyes, but the Irishman kept his gaze on the ground. “Durabian, my friend,” Andrew asked, “is something wrong? Are you ill?” What could the man be thinking? Bridget would never agree to wagering the stallion. And it looked like her father was in some kind of financial trouble.

Andrew thought fast. If he consented to the race, the stallion was sure to win it. Durabian would get the filly and— That was it. He could do that. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

Durabian’s head snapped up; he looked startled but relieved. “An’ what’s that, milord?”

“That if the stallion wins, you let me buy the filly back. For five hundred pounds.”

“But milord—”

“That way and no other,” Andrew said. “And only if Bridget consents.”

“She’ll consent.”

Maybe she would. After all, she knew the stallion and she knew the filly.
He swallowed a sigh. This was a foolish thing he was doing. It would probably earn him the derision of the
ton.
But he was still going to do it. Durabian was obviously in some kind of trouble. And if Durabian was in trouble, the girl was too. A little ridicule meant nothing if he could help Bridget, innocent, fresh Bridget.

“Name the date,” he said with resignation. “And the place. I’ll be there.”

“Two days from now,” Durabian said. “At my track here.”

“Done,” Andrew said. “If Bridget agrees.”

Bridget turned the colt into the paddock and tried not to hurry toward the fence where Papa and Lord Haverly stood talking. Since Wichersham had left, Papa had been behaving strangely. That awful man had said something to him, but she hadn’t been able to find out what. When she’d asked if anything was wrong, Papa had just puffed away on his pipe and shaken his head.

Maybe his Lordship would be able to discover what was going on. She hoped so. She didn’t like seeing Papa like this.

“Hello, Bridget,” his Lordship said. “That colt you were working looks good.”

“Thank you. He’s a little on the frisky side, but he’ll learn. What brings you out today?”

Haverly shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I just felt like it.” He turned, directing a strange look at Papa.

Papa cleared his throat. “The stallion in good form?”

She snorted. “Of course he is. The best.” What was wrong with Papa, asking such foolish questions?

“That’s good,” Papa said. “That’s very good.”

What was he talking about? And why did he look so strange? “Why?”

“His Lordship here—”

Haverly started, giving Papa another peculiar look.

“His Lordship here,” Papa continued, “has made us a wager.”

“Oh?” She looked from one man to the other. What was going on? “What kind of wager?”

“He thinks his filly Sable can beat the stallion.”

How dare he! “You’re joking! Beat Waterloo? Never!”

“Then you’ll accept the race?”

This wasn’t like Papa at all. “You mentioned a wager.”

“If the stallion wins, his Lordship gives us Sable.”

She stared.
He couldn’t mean—
” Gives
us!”

“Aye.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “And if the filly wins?” She wouldn’t, of course. No one could beat Waterloo.

“Then his Lordship gets the stallion.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. “He gets Waterloo?”

“Aye, girl. But there’s no need to fear. You said the stallion can’t be beat.”

His Lordship straightened, his gaze sharp. “Tell her the rest, Durabian. She must know it all.”

Bridget swung round. “There’s more?”

Papa smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye, lass. If the filly wins, his Lordship gets the stallion and”— Durabian swallowed twice—”and yer hand in marriage.”

Bridget reached out, grabbing a fence post for support. “Marriage! Papa, what kind of joke is this?”

Papa seemed to be avoiding her gaze. “No, girl, ‘tis no joke. We thought ‘twould liven the wager a bit. Ye ain’t afraid of losing, are ye?”

“Of course not. But if we take his Lordship’s filly—”

“I agree to the wager,” his Lordship said stiffly, “and to the race. If
you
do. And your father has agreed to sell me the filly back—if the stallion wins.”

“But he will,” she cried. “You
know
he’ll win.”
He did know it. She read it in his eyes. Then why was he willing to race?

“Do you agree?” he persisted.
“Is it a race?”

She looked to Papa. “Papa, do you want—”

“Aye, girl. I want this race.” He laughed, a hollow sound that made her instantly fearful. “This race’ll draw a big crowd. Bring us plenty business.”

Slowly Bridget lowered her gaze. She saw her fingers were gripping the fence post so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She unclenched her hand and opened her mouth, but nothing would come out.
Her tongue felt numb, too swollen to work properly. How could they do such a thing, make such a wager without even consulting her?

She wet her dry lips. But she had always trusted Papa. “All right, Papa. If you want me to, I’ll do it.”

She risked one more look at his Lordship, but his face was closed, making him a stranger. Whatever this was— these two had set it up between them. There was more to it than a simple race, much more, but she knew men— they wouldn’t tell her the truth. Protecting her, they called it, not realizing—or not caring—that not knowing the truth was no protection, no protection at all.

Chapter Four

The day of the race dawned bright and clear. Bridget, brushing the great stallion’s glistening coat, sighed deeply. She was no closer to figuring out why Papa and his Lordship were doing this. But there was no need for her to be worrying about the wager. As fast as the perky little filly was, she could never beat the stallion.
He
wouldn’t
lose. She wouldn’t have to marry his Lordship.

She paused, stopping the brush in mid-stroke. “Why?” she murmured to the horse. “Why are they doing this? I know something’s wrong. Why don’t they
tell me what it is?”

The horse turned, nudging her with his nose. “Yes, I know,” she murmured. “You love me. I love you, too.”

She laughed, a laugh as hollow as Papa’s had been when they told her about this race. “At least Papa put us in the same wager. If we lose, we go together.”

What was she saying? Waterloo couldn’t lose. He just couldn’t.

Peering out the stable window, she swallowed hastily. The rail around the practice track was packed with people. Lords and their richly dressed ladies had driven out in their fancy carriages to watch. To watch
her.

She glanced down at her breeches and boots, the same breeches and boots she always wore. She
had
put on a clean white shirt for the occasion. But she didn’t look anything like those ladies out there, those ladies that would soon be staring at her.

The stallion nudged her, rubbing his nose against her sleeve. She had to remember these people meant nothing to her, nothing at all. She was doing this for Papa.

She straightened her shoulders, rubbed the stallion’s nose, and said, “Let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”

From his place by the fence, Andrew looked out over the noisy crowd.
He hadn’t cared much for Durabian talking the race up. But after what the man had said to Bridget, he couldn’t tell him no. And the publicity would help the stables. Damnation, though, he was still puzzled by Durabian’s desire to hold this race at all.

Well, it would be over soon. Sable would lose the race—he’d buy her back. And the story would spread around—Peter had already begun to do that—that Andrew had
expected
to lose the race and was willing to pay the price to see how well the filly could do.

His jockey, young Jackie, was one of the best riders around. Not as good as Bridget—there was no one as good with a horse as her—but good enough.

Andrew shifted irritably, wishing this silly charade were over. Why hadn’t Durabian just asked him for a loan? And why that ridiculous addition to the wager—about him taking Bridget to wife? At least he’d insisted that they keep that part of the wager secret and the Irishman had agreed.

The girl, after her first look of shocked amazement, had seemed to take the wager in stride, acting rather like it was some huge joke. Still, he couldn’t imagine her pleased with the prospect of marriage to a man she’d only known for a month.

A rather startling thought, that, and not one designed to raise his sense of self-importance. Although several young women of the
ton
had already made known to him their willingness, indeed, their extreme willingness, to become his wife, he hadn’t really been thinking of marriage. He couldn’t imagine Bridget as wife to any man. She was too set in her ways, too manlike in her behavior. Why, he could hardly imagine her wearing anything but breeches and boots. And to bring her into the
ton
as his wife . . .

He shook himself slightly. Of course that wouldn’t be necessary. Plucky and fast as Sable was, the stallion was sure to win. Durabian wouldn’t have made the wager otherwise.

Peter came hurrying up, his eyes bright with excitement. “I’m glad I’ve given up wagering,” he said with a grin. “For if I did it still, I’d have to put my money on the girl. And you are my best friend.”

Andrew managed to smile in return. “So would I. Have you dropped the hints as I asked?”