Joan Smith (16 page)

Others than ladies were observing Mr. O’Kelly. “Isn’t that Okay O’Kelly just come in?” Lord Enfield remarked to Luten.

“Yes, it is. I wonder what lamb he has in mind to fleece this year,” Luten said. His eyes narrowed in suspicion when he saw Peter and Nicolson darting toward the doorway.

“I couldn’t say for sure, but it is your nephew’s set he hangs around with,” Enfield cautioned. “I have often seen them together. He is on great terms with the young lady you were with earlier. Barten, I think she is called.”

Luten drew a weary sigh. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Thank you for the tip, Enfield.”

He disappeared into one of the dark corners of the hall and observed the scene silently for a few dances, long enough to see that Miss Barten had fallen into the hands of a creature who was likely to do her more harm than he had done. She would definitely require rescuing, and so would Peter. Oddly, there was no sign of disapproval at the daunting chore before him. He wore a lazy, but really quite happy, smile.

When Lord Luten left the assembly room at the White Hart, his nephew breathed a deep sigh of relief. An impromptu meeting among the three gentlemen and Trudie was held over the punch bowl, to decide how they should handle Luten’s presence at Newmarket.

“He’s bound to hear I have bought Fandango,” Peter said worriedly. “He’ll write straightway to Mama. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have her down on my head as well.”

“You won’t,” Nicolson consoled him. “She always gets Luten to do her dirty work for her. He’ll handle you himself to keep her out of his own hair.”

Trudie listened impatiently to this exchange. She could hardly believe that a nearly grown man like Peter should be trembling in his boots because of what his uncle would say, when the uncle himself was no better than he should be. “Tell him you bought Fandango, let him ring his peal over you, and have done with it,” she advised.

“He’ll cut up stiff,” Peter objected.

Nicolson’s chin had settled on his chest. Suddenly it lifted, and a spark of delight lit his eyes. “I say, Clappet. Your uncle has an excellent lodge—Sable. Dozens of rooms, and enormous stables. It would save us a bundle if he asked us to stay with him.”

‘‘Where is his lodge?” Trudie asked.

“Just three or four down from your own. The good one, at the end of the row there, closest to the main road,” Nick said.

As if having Luten virtually on her doorstep wasn’t enough for Trudie to contend with, Mrs. Harrington soon found them and demanded to know why she had given Mr. Mandeville the time of day, after the way he treated her in London.

“What do you mean?” Norman bristled.

There was a suspicious pause, and when no one else spoke, Trudie undertook to iron out this wrinkle. “It’s nothing, Norman. He came looking for Peter at our apartment on Conduit Street one day, and Auntie didn’t care for his manners. That’s all. He didn’t tell us he was Peter’s uncle, you see. We understood his name was Mr. Mandeville.”

“Peter’s uncle!” Mrs. Harrington exclaimed. “Why on earth did he not say so? He introduced himself as a friend of Sir Charles.”

“Great jokester,” Nicolson said, hoping to smooth over the contretemps.

“It is not
my
idea of a joke! What was the point of it?”

“Point? Why, there was no point,” Peter said vaguely. “He just did it for a lark.”

“That is incredible,” the dame declared. “A grown man playing off pointless jokes. I hope you did not encourage him in such pranks, Trudie.”

“Of course not. I scolded him severely.”

“Strange carrying on indeed,” the aunt decreed.

Mr. O’Kelly joined them for dinner. As he was at pains to be polite to an aging lady, he found high favor with Mrs. Harrington. Not so high as to replace Lord Clappet, but he was invited to call on her some time he was near Northfield. He smiled agreeably and mentioned that as he was at the track most days, she would soon have an opportunity to regret her kindness.

“Mr. O’Kelly,” she pointed out to Trudie later, “has a true sense of humor. Regret my kindness indeed! Unlike the pointless carrying on of Lord Luten, masquerading as a financier, and not even paying you your crown for the Latin lesson.”

Mr. O’Kelly took full advantage of Mrs. Harrington’s offer and appeared frequently in her saloon, usually just before luncheon.

“I hope you don’t take the notion I only come for your excellent cuisine!” he laughed. “The fact is, this is about the only part of my day I have any spare time. You’ve no idea how eagerly I look forward to it. Why, it’s almost like having a family to come home to. The days are pretty well filled up with business at the track, and in the evenings I have all my paperwork to do. My man of business usually has a pile of papers for my signature.”

“This is business having to do with your estate in Ireland, is it, Mr. O’Kelly?” Mrs. Harrington asked, with what she believed to be very sly subtlety.

“Yes, Doneraile, the old homestead. A large estate entails a great deal of work.”

“What sort of estate is it?”

“Dairy for the most part, though the forests have given me some good revenues the past few years as well. And of course you may take for granted that I also do a fair bit of horsebreeding.”

Over the chops, she gave a meaningful nod to her niece. The combined activities listed could hardly be accomplished on less than five or six hundred acres, probably a thousand.

O’Kelly had still not entirely replaced Clappet in her esteem, but since Lord Luten’s coming to his lodge, they had seen less of Peter. Of Luten himself, they had seen nothing, not so much as a glimpse of him or even his carriage. Trudie knew he was often at the track and began to regret her insistence that he not call at Northfield. She felt some hesitation to be seen standing around the tracks alone. Her first gratification at O’Kelly’s calls had begun to fade. He was still handsome and amusing, but there was no denying he always showed up just before luncheon and left very soon after. Furthermore, she knew perfectly well he wasn’t snowed under with paperwork at night. Norman often mentioned seeing him at the Golden Lion. To sit at Okay’s feet and learn the arcane secrets of the turf was the only reason Norman went.

With Norman going into town for his entertainment, it meant the evenings at Northfield were every bit as long and tedious as those in London had been. She learned secondhand from Norman what was going forth. Peter and Sir Charles hadn’t been invited to remove to Sable Lodge, and when the racers were returned after the day’s working out, she usually went to the stable, just for the company.

When the head and shoulders clock on the mantel showed five o’clock, she set aside her novel and said, “I’m going down to meet Norman, Auntie. Dinner at six, as usual?”

“Yes, and don’t keep Norman there past five-thirty. I want him to wash the stench of horses from him and change before he comes to the table.”

March had finally passed, and April’s balmier breezes were awaft in the air. They brought an unsettled, wistful mood with them. Trudie told herself it was Walbeck Park and her old friends she was missing, but some atavistic wisdom whispered a different song. It wasn’t the friends and neighbors from home she secretly craved, but one special new friend.

When these feelings settled around her, she often thought of Mr. O’Kelly, but despite his many free lunches, no real romance was offered. If he favored either lady, she would have to say it was her aunt who was being courted. Of course, it wasn’t unusual for a gentleman to play the gallant to a young lady’s chaperone; what was unusual about it was that Mr. O’Kelly took no advantage of his new intimacy with the family. There were no soft smiles exchanged behind Aunt Gertrude’s back, no meaningful looks or double entendres that only she would understand.

She had an instinct that Lord Luten would not be such a dallier in the primeval art of romance, and the wish was born that she might put her instinct to the test. All these thoughts flirted through her mind as she walked to the stable, and flew out of her mind as soon as she opened the door and got a whiff of the smell. She saw a group of blue jackets clustered at the far end and advanced. “Lord, I don’t know how you can all stand the stench of this place. It smells worse than the pigsty at home.”

She gasped and lifted her hand to her mouth. There was an extra blue jacket in the throng, and as it turned toward her, she saw it was occupied by Lord Luten. “What are you doing here?” she demanded sharply. Her voice sounded angry, but it was embarrassment that lent it that rough edge. Why had she blurted out that likeness to pigsties? Was she forever doomed to appear a hoyden in front of that man?

His reply was more than civil; there was something very like an apology in its humble tone. “Norman asked me along to have a look at True Lady’s ankle,” he said. They gazed at each other curiously, as though meeting for the first time. The Lord Luten standing before her today seemed different from before. His habitual expression of disdain was softer, and something in her regard brought a small smile to his lips. “I didn’t plan to encroach so far as your saloon,” he added.

She brushed past him. “What seems to be the trouble?” she asked briskly. It was a foolish pose to pretend that she knew the first thing about horse management.

“I think True Lady kicked herself,” Norman said. “She does have a little tendency to toe in. There’s some swelling between the fetlock and the knee,’’ he said, tenderly rubbing his fingers along the cannon while True Lady whinnied in dismay.

Luten joined him, and Norman stood back to let Luten repeat the same procedure. “There’s a little fever here too,” he said.

“I use mud and vinegar to lower the fever. The skin’s not broken, so it’ll be easy. There’s been a little damage done to the ligament—feel the swelling,” he said, placing Norman’s hand on the appropriate spot. “When the fever comes down, you’ll want a liniment to tighten and toughen the injured area. I’ll give you a can of the sort used at Danebury. Keep True Lady off the track for a few days, and bandage her the first time out. If the leg is not swollen after a few runs, you can dispense with the bandage.”

“But do you think she’ll do it again?” Norman asked. A sharp frown worried his brow. “Is she going to keep kicking herself every time out?”

Luten didn’t have the heart to admit his feelings. “It may be a recurring problem. All horses have problems, and a badly formed leg is one of the most difficult to overcome. When you see a thoroughbred going at a bargain, Norman, there has to be a reason. It’s usually the legs.”

Sir Charles had edged forward. “While you’re here, Luten, would you mind having a look at Lightning? These shin bucks have me worried.”

“You’re driving her too hard.”

“But at Danebury they drive them into the ground! Everybody knows that.”

“No, they stop just short of driving them into the ground. Danebury’s in the business of training horses, not burying them.”

Trudie fetched the vinegar from the cupboard and watched as Luten showed Norman the proportions, then applied it with extreme gentleness to True Lady’s swollen leg. His long fingers moved carefully, and while she watched, she could almost feel those fingers stroking her own skin.

“When should I take this off and put on the liniment?” Norman asked.

“When the fever’s gone. It’ll take a couple of hours at least.” He sent off for the liniment.

“It looks like you won’t be coming into town tonight then,” Sir Charles said to Norman.

“You and I might as well toddle off,” Peter said.

They left, but Luten remained. It was after five-thirty, and Trudie knew she should be hurrying Norman up for dinner, but disliked to do it with Luten still there. When the mud pack was on, Norman settled the matter by saying, “I hope you will stay and take your mutton with us, Luten. It’ll only be pot luck, but if that’s all right with you, we’d be happy for your company.”

Luten looked at Trudie. “Some other time, perhaps,” he said, but there was that in his eyes that suggested he could be persuaded without too much trouble.

“There’s plenty of ham” was her mild encouragement.

“If you’re quite sure—I wouldn’t want to inconvenience Mrs. Harrington. But no, I’m not dressed.” Even this impediment didn’t remove the look of interest, however.

“That’s no matter. There won’t be anyone but us. Do stay,” Norman urged. “You can tell me when you think the fever’s down enough to put on the liniment.”

“I’ll tell Auntie,” Trudie said quickly, before Luten could change his mind or make it up really.

The excited smile that lifted her lips had to be tamed before she went frowning into the saloon. “That clunch of a Norman has asked Lord Luten for dinner,” she scolded.

“What on earth for?”

“He’s giving Norman a hand with True Lady’s swollen leg. It’ll take half the night, so we can hardly turn him from the door without feeding him.”

“Is Peter with him?” Mrs. Harrington asked, hoping to find some good in the arrangement,

“No, he and Sir Charles have left. It’ll just be Lord Luten. I’ll tell the Bogmans.”

The Bogmans were made aware that the table was to be loaded with every piece of silver in the house, the best crystal and dishes, and Trudie herself went into the garden and grabbed a handful of early flowers for a centerpiece. She wouldn’t change, since Luten must wear his afternoon clothes, but Mrs. Harrington had no intention of entertaining a marquess in anything but her best burgundy silk and white wool shawl.

She sat as stiff and forbidding as an archbishop when Luten and Norman came in after washing up. Luten made a graceful bow and melted some small ice buildup by looking around the room and congratulating her on its renovation.

“You are an admirable housekeeper, ma’am. I was afraid, when Mr. Johnson showed me the damage done by his tenants last year, that Northfield would become an eyesore to the community. You have achieved remarkable results in a very short time.”

She pulled in her chin and received this praise with dignity. “We never would have let Norman hire it if we’d had any idea how bad it was.”