Joan Smith (20 page)

“I’ll drop around to Okay’s room tonight and set it up,” Peter replied.

“And if he won’t race, don’t buy. She’s gate-shy,” Sir Charles decreed.

While Peter and Sir Charles made these arrangements with a willing O’Kelly, Norman stayed home, reading and rereading Mrs. Halley’s letter and silently cursing Harold Rampling. Trudie began to think that even trying to raise the wind to buy Sheba might be preferable to Norman’s darting home to marry Georgiana; but before she told him the filly was for sale, there was a knock on the door, and Lord Luten was shown in.

He couldn't account for the chill in the air. Was it his having come in pantaloons when the family hadn’t changed for dinner? He couldn’t think so, when Miss Barten looked so very lovely in her afternoon gown of a deep peacock blue that turned her emerald eyes to sapphires. Norman, he knew, had balked at the idea of restraining True Lady’s leg with a brace. Maybe that was it. He set about showing that such harshness was not his own preference.

“I think you’re prudent not to go for the brace,” he said, settling in for a chat. “But what will you do with True Lady? Race her and hope she doesn’t injure herself?”

“Yes, I’ll try her, and if she packs up on me, I shall pull her out of duty. Just keep her for a spare mount. I couldn’t part with her.”

Luten assumed a sympathetic pose and said, “One becomes very attached to animals.”

Trudie turned a sapient eye on him and added, “Sometimes people are even attached to other gentlemen’s animals.”

He supposed she had seen through his pose and meant he was feigning an interest in True Lady. He smiled and agreed. “Sometimes there is a reason for doing so.”

Her nostrils pinched in scorn. “I must congratulate you on managing to make trouble for Mr. O’Kelly at his inn, Lord Luten” was her next conversation. “You will be happy to hear he is returning to Ireland very soon.”

“Yes, l
am
happy. We have enough of our own blacklegs and touts around the tracks, without adding Ireland’s. I wonder if he’ll take Sheba with him.” She gave him a very speaking glance but said nothing. “Where did you hear this?” he asked.

Mrs. Harrington frowned at her niece and said, “Peter and Sir Charles dropped around this afternoon.” It wasn’t a lie, she consoled herself. It just didn’t answer his question. She wasn’t morally obliged to answer any question Luten decided to pose.

“They didn’t mention it to me,” Norman said.

“It was Trudie who heard it,” Mrs. Harrington prevaricated—still not lying. She didn’t say Trudie had heard it from Peter or Sir Charles.

“Did he try to sell them his nag?” Luten asked swiftly. There was a spark in his eye, easily misread to show jealousy.

“No, he didn’t,” Trudie answered, also not lying, but certainly concealing the whole truth.

“He’ll palm her off on some gullible soul before he goes,” Luten said. “She might make a good brood mare.”

“Are you interested in purchasing her, Lord Luten?” Trudie asked bluntly.

“I might be, but not at the price O’Kelly will be asking.”

“What would you consider a fair price?”

“I might go as high as fifty guineas. That’s what he paid  for her. She was so wild they couldn’t do anything with her at Cheveley Park. She don’t care for stallions, so even breeding could prove a problem, you see.”

“I understood Mr. O’Kelly paid somewhat more than that,” Trudie said. She didn’t even try to keep the scorn from her tone.

Luten lifted a black brow. “You mustn’t believe everything you hear, ma’am.”

“I am perfectly aware of that, milord.”

Norman had roused himself from his reveries of Walbeck Park and Georgiana and noticed some tension in the air. To alleviate it, he offered wine. Luten accepted a glass, but he could see he was making no headway with Miss Barten. Something had put her in the boughs. He decided she had still not forgiven him for having made Norman aware of his family duties. He wanted to give a hint that there was a better house waiting for her than the cottage at Tunbridge Wells, if she didn’t wish to live with Norman and Miss Halley. It was difficult to do, with Mrs. Harrington in one corner of the room and Norman in the other.

His opportunity did not come till he was leaving. Her offer to accompany him to the door gave rise to hope. “We haven’t arranged a day for our drive to Cambridge yet,’’ he said, as though the outing was settled and only the date remained.

At the bottom of her heart, Trudie still harbored some resentment about Luten’s treatment of her in London. It was aggravated now by his underhanded dealings in trying to get Sheba from Mr. O’Kelly. And though Lord Luten quite obviously admired her looks, his slippery character made her doubt a serious interest in her. The best she could hope for was a month’s flirtation at Newmarket while he was deprived of his regular flirts. Such a man ought to be taught a lesson, and once Peter was safely in possession of Sheba, she wanted to see Luten’s face.

He stood entranced while these thoughts were mirrored in her eyes. He saw the flash of scheming, the light of interest, and the final smile of satisfaction. “I’ve been wondering if you had forgotten,” she said archly.

“No, certainly not. I couldn’t forsake True Lady in her hour of need, but I think I can safely divert my attention to the first lady of
my
choice now. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?”

She smiled again, in relief that he hadn’t named tomorrow. She thought Peter and Mr. O’Kelly would arrange the race for tomorrow, since Mr. O’Kelly was so anxious to get his money and return to Ireland. “I’m flattered that only True Lady takes precedence over me!” she laughed. A set of matching dimples quivered at the corners of her lips. He stared, entranced, then peeped into the saloon, where neither Mrs. Harrington nor Norman was in his line of view.

He lifted a finger and traced the dimples, first on one cheek, then the other. “Charming. You should smile more often, Miss Barten.”

“You should be at more pains to amuse me,” she answered pertly.

The dark eyes that gazed into hers weren’t smiling. There was a serious light in them, heavily tinged with admiration. “I shall take that as an invitation to return soon, and often, to Northfield. I can’t amuse you from Sable Lodge.”

“I’m sure Norman would be happy for your company,” she said in confusion. “We—we are home most evenings.”

“Then I shall do myself the honor of calling on Norman very soon. And if his sister happens also to be home—would
she
feel any pleasure to receive me?”

She stood mute, just looking at him. What struck her forcibly enough to turn her silent was the way he looked—just the way Norman looked at Georgiana. She would have been horrified to know she looked very much the same way herself.

Luten lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, without ever taking his eyes from hers. This simple gesture moved her as his violent attack in the carriage had not. He hardly seemed to be the same man. All the arrogance had gone out of him. She had to remind herself that he had caused so much trouble for Mr. O’Kelly.

“You’d better go now, Luten,” she said softly.

“I had better, before I do something you will dislike. I hope the next time, you won’t dislike it so much.”

She didn’t have to ask his meaning; she had just been thinking of it herself. She did feel obliged to conceal the fact, and looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“Just what you think, Miss Barten.
À
demain.”

He bowed, set his curled beaver on his head, and left. Trudie soon made an excuse to retire to her room. Was it possible she had attached two gentlemen in one day? It looked very much like it. Her mind told her Mr. O’Kelly was the more worthy of her affection, but her heart couldn’t quite come to terms with it. When she went to bed, it was Luten’s face that was in her mind—the way he had looked when he kissed her fingers. A deep look, right into her soul.

And what a nest of intrigue was there! She’d gone behind his back, involving Peter in buying Sheba. What if Sheba was really an unmanageable filly, and Peter went into hock to buy her? What if O’Kelly had only paid fifty guineas, when he’d said he paid seven hundred? But if that were so, O’Kelly wouldn’t consent to the race. She hoped he wouldn’t. She hoped she’d never see Okay O’Kelly again. It never even occurred to her to tell Luten the truth, and reveal herself such a bad judge of character.

O’Kelly moved with such celerity in arranging the race that Lord Clappet had to scramble to raise the funds to buy Sheba. His options were few. The bank wouldn’t lend him another penny, and in any case there wasn’t time to return to London. Luten, besides being a regular skint, would be against the plan. Neither Norman nor Sir Charles had any spare money. Clappet cast his eyes over his possessions and began selecting those to be placed on the shelf. His watch, a fine Breguet, was the first thing to go. Various fobs, tiepins, the beloved crop, and a set of chased silver brushes and comb were added to the pile on his bed.

Sir Charles eyed them askance. “You’re looking at ten guineas—fifteen tops,” he informed his friend.

“Demme I paid that much for my watch alone.”

“Very true, but you ain’t buying now; you’re selling. Used merchandise. Besides, look at the gouge in that silver-backed brush,” Sir Charles said, shaking his pretty curls in dismay. “We both know what has to go if you want Sheba, my friend. Your gig.”

“You mean my curricle!” Clappet corrected with an icy stare. Meaner wits might insist on calling a gig a gig, but it was curricle-hung and ornamented with all manner of silver-mounted lamps, sword case, and splashing boards.

“Curricle,” Sir Charles agreed, biting back a smile. “You can jog along without it. You have a phaeton.”

“I don’t have it here.”

“You might buy yourself a proper curricle, after Sheba wins a few matches for you.”

This rosy future mitigated Clappet’s sorrow remarkably. “What do you figure I might get for it?” he asked.

“Selling it in a blind rush, I’d say fifty guineas. With those toys on the bed, that makes sixty-five. Put Fandango on the block, and you’re looking at two sixty-five. I know, you paid more than two hundred for Fandango, but selling in a blind panic, you know, you’ll be lucky to get half what you paid.”

“It seems a shame to be giving away all my worldly possessions.”

“Okay’s in a heat to get home to his widowed sister.”

“I have some money left—the training expenses and the track fees I paid in advance, but I have living money for the inn and so on,” Clappet said, thinking aloud.

“How much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Okay’s a reasonable man. We’ll work out something. Perhaps he’d take the junk as part of the payment, and hawk it himself. I know he don’t have a watch, for he had to leave it as security at the inn he first stayed at.”

They had only an hour in which to peddle Clappet’s wares. At Sir Charles’s suggestion, they got a written estimate from the pawn shops for the personal objects, and from a carriage shop for the gig-curricle. Peter withdrew his three hundred from the bank, and at one o’clock they headed out to the spot chosen for the race.

It was a private track between Newmarket and Bury St. Edmunds. Their grooms had taken the racers out earlier in the morning, to allow them to rest up for the race. The gentlemen shared Clappet’s gig. He wanted to have it there, to point out to Okay its many excellences, and he and Sir Charles could return with Norman Barten, who had been informed of the race the night before and planned to attend.

“Who all will be racing against Sheba?” Sir Charles asked.

“My Fandango, of course. All a hum that Sheba cuts up stiff with other nags. Okay didn’t bat an eye when I suggested the race. Your Lightning, and a filly belonging to Okay’s friend Munger. A pity True Lady can’t compete, but between you and me and the bedpost, Nick, Norm’s got himself saddled with a clinker.”

Sir Charles smiled knowingly. “A blessing in disguise. Old Norm ain’t cut out for the harsh realities of the turf. I mean, can you see him with a nag like Sheba, stuffing her full of oats and apples till she’s so fat she can hardly waddle? I swear True Lady’s put on a stone since he bought her. Besides, it’s a rich man’s game, and Norman has only a competence.”

“Like you,” Clappet added.

“I mean to marry an heiress. Since Luten has cut me out with Trudie, I shall quite vulgarly marry for money.”

Peter turned a scornful face on his friend. “Luten and Trudie? What a bag of moonshine! She’s full of pep and vinegar, and Luten, you know, would cut off the cat’s tail if he caught her playing with it. It’s Okay she has in her eye.”

“Gel up all the rebellions you want against it, my friend, but you’ll have Miss Barten as an aunt before this Season’s over.”

This news assailed Clappet’s ear with all the reassurance of a scream in the night. Trudie knew all about the race and buying Sheba, and to think she might go blabbing it to Luten was outrageous. “Where did you get that idea? I never heard her say a good word about him.”

“It ain’t what she says about him; it’s the way
he
talks about
her,
and the way he looks when he talks. You know he took her and Norman to Cheveley Park, and to Sable Lodge for tea after. Now you tell me, Clappet, would he go so far out of his way to grease Norman Barten? Not likely.”

“But Trudie ain’t in his style—not in the least.”

“She ain’t in the style of his high flyers, but he don’t ever plan to
marry
them. What
is
his style in a wife? He never seriously courted any lady in London.”

“A trip to Cheveley Park can hardly be called serious courting!”

“And a rout in her honor?” Sir Charles asked, eyebrow lifted knowingly. “Oh, yes, he’s having a rout party at Sable Lodge next week. I happened to hear him mention it to a couple of fellows the other day. ‘The cards will be in the mail shortly,’ he told them. I daresay we shall be invited as well. And you know as well as I do, Clappet, that he never had a party at Newmarket before in his life. He ain’t seeing any other lady hereabouts. It’s Trudie he has in his eye.”