Lady Eve's Indiscretion (32 page)

Which they discussed not at all. Eve leaned forward and patted her mare.

“Let's ride the course, Deene. All the rain is likely to have affected the footing.”

His smile faded as his gaze swung out over the rolling green terrain around them. “Goddamn rain.”

“William is not a delicate flower. He and Aelfreth have been galloping in all sorts of weather and managing more than adequately.”

“Dolan's arriving.”

Eve followed her husband's line of sight, where two grooms were leading a big, restive gray down past a row of stalls.

“A handsome animal.”

“The horse or his owner?”

“I meant the horse. Mr. Dolan's looks are a matter of indifference to me.”

Deene's mouth flattened, making Eve wish she'd kept the last comment to herself. There was never a right thing to say, but there were so many wrong things to say. Marriage like this was wearying and fraught, and though she tried to tell herself otherwise, the quagmire they found themselves in wasn't simply a function of facing the financial consequences of the bet Deene had made with Dolan.

Eve waited until their horses were ambling along toward the scythed swatch of grass before the first jump, a fairly low stile meant to get the race off to a safe and uneventful start, to inform the horses that it wasn't to be a test of pure speed on the flat.

“Will you tell me the rest of your wager with Dolan?”

Now Deene petted his horse. “What makes you think there's more to it than the small fortune already hanging in the balance?”

Not a small fortune, a very great fortune by most people's standards. “That fortune is more or less a windfall in the form of my settlements. You didn't have it two months ago, and you'll likely manage if you don't have it two months hence. Such a wager should not be costing you your sleep night after night.”

“Why are we discussing this now, Evie?”

She fiddled with her reins. “You are hedging, which confirms my sense you have not been entirely honest with me.” To give her husband time to consider his answer, she urged her mare into a canter—one rarely trotted in a blasted sidesaddle—and headed for the second jump.

It was at some distance, to allow the horses to gather speed early in the race—to tempt them to gather too much speed—and set on the top of a small rise, which would also encourage the jockeys to ask for a tad too much effort, given that the land sloped away sharply on the back side of the jump.

“What else do you think I've wagered, Wife?”

A question for a question. Eve was not encouraged.

“Something you are hesitant to tell me because you think I won't understand.”

“It isn't that you won't understand.” Deene frowned at the jump. “At least the footing on this one will be solid.”

It would, because the jump was on a rise, but the footing at the top and bottom of the rise would be mushy, perhaps dangerously so at speed—all the more reason not to rush the fence, and why did everything—every blasted thing—seem like a comment on Eve's marriage?

“So tell me, Deene. I will not pitch a tantrum here on my horse. You know me at least that well.”

He glanced over at her and sent his horse toward the third jump, a brush fence, the first of three such on the course. This was a straightforward effort, but it lay in the shade of a line of trees, and therein lay the challenge. A horse's eyes would not adjust for changes in lighting as quickly as the rider's would, and thus a jump in shadow might or might not be as evident to the mount as it was to the jockey. A smart jockey would give the animal time to sight in on the obstacle. An overeager jockey would consider the jump to be one of the easier on the course and rush the fence.

“I hate this kind of question,” Deene observed, scowling at the jump. “We should have practiced such efforts more consistently with William.”

“We vary the timing of his workouts throughout the day, so the shadows lie in different places and at different angles. Do you think I cannot understand the concept of honor, Deene? I know you and Dolan are at daggers drawn over your niece's situation.”

“You called her our niece when last this issue arose.” His tone was devoid of heat—carefully so.

They did not argue, which meant they also did not discuss, which meant Eve felt her marriage slipping from her grasp. She cantered on toward the next fence, a big, stout oxer—a jump with both height and spread—in the form of a sort of tabletop stile. The wood was dark, solid looking, and the jump was meant to intimidate, though there was nothing in the approach, takeoff, or landing that would challenge a fit horse—provided the jockey's confidence didn't waver.

“The trick fence,” Deene said. “The fourteenth fence is the same. Perfectly straightforward but sitting at the end of a long approach, looking massive and daunting. I hate trick fences.”

“Every fence can be a trick fence. The next obstacle is the water, which might be the worst thing about the course.”

When he met her gaze, Eve found concern in her husband's eyes. “You're worried about the footing, aren't you, Wife? You always worry about the footing.”

“Footing is how I came a cropper all those years ago. It's how my mare bowed two front tendons. It's how I ended up crawling to the chamber pot.” She blew out a breath while her husband merely looked at her. “This race is upsetting me, Deene, but not because you may have wagered more than we can afford—or not just that. I question why we'd put a good animal at risk, why we'd put Aelfreth at risk. I know this isn't a lark for you, but…”

“Eve, I assure you, we can afford the money riding on this race. I know what Anthony has told you, but on many of these outings to Town, I've been meeting with my bankers and their clerks and my men of business. Anthony has reasons for presenting the situation conservatively, and I will brace him on those reasons, but trust me when I say we are not in difficulties.”

He would tell her that even if they were in the worst difficulties imaginable—wouldn't he? His Grace was a poor manager of finances. Her Grace would never admit such a thing, but it had become evident to Eve when she observed the lengths to which Westhaven had gone to secure management of the family's resources.

A gentleman could be deeply, deeply in debt and still maintain appearances, and the gentleman's family would have no notion of the problem. If he were a titled gentleman, then he could not be thrown into the hulks for his indebtedness, and the situation could get very bad indeed.

Eve caught up with her husband at the rushing brook bisecting the racecourse. He rode Beast right up to the bank. “The ground is still more or less solid, but if we get more rain tonight…”

“I hate mud, and I hate muddy water.” Eve's tone was grimmer than she'd intended. “If I were riding William, I'd cue him to jump the entire blessed thing, to overjump it, so he lands well away and runs no risk of having to scramble on either bank.”

“You will tell him this when you tuck him in tonight.”

Deene was perfectly serious. He believed Eve could communicate with the horse on some level known only to horsemen and horsewomen, though Eve herself didn't give the horse—or herself—that much credit.

“I will tell Aelfreth, and we'll send somebody out to inspect before the stewards close the course tomorrow morning.”

They rode the remainder of the course, though they already knew each jump, had inspected each jump for loose nails, bad footing, rotting timber, and subtle shifts brought about by weather, the passage of time, the time of day, and even changes in the wind.

At the last fence, where the horses turned for home and had a long, level stretch to use up whatever speed remained to them, Eve paused.

“There will be flags tomorrow on the pavilions and at the finish line.”

“What of it?” Deene was still glowering, and he'd still not told Eve the rest of his wager, which left her with an ominous, queasy feeling.

“If there's a stout breeze, the horses will come around the last turn and be able to hear the pennants whipping in the breeze. They'll see the flags snapping and the flag ropes slapping against the poles.”

“A detail, surely. These horses are bred to run, Eve, and they'll know they're headed for the finish.”

There was no such thing as a detail in a contest like this, but Eve and her spouse had run out of racecourse. “Husband, won't you tell me, please? It isn't that I don't…”

She fell silent. The word
trust
was too explosive, a Congreve rocket of issues lay therein, and not all on Deene's side of the marriage. She thought back to their wedding night, when she'd had every opportunity to trust her husband, and had yet held her silence.

If a horse refused a jump for no apparent reason, a competent rider reconnoitered, then turned around, aimed the beast right back at it, and cleared the thing smartly, brooking no excuses.

“I want to know what hangs in the balance with this race, Lucas, because I do not want you carrying the burden of this wager all on your own shoulders. You've allowed me to contribute to William's training, and that means a great deal to me. Allow me to contribute something as a wife as well.”

He fell silent, his expression grave. The unease inside Eve grew greater as she concluded that whatever he was about to tell her, it might yet not be the full extent of what he was risking with this race.

“I've wagered William. If I lose, William becomes Dolan's possession. If Dolan loses, I get Goblin—and the money. Mustn't forget the money. Shall we return to the stables?”

He'd wagered a one-in-a-million horse, a horse to whom Eve was quite attached, and a fortune into the bargain. Eve said not one word. She turned her mare for the stables and cantered along at her husband's side, trying not to cry.

For herself, for the horse, and for the man whose honor—or whose wife—had compelled him to engage in such a wager.

***

Deene sat among blankets on a pile of straw, his back against the wall, his arms around his drowsy wife.

He should have told her the whole of it earlier in the day, but her expression had gone so bleak when he'd admitted they might lose William. He'd not been able to say another word. And yet… silence was not serving them either.

“I should have told Anthony to send the coach back for you.”

She stirred in his arms. “If you're staying, I'm staying. The child hasn't been born to the English countryside who hasn't snatched at least a nap in some obliging hayloft.”

Below them, Beast shifted in his stall, giving a little wuffle at the sound of Eve's voice.

“I can understand your willingness to pass a night up here with me, Evie, but how is it you come to know so very much about how to ride a course like the one out there on the downs?”

When he'd reflected back on their most recent ride over the course, he'd realized Eve saw the entire challenge like Wellington saw a potential battleground, anticipating moves, choosing options, and analyzing the exercise on a level Deene himself had been oblivious to.

“I used to talk to Devlin and Bart endlessly about their cavalry exercises, about how a battle could turn on horsemanship. Boggy ground played a role in the French defeat at Waterloo, and Devlin is convinced Wellington knew it would when he put his artillery up along the ridge.”

“A grim thought.” The feel of Eve's hair tickling his nose was not grim. It was dear and precious and soothing.

“When I was a little girl I'd talk to Papa about the hunt meets and his cavalry days. It was one of few ways to gain his notice when I had so many older siblings competing for it. I would interrogate him at every turn about the good gallops and the bad falls.”

Deene kissed her temple, an image of a very young, diminutive Eve on the fringes of the loud, busy circle of otherwise tall and robust Windham family members coming to mind. “And then you fell and lost more than just the ability to waltz with every swain in the shire.”

He was holding her close to his body, so he felt something go through her. A shudder, a shiver, something. She'd come close on at least two recent occasions to telling him more about her fall, but he hadn't known how to encourage her confidences when he wasn't being entirely honest with his own.

“I must go for a walk.” She tried to rise. He prevented it by virtue of kissing her cheek.

“Not without me.”

“Yes, without you. Sometimes a lady needs a little privacy, but I won't go far, and I'll look in on William.”

She was going to find a convenient spot in some clump of bushes, racetrack facilities being next to nonexistent.

“Don't be gone long. We'll be up well before first light.”

“Which assumes we sleep at all.”

He let her have the last word, let her disappear silently down the ladder, and felt the prayers start up again in his mind:

Please give this marriage the chance it deserves.

Let no harm come to horses or riders tomorrow.

Let there be a harmless explanation for the horrific and false disarray in which Anthony presented the Denning family finances.

Let there be an end to the mess between Deene and Dolan, and let it be an end that didn't cost him his niece, his wife, and his honor, much less his available coin and his prize stallion.

The litany grew longer before Deene spied Eve's blond head coming up the steps in the weak slats of moonlight making patterns through the barn siding.

She tucked herself in very close, and from the feel of her—from the heat and the tension in her—Deene knew immediately something was afoot.

“Evie? What's amiss?”

“Husband…” She was breathing rapidly and trying to whisper. “Husband, we must hurry. Somebody is going to drug poor William, perhaps with a quantity of somnifera, and I fear they've already done Aelfreth a bad turn.”