Sport of Baronets (3 page)

Hannah looked into the empty rooms with a sniff. “If you kept the number of grooms you ought, you would never have had any trouble with Northrup.”

“Is that some sort of
I told you so
? Because those cause freckles.”

She clapped her hands over her nose and cheeks. “I would disagree, but in my case, you are right. Everything causes freckles.”

“And I had as many grooms as I could. I had no hesitation about trusting Northrup, because I have known him longer than I've known…”

“Me, for example?” she suggested. “And you see how correct you were about me. As you divined within an instant, I am an evil Gorgon who wishes only to cheat you and lie to you.”

“There's one honest statement from you, at least.” He found a hay rake and began drawing the untidy scatter into neat piles. “As it turns out, I did not turn to stone, and therefore you must not be an evil Gorgon.”

“That might be the kindest thing a Crosby has ever said to a Chandler.”

He fumbled the hay rake, and it clattered to the floor. “Is it? And what is the kindest thing a Chandler ever said to a Crosby?” He stumbled to right the rake. When he stood again, his face was flushed.

She blinked back at him. Her eyes were like a forest, dark about the pupils, then tawny and shading to a deep and verdant green.

“I'm going to search his belongings,” she said, which was when Bart realized he had been staring at her. Just a bit.

Well, it was only because he hadn't seen her in a long time. One must study one's foes to understand them. Or…something.

“That's not an answer,” he muttered, pushing through the doorway to Northrup's chamber after Hannah. Or maybe it was all the answer he deserved.

A rude partition of weathered boards separated the head groom's quarters from those of the stable boys. Within the space were arranged a bedstead and mattress. A pitcher and basin on a small side table. A trunk at the end of the bed.

“Curiously sparse.” Bart lifted the lid of the trunk. Empty.

“This cannot be everything he owned,” said Hannah. “He has done a bunk.”

“Come, now. Is that how young ladies talk in Newmarket?”

“It is how I talk when I realize that your groom has absconded with my horse.”

Bart let the trunk lid slam. “I would light a burnt offering before the idol of your choice if you would only stop referring to Golden Barb as your horse.”

“Well, he
is
my horse. Though my father's name is with mine on the bill of sale, I am the one who paid for him.”

“I received no payment.” Bart sat on the trunk lid. “Not that he was for sale. Because he wasn't.”

Trailing her fingers over the rough surfaces of the room, she sighed. “So I am the poorer by two hundred guineas, and you are the poorer by a colt.”

“Who was to win me two thousand guineas next week.”

“Me, I think.” Despite her grim expression, she managed a grudging twist of her lips.

And then she stared at her gloved fingers, rubbing together tan-clad fingertips. “Ashes. Could they be? Do these look like ashes to you?”

Bart lunged for her hand, grabbing it with more force than grace. “Ashes,” he agreed. “Northrup burned something—where? Atop the table?”

“In the basin, probably. Look how grimy it appears. Ah, here's a flake of paper. Some document has been burned, though I cannot tell what it might have been.”

“Burning a document next to a hayloft.
Honestly
.” Bart could not keep the disgust from his tone.

“Foolhardy.” Hannah rubbed at her soiled fingertips.

“He's not a fool. A fool could not have played at loyalty so well.” Bart felt grim. “No, he simply didn't care whether he caused any damage.”

That small residue of ashes drove away any hope that this was all a mistake. Or the work of footpads.

“I wonder if Golden Barb
did
have a problem with his gait today,” Bart mused. “And if Northrup caused it. Everything he has told me recently is suspect.”

“No speculation.” Hannah caught his elbow and steered him from the room. “You said it to me; now I say it to you.”

“No speculation,” Bart repeated. As he again stared at the untidy hayloft, he felt as weary as he could ever remember. His hand found hers, tucked into his arm. Which of them was leaning on the other more?

“You may leave whenever you like, you know,” he said in a low voice. “I can send a maid or a stable boy to escort you home. You have lost only money, and most likely you will get it back.”

“I can hardly leave now. My groom got knocked on the head. You cannot pretend I'm an uninterested party.”

He sighed. “It would be better for everyone if you would leave.”

“I disagree.”

“Trust me, it would. Because if you truly paid for the colt, the payment must have been accepted by my mother. And so she is the next logical person with whom to speak.”

“Ah.” Hannah pulled away, kicking at tufts of hay as she proceeded back to the steps. “And she would rather expire than have anything to do with a Chandler, is that right? Is that why you say I ought to leave?”

Bart hesitated. There was no sense in hiding the truth now. “Yes. You see, the last time she did business with your father, it almost killed her.”

A weak sun filtered around the edges of the bedchamber's curtained window. Though Lady Crosby's room was cleaned every day, it always smelled to Bart like things stored away. Rained on. Forgotten.

“Let me open a window for you, Lady Crosby,” he said as soon as he crossed the threshold. Formality and distance suited him far better lately where she was concerned.

Fighting his way through layers of heavy draperies, he struck the stubborn latch with his palm. When it gave, he slid the sash upward with a
skreek
of warped wood.

The figure in the bed sat up. Bart tracked its movement from the corner of his eye. “Bartlett? And there is someone with you. Who is it?”

Or so it sounded to Bart. To Hannah, who had entered a step behind him, it must sound as though his mother held marbles in her mouth. Vowels fell back down her throat, consonants slid into one another, and words were slurred into a hash.

Nothing, not even an apoplectic seizure, could slow Lady Crosby's speech. Where other people's sentences trotted or cantered, she spoke at a full gallop. Bart's ear had taken months to adjust to the new cadences of her speech. By now, though, he understood virtually every word she said, even those he wished he did not.

“My friend Hannah,” he hedged. “Please allow me to introduce you to one another.”

Hannah stepped forward. “Lady Crosby.”

Her polite curtsy of greeting represented pity, surely. When an enemy withdrew into manners, it could only mean that she no longer perceived her foe as a threat.

Because it was impossible not to pity the woman before them. The tall, raw-boned form of Lady Crosby had shrunk and thinned. Her mouth sagged on the right side, as did her right eye. Her right hand was a claw, one she could flex only with great effort. Her dressing gown was loose on her form, and her once-dark hair was grizzled and cropped short.

“A Chandler,” gasped the baronetess. “Unmistakable.”

“Back, please, Hannah,” Bart cautioned. “Until we see…” He took a step toward his mother, ready to scrabble through the litter of tinctures and tablets inhabiting the table at her bedside. But the plaintive plea for aid never began.

Instead, Lady Crosby smiled. Half smiled, really. The effect was roguish.

“I am a Chandler, yes,” Hannah said pertly from Bart's side. She had given her hat and gloves to a footman, and the reluctant sunlight teased gold from her uncovered hair. “And you are a Crosby, as is your son. And I believe we can all help one another.”

Lady Crosby let out a series of rasps.

“She's laughing,” Bart murmured into Hannah's ear.

“Before today, I would have laughed at the notion too,” she replied just as softly.

“I wasn't always a Crosby,” said the dowager.

Hannah seemed to receive her meaning well enough. “There's a point in your favor.”

“Your father tried to kill me, but he couldn't manage it.”

“So I see. In my memory, that is the only task he undertook that he has not been able to manage.”

More laughter from the baronetess.

Bart perceived the conversation meandering in an unproductive direction. “Lady Crosby,” he cut in, “did you communicate with Miss Chandler's father yesterday? Someone in this household received funds for the sale of a colt. Which, I ought to mention, was not for sale.”

“You mustn't bother me about money. I am ill, you know.” The voice went thready and weak, and Lady Crosby sank against her pillows.

Bart sighed. His mother was not unwilling to turn even an apoplexy to her advantage.

She had run the family estates with an iron grip since Bart's boyhood, and it had been easiest to let her continue after he attained his majority. When she fell ill, he opened her mail. He owed it to her, he thought, to keep the family's affairs running smoothly while she convalesced.

That was when he learned why she had been so reluctant to part with any scrap of control or information. She was a gambler, betting heavily on horse races. And she had lost so, so much.

She always bet against a Chandler horse, though she did not always bet on a Crosby mount. Her hatred was stronger than her loyalty. And the risks she took were greater than the possible rewards. The dreadful winter of the previous year had ruined crops, had made them count out every mouthful of feed. Impossible to give oats to horses when people could be eating them instead. It had been a poor year in many ways, even before Lady Crosby's apoplexy at its end.

To say that Sir William had
tried
to kill Lady Crosby was an exaggeration. But over the years, he had purchased note after note from the baronetess's creditors. When he demanded payment on them all at once…

Here sat the result, crabbed and lame.

And no, the debts had not yet been paid in full. The sale of valuables, of hunters, the broodmares on the stud farm, and all but a few racehorses had gone some way toward relieving the burden. The reduction in staff had helped too. Golden Barb's triumph in the Two Thousand Guineas—for they could afford nothing but victory—would establish him as a champion. The benefit to the family's reputation, along with the eventual stud fees to be collected after the horse's retirement, would continue the long race back to prosperity.

“Lady Crosby,” Bart tried again. “Did you sell Golden Barb to Sir William Chandler?”

A strangled moan. “I need my vinaigrette.”

Bart wanted to emit a similar sound. Instead, he pressed his lips together and cast about for the small silver case, eventually locating it in a clutter of odds and ends on a desk near the bed.

“Allow me, please.” Hannah had again stepped to his side, and she reached for the vinaigrette. “This is a womanly sort of thing.”

Bart released the trinket into her palm. Free from her gloves, her hands appeared graceful and strong. More capable than he would have imagined.

Hannah closed the distance to the bedside and flipped open the vinaigrette lid. The acid-soaked sponge within released an odor strong enough to curl one's nostrils. Lady Crosby fluttered her good hand, making a sound of protest.

“All better, I see,” said Hannah calmly. “That's good. Will you answer your son now? He's a fearsome sort of man, and I would hate to push his patience too far.”

Bart folded his arms.

“He wears striped waistcoats,” slurred the dowager.

“Exactly the sort of fearsome behavior to which I refer. Were this room not dim, I should hardly dare to look right at him.”

Bart wished he had another set of arms to fold. He settled for tapping his foot against the floor.

“So. What about the sale of that horse? We are all frantic with curiosity to know how it came about.” Hannah smiled. Standing next to Lady Crosby's bedside, she sifted through the glass bottles and metal boxes. Tidying, lifting. She seemed to have all the time in the world.

Lady Crosby studied her with much interest. Finally she replied, “I had to sell the colt. He made me.”

“Who? My father?” At the older woman's nod, Hannah laughed. “Oh, you are teasing me. How could a man who hasn't been able to walk for twelve years force you to do a blessed thing? You sold that horse because you wanted to, and you and my father must have enlisted an entire brigade of messengers to do so.”

“Had to. He holds my debts,” quavered Lady Crosby.

Bart's foot paused in its tapping. This…might be true. He had not considered that Sir William could make financial claims upon the estate when he chose—but perhaps it was so. The bill of sale
was
quite long, and Bart hadn't even come close to teasing out its every clause.

Inside his head, he cursed.

On the outside, he managed a polite sort of expression. “Miss Chandler, we ought to call an end to this—”

“But that's ridiculous,” Hannah trundled on. “My father is wily, but he is not a cheat.”

In a rare moment of accord, both Crosbys emitted identical sounds of disbelief.

“He is
not
,” Hannah insisted. “If he was willing to give you time to pay your debts, then he would abide by whatever terms were drawn up. He would not send his own daughter on a fool's errand.”

“But would he send a groom on a thieves' errand?” Bart murmured. Hannah's eyes cut in his direction, and her back went stiff. “Maybe your parent is the next person to whom we ought to speak.”

“Maybe,” she granted. Now it was her turn to fold her arms.

Bart found the sight relaxing, a veneer of calm painted over the strain within. “Lady Crosby, we believe Northrup has taken the colt. Have you any idea where and why?”

“Money. Why else?” She must have tried to widen her eyes, but only one brow lifted. “Sir William's now.”

“The groom is Sir William's?” Bart asked. “Or the colt is?”

No answer.

“She has gone to sleep,” Hannah observed.

No, she has not
.
She doesn't want to answer any more questions.
“Let it be, then,” he said, guiding Hannah through the doorway. “We won't find our colt here.”

She waited until they had reached the home's echoing entrance hall before responding, “
My
colt.”

And Bart stared, realizing he had spoken of them as a unit.

The presence of Hannah Chandler was like a key, unlocking all the things he'd wanted to say but was too dutiful or wary to utter. Around a Chandler, though, nothing was off limits. Nothing could be too rude or too improper.

Not that he meant
improper
in…in
that
way.

Damnation. Now even his thoughts were stuttering. No, he must not allow himself to notice how pretty Hannah had become; how arched were her brows and how determined her jaw, or how supple the curve of her figure. And he refused to notice the quick decision of her steps or the way a clean floral scent clung to her.

He must not notice because this was a matter of business. No—treachery. Betrayal.

By Northrup, he thought at first. But his own body and mind seemed turning against him as well. Given the command
Do not notice
, they heeded only the final word.

It was good to have another person at his side. It was good to be pleasantly surprised by that person, when too often—when only today—his good opinion had proved to be misplaced.

Perhaps his bad opinion was too.

Or perhaps he should withhold any opinion at all. He needed to drop this habit of assuming people would behave as they ought.

Allowing Hannah Chandler to see his mother made clear the weakness of Bart's position. He had nothing to bargain with. No secret weapons. He had made the mistake of frankness and honesty, of training a good horse well and trusting that that would be enough to achieve victory.

“You must pity us,” he said.

“Do you mean that I ought to, or that I am required to?” With thanks to the servant, she retrieved her gloves and hat, cramming the little black confection atop her head. “It doesn't matter, really, because neither is true. I would as soon pity my father, and if I even tried such a thing, he would knock me down and roll over me.”

Bart refused to smile. “You were very polite to Lady Crosby, though.”

As soon as the servants withdrew, she said, “Is it possible that I was polite because in the ordinary way of things, I am polite?”

“No, it is not possible.”

“I ought to say the same of you. In fact, I will. You are not polite, Bart.” She tugged at a finger of her glove that had become bunched. “You
do
pity her, don't you? Is that all she deserves?”

“Yes,” he said. “It is. If it weren't for the pity, there would be nothing left.”

Beneath the shallow brim of her hat, she regarded him with those vivid green-brown eyes. “I wonder which she would prefer.”

“It's not up to her.”

“No,” she said. “No, I suppose not.”

So damnably calm, she was. Well, why not? She trusted her father, who had all the money in the world. If she couldn't have this colt, Sir William would get her another.

And Bart had only responsibility but no money. A legacy to uphold, and nothing to hold it up except his own shoulders. His own fruitless efforts.

The bitterness welled up in him again, sharp as the acid pinch of a vinaigrette. “Even if you take Golden Barb from me,” he said, “and even if he wins the Two Thousand Guineas, it won't be your victory. He's still a Crosby horse, bred and trained.”

She looked puzzled. “I don't care about any of that. I want the purses he will win.”

“Why?”

“Because it's
money
.”

“But why do you want it? Your father has enough money for a dozen lifetimes.”

She strode to a pier glass and began busily removing and replacing a hairpin. “That's no affair of yours.”

“Ha. I thought you might simply say, ‘We need it for my father's care,' and then I would be abashed and turn red and stammer out an apology. But your evasion is much more interesting, because it means the answer is nothing of the sort. Tell me, Hannah, are you a gambler? Do you owe someone a debt?”

“The only debt owed is one colt, from your mother to my father.” She scowled, dropping the hairpin and pressing at a fingertip it had evidently just jabbed. “Or to be more accurate, it is owed from you to me.”

“
Are
you a gambler, though? I wonder. I wonder what you will bet on whether we will find the colt, and whether I will find out why you want him so badly.”

“Isn't it enough for the Chandlers to want to score off the Crosbys?” She drew on her gloves.

“No.” Bart leaned against the wainscoted wall. It was easy to find a spot, since the best furniture had been sold. “It was enough for my father, but it's never been enough for me to set my goals based on what someone else would hate. To make plans simply to disoblige someone else—and likely myself while I am at it.”