Sport of Baronets (5 page)

Hannah sat down again, her brows furrowed. “I do. Because for them to have had any association at all means they didn't always hate each other.”

“Why should they? It's not as though we've done anything so terrible to one another. Our families, I mean, not—not you and me in particular. It's just…a habit that we've all got into.”

“Yes. Maybe.” She scanned the letter again with great interest. “She didn't return the letter, so she was happy enough to take Nottingham and promise away—”

“Anything,” Bart interrupted. To gamble the future on a small gain in the present. There were the seeds of their ruin, tidily planted in this letter.

It was not a surprise. He wondered whether anything would be a surprise again.

He rather hoped not.

“My turn to ask a question.” He sank into his chair again, facing Hannah across the paper-piled desk.

Her hair was sliding from its pins, heavy and smooth and straight. “You are free to ask.”

“Why are you helping me? Why do you want the colt so badly? Why do you care about the money? And yes, I know that's three questions. But I suspect the answer to all of them is the same.”

She was silent so long that he thought she would not reply. Another lock of hair slipped loose. “There is no answer that would satisfy you,” she finally said. “Because there is no answer that would satisfy me. It's…for an escape, though I don't know from what or to where. And that, I suppose, is an answer in itself. Isn't it?”

“Not enough of one.” Yet he had been wrong, for she had surprised him.

And he thought he might like it after all.

* * *

How could she explain herself to Bart Crosby, of all people? He wanted nothing more than to stay. She wanted money to
leave
.

“I would like,” she began, the idea taking shape as she spoke, “to hire a companion. I want to travel to London and
see
things before my youth gallops away.”

Her parents had raised her to think she was too good for everyone in Newmarket, especially the Crosbys, but she had never met anyone else in the world. How was she to trust or marry?

“You would like to go to London, you say. You don't like your life in Newmarket?” He leaned back in his chair, which ought to have appeared casual. Grasping the edge of the desk though, he almost vibrated with tension.

This reassured her somehow that what she was saying was all right. “My life is the life others have chosen for me. I know I'm fortunate in my circumstances, and yet—I've never been anywhere. I've never done anything.”

“You bought a colt.” His eyes crinkled in a teasing smile.

“Yes, that was the first step. I intended that he should…” She bit her lip. “I wanted something that was mine.”

Even so, her father had signed his name to the bill of sale along with her. He had been the one to choose the colt, too. The irony of her hamstrung attempts at independence did not escape her.

Bart's shoulders rose with a deep breath. “I had a fine curricle and matched grays the year before last.” He said this in the offhand manner Hannah had noticed before. Something he thought he ought to tell her but did not want to, so he weighted it lightly as though to float it over her notice.

“And you do not anymore?”

With a light ruefulness she thought he did not feel, he said, “After my mother fell ill, I sold them. For a fraction of their worth—or what they were worth to me. It is difficult to put a price on being able to control horses no one else can. To bring them to heel and send them beautifully through their paces.”

Hannah laughed. “If that is what you value, I don't wonder you have not yet married.”

He colored. “I didn't say that's what I'd want in a
woman
. Though as with a horse, a listening ear would be welcome.”

“I'll grant you that. But why do you tell me this?”

The noonday sun made a rectangle of light on the desk, turning the old walnut to a burnished bronze and picking silver out of Bart's dark hair. “I said the horses were sold for less than what they were worth to me. Even so, there was something worth more to me than the horses.”

“Pride?”

His smile was slow and sweet. “The belief that it was the right thing to do.”

Ah.
Her heart gave a squeeze, startling in its intensity. If he had not been a Crosby, she would have fallen for him that instant. For that smile alone, and for the simple words that backed it.

But he was a Crosby, and so she knew him better than she did a stranger. There was more to him—to
them
—than sunlit smiles and earnest words. She could permit no headlong tumble, not now that she had shared her deepest-held wish.

Maybe, though, she could permit a careful tumble instead. “And—what
would
you want in a woman?”

Thunk
. He abandoned his relaxed pose. “That's not a question I've ever pondered.”

“Why not?”

“Er. Have you ever pondered what you would do if you inherited the throne of England?”

“No, but surely it's more possible for you to court a woman than it is for me to become a king. You're a not-hideous baronet.”

“I was wondering yesterday what the kindest thing was that a Chandler had ever said to a Crosby. I believe that's my answer.”

Hannah folded her arms. She had seen Bart do this when he was displeased by an answer, so there was a decent chance it would work on him.

And she waited.

After a few moments, he shoved back his chair and stood. “It's never been something I devoted a lot of time to. I mean, I did, but I only courted the woman everyone else courted, because one ought to court someone if one is a bachelor in London. Otherwise why be in London during the Season?” As he spoke, he began tidying papers, then knocking at stacks and having to start over.

She hid a smile. “For the dances and parties, I suppose.”

He adopted a look of great patience. “Those are for women, not men.”

“They must be for both. If men do not attend, there won't be anyone for women to dance with.”

He picked up a penwiper, then set it down again. “Dancing is…all right in its way. But it's difficult to ask someone to dance, you know.”

“I wish I did, but I
don't
know. I've never been to a ball. And even if I had, I wouldn't be doing the propositioning. That would be unfeminine, and I'm already far too blunt spoken for most men's tastes.”

“What do you mean? There's nothing unfeminine about speaking your mind. That's as admirable as it is difficult.” He tugged on the fob at his waistcoat pocket. Another bright waistcoat today, a watered silk woven in the colors of peacock feathers. “The way you look in a dress—or trousers, for that matter—doesn't have anything to do with the state of your mind.”

Her careful tumble accelerated a bit. “If my ways don't bother you, then maybe you could dance with me sometime.”

His fingers slipped from the fob to splay flat atop a stack of papers. “I—how? We would need several couples to make the figures with us.”

“Not if we waltzed.” She realized that he was right. It was indeed difficult to ask someone to dance.

“We could waltz.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Sometime. Yes.”

She rose from her chair, facing him. Though the desk separated them, he was close, quite close. Close enough for her to see the gold about the rim of his dark eyes, the shadow of dark stubble on his jawline that indicated how early he had arisen.

And then she started picking out more shadows, the places of him that were a bit more hidden than the rest. Deep-set eyes below dark brows. The plane below his cheekbone. The softer hollow behind the hard line of his jaw, below his ear. And hidden by his cravat, a muscled neck and sharp-cut collarbone, each with its own shadows.

She could not see those last two, but she could imagine them. In fact, she could not stop imagining them.

“Something on your mind?” Without her noticing it, he had leaned closer. Like her, he rested his hands atop the fallen stacks of paper, balancing. Again, they made a bridge, but instead of shoulder to shoulder, they were face to face.

“Yes, I was wondering…” She pulled in a deep breath. “I was wondering what it would be like if you kissed me. Or I kissed you. Either way.”

“No wondering,” he said. “No speculation.”

“No?” Her heart gave a leaden thump.

“No. There is no need.” Another of those sweet smiles—and then his lips were on hers, warm and sure.

It was sunlight in a touch; it set her skin to tingling as it never had in the hottest bath or the iciest stream. Her mouth opened, tasting and matching his kiss with her own, and her eyes fell closed as though her lids could hold the sharp pleasure of this kiss. As though they could preserve the sight of him, shadow and sun at once.

She did not want to stop kissing him, even as the papers shifted under her hands. She leaned farther across the desk, then farther, wanting to get closer. If she could pull him into her arms—or if he could embrace her—
ah
, a gentle brush of his tongue tip on hers was enough to melt her completely. “More,” she moaned against his lips.

“Yes. Good. More. Good.” Each word was punctuated with a kiss on her cheeks, nose, brows. He shifted his weight, then hitched one knee atop the desk and leaned farther over it. “I could just—”

His knee slid, and at the same instant the stacks on which she had been leaning slipped and fanned out flat.
Thump
. She fell to her elbows, jarred.

In an instant, Bart had regained his balance and lunged around the desk to reach her side. “I'm a cursed fool. I ought to have come around to you in the first place. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” Hannah straightened up, smoothing the tailored lines of her clothing. He had not undone a single button, had hardly touched her skin, and yet she felt as though she'd been bared.

Or she had bared herself. A small difference in words, but a large one in meaning. “I'm all right,” she repeated, and this time, his worried expression changed to a grin.

“More than all right,” he agreed.

The conversation that followed was somewhat abashed, at least on Hannah's part. She wanted to leave, and she wanted to kiss him again, and she wanted to kick herself across Suffolk for wanting such contrary things at the same time.

At last they agreed that they had found enough answers from the papers, and so they had better part ways for the time being.

But there was more to do. Always. They kept to their common purpose.

“I shall speak with Russ and Jack, the stable boys,” Bart said, looking all masculine determination. “They might have observed something helpful and could give us some clue as to where Northrup has taken the colt.”

“And I,” said Hannah, “shall question the staff of the Chandler stables and see whether my father has learned anything of note from his solicitor.”

The sparkling feeling had begun to fade, but there was enough of it left to make her steps feel light as they bade one another good day and she went to retrieve her maid. They had ended by agreeing to meet at the racecourse the following day to watch hopefuls training for the Two Thousand Guineas.

“And maybe we'll happen upon someone who knows something of use,” were Hannah's parting words.

It was just an excuse, spoken because to say
I want to be with you again
was impossible.

Though not as impossible as it had once seemed.

Morning saw Bart enter the Jockey Club rooms, a short ride up Newmarket's High Street from the racecourses. Horses were early risers, active before dew had evaporated from the turf, and during race week, many of their owners became the same way. In the masculine bounds of this private club, the rooms seemed never to empty. A few hounds loped about, belonging to everyone and no one at once. Men imbibed coffee, tea, and spirits in the arched booths of a wood-paneled room; they strode past walls covered with gilt-framed equestrian paintings and engravings.

And above all, they talked about horse racing. Everyone here lived for the sport of kings. Everyone had a racing stable to maintain or hoped to breed from the next foundation sire. The club's headquarters was an intense and bustling space, but a courteous one. Absent were the sharp connivances of the bookmakers who populated so many corners of the city—though this was not to say that club members were uninterested in enriching themselves through a wager if the occasion presented itself.

As Bart passed through the coffee room, he was waved over by one of the most venerable members of the club. Sliding into a private booth opposite him, Bart greeted Sir Jubal Thompson, who had been knighted by the horse-mad royalty decades before. Sir Jubal's stallions had sired many champions, though the knight had no colt in the Two Thousand Guineas this year.

“Wondered when you'd be turning up, Sir Bartlett.” Sir Jubal wore his powdered hair in a queue. His jowls sagged with age, but his eyes were sharp under pouchy lids. “Lost your most promising colt, have you?”

“
Lost
is not the right word,” Bart said grimly.

“True, true. Thought you ought to involve the law, myself,” drawled the older man before draining a cup of black coffee.

“I intend to once the thief is caught. Finding my horse is the first priority.” Faced with a likely resource, Bart collected his questions. “Have any bays been found wandering? Or have any stables reported an extra horse or changed their exercise schedule? I haven't time to search each one, but—”

“Word gets around,” agreed Sir Jubal. “I haven't heard of anything like that, though one of my own grooms found a brown horse outside the paddock two days ago. No black points. So he's not the one you want.” He wagged his heavy head. “Poor creature. He looked to be of good blood, but he'll never race again. Had a crack in one hoof, and the others were unshod. Surprised no one's reported him missing. But with the state of his hooves, he might have wandered a long way.”

Bart managed enough polite interest to hear out this rambling aside, then to decline the elder man's offer to share a pot of coffee. He needed no help in remaining alert. Until he found some clue as to Golden Barb's whereabouts, he felt as though he might never sleep again.

“I have an appointment at the track,” he said, excusing himself.

“Ah, going to watch the colts exercise? You might find a good bit of bone to wager on. Lessen the loss, you know.”

Bart refrained from replying to this suggestion, only thanking the old knight for his time. “And if you do hear any word about a mysterious bay colt or a groom of the correct appearance”—he described Northrup—“then…”

“I'll send word at once.” Sir Jubal's clap on Bart's shoulder as Bart rose was friendly. “This is a gentleman's sport, or it ought to be. We watch out for one another.”

The old knight would spread the word, Bart trusted, and anyone with knowledge would come Bart's way. Unless Northrup and Golden Barb had left the city entirely, they would soon be rooted out.

Bart retrieved his horse from the stables and cantered to the track. He had arranged to meet Hannah near the white-painted finish post of the Rowley Mile course.

When he arrived at the chosen spot, she was there already, sidesaddle atop a lanky gray mare. In the saddle, she looked elegant and proper in a high-collared habit of dark green, with a spill of fine lace at the collar and cuffs. On her head was a military-looking cap, softened by the fluffiest plumes imaginable.

Bart wanted to undo that high collar. He wanted to take off that cap and let her long hair spill down, down, over his fingers.

Ahem.
Riding to her side, he greeted her with far more propriety than was on his mind; then his eyes widened as he looked over her shoulder. “Can that be Sothern who accompanied you this morning?”

“Indeed it is.” She cast a fond smile at the groom, whose grizzled head still displayed bandages beneath the brim of his hat. “He is terrible, is he not? Completely disobedient of the doctor's request that he rest. That, more than any prescribed treatment, convinced me that he was improving. Though I shall have the stable boys carry him off to his cot once we return home.”

“I didn't realize he had returned to your household.”

“Very early this morning,” Hannah confirmed. “You know how grooms are: practically nocturnal.” Nudging her mare forward, she drew closer alongside Bart and said more softly, “I questioned him on the way here, and he can tell us nothing more about where your groom and horse might be. The blow to his head laid him out at once. He will bear witness against Northrup at the time of your choosing.”

“Thank you for inquiring. I learned little more from the injured stable boy, Russ, but he constitutes a second victim and witness.” Bart considered. “Would you like to dismount? Walk about a bit?”

Her brows lifted. “Will I be permitted on the course? I am not a member of the Jockey Club, you know.”

“We'll confine ourselves to its outer edge.” He managed a grin, though the hubbub of morning training sessions on the course tried to yank it away. Without a quick-limbed colt and a wiry jockey, he felt out of place amid the owners and trainers shouting instructions.

He slid from his gelding's back, then helped Hannah dismount. She did so with the lightness of long practice, hopping down using the slipper stirrup and a clutch of gloved hand in gloved hand.

She was far too quick about the matter, in Bart's opinion.

They gave both sets of reins to the waiting Sothern, then stepped onto the turf. Frequent spring rains had coaxed the grass into riotous green life. It cushioned one's footfalls and sprang back pleasantly.

“Golden Barb would like this track,” Bart observed. Within the white railings, the course was trimmed shorter, but the grass was still thick enough to avoid the muddiness that made the bay colt paw his protest. “He has trained me to keep him away from mud, but he runs well on grass.”

“He runs well everywhere. I have seen him exercise before.” Hannah stood outside the railing, her fingertips resting on the barrier. “Humans are meant to train the horse, not the reverse.”

“It goes both ways.” He fumbled at his fob, pulling out the center-seconds chronometer he always carried to the track.

“Is that so? How has your horse trained you?”

Bart held the silver-chased watch, eyes tracking both the watch's second hand and a likely-looking chestnut breezing along the track. “Golden Barb has won my loyalty with his own and with his excellent work, so that I in turn will work with anyone to get him back.”

“Even me?”

“Especially you. He's won you over too, hasn't he?”

She became occupied with pulling a notebook and stub of pencil from a pocket in her skirts. “I…I don't know as much about him as I would like to.”

Hmmm.

Squinting up the track, she added, “We shall find him.”

“Do you think so?” Bart noted her use of the pronoun
we
. “I'm afraid I didn't learn much of use yet.” He described his conversation with Sir Jubal.

Hannah wrinkled her nose in thought. “That
is
odd. I would like to have a look at this mysterious visitor with the sadly cracked hoof.”

“Surely you wouldn't know the horse?”

“I doubt it, since it sounds as though he's not local. If he's a London colt, my brother Nathaniel might remember clapping eyes on him before. Without distinguishing marks, though, it will be difficult to trace a brown horse.”

“We don't need another mystery,” Bart reminded her. “We're down one colt, and just because Sir Jubal is up another doesn't mean there's any connection.”

For a minute or two, they studied the passing Thoroughbreds and riders in silence. Hannah made a few notes in her book, and Bart consulted his watch to time the speedy chestnut, then a dark bay that wasted far too much energy fighting his jockey for his head.

Bart was not a poetic man. He would rather gallop than read a sonnet, would rather trot than recite. But this—this was his idea of poetry. While others took pleasure in the silky flow of words or the patter of meter and rhyme, he found joy in hoofbeats. Each gait had its rhythm, and each horse its own variation on the gait.

In five days' time, there would be a superb horse race.

He slipped his watch back into his waistcoat pocket, then held out an arm to Hannah. She stashed her book and pencil, then slid her fingers within the crook of his elbow. Did she grab at his arm a bit when she did?

Quite all right. More than all right.

“What did you learn since we last—ah, last spoke?” Bart asked.
Spoke
wasn't the last thing they had done, and Hannah's quick sideways glance showed that she remembered their kiss as well as he did.

“I intended to speak to the staff of our stables, but my Bridget seemed odd yesterday,” she said. “Bridget's Brown, that is. He would not touch the carrots he usually loves, though he ate an apple readily enough. The grooms said he ran better than ever, so he doesn't seem ill. He should be ready to race in a few days' time.”

“What has that to do with us?”

“Very little. Sorry.” She offered a small smile. “That occupied my attention yesterday afternoon, but none of it is relevant. My father is pleased by the odds on Bridget. So what incentive has he to consult a constable about Golden Barb's location? He has lost nothing.”

“Because he used your money.”

“Which was what I wanted.”

“Even so.” Bart's free hand clenched. “And my mother took the payment from his messenger. I got her to admit as much, though she said she has paid it out on debts already. When I asked what she knew of Northrup, she collapsed onto the bed and said I must stop hounding a poor invalid—which means she is hiding something.”

“How sinister.” Hannah's tone did not reflect the expected distaste. “So she plotted with your groom to take Golden Barb—so she could both sell the colt and keep him? What good does that do if she cannot race him?”

“She had an apoplexy within the past year. Her brain cannot be presumed to function in the most logical fashion.”

“That's rot. Her body is frail, but she's as wily as ever. Wilier, even, because now she's got you underestimating her.”

“Oh, I don't do that, believe me. To the contrary.” He had been overestimating his mother for too long. If she would steal from her own son, from their own stables…

Then nothing was more important to her than getting money. More, more, more for gambling.

“What would you do if we found Golden Barb?” Hannah broke into those thoughts.

“Race him, of course—if I could find another jockey. Northrup was to ride him in the Two Thousand Guineas. But Golden Barb was bred to race. He loves to race.”

“And what if he wins?” She sounded hesitant.

“Then I would race him again. Just as I would race him again if he lost.”

Her footsteps were quiet on the grass. “What is the purpose of it all for you? Simply to make money?”

“The chances of winning enough money through racing are small. But a champion can be brought to stud, and the stud fees can make up for the expenses of his racing years.”

“So you hope your colt will race so well that he can spend the rest of his life mating.”

One of Bart's boots caught on a clod, making him stumble. “That…does not sound like such a bad fate for man or beast.” Her light touch on his arm seemed weighty.

“But I think,” he continued, “what you are asking is why. Why do I want to race him at all? And the answer, I suppose, is that I was bred to it as surely as he was.”

“I think…” she echoed. “I think I was too.”

“A Chandler? Indeed you were. Though my family has detested yours for decades, there's a heavy portion of respect mixed in as well.”

The barrier of their feuding families had ceased to bother Bart greatly, but it was enough to pull them both up short. Hannah swung beneath the white railing, habit skirts trailing on the spring-damp grass, and stood to face Bart opposite it. “Golden Barb was to carry both of us away from a life we don't want.”

“I want my life.” His reply was hasty, stumbling. “That is—mostly.” It had gone threadbare about the edges.

He had choices, to be sure. He could have returned to the land in Lincolnshire, where he had tenants. He could have taken the reins from his steward and… No, he could not stop thinking in terms of horses for a moment. He could no more be a farmer than he could be a ruthless rogue.

“And what is it about this life you don't want, if you think you were made for it from birth?” he pressed. “What would you do if Golden Barb stood before you right now? Would you race him? Or would you ride him to London and throw yourself into the Season you seem to admire so much?”

She trailed her right hand along the railing. “Yes.
I
would race him.
I
would decide when, and
I
would choose his trainer and his jockey. And when he won, it would be my victory. Because the chances that I, on my own, will ever win a damned thing are all but nonexistent.”

“So you want the same things I do.”

“No, you want the same things I do.”

“Surely it is the same either way.”