Sport of Baronets (9 page)

To the servant who met him, he gave his hat and gloves, along with a note for the young lady of the house. It was folded and sealed, but would take Hannah no more than an instant to read—if she agreed to read it.

Dear Miss Chandler,

That is all.

Yours, &c., truly.

He declined the suggestion that he await the lady's reply in the drawing room. At the center of the star, with cloud-covered daylight spilling through windows, he felt as though he were outdoors. Far more at ease than in a formal space that would make him stammer.

After a few minutes, Hannah trailed down the main staircase, wearing a printed gown and a puzzled expression.

She dismissed the waiting servant and approached Bart, standing a ring of black tile away. “I do not understand your note.”

“You are dear.” He summoned his courage. “And I am yours.”

She dropped the note.

“Gravity is strong right here,” he said gravely, snapping the note up for her.

“I—that's not what I was expecting at all. I…need a moment.” She sat on the floor at the center of the star. From this position, everything revolved around her.

Bart sat next to her, crossing his legs. “This is the first time in years I've seen you wear something besides a riding habit.”

She smoothed the thin white fabric, spangled with tiny flowers. “Brings out my freckles, doesn't it?”

“I have no idea. I just want to stare at you for a while, if—if that's all right.”

A slow smile lit her features, like the turning up of a lamp's flame. “It's all right. Yes. Now, please tell me more about your note while you stare. Am I to be Miss Chandler again, while I am being dear?”

“That is for you to decide. And if you ask me to think and talk much more while I stare at you, you ask too much.”

Her uncovered hair was cool as moonlight in the gray light of afternoon. Those hazel eyes, though; they were bright and warm. And her freckles—he reached out a forefinger and touched one, then another, making her nose wrinkle as she grinned.

“Call me Hannah,” she said. “And I shall think and talk instead, if you are willing to listen. I have asked my father to draw up a new document with his solicitor, one that relinquishes all claim to Golden Barb or any other offspring of Nottingham. There will be no question that the colt is yours. You will not be required to have any dealings with my family.”

“Oh.” Why was she still smiling? This sounded terrible.

“Now, if you
choose
to deal with us, that is a different matter. For example, since Bridget's Brown cannot race in five days' time, his jockey is available. As Northrup was to ride Golden Barb—impossible now—if you would like to arrange for Wheatley to ride Golden Barb instead, I think you could not do better.”

“
Oh
.” Yes, choice rather than obligation was a different matter indeed. “How clever of you. And how kind. It would be my honor to make those arrangements with your family.”

Their seats on the floor began to feel like an indoor picnic—minus the food, alas, but also minus the insects. He shared his conversation with his mother, including the embarrassing revelations of her scheming and long-held desire for revenge. “If it helps at all, though I don't know if anything can, she and Northrup concocted the plan together. The staff in your stable is innocent.”

“The stable hands, yes,” she said, sighing. “But my father's role cannot be ignored. He was chasing a triumph, and in his single-minded pursuit became careless. He kept secrets from me, yet sent me out as his emissary.” Decisively, she crossed one slippered foot over the other. “He will not do so again.”

“I cannot be sorry for the way events progressed, though—can you?”

Her gaze caught his, then she looked away with a blush. “Not entirely sorry. No.”

“What will happen to Bridget's Brown?”

“He will be put out to pasture at my family's farm north of the city. I shall miss him, poor fellow, but my brother Jonah will see he receives the best possible care.” She hesitated. “Do you know what became of Northrup?”

“Ah. Yes.” He gave a dry laugh. “I realized that was one matter that had not been cleared up, so I returned to question my mother further. She stated that she gave him a quarter of the money you paid—so, fifty guineas for his crimes. He bought passage on a ship to the United States and is even now crossing the Atlantic.”

“He transported himself.” Her brows knit. “I am glad he's gone, though it seems an unjustly easy escape for him.”

“I agree.” Had he faced judgment in England for his crimes of battery and horse theft, his punishment would have been transport to Australia—or something far harsher. “Someone in the United States will get a very skilled and very dishonest groom. In his own way, he was as much a slave to the betting books as my mother. There is no price that can be put on loyalty, and so he decided it was not worth anything to him.”

He took up her hand. Though it was cold from the tiled floor, holding her bare fingers in his felt good. “If you will allow me to turn the subject, I have an alternative suggestion to yours. Will you entertain it?”

“I will be as entertaining as I possibly can.”

“I was thinking”—again, a breath for courage—“that Golden Barb could be our colt. Yours and mine.”

Her fingers tightened within his, though the rest of her form went still. “If he is ours, then you still owe me one hundred guineas.”

Bart had learned her features well enough to spot the crimp of mischief at the corner of her mouth. “About that, yes,” he replied. “I was thinking that the money could be our money.”

“Is that a proposal?” The smile dropped. The eyes went wide.

“I was thinking”—once more, the refrain—“that it could be. Family tradition would have us hate one another, but we are grown adults. We can make our own choices, and we can choose not to continue the feud. We can choose to work together. We can choose to admire one another. We can choose to kiss and to touch and to open our hearts. As soon as I knew you, I could not help but want to know you better. Always. I have already chosen to do all of those things. So the rest is up to you.” He smiled. “It's your choice, Hannah. It's all your choice.”

“That sounds like love,” she murmured.

“Oh, damn. I mucked it up.” Drawing his hand free from hers, he stumbled to one knee before her. “Yes. You are bold and brave and beautiful and…and many other things, not all of which begin with
B
. And I do love you. And if you want me to leave, I will. Because I want you to be happy, and that means you get to choose what comes next.”

She blinked up at him with damp lashes. “Now
that
is the kindest thing a Crosby has ever said to a Chandler.”

“Do you think so?” He sank back on his heels. How odd that her tears could bring him such relief. But then, she was smiling through them, and her smile always made him want to smile too. “I am sure I can do better.”

“Not just yet.” Reaching up, she caught his face in gentle hands. “If I get to choose what comes next, then I would like it to be a kiss.”

And so it was.

Rain fell for the next five days: days of conversation and laughter, of secrets and a few tears. There was so much to tell, decades to tell.

Bart could not find an opportunity to sneak Hannah back into the weighing room for another turn on the balance, but they made the most of the hayloft in the Crosby stables. Stretching out on firm, sliding straw, he listened to raindrops drum on the roof above while he held Hannah in his arms.

She survived tea with a querulous Lady Crosby. Bart managed an awkwardly courteous dinner under Sir William's forbidding gaze. Bart and Hannah were determined their parents should be civil to their chosen spouses. “It might take a while for them to come around, but they shall,” he assured her after Lady Crosby had pretended to be asleep all through Hannah's latest call. “They've made their habits of enmity over the course of years. But we will have years together to wear them down.”

Race day dawned clear, though by the time the horses were walked to the track, clouds made the sky seem large and heavy. Spring grass was thick underfoot, but Golden Barb was in a temper, bobbing his head and shying at every puddle.

“Let Wheatley handle him,” Hannah murmured in Bart's ear. “The horse knows the difference between exercise and race day. He wants to win far more than he wants to keep his feet dry.”

“How do you know that colt so well?”

“How could I not?” she teased. “I observed his behavior in my father's stables for two entire days while thinking he was a different horse. Besides which, you have always thought he would win. And if you trust the horse, then I trust you.”

“You delight me.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm, as close to an embrace as they could risk in public.

“I will never tire of hearing that.” Leaning closer, she tickled his nose with one of the extravagant ostrich plumes on her military-style cap. “Now, you and I must find a place from which to watch the race—and to show off your waistcoat.”

He had to laugh at this, because the waistcoat was garish by any standard: striped in crimson and white to match the Crosby racing silks.

Leaning on the arm of one of his sons, Sir Jubal Thompson waved from several yards and several groupings away. “Wearing your own silks? You are remarkably confident, Sir Bartlett!”

Bart waved back. “Just happy.”

This won him a confused look from the pair.

“You have just sent them scurrying to lay money against you,” said Hannah.

“Their loss.” He was distracted, looking for a place from which to watch the race. He discarded the idea of the watchtower-tall stand of drab green. It offered a superior view to those willing to pay an extra coin, but raucous men hung from the windows and over the shallow balconies, waving hats and shouting, clearly the worse for drink.

Aside from those, the track had the convivial, excited atmosphere of a street fair. Carriages cluttered the lawn beside the track, and people sat atop them to eat, booted feet hanging down. Food sellers hawked their wares, and bookmakers seemed to be everywhere—comparing notes, arguing over likely possibilities, taking wagers.

Hannah looked about, beaming. She wore a riding habit, as usual. Bart liked to think it was so she'd be prepared to hop onto a horse's back in case any jockey was unable to complete his mission.

“My brothers would tell me I ought not to be here,” she murmured as they found a spot near the rail, not far from the starting post. “The crowds! My reputation! Shall I expect the same from you?”

“Why would I say such a thing?” Bart scoffed. “I love you, and you love the turf. I'd sooner ask you to cut off a hand than miss a race.”

“How I love you. You know just the odd assurance that I need. That might be a bit excessive, though.
Might
, mind you. It depends on the race.”

They shared a laugh, though it then occurred to Bart that his mother must be miserable, missing the Two Thousand Guineas for the first time since its inauguration in 1809. Likely Sir William would want to see the race too. If Bart could keep Lady Crosby from wagering, he and Hannah could figure out how to get their parents to the track. Maybe even in time for the next stakes race. Perhaps wheelchairs could be fit into a carriage?

Before he could mull too much over the possibilities, the horses were brought up to the starting post in a jostling, prancing line of black, chestnut, and bay. Atop their mounts, the jockeys sat straight and square, their heels down in the stirrups to anchor them. Bart picked out Wheatley in his red-and-white silks, a wiry young man with a friendly but shrewd face. At the moment, he was guiding Golden Barb into place—

Right through a puddle.

The dark-dyed colt pawed just as the starter flipped his flag, and the horses were off. Wheatley had to take in the reins to get his mount's feet beneath him. Golden Barb shook his head, annoyed, and launched himself forward—only a few strides behind the pack, but every stride was crucial.

“Him and his wet hooves.” Bart cursed, veins coursing with tension.

Hannah patted his arm, quick as a drumbeat. “Wheatley will guide him through. He's good at creeping up on the leaders.”

“If he doesn't run out of time.” One mile would decide everything. Less than two minutes; far less. Never was every second so long or so important.

By the first post, Golden Barb had caught two other horses, and the pack thundered by the first judge in a close bunch.

Glossy bodies stretched long, their docked tails snapping behind them like flags. Surely there were cheers, shouts, curses—but this time Bart could not join in with the raucous throngs. Tighter, ever tighter, he and Hannah held hands, and he knew she was watching the crimson-and-white silks as closely as he was.

The swift-pounding Thoroughbreds split and scattered across the wide track, and it was difficult to tell who was in front as they passed his vantage point. Was that Golden Barb, or another horse and rider? The horses hurtled past far too quickly, the field a blur of colored silks and straining strides, the crack of crops and shouts of jockeys.

And then he could see no more, blocked by the screaming crowd. No Thoroughbred could have thundered more quickly than his heartbeat. Without thinking, he was running, pushing through the throngs with Hannah at his side, as though two people on foot could possibly catch up with the fastest horses in England.

The white finish post was too far away, and too many people stood in their path. By the time they caught sight of the judges' box, the winning colors had already been flung forth over its white-painted face.

Crimson and white, striped like a stick of candy.

Bart sat down heavily, right there on the turf.

“Why on earth are you surprised?” Hannah beamed. “You were sure he would win.”

“I hoped.” Even now, his heartbeat had not slowed. “I only hoped.”

As he struggled to his feet, she was laughing. “Did you wager anything?”

“I did not. I could not afford to lose anything.”

“Sir William laid out a pretty penny on Golden Barb—and he said if he won, it should be a wedding present to us.” She looked abashed. “He added that he couldn't bear to keep the winnings of a Crosby horse, but he smiled, so I think he was in jest.”

“Your fortune,” Bart said. “It's all due to you.”

“
Our
fortune.” As they began to make their way to the winner's enclosure, arm in arm, she added, “Why should racing be called the sport of kings? The baronets are masters of the turf this year.”

“And baronetesses,” he reminded her. “Once the special license arrives, that is. Now that the race is over, would you like to make preparations to leave Newmarket? We could travel to London for the Season. I could buy some new waistcoats.”

“I will let you know if I do. But for now, how could I leave your colt just when he has triumphed?” Her hazel eyes were pure mischief. Pure delight.

He smiled down at her. “Or do you mean your colt?”

“Our colt,” they said together, and their lips met.

Order Theresa Romain's first book
in the Romance of the Turf series

A Gentleman's Game

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