His Lordship's Filly (12 page)

Andrew chuckled. “Bridget, my dear. You just read me a panegyric on the lazy ways of the rich and now you’re nervous about talking to a mere duke?”

She flashed him a look of disdain. “Don’t rag on me, Andrew. Whatever her title, Lady Linden is just an old gossip. She’s no better than any village fishwife. But Wellington—” Her eyes shone. “He’s a great man. He beat Napoleon at Waterloo.”

Andrew smiled. He would never understand his wife. “Come then, and meet the great man.”

When she made no more protests, he set her empty plate aside and led her through the assembly.

Wellington saw them coming. “Andrew! Good to see you!” He smiled at them. “And this is your new wife. I heard you’d married.”

“Yes, Your Grace. My wife, Bridget.”

Wellington reached for Bridget’s gloved hand and raised it gallantly to his lips. She stared at it for a moment, as though doubting that he had actually touched her. Then she murmured, “Your Grace.”

“I’m pleased to meet such a lovely lady,” Wellington said graciously. “Andrew, you’ve chosen well.”

“I think so,” Andrew replied, amused. This shy Bridget was one he’d seldom encountered.

Wellington turned back to her. “I hear that you have a marvelous stallion. Named for our victory at Waterloo, isn’t he?”

“Yes, your Grace. My father and I raised him. My father’s Victor Durabian. He has a stable outside London. Waterloo’s a chestnut. By King Midnight, out of Queen Sheba. Excellent pedigree. And he’s the fastest horse I’ve ever seen. He’s got the most beautiful—”

Andrew turned to stare at her. The shy anxious Bridget of a moment ago had been transformed. Of course, he thought, Wellington had sensed her edginess and moved to dispel it. He
was
a great man.

“Perhaps I could see him,” Wellington interjected when Bridget stopped for breath. “Also I’d like to know your theory about training horses.”

“It’s easy,” Bridget said, stepping closer and laying an urgent hand on the great man’s arm. “You just become friends with them. That’s all it takes. Even the highest-mettled bloods.” She leaned closer still. “Horses are incredibly loyal animals, you know. They’ll do anything for you.”

He laughed. “But how do you make them your friend?”

“You get acquainted—by blowing your breath into their nostrils. That’s the way horses do it. And it works for people, too.”

She glanced down, saw where her hand lay on his sleeve, and pulled it back like she’d been burned.

Wellington chuckled. “It’s all right, my dear. You’ve made an old man feel young again. Thank you.”

Bridget blushed, the pink traveling from her throat up to her cheeks. “Your Grace, I—”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Wellington said with a smile. “I love horses, too. Perhaps I’ll come round this week to see this wonder.” He turned to Andrew again. “If that’s agreeable with you.”

“Of course.” Bridget’s advent into society couldn’t have a better champion than the national hero of the struggle against Napoleon. “We’d be honored to have you.”

Taking Bridget’s arm again, Andrew turned away—and came face to face with Wichersham. The man was dressed like a tulip of the turf, but he looked almost ridiculous.

Andrew sensed rather than felt Bridget’s sudden tension. Apparently she didn’t like Wichersham any more than he did.

“Haverly!” the man said, his tone brisk. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Indeed,” Andrew replied dryly. “I can’t imagine that we have anything to talk about.”

He started to move away, Bridget clinging to his arm, but Wichersham moved, too, purposely putting himself in their way. Andrew felt his anger rising. He looked the man over. Wichersham was short with a big gut. His protruding eyes and raspy voice made many people uncomfortable in his presence. But it was not the man’s looks, ugly as they might be, that made Andrew wish to get away from him. It was the knowledge that Wichersham had deliberately bought up Durabian’s IOUs with the intent of ruining the man.
That
made being civil quite difficult. But he must do it. He gritted his teeth and kept silent; Wichersham was a worm, the lowest of the low. But he couldn’t do anything about it—at least not right then.

Andrew pulled in a deep breath. Better steady himself, better be careful. He didn’t want Bridget to suspect that Wichersham was the one who’d meant to send her father to debtor’s prison. It wouldn’t serve any good purpose to give her that information—and knowing her temper, it might do quite a lot of harm.

He straightened and gave Wichersham a quelling look. “Stand aside. We wish to get through.”

But Wichersham ignored his request, smiling, a slight curving of thin-pressed lips that imparted a sinister look to his blotchy face. Then he turned his bulging eyes on Bridget. Andrew felt her stiffen, but she didn’t let the scoundrel intimidate her. She met his gaze squarely.

“You’re looking well, Bridget,” Wichersham said unctuously. When he reached out for her free hand, Andrew quickly drew it back, covering it with his own. This slime wasn’t going to touch her, not even her glove. Not while her husband was anywhere near.

Wichersham looked from Bridget’s face to Andrew’s, his expression disparaging. Then he shook his head. “Very well, Haverly. But you’d better tell your—wife—to be kind to me.”

“Kind?” Andrew repeated, letting his voice reflect his incredulity if not his anger. “Why should Lady Haverly pay any attention to you at all?”

Wichersham’s snide smile made Andrew’s hackles rise. The fellow was presuming too far.

“Bridget and I are friends of longstanding,” Wichersham purred. “It’s—”

“That’s a lie!” The words burst from Bridget, making heads near them turn. “A damnable lie!”

Wichersham snickered. “Now, my dear. Don’t worry. Surely your new husband will forgive you your past sins. And we can go on being
friends.”

The emphasis on the last word carried intentional insult, so that Andrew had to swallow hard to contain the curses that rose to his lips. He turned to Bridget; her face was turning crimson. “Andrew, I didn’t! You can’t—”

He increased the pressure of his fingers over hers. “It’s all right, Bridget. No one would believe such a thing.” What he’d like to do was give the man a good facer. Stretch him right out on the floor where he belonged. Maybe draw a little blood in the process. For a moment he let himself contemplate the satisfying picture of Wichersham flat on his back, bleeding profusely. He swallowed again. He really shouldn’t make a scene, not here where everyone could see. But still, he was sorely tempted.

“Wichersham,” Wellington said, stepping out from behind Bridget. “May I speak to you a moment?”

Wichersham was plainly torn—uncertainty written large across his face. Then he evidently decided it wasn’t wise to ignore the great man, who could, after all, do a great deal for him if he chose. “I’ll speak to you later,” Wichersham said, leaning toward Bridget. He moved off, following Wellington into a nearby corner.

Bridget remained silent. Andrew could feel her body trembling against his arm, but her face was expressionless. When they were out of hearing, she said, “Andrew, when can we go home?”

He debated for a moment. Her tone was firm, but he felt her tension. Would their early departure cause more talk, talk they could ill afford? “Bridget, I don’t know—”

Why did she respond to Wichersham’s fabrications with such vehemence? Surely she didn’t think anyone would believe his lies. He knew Bridget would never give herself to the likes of Wichersham.

He patted her hand again. “It’s all right, Bridget. He’s just trying to worry you.” He gazed down into her harried eyes. “But tell me, why are you so upset?”

Her eyes clouded over. “Oh Andrew, I hate that man. He—He tried to—” Her cheeks reddened even more. “Before—at the stables—he cornered me, he wanted me to—”

“I’ll kill him!” If the words bursting from his mouth startled him, they turned Bridget pale.

“Andrew, please, don’t say such things.”

“I mean it,” he said fiercely. “If he comes near you, if he offers you any insult, any insult at all, I’ll call him out. I’ll kill him—I swear it.”

“But dueling! Andrew, you can’t! They’ll arrest you.”

“Nonsense,” he said, injecting confidence into his tone. “The King doesn’t know what’s going on. And Prinny doesn’t care.”

Bridget clung to his arm. “But I care. I don’t want you to be in danger.”

“Come,” he said, hugging her words to him. “I am in no danger now. Let us go home.”

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Bridget woke early. Andrew had been kind after the soiree, assuring her that he didn’t believe Wichersham’s base innuendoes. As though she would ever let a man like that near her! No man but Andrew had ever touched her—not like that anyway. Still, she’d been very upset, very angry, to think that Wichersham even dared to say such a thing.

She glanced at the clock and threw back the covers. Time for her morning ride. Elsie would be waiting on her corner, two of her prettiest nosegays kept back for her lady.

Bridget hurried into her breeches and boots, tucking in her shirt on the way to the door. First a short trip through the kitchen to pick up Elsie’s bread and meat, which Cook now wrapped routinely every morning. And then they would be on their way.

Andrew had gone into his room about an hour earlier, as he usually did at sunup every morning. She hadn’t yet told him about her early morning rides. She’d thought about telling him—oh, several times—but somehow she’d just never gotten round to it. Anyway, he wouldn’t mind.

She hurried down the stairs, nodded pleasantly to Cook, and hurried out to the stable, Elsie’s bread and meat wrapped in a clean linen cloth that she could slip over her wrist.

Ned would be waiting, his mount and Waterloo saddled and ready.

Sometime later Andrew met Peter at White’s. His friend was looking rather down at the mouth. Andrew frowned. Surely Peter hadn’t been betting on races—or mills—again. He’d sworn he’d learned his lesson last time.

Andrew slid into his chair. “You look in the dismals. Something wrong?”

Peter shoved aside the remains of his breakfast. “Rather.”

Andrew sighed. “Tell me what it is. I’ll do what I can to help.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid it’s yourself who needs the help.”

Andrew put a hand to his head. “It’s Bridget, isn’t it? Something more about Bridget.”

Peter nodded. “Yes, my friend.” He smiled slightly. “If you’ll recall, I did warn you she’d likely mean trouble.”

Andrew groaned. “I know. Well, tell me. What’s the story now? What are they prattling about?”

Peter finished off his muffin. “It’s all over town. Spread by the Lindens, no doubt. Everyone’s talking about your
filly.”

Andrew sighed even louder. “That’s no news. What are they
saying?”

“Well.” Peter smiled over the rim of his cup. “They’re saying that Bridget isn’t fit to be a lady. That all she knows is horses. That she’s more fit to be an ostler than a marchioness.”

Andrew cursed, long and fluently. “I might have know. Last night she told Lady Linden—and a bunch of other dowagers—that horses make better friends than people.
Because
they can’t talk.”

Peter grinned. “Actually a very acute observation. But if she said it to Lady Linden, no wonder the tale spread.”

Andrew helped himself to a muffin. “Peter, what am I going to do? She continually asks me questions.”

“Questions?” Peter looked puzzled. “Questions about what?”

“She wants to know
why
we do things.
Why
we ride in Hyde Park.
Why
we go to soirees.
Why
it’s important to be seen. Why, why, why.” He groaned again. “I tell you, Peter, she’s driving me crazy.”

“Hmmm.” Peter stared thoughtfully into his cup. “There must be a way out of this bumble broth. Bridget has a fine intellect. There’s no reason she can’t learn our ways.”

“I suppose not.” Andrew sipped his tea. “But it’s a very time-consuming business. I can’t teach her all that she needs to know and still attend to my estate duties. There must be some other way.”

“You could hire someone,” Peter suggested tentatively.

Andrew snorted. “I don’t think Bridget would take kindly to having a governess. You know her, she’s the independent sort.”

“Very independent,” Peter said with another grin. “Let me think.” He finished off the last muffin, then snapped his fingers. “I have it! A relative! You must have some female relative, some old dragon who knows it all. Fetch her in for a while and let her teach Bridget the whats and wherefores.”

“Hmmm.” Andrew thought hard. “You may be right. But who on earth can I get? All my relatives are in the country.”

“Who was that aunt you used to tell me about, your mother’s sister?”

“Aunt Sophronia!” Andrew sat up straighter, seeing a ray of hope. “That’s it! Aunt Sophie is just the one.”

“Then I suggest you send for her,” Peter said. “The sooner you stop the Lindens’ mouths—or at least give them less to say—the better.”

* * * *

Bridget came back from her ride with mixed feelings. She was glad to know that Elsie was getting at least some food in her stomach every day. But every time Bridget looked at the nosegays—one she kept in her bedchamber and one in her sitting room—she thought of the motherless child out there in London’s cruel streets. She knew what it meant to be without a mother’s love. But at least she’d had Papa. Elsie had no one but a little sister. There must be something more, some better way to help the child.

Bridget washed and changed into a new morning gown of sea foam green, ate her breakfast, and settled down with her needlepoint.  More than once as the minutes ticked by she was tempted to curse at pricked fingers or tangled yarn, but she kept her silence, determined to master the knack of this thing. If some
lady
could do it, she could, too.

After all, she told herself, sucking on yet another punctured finger, Andrew had been very good to her. And this at least was a lady’s activity she could do alone—without laboring under the blistering stares of those old society matrons. It was hard to understand how anyone so utterly useless, anyone who produced nothing at all in the way of work, could be convinced they knew so much. But they were convinced. And so it seemed, was the rest of the
ton.