His Lordship's Filly (6 page)

Andrew sighed. Too bad he hadn’t thought to look into Durabian’s affairs
before
the wedding. So simple a matter could have been easily handled. Good grief, why hadn’t the man just asked him for the money?

He turned. Bridget would be waiting for him in the library, Bridget his new wife. Lord! What a bumble broth they were all in!

The library door opened. “Andrew?” she called, her voice anxious. “Has your visitor left?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ll be there directly.” He turned back into the study, trying to gain a little time. He had to have a moment to think this thing through. Could he keep what he’d discovered from her? Probably not. He heaved a great sigh. There was no use in lying. He would have to tell Bridget the truth. At least part of it.

He straightened his shoulders and headed down the hall. Experience had taught him that it was best not to postpone difficult things—putting them off only made them more difficult.

When he opened the library door, Bridget turned quickly, her lovely face showing anxiety. “Was it anything important?” she asked. “Did you find out something about Papa?”

Andrew crossed the room to her and took her hands. “Come, sit on the sofa beside me and I’ll tell you what I know.”

She came, her face wreathed in worry, and settled anxiously beside him. “Tell me, Andrew, is it something terrible?”

“It will be all right,” he promised, wishing he didn’t have to tell her at all. “It’s not that serious.”

“For mercy’s sake,” she cried, clutching at his sleeve with panicky fingers, “tell me!”

“He’s in debt,” Andrew said. “Your father owes quite a bit of money. IOUs from wagers he made on races.”

Bridget frowned. “I know he wagered a lot—and often. I tried to stop him. I talked and talked to him, but it did no good. He had to wager, it seemed.”

Tears stood in her lovely eyes. Without much thought, he put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close against his side, holding her as he would have held a child. “It’ll be all right,” he repeated. “I promise.”

She pulled out a handkerchief, one of the new ones he’d sent her with the gown, and dabbed at her eyes. “How much?” she asked. “How much does Papa owe?”

He was almost afraid to tell her. The man really had been foolish to risk so much. “A thousand pounds.”

“A thousand—” She pulled away, her face white with shock. “Oh no! He can’t pay that. I know he can’t. They’ll be after him! They’ll send him—” She swallowed a sob. “They’ll send him to debtor’s prison.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh no! Poor Papa.”

He patted her shoulder. “Bridget, don’t cry. I won’t let that happen. I’ll pay his debts.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Really, you would do that? A thousand pounds?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, thank you!” She wiped at her eyes again, then stiffened. “Andrew, is that it? Is that why Papa made the wager?”

“I believe so,” he said, not voicing his other suspicions. It was better to keep Wichersham’s name from her. If she knew he was responsible, she would want to tell the man off. And the thought of her being anywhere near Wichersham unsettled his stomach, filling him with a vague uneasiness. “Your father couldn’t pay his debts and he feared he’d be sent to debtor’s prison.”

“And he wanted me to be safe.”

Andrew nodded. “Safe with me.”

She gave him an unfathomable look. “And I am. I’m safe.”

Bridget wiped again at her eyes with that bit of lacy linen ladies called a handkerchief.
It was stupid to act like a waterworks, dripping tears all over Andrew like some kind of baby. But why, oh why, had Papa done such a terrible thing?

Wagering was bad enough, but a thousand pounds! He could lose the stables—the whole stables. And all the horses that were her friends.

She swallowed hastily. But not Waterloo. Papa had seen to it that the stallion was safe. Just as he’d made sure
she
was safe. At least he’d done that much.

If only they’d known in time. Andrew was looking at her so strangely. Probably he was thinking the same thing she was. That this marriage of theirs was a mistake. They could have prevented it. Could he— Would he have it annulled?

He was frowning now, his handsome face screwed up in a grimace. “Don’t worry, Bridget,” he said. “Please don’t worry. Your father will be all right. You have my word on it.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking comfort from his words, “and tomorrow we can go see Papa!”

Andrew hesitated. “We must wait till the debt is paid. Give me a day for that.”

She wanted to see Papa, to know that he was safe, but she knew Andrew was right. They had better wait. “All right.”

Andrew got to his feet and helped her up. “Come, Bridget, it’s late. It’s time we went up to bed.”

She swallowed hastily.
He meant to do it, then, to go on with the marriage. She felt something oddly like relief, but that couldn’t be right. After all, she hadn’t really wanted this marriage. She’d only done it to please Papa.

Andrew tucked her arm through his and led her toward the stairs. “We’ll both be the better for a good night’s rest,” he said as they ascended.

She hardly heard what he was saying for thinking that in her room, spread across the yellow satin bedcover, and looking completely out of place there, lay her faded flannel nightdress. Soon she would put on that nightdress and Andrew would—

He opened the door and motioned her into the room. From the bed the nightdress seemed to call out to her, to shine like a bright beacon, a beacon she’d like to put out.

Andrew looked around the room. “I think you have everything you’ll need. If not, add it to our list for tomorrow.”

He drew her to him, and her heart jumped up in her throat, beating there frantically. He put his arms around her, in a hug much like Papa might have given her, only this hug made her feel quite different, excited and comforted at the same time—a very strange sensation, but pleasant enough.

Then he held her off a little, put a kiss on her forehead, and said, “Sleep well, now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And he went out, through the connecting door to his own chamber. She stood staring after him, unable to believe what she was feeling.

Andrew didn’t want her. Maybe he even meant to get an annulment that would free her to go home to Papa.

She turned away, hastily unfastening her gown. But wait, he said he would pay Papa’s debts, keep him from prison, so . . . So nothing, she told herself crossly, yanking her nightdress down over her head. So that didn’t mean one thing or another about their marriage.

It was the most irritating thing imaginable. She didn’t
want
to be married to Andrew. She wanted to be at home with Papa. But the prospect of being sent back to him left her feeling strangely disappointed.

Well, Andrew was right about one thing. It had been a long day. And she needed some sleep.

* * * *

In the adjoining chamber Andrew prepared for bed. What a day this had been! He climbed between the cold sheets and lay, staring up into the darkness. He supposed he’d been right to tell Bridget about her father’s debts. And right, too, he thought, in withholding the name of the man who held those notes. No wonder Durabian had panicked, been frantic to get Bridget safely married and the stallion out of his stables.

It was Wichersham who held the notes, Wichersham who had no qualms about ruining man, woman, or child. Or animal, as far that went. Well, old Durabian had outfoxed him. It appeared fairly certain that the Irishman had meant for Waterloo to lose the race. But how had he accomplished it?

Andrew had heard of races in which the rider held the horse back. Bridget! Waterloo loved her. He would obey any command she gave him. Had she kept the horse from winning?

He supposed it was possible. But it was hard to imagine Bridget being party to any such plan. She was too honest, too proud of the stallion, to resort to trickery.

He sighed. There was no way to tell for sure. Asking would not assure him the truth, and it might insult her. Besides, even if he found that she
had
cheated, what good would the knowledge do him? He and Bridget were truly married—in the eyes of the church, and in his own. They’d do better just to make the best of it.

Besides, he couldn’t believe Bridget had been guilty of anything shady. He shifted in the cold bed. Should he have stayed with her tonight? He’d wanted to, but she’d looked so exhausted that he hadn’t the heart to make any more demands on her. But tomorrow night—

He smiled and willed himself to relax. Marriage to Bridget might not be half bad. If nothing else, it was sure to be interesting.

Chapter Seven

Bridget woke the next morning with a sense of apprehension. Something wasn’t right, but at first she was too sleepy to remember what that something was. And then she remembered. Papa! Papa owed that awful amount of money. She jumped from the bed, washed quickly, and hurried into her clothes. She had to see Andrew, to find out what he had done about it.

The dining room was empty, but there was food, far too much food, of course, on the sideboard. And a footman appeared right away to inquire if she wanted anything else.

She frowned. “Where is his Lordship?” she asked. “Has he had breakfast yet?”

“Oh yes, milady,” the footman replied. “He came down early and went out.”

Good! Bridget slowly filled her plate. Andrew was out keeping his word. When he came back, he’d have Papa’s debts paid. The thought gave her comfort and she enjoyed the food, eating far more than she was used to, but it seemed a shame to waste it—bacon, eggs, ham, kippers, and muffins with butter and apricot marmalade. And a great pot of tea to wash it all down.

She had just finished when Andrew came striding in. “Good morning,” he said. “You’ll be glad to know your father’s safe. I sent my factor to take care of his debts.
By
now it’s all done.”

She smiled, her heart feeling a million times lighter. “Good. Then we can ride out to see him.”

But Andrew frowned, looking very fatherish. “Bridget, I think we’d better wait till tomorrow to go out there. We’ve a lot to do today. You need everything, you know—gowns and petticoats, shoes and stockings, shawls and bonnets, and all the other things ladies wear.”

“But I don’t need anything,” she protested.
“My regular clothes will do fine.”

“They will not do fine,” he replied, his face turning so stern she knew she’d made a serious mistake. “You’re a lady now,” he went on, “and you must act like one.”

Why must he be so autocratic? And why must ladies act differently than ordinary people? “But I want to ride.”

Andrew sighed heavily, like Papa when she wanted to do something he disapproved of. “Bridget, you will ride. We’ll order you a habit. Something in forest green, perhaps, to go with your coloring. And riding boots, new ones. You’ll see. You’ll like having new gowns.”

She didn’t protest anymore. She knew that look on a man’s face. If
he
said she would like something, then it was smartest to agree with him, even if
she
knew she wouldn’t. After all, how long could a man like Andrew occupy himself with feminine frivolities? He’d soon tire of this shopping business and then she’d be free to do as she pleased. And when she
was
free, she’d jump into her old clothes and have a good ride on Waterloo—a good long ride.

“Very well,” she said, trying to smile pleasantly. “But you will send for Waterloo, won’t you? Like you promised? And for my boxes?”

“Of course,” he said. “They should be here by the time we return.”

* * * *

Shopping with Bridget had turned out to be much more than he’d bargained for, Andrew thought some hours later as they emerged from a shop on Bond Street. He looked around for the carriage: it was time to go home. Bridget was polite enough—none of those icy freezing looks she’d given him that first day at the stables—but she seemed almost not to be there with him, her mind miles away—with the stallion, no doubt. He would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself, but the chit actually
didn’t
care about clothes. She was the first female he’d ever known who would rather talk about horseflesh than about fashion.

Still, he had persisted in his efforts—she was his wife, after all, and if he meant to take her about in society, she would have to be properly dressed—and he was confident she now had everything she would need, even to half a dozen fine linen nightdresses embroidered with Belgian lace. He smiled, remembering the flush that had crossed her cheeks when they were purchasing them. In some things she was such an innocent. He would have much to teach her. And he meant to start tonight.

“Andrew,” she said, tugging on his arm. “Do you know those ladies there—the ones across the street? I believe they’re waving at you.”

“Across the— Damnation! Your pardon, Bridget.”
He
hadn’t meant to use such harsh language in front of her, but the word had just slipped out. Still, he could certainly be pardoned for it, as it was the Lindens that stood across the street—Lady Linden in a puce gown of vast proportions that still barely managed to cover her more than ample charms, and her daughter Martine, straight as the mother was round. But it wasn’t their looks that made him exclaim in exasperation, though they made quite a peculiar pair, but their reputations.

Scandalmongers par excellence, the Lindens were known over all of London. Any hint of scandal, any
on-dit,
was grist for their gossip mill, bruited about the city by mother and daughter, as fast as their carriage could convey their bodies and their tongues could wag the tales out.

Well, it was too late to avoid them now, too late to pretend he hadn’t seen them over there. Lady Linden was already hurrying the stickish daughter toward him, both of them grinning like carnivorous beasts about to dine on unsuspecting prey. Poor Bridget, she’d have little chance against those two.

“Lord Haverly,” Lady Linden cooed, grabbing his arm in a ferocious grip as though he meant to run off.

“Lady Linden,” he muttered, easing his arm free, though with difficulty, and wishing himself somewhere else, anywhere else. “And Miss Linden. Good day to you both.”