Joan Smith (21 page)

“He’s whistling down the wind. She wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

“Would she not? A marquess with lord knows how much blunt, and two of the finest estates in the country? Start practicing up to say ‘Aunt Trudie.’ ”

Such a tremendous piece of imbecility on Luten’s part required deep thinking by both travelers, so they fell silent and looked out on the grassy face of Suffolk till they reached the track. The Bartens were already there. Mrs. Harrington had declined the treat. Clappet looked at Trudie with a keener interest, and before they had exchanged a dozen words, he began to suspect that Sir Charles was right. She had changed, even from last night. There was a worried look about her, and she soon got him aside to explain it.

“If Sheba acts up, Peter, you mustn’t buy her. Luten says she is restive with colts or stallions.”

“Well, Luten is dead wrong. Fandango’s in the race, and Okay agreed to it.”

“Yes, well the other thing is, Luten said O’Kelly only paid fifty guineas for Sheba, because they couldn’t do a thing with her at Cheveley Park.”

“Deuce take it, we both know Luten wants to buy Sheba himself.
You’re
the one who told me so. Did he deny that?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. “But he only thought she might be useful for a brood mare, if they could get the stallion near her.”

“I see Luten has become quite a god with you!” Peter scoffed. “I never thought you were the kind of girl to marry for money, Trudie.”

“Marry?” she gasped. “Where did you get that
...
” Words failed her. Was it possible Luten actually planned to marry her?

“We know all about it, me and Nick. And if you’ve gone running to tell Uncle about this race, Trudie
...
”

“No,” she said weakly. Her head was in a whirl. She remembered those dark eyes that had gazed into hers the night before, the pressure of his lips on her fingers, and that other kiss in the carriage. “You must be mistaken,” she said, looking hopeful.

“Mistaken, and the pair of you smelling like April and May? Well, I have nothing against you for an aunt, so far as that goes, as long as you didn’t tip Luten the clue about Sheba. Of course he’ll know after I buy her, but by then it will be too late for him to do anything.”

A groom came pelting out from the stables, calling Lord Clappet. “Your nag’s gone crazy!” he hollered.

“What?” Clappet darted off, and Trudie was left alone to conjure with the impossible new idea that had been put into her mind.

Sir Charles and Norman also went to the stables, and she stood at the track railing, thinking again of that long satin gown. Several minutes passed, but they passed so happily that she was unaware of it. It was twenty minutes before she was joined by the gentlemen and the race was about to begin.

The racers were led to the starting gate. There was a chill in the air that day, and a mist rising up from the heath. Monger’s filly was a sleek Barb called Jet. She was well behaved at the gate, while Sheba frisked sideways and tossed her head. Trudie gave a warning look to Peter, then checked to see if Sheba was running next to Fandango.

“Why, Peter, where’s your colt?” she asked, for as she looked, she saw only the three fillies lined up.

Peter blew a gust of air from his lungs and wiped his brow. “The curst screw has gone mad. He was bucking and rearing like a wild stallion. I think he burst a blood vessel in his lungs, and can’t run. There was blood coming from his nostrils. I can’t imagine what got into him. He’s completely useless. I
have
to get Sheba now. Look at her, Trudie. Did you ever see such an eye?”

“No, nor such a frisky starter either.”

“There, the jockey’s got her under control now. Why don’t they start the race?” he asked, looking over his shoulder in case Luten should come pelting down on him.

The starting fire was given, and the three fillies bolted from their gates. There was no such refinement as racing silks; all jockeys wore their normal jackets and peaked caps pulled low over their eyes. Both Lightning and Jet were beautiful goers, but Trudie found it impossible to watch any filly except Sheba. There was that imperative quality of a beautiful woman about her; when she was present, all competition fell into the shade. Even Sir Charles didn’t watch his Lightning as closely as he felt he ought.

Sheba didn’t so much run as fly. She was certainly a filly of unparalleled grace, perfect balance, and extremely elegant form. It was no race at all, but an exhibition. Before the three fillies reached the section of the rail where the viewers stood, Sheba was already two lengths ahead, and gaining.

She moved effortlessly, ignoring the field behind her. There was a flash of flexed muscles, a dull gleam of her golden coat, a thundering of hooves, and flying of mane, a wind from her passing, and then there was a view of retreating hooves and tail, while the huge haunches moved as regularly as the pistons of Mr. Watt’s steam engine. When the other fillies raced past, it was an anticlimax. They were only flesh and bone and sinew. Sheba was made of rarer stuff—fire and light and air.

“By Jove, that’s something like!” Peter crowed.

“And the jockey was holding her back, I swear!” Norman squealed.

“She’ll distance the field,” Sir Charles said, stunned. “I knew she was fast—I didn’t know she could move like a bullet.”

Sheba not only distanced the field; she won by over two hundred yards, without half trying.

O’Kelly turned to the gentlemen. “Well, what do you say? Convinced she isn’t a savage, as some folks say?”

“I never saw a better-behaved filly,” Peter praised. “What we have to do now is settle on a price.”

O’Kelly gave a sad smile. “As I said last night, Clappet, money is not the first object. Just enough to get me home and pay off my sister’s debts.”

“I can get sixty-five guineas for hawking my curricle and some trinkets I have at the inn. I have three hundred in cash. Demme, I won’t get a sou for Fandango, with that burst blood vessel. I suppose I ought to have a look at him.”

“Yes, but let us settle up the payment first,” O’Kelly said. “I have to leave immediately. I don’t want to rob you of your curricle, Clappet, and your personal items—it would be too farouche to take them. Though I do need a watch. A Breguet, I think you mentioned ...”

“A dandy watch!”

“Perhaps the watch and the three hundred guineas, and—but that will leave you without any cash to go on here. I have it—I’ll take the watch and Fandango and two hundred guineas. What do you say to that? I know Fandango isn’t worth much, but I am a horse breeder, and I could find some use for him at Doneraile.”

“I paid four hundred for Fandango,” Peter said doubtfully. “He might recover from the burst vessel.”

“I was just trying to lighten the burden for you, but if you prefer to give your gig and the three hundred and the watch
...
”

Sir Charles nudged Clappet in the ribs. “Fandango and two hundred,” he whispered under his hand.

“I shan’t want two racers, I daresay,” Clappet said, still uncertain. He wished for one inexplicable moment that Luten were there to advise him. “Very well, two hundred and Fandango, and I shall keep my gig—curricle!”

“And I get the watch,” O’Kelly added. “Er—do you have the cash on you? If I dash off immediately, I can take care of a little business I have in town and leave for London tomorrow to make my arrangements for going home to Ireland. I can take Fandango now....”

“You’ll want his papers,” Sir Charles reminded him.

“That’s right. I will. Let us all meet at the Golden Lion for dinner, shall we? I should be free by seven. Dinner is my treat—I insist.”

It was agreed, and the group began to break up. O’Kelly stood for a moment, stealing quiet glances at Miss Barten. “Would you care to drive back to Northfield with me?” he asked hesitantly.

She feared he wanted to discuss the trip to Ireland, and knew she would decline, but turning him off would best be done in person, so she accepted.

As they left, conversation wafted after them. “What a first-rate bargain!” Peter crowed.

“A real gentleman,” Sir Charles added. “Imagine O’Kelly taking that screw of a Fandango off you, when he could have got your gig and three hundred pounds.”

“And paying for dinner for us all!” Norman added happily.

O’Kelly smiled modestly at his companion. “It was foolish of me to accept Fandango, but I couldn’t like to leave Clappet without a gig, and without any money. Some blackleg would have offered him a few guineas for his colt, and the animal would have ended up at a glue factory or pulling a dun cart.”

“You’re just like Norman,” she chided, but with much approval glowing in her handsome eyes.

“I take that as a great compliment, ma’am,” he said, and handed her into his carriage. “I wanted to have a chance to talk to you privately, before leaving. We must settle the time for your visit to Ireland.”

For one instant, she felt a strong instinct to go to Ireland and make her life with Mr. O’Kelly. He was a true gentleman, and really more handsome than Luten. Why was it that she preferred the harsher man?

“I—I don’t think we shall be going after all, Mr. O’Kelly,” she said gently.

“What!” His face was a mask of astonishment, though the jarring of the carriage might have been partly to blame, for they were rattling along at a very fast pace. “But surely it is settled!”

“No, it was never settled, only discussed. I now feel—oh, I daresay nothing will come of it, but I am— interested in another gentleman.”

“But you must know I—that is, I know I never asked you, for with my finances up in the air, I hesitated, but you must have guessed ... Oh, Miss Barten—Trudie—are you quite certain?”

His hands clasped hers in a tight grip, and his brilliant blue eyes, fringed heavily with lashes, were sad.

“Quite certain,” she said, and pulled her fingers from his.

He looked at them a moment, with his long lashes fanning his cheeks. His lips moved unsteadily, and she feared he was going to sob. “I’m sorry,” she said gently, and patted his fingers. “I’ll always remember you, Mr. O’Kelly. I have enjoyed your acquaintance.”

“Enjoyed?” he asked in a voice muffled with emotion. “Not so much as I have enjoyed yours, I think.”

“We shan’t argue about that,” she said primly, and, to change the topic, asked why they were driving so quickly.

“I am in a bit of a hurry—I told my groom to spring them. Who is the lucky man who won you? Anyone I know?”

“Nothing is settled.”

“Clappet?” he asked. When he lifted his head, a laughing blue eye regarded her. There was an expression in it that she’d never seen there before. She couldn’t quite put a word to it—it seemed intimate, even conspiratorial. The speed of the transformation too made her suspect he would soon recover from his heartbreak. “An excellent match! I congratulate you.”

“Not Clappet!” she exclaimed.

“Surely not Sir Charles. Clappet is much better to grass.”

“Actually, it is neither one,” she said, and flushed, not wanting to name Luten

“I see. A gentleman back home, eh? Worse luck for me.”

That’s all. She had expected a longer period of mourning, perhaps some coaxing and cajoling. A hint that if it didn’t work out, she would always be welcome at Doneraile would not have gone amiss. This new O’Kelly was difficult to gauge, but she sensed that he was hiding his hurt under a blustering good humor, and went along with it.

“Then I shall go home and set up a courting with my ex-ladylove,” he said lightly. “You have inadvertently set me on the path To rectitude, Miss Barten. I meant to shab off on Lady Catherine, once my daylights got a sight of you. She’s got a much better dowry, I fancy. Now that it’s off between us, it won’t seem encroaching if I inquire just what your settlement is. I make it between five and ten thousand. Am I right?”

She was surprised at his bluntness, but still felt sorry for him, and fell in with his mood. “Five thousand,” she said. “You are wise to opt for Lady Catherine.”

“Aye, and with your aunt thrown into the bargain, to be clothed and fed. I expect she’ll leave you something, though, to make up for it.”

“All of one thousand, to be split between Norman and me. Still no great heiress, you see. You are well rid of me, sir.”

“No man is well rid of a smile like that,” he said, with sufficient ardor to please her. “We might have rubbed along very well, you and I. I think we have some of the same spirit. I hope your new beau isn’t a pillar of rectitude. That sort wouldn’t suit you in the least.”

“You need not worry,” she laughed. Mr. O’Kelly was leaving for Ireland, and this little flirtation was like an unexpected gift. She could talk quite freely, without any fear of repercussions. “I have a secret I will share, if you promise not to tell a single soul.”

“Mum’s the word.”

“My beau is so far from rectitude that he initially took me for a lightskirt. Don’t laugh! He did! He even hired me a cottage for the Season at Tunbridge Wells that is now sitting vacant, already paid for. It sounded very nice too, right on the park.”

“I shouldn’t think he took it in your own name!”

“Oh, yes, I would be held in utter contempt if anyone ever found it out. That is why you are sworn to secrecy.”

“And you would marry him after such an insult?” he asked.

“I would—if he asked me. It was all a misunderstanding, you see.”

“I must know this gentleman’s name. He cannot be an old beau from Walbeck Park days, as I thought.”

This was coming perilously close to Luten. She had already denied both Peter and Sir Charles, and had no other friends in the neighborhood. “You would not know him,” she said, suddenly stiffening up.

“You haven’t left yourself much wiggle room, ma’am. But I shan’t say a word about Lord Luten, except to hope you will be very happy, and to rescind all the unpleasant things I once said to you about him. You have nabbed yourself an excellent parti.”

She frowned in derision. “I hope you are leaving the vicinity very soon, Mr. O’Kelly. He hasn’t even asked me, and to be boasting of an attachment beforehand is not at all the thing.”

“You will find this hard to believe,” he joked, “but where I am going, the name of Lord Luten is quite unknown. I could bellow your catch from the rooftops, and no one would care a groat. So I shan’t bother clambering up to any roofs. Truly, I am very happy for you.”