Vying for the Viscount

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  The Englishmen in India had seemed to allow their wives to guide their social connections, while they focused on more practical, business-related ones. Hudson would, of course, have to eventually learn how to mingle among other English, but his first priority was establishing himself in the local racing populace.

  As only one door remained unopened, he was unsurprised to find his dressing room behind it. His travel chest sat against one wall, and the large trunk of clothing lay open, though it was only partially unpacked. One full change of riding clothes had been prepared and laid out, which was all Hudson needed anyway. He could hardly wear more than one outfit at a time.

  Muffled movements indicated the arrival of his bathwater, and Hudson took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out slowly. He could do this. His father had raised him for this, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter that all Hudson had was head knowledge and very little actual experience. He was a smart man. He could do this. It was a new country and a new stable, but truly, how difficult could it be?

  Three

  His optimism lasted for an entire hour.

  After bathing and dressing, Hudson requested that the butler have the staff present themselves to their new employer. Walking the line of servants whose roles he didn’t know or understand had made his head spin.

  Fortunately, his stomach was no longer churning, and he was looking forward to a meal for the first time in months. The breakfast he’d then been presented had been so dreadfully bland that his swallowing of it was something of a miracle. The best that could be said for it was that it stayed where he put it.

  Now that his stomach wasn’t rumbling and he was clean and properly dressed, people might believe he owned the place. It was time once again to brave the stables.

  When it took him two tries to find the long, curving corridor that connected the main house to the stable, his confidence began to waver.

  No screaming female greeted him as he slowly opened the door at the end of the passage. There was, however, a man.

  He looked to be a bit taller than Hudson and of similar coloring, though his clothing was nearly all dark, a stark contrast to Hudson’s light golds and greys.

  “The new Lord Stildon, I presume?” the other man asked, turning away from the horse he’d been looking over.

  Hudson nodded. “And you are?”

  “Your stable manager. My name is Aaron Whitworth.” He inclined his head in greeting. “I am illegitimate.”

  What on earth was Hudson supposed to say to that? He’d of course met several well-to-do men of less-than-respectable birth—India was rather full of them—but he’d been taught that such things were never discussed, even if everyone knew about it. His mouth opened and then snapped shut before opening again. A response was obviously required, but what should it be? “I, er—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I am Hudson, Viscount Stildon. I, um, am not illegitimate.”

  Mr. Whitworth tilted his head back and let out a short but authentic laugh before looking at Hudson with a smile. “I should think not. Quite difficult to inherit a title if you are.”

  “Impossible, actually,” Hudson said as he made his way farther into the stable. “Do you always introduce yourself that way?”

  The other man gave a bit of a shrug. “It’s become a bit of a habit, I’m afraid, though I don’t usually do so professionally. It slipped out in this case, though I have to admit it prevents the uncomfortableness that occurs later when the truth comes out.”

  “I see.” In truth, he didn’t, or rather he understood but still didn’t know what to say about it. He glanced around the stable and then back to Mr. Whitworth. “Are you a good stable manager?”

  He cocked his head to the side, and his dark eyebrows rose. “The best around.”

  It was said with such calm surety that Hudson was inclined to believe him. Besides, he had no reason to question his grandfather, at least not when it came to the stable. He’d seemed a very knowledgeable and competent horseman in their letters.

  His skills as a grandfather, however, were entirely suspect.

  Hudson inclined his head toward Mr. Whitworth. “Well, then, if you are as good as you say you are, I don’t see where the, er, matter of your birth has any bearing.” He gestured around the stables. “It’s not like any of the horses are legitimate, either.”

  There was complete silence, and then Mr. Whitworth was laughing again. When he stopped, his smile was wider, more natural. “I believe we’re going to get on well, my lord. Welcome to Newmarket.”

  Hudson’s shoulders loosened, and he resisted the urge to roll them about and relieve more of the abated tension. “Do you live here on the estate?”

  Mr. Whitworth’s eyebrows lifted a bit. “No. I also manage another stable here in Newmarket. I have a cottage nearer to there. Normally I’m only in Newmarket part of the year. But I’ve had to spend more time here since your grandfather hired me.”

  The way the manager was talking, it was as if he expected Hudson to know about him and his situation. And why wouldn’t he expect such a thing? It was logical to assume that his grandfather had informed his heir about major developments.

  Only he hadn’t, and at some point Hudson was going to have to trust someone enough to tell them that. If he stumbled along with everyone assuming he knew more than he did, what sort of errors might he make?

  It didn’t sit well with him to trust a man whose mettle he’d yet to test, but Mr. Whitworth’s introduction had been frank and honest. He would also be the man most likely to see Hudson’s blunders up close. If anyone was in a position to subtly guide Hudson without anyone else being the wiser, it was this man.

  Hudson walked over to a stall to examine—or at least appear to be examining—one of the horses. “How long ago did Grandfather hire you?”

  “About a year and a half ago.” Mr. Whitworth joined Hudson and leaned a shoulder against the stall wall. “I’ve known him a while, of course, since I’ve run horses against him over the years. When it became apparent his illness was going to progress more rapidly than anyone could have guessed, he offered me the position. I, well, I couldn’t tell him no. He was a dying man and had no idea how long it would take for you to get here.”

  Hudson jerked his attention from the chestnut carriage horse and met the slight accusation in Mr. Whitworth’s eyes. “He was ill? He didn’t tell me.”

  The note about the prior viscount’s death had been vague, but Hudson had assumed that something sudden had taken him, like an accident or a lung disease. Instead, it would seem the man had sent two, if not three, letters, well aware that his end was imminent, and still he’d encouraged, in fact demanded, Hudson to stay in India.

  Mr. Whitworth said nothing, as there was no good response to such an admission, but some of the hardness eased from his features.

  After a tense moment, the manager ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Have you met the horses yet?” He pushed away from the wall and moved toward the box stalls on the other end of the aisle. “Some of them are out in the pasture, but there are a few in here.”

  Hudson followed, anxious for more than the glimpse he’d managed to get earlier. Would Mr. Whitworth know who the woman was? She looked comfortable enough in the stable to be a frequent visitor. The question was whether or not Hudson wanted to admit he’d been beaten with her boot during their first encounter. For the moment he would focus on the horses. “Where are the youngest ones?”

  Mr. Whitworth shifted his weight and gave Hudson a long look before opening the stall door of the horse Hudson had been attempting to guide out earlier. “You don’t have any little ones right now. There’s a gap in your stock. Lord Stildon’s will left provisions for me to keep training the existing horses and enter races, but I never had the authority to arrange breeding. He held on to that right to the end, and the solicitor wouldn’t release funds after he died. We had two foals shortly after his death, but unless you do something soon, you’re going to have a two-year gap in your racer
s instead of only one.”

  Hudson’s jaw dropped. A two-year gap? Had his grandfather wanted Hudson to fail? Why would the man go to such lengths to make Hudson appear the fool? He was going to have to do something soon to establish a solid reputation.

  The question was what.

  Mr. Whitworth led Hudson into the stall and gave the reddish-brown mare a pat on the neck. “This is Hestia. Two of our best winners are from her. We’ve high hopes for any foal she produces.”

  “I was in the stables with this horse for a few moments earlier this morning. I encountered a spot of trouble that might arise again.”

  Dark eyebrows lowered in concern as Mr. Whitworth turned from the horse. “Was there a man here?”

  “Er, no. A woman.”

  Concern cleared, and a glimmer of amusement followed. “I’m afraid I’m not well versed in that area. Any advice I’d give would be the headless leading the blind.”

  It took Hudson a moment to gather the other man’s meaning, and then hot embarrassment crawled up his neck. “It wasn’t that sort of trouble. It was just that the trouble came in the form of a woman.”

  “It usually does,” the manager murmured.

  Hudson slid his eyes closed. Could he make more of a muck of this? Monkeys in the marketplace were more graceful than he was being at the moment. He was simply going to have to explain the incident and hope Mr. Whitworth knew who the woman was. “A woman accused me of trying to steal one of the horses. She proceeded to attack me until it seemed prudent to step away.” Or run with his arms covering his head, but that distinction didn’t really pertain to the moment. “I watched her from the window for a while to see if she was of a mind to steal the horses, but all she did was pace the stable for twenty minutes.”

  “She attacked you? With what?”

  What did it matter what she’d attacked him with? Shouldn’t Mr. Whitworth be far more concerned with the trespasser who had laid claim to the stable? Shouldn’t they be trying to determine if she’d been here before? “Er, well, she attacked me with her riding boot, but I think the graver matter here is that the stable was left vulnerable to such a trespasser.”

  “Did she have brown hair and a ridiculous cluster of green feathers on her hat?”

  “Yes,” Hudson said, his trepidation growing along with a sense of reassurance, as the woman was at least known to the other man. “You’ve encountered her before?”

  “Oh yes.” The manager nodded, a slight tilt to one side of his mouth. “I had to convince Mr. Knight—he’s your head groom—that it wasn’t prudent to hire her. We let her exercise some of the pleasure horses and help around the stable, but I drew the line at allowing her to ride the thoroughbreds, stay overnight, or participate in the birthings.”

  Hudson’s mouth gaped open a bit. Of all the scenarios he’d contemplated, that wasn’t one of them. “But who is she?”

  “Her name is Miss Bianca Snowley.” Mr. Whitworth slipped a harness and lead rope onto the mare. As he led the horse out, he sent Hudson a wide grin. “She’s your neighbor.”

  His neighbor. Meaning a well-born young lady had been scraping horse hooves in his stable. Did all of Newmarket know she did that? Would that reflect poorly on him that he allowed such a practice to occur? He had, of course, been known to care for the horses in the stable in India on occasion, but that wasn’t the same. Or at least it seemed like it wouldn’t be.

  Were things more different in England than he’d thought?

  His mind was soon taken with the more pressing concern of learning about the stable. He met the horses and the grooms, was informed of the normal schedule for the day, and saw the collection of prestigious races his stable had won. Yes, it would seem that what his grandfather had left behind was every bit as spectacular as he had claimed.

  Now it was up to Hudson to keep it that way and make it even better.

  His stomach grumbled, reminding him that breakfast had been a rather unsatisfying venture. It was far too early for dinner, but his stomach was determined to make up for the many months in which he could only eat small bits of horrible ship fare. Not that what he’d eaten this morning had been much better.

  Andrew, the groom who had stumbled out of the stable the night before with a sleepy smile to see to the carriage that had delivered him from a nearby inn, shot that smile Hudson’s way once more. “There’s a tavern on the edge of town. Got the best beef stew in the county.”

  “Too many carrots,” grumbled Roger, another of the grooms. His mouth seemed as perpetually stuck in a frown as Andrew’s seemed inclined to smile.

  Hudson hadn’t eaten a great deal of carrots in his life, but he was certainly open to trying them. And if they had a distinct enough flavor for someone to think there were too many in a dish, well, at least it was better than the bowl of gruel and plain roll he’d been given this morning.

  The housekeeper had assured him that the meal quality would improve after there had been opportunity to send someone out for better ingredients. He supposed he couldn’t really blame his staff for that since they hadn’t known he was coming, but the idea that anyone ate such flavorless mush for a meal was disturbing.

  Mr. Whitworth cleared his throat. “I’m sure Lord Stildon can do better than the local tavern, gentlemen. Why don’t you saddle up Hades for him?”

  The grooms gave a swift nod and set about the task. Mr. Whitworth turned to Hudson. “Newmarket is on the other side of the Heath. We can’t ride across it right now because it’s closed to all but trainers, but you can see it from the road. I’ll take you by the yard where your current racers are training. From there you can have your choice of where to eat in town.”

  If Mr. Whitworth said anything after that, Hudson missed it. The exquisite, all-black horse the grooms led out of the stall at the far end of the stable captured all his attention. Every line, every twitch, was perfection.

  He’d encountered a few horses that were finer in his lifetime, but unlike those, this one was his. As he mounted the steed and patted his sleek, dark coat, a sense of calm eased the tightness lingering in his chest. Finally, everything he did was going to have an impact on his own future. He was going to carve out his own niche in this world, and he was going to get there on the back of this horse.

  Four

  The pot of tea sitting on the dressing table had gone cold by the time Bianca poured herself a cup and gulped it down. It eased the parched sides of her throat even if it offended her tongue, but more important, the chill of the brew meant that she was most definitely behind schedule.

  Owen and Miles had been the first grooms to return to the stable from exercising the horses, and while both men were meticulous in their care of the animals, they were not the ones she wanted to report the intruder to. She’d delayed her departure as much as she could, obviously more than she should have, given the state of the tea.

  Every Tuesday and Saturday it was delivered to her rooms at precisely ten o’clock, which was when she should start getting dressed for the day and preparing to receive visitors. Most of the time, she and her stepmother simply resided in the same house, but two years ago, Mrs. Snowley had insisted that Bianca start being available to callers twice a week.

  Mostly because it looked bad to have the younger sister taking visits while the older hadn’t yet faded away into abject spinsterhood.

  Bianca threw her plumed riding hat on the dressing table, along with the pins that had secured it in place, and started tugging at the fastenings of her riding habit as she crossed to the dressing room. Dorothy, the lady’s maid Bianca shared with her younger sister, wouldn’t be able to assist Bianca until Marianne was completely ready.

  Life had been so much simpler before Marianne entered society.

  Bianca had enjoyed three blessed years of freedom, attending only the parties and assemblies she wanted to, sitting for callers when visits had been arranged prior, and running about Newmarket as she wished. But when Marianne came out, Mrs. Snowley decided to have more of a say in
Bianca’s life as well.

  It was dashed inconvenient.

  It wasn’t that Bianca didn’t want to marry; it was simply that she hadn’t found anyone worth marrying. What was the point of getting away from her stepmother if she disliked her husband?

  Of course, at four and twenty it might be time to adjust her standards. She discarded the habit onto a wooden chair in the corner and picked up the dress that had been prepared and laid out for her. In stark contrast to her practical dark green riding habit, the pink silk with pale blue trim was lovely and delicate, but she was fairly certain she’d seen Marianne dressed in pink when she’d stepped into the room to let Dorothy know she’d returned.

  Both of them in the same color was not a good thing.

  A light knock preceded Dorothy’s rushed entrance into the bedchamber. Bianca frowned in her direction. “Is Marianne in pink?”

  Twin splashes of red spread across the maid’s cheeks. “Yes, miss. The blue one has a tear in it, and the only other presentable gown was pink.”

  Bianca groaned. She knew—everyone knew—that it was best if Bianca gave Mrs. Snowley as few reasons as possible to compare the two girls. In her mind, Marianne would always come out superior. She was, after all, Mrs. Snowley’s actual child, whereas nothing could acquit Bianca of the sin of being a living memorial to Mr. Snowley’s first wife.

  Two other dresses hung on hooks near the pink dress. Bianca reached for a pale green one and shook it out. A few wrinkles marred the skirt, but that shouldn’t be very noticeable once she was seated.

  “I think this one will do.”

  Dorothy’s mouth puckered as if she were being forced to eat lemons, and her arm shook a bit as she extended it to take the dress from Bianca. “If you wish, miss.”

  Bianca set about removing her riding boots as Dorothy did her best to smooth the skirt across the nearby bed. “We both know”—Bianca paused to give her riding boot a mighty pull—“that I’ll be blamed for any and all faults in my appearance, including wrinkles.”