His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3)

by Theresa Romain

  “This whole street’s uneven,” Irene said in her low, disguised voice. “The cobbles have settled badly over time. Mind your step.”

  Jonah tripped over an uneven cobble in the pavement, cursing. Irene’s lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. Good woman.

  At his side, Mouse trotted along, shaggy ears lifted in interest. All the while, they cut south and slightly west, until the vista of Hyde Park opened before them and the city fell away for a moment. And there stood Tattersalls, a great stretch of white stone, half church and half stable. For many of the men who frequented it, there was little difference between the two.

  Here they’d find fine horses, and he wondered if he ought simply to have bought a run-down nag from a hackney driver. Surely that sort of a horse would need help more than one of these pampered beasts.

  But there was part of him that thought, To what purpose? What would he do with a run-down nag? A person couldn’t ride it, couldn’t race it, couldn’t breed it. So what good would it be?

  And wasn’t that a very hard-hearted attitude to have toward a living creature?

  But wasn’t it simply being sensible, knowing that one couldn’t care for every beast in the world?

  Irene would know how to answer that, he thought, and she’d do it with questions. What use is money if not to do good? What use is time if not to serve?

  He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. “Where’s the man we’re to rob?”

  Irene chuckled. “If we make directly for him, that’ll look suspicious. Stroll casually. We’ll come across him in time.”

  So Jonah wandered idly past horses of impeccable breeding, impeccable grooming, impeccable conformation. These animals didn’t need help with anything, except perhaps getting accustomed to a deerhound. Mouse was in a heaven of warm animal smells, trotting forward and looping back and yip-barking her half-grown greeting at furry fellow creatures. Some were on leads, some in makeshift pens. Everywhere were errand boys and grooms, fallen snatches of hay and droppings, as two-legged and four-legged creatures roiled about to find one another.

  Jonah looked about for a stallion with stamina, a horse with more bulk than polish. But before he caught sight of such a beast, Irene was tapping his boot with the walking stick. “There’s our man. Yellow waistcoat and a dozen fobs, holding the halter of a chestnut.”

  Irene’s mission would come first, then. Jonah regarded their quarry with interest, wondering whether the man’s evil nature would show on his features. Disappointingly, Yellow Waistcoat stood out very little from the crowd of well-fed white men of middle age. Oh, he was dressed gaudily and heedless of the cigar he held, its acrid smoke wreathing the head of the glossy chestnut he held on a lead. But his ruddy complexion appeared the result of sunburn rather than debauchery, and his expression was all good cheer.

  “Talk to him,” Irene instructed. “About manly horsey things. I’ll provide a distraction at the opportune moment.”

  “What should I do then?”

  Her smile was a bit ferocious. “Be distracted right along with everyone else.”

  That, he could do. Jonah drew closer to the seller, or perhaps Mouse drew him.

  “Help you gentlemen find a particular sort of animal?”

  Jonah gave his name so that the proprietor would respond in kind. The other man introduced himself as Goodman, the devil. Jonah then gestured idly to Irene at his side. “May I introduce my friend, Mr.…” Oh God, he couldn’t think of a single name. “Jonah?”

  “Mr. Jonah?” Goodman sounded skeptical. “And you’re Jonah Chandler?”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Irene’s grip appeared firm, her expression unconcerned. “I’ll get this animal out from underfoot while you talk horses.”

  She took Mouse’s leash in her free hand, muttering in Jonah’s ear as she did so. “You’re terrible at this.”

  “It’s my first time. I’ll catch on,” he muttered back. Returning his attention to Goodman, he tried to remember what smiling looked like. One stretched one’s mouth and showed teeth, wasn’t that right?

  Mr. Jonah, apparently bored by the interaction, wandered off. He seemed to let the dog drag him, following a ragged path about the others.

  Jonah was not bored at all. He was on edge, for he recognized Goodman’s horse. Lord Damson was missing a chestnut of this description, one he’d intended to run at Ascot this very week. The long blades of legs, the white patch in the mane and white snip on the nose—unmistakable. This was Castanea.

  Jonah circled the rangy beast, picking out further identifying marks. “Where did you acquire this fine horse?”

  Goodman seemed gratified. “Had him for years. Raised him myself from a colt.”

  Nonsense. You had him from Damson’s stables four days ago. “He’s still a colt.”

  “A younger colt, I mean. A—how do you call ’em?—horse puppy.”

  Jonah choked. “You mean a foal.”

  “Yes, that.” Cigar smoke clouded Goodman’s features. “Of course that. Sorry, long night. I was up till all hours.”

  “With a horse?”

  “Hardly.” Goodman leaned in, flashing worn yellow teeth. “With a girl, wasn’t I?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Goodman ignored this reply, looking Jonah up and down as appraisingly as Jonah had regarded the chestnut. “Jonah Chandler,” he said thoughtfully. “I could find you a girl too. Everyone knows you and your wife parted ways years ago. A blackamoor, wasn’t she?”

  “Half,” Jonah said through clenched teeth. “Not that it matters.”

  “You don’t have to pretend with me.” Goodman winked. “It always matters, doesn’t it, what they look like? A man deserves a pretty girl in his bed. If you don’t want the next one black, maybe an Indian? Or I can get you—”

  “I’m not looking for a girl.” If Jonah had doubted Irene’s information, he had no question of its accuracy now. Even as the man tried to sell a horse, he attempted to line his pocket with people.

  “We’re all looking for a girl. Unless you’d rather a boy?” Goodman grinned at Jonah.

  Evil shouldn’t hide behind a wink and a grin. Irene would have his purse, but Jonah wouldn’t let the mission end there. He couldn’t.

  “If I want a lover, I’ll find her myself. From you, all I want is the price of this chestnut.”

  The older man narrowed his eyes, displeased, even as his smile widened. “Naturally.” He named a figure that was ridiculously low for the animal’s quality. Moving the horseflesh along, Jonah realized. Getting rid of the evidence.

  “I’ll take it. Hold the animal for me. I’ll have a servant return for him before the end of the day.”

  He handed over a banknote as surety, watching as it disappeared into Goodman’s purse. The man noticed nothing wrong, so Irene hadn’t lifted the purse yet. She was waiting for the distraction. Where was it? What was it?

  An eruption of gleeful barking cut through his questions, and movement eddied toward Jonah like a ripple from a cast stone. People were shouting, shoving out of the way. Horses reared onto hind legs, pawing the earth.

  And then the source of the chaos galumphed into view: a shaggy-furred deerhound with hay in her fur and a familiar-looking walking stick in her jaws.

  Irene’s distraction? Or simply a timely escape?

  “Mouse! Sit!” Jonah strode toward the dog. “Sit! Heel! Play dead!” Hell! What commands did the dog know? Why hadn’t he tried training her better?

  “Sit!” he called again, flailing for the dog’s lead. “Shake hands! Roll over! Damnation, Mouse—sit!”

  As if she’d never contemplated disobedience, his dog stopped in her run, trotted back to him, and dropped the walking stick at his feet.

  And sat.

  For a moment, everything was quiet. Then whistles and laughter broke out. Whickers and soothing whispers. Annoyed grumbling. And then, after another moment, it all settled back into a normal ritual.

  Goodman sidled to Jonah’s side as he snatc
hed for Mouse’s leash. “Your dog, eh? Not very well trained, is he?”

  “She did all right. Brought back my stick, didn’t she?”

  “But not your friend with her. Mr. Jonah.”

  True. Had Irene missed her chance to dip the man’s purse? She came puffing through the crowd then, the picture of fashionable, annoyed masculinity.

  “Damned beast got away from me,” she growled. “Good catch, Chandler.”

  Goodman shot the supposed Mr. Jonah a contemptuous look. “We’re done here, I think. You’ll send someone for the horse?”

  Yes. A constable. “Within an hour or two,” Jonah promised.

  Tipping his hat, he retrieved the walking stick and handed it to Irene. “Done?” he murmured as they turned their backs on Goodman.

  “Of course.” She gave a predatory smile. “Easy dip. He didn’t feel a thing.”

  “He’s got ten guineas of my money in there,” Jonah told her.

  “I saw you give him that.” Irene produced the banknote as handily as if she’d been waiting for Jonah to request it. “I thought gentlemen didn’t carry money.”

  “I don’t know how you define gentleman, but I find that money solves a lot of problems. So I like to have it with me.”

  “You’re a swell, but you’re nice.”

  His lips twitched. “What will you do with the purse?”

  “I’ll give it to Mrs. Brodie. It’ll go toward defraying the costs of a scholarship for one of the girls.”

  “A charity girl?”

  “We don’t call them that. All the girls earn their spots with achievement.”

  Jonah nodded. “Fair enough. But we need to do more than take Goodman’s purse once. I’m sure he stole that chestnut, and that’s an offense worth hanging or transportation. Would you mind if I turned him in for that?”

  “Would I mind?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to interfere with a mission in case you’ve a long-term plan that needs me to stay out of it.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “But thank you for asking. I would not mind at all if you saw Goodman arrested. Nor would the girls who will be allowed to go about their lives.”

  “Then let’s go.” Jonah took Mouse’s leash more firmly in hand. “We’ll tip off a constable.”

  “Such faith in the law!” Irene fell into step beside him, strolling slowly back the way they’d come.

  “It’s a horse stolen from a rich white man by another white man. Won’t the law work as it ought?”

  “In that case, it might. If you’re sure you’re right.”

  “I’m sure,” Jonah said grimly. “I always recognize a horse.”

  “Really?” She pointed to a beast at random. “What horse is that?”

  “I don’t know every horse. Only some. I have to have seen them before.” As they walked, he idly scanned the animals on offer, not expecting to recognize any.

  But then he did, and his hand slackened on the leash. Irene shrieked, a not-very-masculine sound, and Jonah recalled himself before Mouse could escape again.

  “I. That. I know that one.” Tugging Mouse alongside, he strode over to a worn-looking dark brown gelding. He halted a few feet away, speaking low. “Hullo, Bridget old boy. Do you remember me?”

  The tired horse’s head went up. His ears flicked forward. And then, as sure a greeting as a man shaking hands, he stretched out his neck to lip at Jonah’s coat.

  Jonah laughed, tousling the horse’s forelock before patting at his own pockets. “Good memory. I used always to keep carrots for you. What do I have today?” He found a few lumps of sugar, coarse and crystalline, and held out a hand for the horse to nibble up the treat.

  “Who’s this, then?” Irene asked in her guttural voice.

  “Bridget’s Brown. He was one of the most promising racehorses in my father’s stable, once.” He’d been calm for a Thoroughbred, free from vice. Not like Golden Barb, who hated to get his hooves wet, or Epigram, led as surely by his stomach as by the promise of victory. Until Bridget’s Brown had cracked a hoof two years before, he’d promised to be one of the greatest champions the Chandlers had ever raced.

  The poor injured colt had been stolen and turned out to run wild, his hoof growing more damaged before the Chandlers had retrieved him. Kept from racing, Bridget seemed to feel the lack of occupation, and he hadn’t recovered well at the stud farm. He’d begun kicking, putting his hooves and delicate legs at risk.

  Jonah had held out hope for training him out of it, but Sir William finally had made the decision to have the colt gelded. “He’ll have to give his ballocks or his life,” the baronet decided. The former sacrifice was, in the end, enough.

  But as a gelding, he was unable to breed at the stud farm. Once Bridget’s hoof was healed, Sir William sold the horse on to a smaller racing outfit near Derby. And Jonah had let him go. There was no real place for a gelding at a stud farm. It didn’t make financial sense.

  Yet he couldn’t help but feel they’d tossed Bridget away, rather like Harris tossing Susanna Baird’s belongings out a window.

  Now here he was again, the poor horse. He’d got rumpled and muddy, like a tossed-out belonging. But here he was.

  “How is he at driving in harness?” Jonah asked the seller. From the rough looks of the man, he was a few sellers removed from the wealthy stable to which Sir William had sold the gelding.

  The wiry man chewed at a straw. “Truth be, he’s not good at it. Has a soft enough mouth, but he doesn’t like the tack. Doesn’t like having his tail put through a crupper or having a collar put about his shoulders.”

  “No. No, he wasn’t trained to it,” Jonah said.

  “Nor bred to it, from the look of him,” agreed the other man.

  Trained to it was more important to Jonah. There was no reason why a leggy Thoroughbred couldn’t pull a light gig, though he’d never make the plow horse that a Suffolk Punch would. But so-called breeding wasn’t everything. It was what a body was used to that made a difference. And Bridget, poor beast, hadn’t been trained to expect anything that had happened to him from the time his hoof cracked.

  Bridget’s Brown wasn’t a stallion. He didn’t have stamina or bulk. He wasn’t the horse Jonah had been looking for. But he needed help, and that made him the right choice for today.

  “I’ll have him,” said Irene, even before Jonah could. “How much?”

  Jonah hardly listened as they negotiated a price. He stroked the horse’s lean neck, hoping that every touch of his hands communicated apology.

  When Irene and the seller pressed hands, coming to an agreement, Mouse tipped up her nose to Bridget’s muzzle. The animals exchanged a warm whuff of air, as if they understood. Friends now. Home soon.

  A few minutes more concluded negotiations. An employee of Tattersalls would take Bridget’s Brown to Queen Anne Street, along with a scrip written out by Jonah so that the butler, Bright, would pay for the horse.

  “Shall we send Mouse too?” Jonah asked.

  “We can’t do that to a stranger,” Irene rumbled. “It would be unkind. She can come along.”

  But first, another errand of their own. They weren’t far from Bow Street, home to the famous magistrate’s court and the Runners who kept order throughout London.

  A deerhound might be too much for a magistrate’s court to accept, Irene thought, so she waited outside, pacing the pavement with Mouse, while Jonah went into the stern stone building to deliver a statement. The officer to whom he spoke looked bored until Jonah mentioned Lord Damson’s name. When he gave his own card, offering to lay evidence against the man at Tattersalls, the officer fetched a superior. And with a description of the horse and Lord Damson’s London address in hand, the team of officers set out to arrest the horse thief called Goodman—pocketing, probably, a significant reward from Lord Damson.

  And that was that. Jonah’s part was done.

  He exited the building and strode to Irene’s side, left with the feeling that he had missed the most important part o
f something good. Like turning away from the finish of a race. He knew he’d done his part, and the finish hadn’t been up to him. But…was this all?

  “Goodman’s to be arrested,” he told Irene, “based on my evidence. Damson will be contacted.”

  “Excellent work,” Irene approved.

  “It’s not right.” Jonah snatched for the walking stick, striking it against the pavement. “It’s not right. They only listened to me when I mentioned an aristocrat’s name. And Goodman’s to be arrested for stealing a horse, not for stealing people. What can we do to help the ones he’s already procured?”

  Irene was silent for a moment. “Why, Jonah, you sound as if you want another mission.”

  “Shouldn’t I? It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  They took a few steps together—angry, halting steps on his part—before Irene said quietly, “Jonah. It’s good, but you’ve done many good things.”

  He made an unintelligible sound, stalking on, as Irene and Mouse trotted at his side.

  “You saved me from arrest the day we met at Newmarket. You took in my mother and brother and a dog and an orphan. And now a horse too.” She pressed a hand against her side. “I’m getting a stitch. Would you slow down a bit?”

  He made another grumbling growl, but shortened his stride.

  Irene continued, “You treat horses with kindness and patience. You’re helping your father find a daughter so he can support her financially. You do a lot of good, Jonah. It’s not the flashy, spangly sort that draws attention, but it’s the sort that makes the world go.”

  He batted this away. “I could do more.”

  “So could we all,” she sighed. “Now you understand why I can’t give up my work.”

  “Because there’s always someone else who needs you.”

  “Always,” she said, and even through the shields of her disguise, she looked tired.

  He could understand that. He was tired too, weary in spirit, and he’d done only a tiny bit of one mission. Once. On one day.

  They were nearing the Chandler house now, and Jonah couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Not when he’d hardly brushed his hand against hers. Not when they were scarcely beginning to find common ground.