The Sport of Baronets

by Theresa Romain

  “You’ll visit my mother too, will you?”

  “And I am growing fond of your chestnut with the white blaze,” she said crisply. “I think I’ll buy him next.”

  A smile tugged at Bart’s lips. “You can try.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm. “All right, Damnation Chandler. I will walk you to the stable and see you safely off.”

  ***

  “Well, Hannah? How does the new colt go on?” Sir William’s smile was benign as he poured his evening brandy—never more or less than a half inch—into a glass.

  Dinner had come and gone in late afternoon, and Hannah had managed to avoid her father by taking a tray in her room. She could not dodge the inevitable for long, though. Every evening before supper, she met with Sir William in his study and received her secretarial instructions for the following day.

  “I could not get him. He was taken.”

  Sir William’s glass clunked heavily onto his endless mahogany desk. “What is this?”

  Hannah quickly explained the events that had occurred, studying the moods that flickered over the baronet’s face. His hair was the intense gray of hammered steel; his eyes the same hazel as Hannah’s, though she never saw much familiar in them.

  When she finished, he shook his head. “Why did you not tell me all of this as soon as you arrived home?” He gave the wheels of his chair a push so he could fix his upset gaze on her from a better angle.

  This was why, though she could not tell him. Hannah’s sister, Abigail, was all cold anger and grudges. Nathaniel flared up quickly, then was sunny again, like black powder with no bullet. Their brother Jonah seemed to feel nothing anymore, neither wrath nor joy.

  Sir William’s displeasure, though—this was the worst. This disappointment like a cloud. Oh, I thought you could do better. I thought you could handle this.

  She could. She would. Because that racehorse was going to carry her farther than she had ever been before. “I’m sorry, Father. I shall sort it out.”

  “It’s not to be hoped that young Crosby was anything but a hindrance. He probably planned the whole thing.”

  Hannah hesitated. If she did not blame the horse’s disappearance on Bart, it would all become her fault. “I do not think so.”

  “He was to be a gift for you,” Sir William added in a misty voice.

  “Bart Crosby?”

  One heavy brow lifted. “Golden Barb.”

  “Right,” Hannah rushed to reply. “That—that is what I meant to say.” In blushing disarray, she leaned back, hoping to fall into shadow outside the reach of her father’s desk lamp.

  “You wanted him so badly.”

  “Golden Barb,” Hannah repeated. “Yes, that is true.”

  To have a colt of her own—all her own—was a dream she’d held as long as she could remember. She had scraped together the money for the colt’s purchase, using years of pin money and savings from the allowance granted by her parents’ marriage settlements.

  She’d had her eye on no particular horse though. She had actually thought to purchase one from her father’s stable.

  He had drawn up the bill of sale with his solicitor. He had planted the idea of Golden Barb’s purchase.

  She had agreed because there was no colt better than Golden Barb. Though on her own, Hannah would likely have chosen one that did not require her to do business with the Crosbys.

  Or so she would have said the previous day or any day before that. She had long known that the Crosbys were sly, manipulative creatures, and the only reason to have anything to do with them was to get the best of them.

  But had she known it at all? One could not know something that was not true. And though Lady Crosby had been much as Hannah expected, Bart had…not.

  “We must follow every lead,” Sir William said. “We cannot let this theft go unanswered. Though I do agree with young Crosby’s decision not to notify a constable at present. Not until more is known. I shall write to my solicitor again, and if there is any need for firmer action, I shall find out what that is. Not that I doubt you did your best today.”

  So said the words. The voice said the opposite. The hands, hovering over the mahogany frame of his wheels, reminded her: You ought to be grateful for what you have, and The very least you could do would be not to fail me.

  She was grateful, and she would not fail. As she stood on her two healthy legs, she folded her feelings up small and tight, then tucked them away. Sealed them, as though behind wax. Not to be touched or tampered with. “Yes, Father. I have made arrangements to search Lady Crosby’s papers tomorrow.”

  This was true enough. She had mentioned it, at least. And she had certainly vowed to return to Bart—that is, to Sothern and Lady Crosby—the following day.

  Mollified, Sir William gave her a few more instructions related to his correspondence, and then he dismissed her.

  Only when she left the room did she realize that she had thought of her father’s disappointment, her sister’s displeasure, that of her brothers. It had not occurred to her to wonder what form her own resentment took, or if she could allow herself to acknowledge it at all.

  Chapter 4

  Dear Mr. Crosby,

  Please do not forget that you agreed to wait for my arrival before attempting to locate the original bill of sale for Nottingham from 1801. It is not, precisely, that I don’t trust you to be forthcoming about what you find, but as you have today lost a colt and I have lost two hundred guineas—or ought it to be the other way ’round?—neither of us can afford further confusion about the matter.

  How goes the recovery of Sothern and your stable boy, Russ?

  Yours, &c.,

  Hannah Chandler

  Dear Miss Chandler,

  Is this note intended for me? Your messenger is insistent that it has been correctly delivered. But as I have not been “Mr. Crosby” for years, I assume it has in truth been misdirected.

  Yours, &c.,

  Sir Bartlett Crosby

  Dear Bart,

  I suppose it is a waste of ink to call you incorrigible. Very well, you find me penitent and abject. You did not answer my question. How are they, please?

  Hannah

  Dear Hannah,

  I lack your subtle skill with a vinaigrette and a well-pointed question, but I have ascertained that the patients go on well under Mrs. Jarvis’s care.

  Sothern has sustained greater injury than Russ, who is already anxious to return to his duties (and, I suspect, escape the “nourishing” calf’s foot jelly with which he has been dosed). They are resting comfortably at the moment and shall both be checked again tomorrow by the doctor. As you are to return to rummage through my archives, you may receive further details then.

  Bart

  Dear Bart,

  “Rummage through your archives”—that does not sound proper, does it? But propriety must take second place to the search for answers. And so I will arrive at 11 o’clock tomorrow to assist you in locating relevant documents.

  Do consider placing more staff on watch at the stable tonight, won’t you? Even though I suspect that bird has flown—which, before you chastise me, is how young ladies speak when they believe a wrongdoer has already escaped.

  A good night to you.

  Hannah

  Bart dismissed the messenger one final time, giving him a coin, then laid this note next to the others atop the old walnut desk in the house’s study.

  If a woman was threatening to call a man incorrigible but not actually doing so, she surely meant quite the opposite.

  And if a woman wished a man good night after promising to see him the next day, surely she meant precisely what she said.

  Didn’t she? It was easier to flirt by letter, when he could not stutter or drop things.

  It was also easier to flirt when one pretended one could not be flirting. Because how could he possibly be flirting with a Chandler?

  Dear Hannah, he wanted to write.

&nbs
p; But he had already dismissed the messenger, for he had no reason to justify sending a panting servant across Chandler lands again with another note. Not when Hannah would be here in the morning.

  For tonight, he would join his other stable boy on the night watch. He and Jack could spell one another to stay alert.

  Bart smiled. He almost hoped Northrup would return tonight, for he felt capable of anything.

  All things considered, he had smiled much more today than he’d expected to.

  ***

  “It is too late, Bart.”

  At the sudden entry of a visitor into the study the next morning, Bart’s quill took a jog across the margin of his letter. He hurried to wipe the pen and set it aside, then stood. “Hannah. Good morning. Ah—what is too late?”

  Neat as a fashion plate in a dark blue habit, she kicked shut the door. “Golden Barb’s disappearance is known, for the odds on his performance in the Two Thousand Guineas are already changed. Yesterday he was two to one, and today you can get ten to one if you bet he’ll race at all.”

  Bart muttered a curse. Gamblers. “I wish I could do away with all betting on the race. Such energy would be much better put toward finding Northrup and the horse.”

  “It will be, I think. Not even a constable can touch a bookmaker for curiosity, and the bookmakers have far more resources. Any news that affects their livelihood, they’ll sniff it out.” She eyed him with some doubt, then added, “You might consider hedging your bets for the time being. I shall, if I can gather twenty more guineas.”

  “I assume you know of our parents’ financial…issues.” When she nodded, Bart added, “Even if gambling had not all but ruined my family, I would not want to bet against Golden Barb. If I don’t have a champion to put out to stud, such a bet only turns a quick profit that cannot be repeated or sustained—which is more akin to a permanent loss.”

  She frowned. “That makes sense.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “No, no—it is only that I had not thought of it in that way.”

  The study, which was also the home’s library, faced east, and the high angle of the late-morning light turned her hair to honey. Picked out every one of her freckles. Highlighted the line of her cheek and the curve of her lip.

  “This was a good time of day to meet,” Bart said. “Thank you for being so punctual.”

  In the past, he had often become tongue-tied around a woman he found attractive. If not that, he would be soppy, fumbling for lofty words or fashionable cant that felt unnatural on his lips, or choosing flowers from among an infinity of nosegays that all looked the same to him. What seemed to suit other men felt too brash, too false. But since everyone else did it, he knew it could not be wrong in the eyes of society.

  Was he doing right? Had he ever done what he wanted to do?

  Not the last. Never the last. In the end, he would rather do none of these. He would rather gallop away.

  Hannah had tricked him into being comfortable with her, though. At first, because he had not cared what she thought of him. And now they had together encountered a crime and a theft and his mother’s determined silence, and it would be ridiculous to babble and fidget over the shade of her eyes or hair.

  “Shall we begin?” Hannah’s eyes—which he knew to be hazel, which was a perfectly normal observation to make—roved the spare corners of the room. She could not know the exact spots where expensive ornaments had once stood, where rare volumes had once been stashed. Now the fine wood was a clean, bare glide, and cheap stacks of newspapers that no one had ever read filled the bookshelves. The only ornamented aspect left was the ceiling, which had been painted decades ago with a fanciful image of Pegasus, the winged white stallion.

  “Ought we to have a—a maid in here for propriety?” Bart’s hand knocked against his pen, sending it rolling over his letter and scattering stray flecks of ink.

  All right, so he could still manage a bit of stammering and fidgeting.

  “I rode here with mine, but she is drinking tea with the other servants. I brought her along for my reputation. For yours, I am keeping her out of this room.”

  “Do you have some improper aim in mind?”

  Her mouth opened, and faint color stained her cheeks.

  Bart was all set to apologize, but then she replied, “Because we are looking through your private papers.” And the flit of her gaze—up, down his body as the blush deepened—showed him that apology was unnecessary.

  For she had not told him no.

  “Ah—hmm.” Bart cleared his throat. “Tea. Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” She strolled to the far side of the room, peeking into an empty bookshelf as though it held a hidden compartment.

  “The hidden compartment’s on the other side of the room,” Bart said.

  Hannah’s head whipped up so quickly that she knocked it against the underside of the shelf. “A hidden compartment? You’re not serious.”

  “Sadly, no.” He smiled. “If you’ve survived your knock on the head, I had the papers from 1801 retrieved last night. They were in crates in the attic. I was relieved that mice had not made a meal of them.” With a broad gesture, he indicated a trio of crates the size of traveling trunks stacked behind the walnut desk he used as a work space when indoors.

  “Let us begin, then.” She drew a stern ladder-backed chair across the desk from Bart and plopped down in it—but instead of requesting a handful of papers, she focused on the notes spread out next to the penwiper. “Oh—you kept my notes?”

  “As these crates should demonstrate, it is not the practice of this household to dispose of correspondence.”

  With a tentative forefinger, she touched her own note. “You do hate when I call you ‘Mr. Crosby.’”

  “Hate is a strong word, but it’s not my favorite thing anyone has ever done. Why do you do it?”

  She flicked the note away and straightened in the chair. “Because it catches your notice. We youngest children—we don’t always get noticed.”

  You would catch my notice no matter what you called me. “If you want attention,” he said in a creditably grumpy tone, “all you need do is say so. I will be happy to stare at you.”

  He did just that for a moment, as her lips parted and the chilly spring air snapped with warmth. And then, blinking, he recalled their purpose. The crates had been opened last night, and now there was nothing to do but sift through papers.

  “Shall we each take a stack?” Bart gathered up a double armful of old documents, then dropped them onto the surface of the desk. “They aren’t in any particular order, so we might have to look through a great many.”

  “Anything with my father’s name,” Hannah agreed. “I shall set it aside.”

  Bart seated himself across from her and began on his own pile. It was quick work; most of the documents were related to the household or were personal correspondence. His father had still been living then, and seeing the late baronet’s clear handwriting, even on something as mundane as a paid receipt, woke twinges of loss and delight at once.

  Old papers turned and fluttered like dry leaves. After a few silent minutes, Hannah spoke. “Why do you keep your office in a loose box of your stable when you’ve a pleasant study here?”

  Bart squinted at a bill. Was that signed by Sir William? No, it was some other name. Besides which, he wouldn’t have been Sir at the time; his baronetcy was of wartime vintage. “Ah—because I want to be closer to the horses. If I’m shut away and must rely on the reports of my grooms, I will not be as effective.”

  “Especially not if one’s grooms are prone to assault and theft.”

  “Especially not in that case,” he said on a sigh.

  “And why,” she asked, turning over another page, “did you choose the name Golden Barb for a bay colt?”

  “What a sad world it would be if a racehorse’s name had to make sense.”

  “Very true, for my favorite in my
father’s racing stable is a colt named Bridget’s Brown. Who Bridget was, I have no notion, since the colt bore the name when we bought him. He is brown, at least. A lovely color, nearly black. Now that Golden Barb is missing, Bridget is favored to win the Two Thousand Guineas.”

  Gambling again. Bart ignored this. “Golden Barb’s name is suitable if you think about the meaning rather than the color. He is descended from the line of the Godolphin Barb, and he was sired by Nottingham.”

  “Why not call him Robin Hood, then?”

  Mildew had stuck several papers together, and Bart occupied several seconds in teasing them apart. “He is not a thief,” he replied when this delicate operation was complete. “His name makes reference to the golden arrow Robin Hood collected in a contest of skill.”

  “The skill of the man you call a thief?” Hannah laughed. “You are no admirer of those old tales, I see. To those most in need of his help, Robin Hood is no thief. He is a savior.”

  “An apt word. His intervention is all but miraculous, taking from those with too much in the nick of time to save the desperate.”

  She set down her documents. “This is why you don’t like him? The gentry have much to fear from Robin Hood.”

  “You mistake the matter. I am much closer, at the moment, to the desperate hordes than I am to the corrupt nobles with fat coffers.” But who was going to save him? He had thought his colt would. Now all he had were crumbling documents. And what earthly good would be accomplished by knowing what had passed between their parents sixteen years before? Better to know what they had said to each other yesterday.

  “So you pin your trust on a horse rather than a human,” Hannah said.

  “Who would not, if given the chance?”

  Biting at her bottom lip, Hannah squared the papers she had already examined. “I suppose that depends on the person.”

  “Maybe so. But it does not depend on the horse.” There was no tricking a horse with empty promises. Horses only understood the truth, the now. And they remembered how you had treated them in the past: whether training lessons had been accompanied by kind words and slices of apple or whether the halter came with harshness, the saddle with fear.