Sport of Baronets

by Theresa Romain

  “Not only Epigram.” Giving the mahogany wheels of his chair a little push, Sir William angled himself back from the desk and pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I need to meet with Sir Jubal in the stable in a few minutes. Miss Agate, please acquaint my son with the latest happenings while I see to my brandy. Taking it early won’t hurt just this once.”

  About Miss Agate were arranged industrious islands of paper, ink, and quills, of ledgers and correspondence and waxes and seals. With her brows puckered, she sifted through papers.

  “Two other animals have developed colic,” she explained in a low, calm tone, her accent as tidy and crisp as the angled streets of Mayfair. “All three were to travel to Epsom in a fortnight to await the Derby. Other than that, they’ve little in common. Epigram does not belong to the Chandler stable. Pale Marauder is one of your father’s racehorses, but the third is not a Thoroughbred at all.”

  “Do you mean Sheltie?” At the secretary’s nod, Nathaniel grimaced. The fat little pony had kept the Chandler Thoroughbreds company for twenty years, soothing fractious tempers—human as well as equine—with her stolid presence. “Poor little Sheltie. Sick at her age; that’s rotten luck.” Nathaniel sank onto the edge of the wide table, resting his weight.

  “Off. Off the desk, Nathaniel. I tell you this every time.” Sir William looked up from his fussings with the brandy decanter. “Do you think it’s a matter of luck, then? Sheltie’s illness?”

  Nathaniel slid from the table and planted his feet. “Do you think it’s not luck? What else could it be?”

  “That,” said Sir William, “is a question against which we’ve been beating our brains for some time.” He indicated the papers before him. “For the three ill animals, we have reviewed exercise schedules, stable care, water sources…”

  “Currying supplies, the tack,” continued Miss Agate. “And feed.”

  “They shared feed,” said Sir William. “That’s all. When Smith last delivered lucerne hay, did you remember to check it for mold?”

  The baronet’s tone was mild, which was far worse than when it rang out sternly. Mildness meant disappointment. Mildness meant I should have known better than to trust you with this.

  “Of course I did,” Nathaniel replied. “I cut a sample from the center of a few of the bales, and the quality was perfectly acceptable. Since my childhood, I have known how to tell good hay from bad.”

  “I suppose,” granted the baronet. “And Lemuel Smith has been supplying this family’s stables and stud farm with lucerne for decades. Which means the colic can’t be caused by feed either.”

  “There is some common cause,” said Miss Agate. “And we will find it.”

  We, she said easily, as though she had already become an indispensable part of the household. It had been thirteen years since Nathaniel had spoken or heard that effortless we.

  It had been longer still since he’d felt the certainty reflected in her words.

  Sir William eyed his glass, then poured in a few more drops of brandy before resealing the decanter. This ritual was performed at the same time every day. It was always a half inch, never more and never less.

  In the slanted sunlight of late afternoon, the brandy glowed like liquid gold. Half an inch was no more than a taste of heat, a splash of sharp, buttery warmth on the tongue. At the end of a journey, Nathaniel wanted that brandy as much as the carriage horses had wanted their stable and hay.

  But there was always a reason to want brandy. Or whisky. Or port. Or claret.

  Nathaniel turned away, squinting toward the west-facing windows and their glimpse of the stables. “Have you time to hear my news of London before your meeting, Father? I had some success there.”

  “Did you? We could use some good news.” We again, and Nathaniel had no idea if the pronoun included him or not. The baronet twisted his empty glass, the crystal making a heavy sliding sound on the table. The sound of luxury, of a half inch of brandy that was enough, that had to be enough.

  Nathaniel swallowed the craving. “Yes. The chestnut and bay colts sold for much more than expected.”

  When he named the price, Sir William’s heavy brows lifted. “Not bad. Those two could never win one of the classic races, but they’ll be quick after the fox if they’re gelded and trained up as hunters.”

  “I also purchased a broodmare named Helena for the stud farm. Sothern is bringing her up to Newmarket.” At the name of the trusted groom, Sir William grunted his approval. “And,” Nathaniel continued in a rush, “Sothern will remain with her until she is settled under Jonah’s care, which means I—”

  “Of what line is she?” Sir William broke in.

  Nathaniel bit off the rest of his sentence. The most important part. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Of what line is she? The broodmare?”

  “Through her dam, she is of Matchem’s line.” One of the finest Thoroughbred bloodlines of the past century.

  Sir William tipped his head toward Miss Agate. “How does one know that?”

  Was this a test for her or for Nathaniel himself? “Because the horse told me so,” he muttered. “She’s a Houyhnhnm, just like the talking horses in Gulliver’s Travels.”

  The secretary’s mouth twitched. “A great piece of luck,” she said. “In cases involving a nonspeaking horse, I believe one would be required to consult the General Stud Book?”

  This book of reference was practically the family bible. Hundreds of pages of illustrious names and begats.

  “Good, Miss Agate,” Sir William approved. “You’re learning the racing world quickly.”

  Nathaniel rubbed at his unshaven chin. “Right. Well, that’s how it’s done if one hasn’t the good fortune of meeting a Houyhnhnm. Check the Stud Book. Trust Nathaniel. Buy fine horses.” He took a deep breath and began his request again. “While Sothern is occupied at the stud farm—”

  “It was wise to have him walk Helena there. There is no one more trustworthy, and she sounds like a very fine broodmare,” Sir William interrupted for at least the thousandth time. “Jonah will welcome the addition to the stable. He thinks Matchem’s descendants are sturdy. Healthy too, and good-tempered.”

  Nathaniel agreed. “That’s why I chose Helena.” An extravagant purchase that he was nevertheless confident would pay dividends. Dividends even more precious than gold coins; dividends in the form of fleet-footed, race-winning foals.

  Jonah, huge and inscrutable, was the oldest of the four Chandler offspring. He oversaw the operations of the stud farm north of Newmarket. On those spacious acres, Thoroughbreds were born and received their first training.

  Far more at ease with horses than people, Jonah had an eye for racing potential and a knack for bringing it out. The stud farm, like the stables at Chandler Hall, housed not only the family’s horses but also horses belonging to many others. Hopeful owners betting that the fees they paid the Chandlers would bring not only the best care and training, but also success on the turf.

  Sir William glanced at his watch again before stuffing it back into his waistcoat pocket. “I must be off to the stables. Sir Jubal is expecting me. If we’re to have a prayer of getting these horses to Epsom in time, they’ll need to be physicked quickly.”

  “I shall accompany you.” Both Nathaniel and Miss Agate spoke at once.

  Nathaniel blinked at the secretary with some surprise. She smiled at him tentatively. “We shall?”

  “You both ought to come,” decided Sir William. “Nathaniel, you must learn more about the situation so you can acquaint Sothern when he arrives.”

  I have asked him not to come. It was on the tip of Nathaniel’s tongue to say so, to blurt it out after so many interruptions. I want to take the horses to Epsom instead, to lead the one journey I have never yet made for this family.

  Trust Nathaniel.

  But it was a great deal to say all at once, especial
ly when worry over ill horses was poking at the ever-tentative peace between father and son.

  “I would be delighted to see the horses,” he replied. This was always true.

  He pushed himself away from the wall. The brandy decanter winked at him as he walked by the table.

  He turned away, instead sidling around the table to unlatch the French doors leading out from the study. As he reached them, he somehow jostled Miss Agate, who was moving in the opposite direction. She caught her balance on the table’s edge, scattering a batch of quills.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Sir William, I shall set this to rights and join you directly.”

  “Allow me.” Nathaniel reached for the quills.

  “No need, thank you. It will take only a moment to tidy this.” She was already crouching, her face hidden. Only the smooth back of her light print gown was visible, and that great crown of russet hair picking up golden-red sunlight.

  Nathaniel hesitated, half crouching himself—but Sir William made an impatient sound. “Sir Jubal awaits. If you’re coming?”

  Nathaniel unfolded himself, cracking an elbow on the underside of the table and smothering a curse. He always felt a bit out of place in Sir William’s world, wrongly sized and out of step.

  It hadn’t always been that way. But it had been that way so long that Nathaniel had almost forgotten that things had once been different.

  Maybe Sir William had too.

  Holding open the glass-paned door with one boot and an outstretched arm, Nathaniel made way for his father. With the agility of long practice, the baronet steered his cumbersome chair out from the study onto a stone path paved smoothly for wooden wheels.

  And Nathaniel followed in the lines his father had so carefully laid out.

  * * *

  Rosalind kept her face turned demurely toward the floor until the French door had swung shut again. Crawling forward one tiny nudge at a time, she peered around the legs of the large table.

  The Chandlers were moving steadily down the path to the stable. Away from the study. Good.

  It only took seconds to tidy up the mess of quills she had created by way of excuse. Rubbing at her elbow to reduce the tightness of her old scars, Rosalind then took up a fresh sheet of paper and dipped the quill again. After folding the paper and inking the direction, she smoothed it out and scrawled:

  Anweledig,

  Several horses have fallen ill. They might not be able to race in the Derby.

  Should she say more?

  What more could she say? She considered the possibilities, quill poised over the paper.

  Alpha and I have no idea what is causing the illness.

  Nathaniel Chandler—no, she called him Gamma in letters to Aunt Annie. Gamma returned from London with good news, muddy boots, and an unlikely tale of a milkmaid.

  Gamma’s blue eyes are full of mischief and plans. I should like to know what is on his mind.

  This last thought was as sweet as it was irrelevant. Rosalind’s snipped and abandoned friendships and posts lay about England like a shawl full of dropped stitches. She had been a housemaid time and again, a governess for family after family. There was no sense in regretting any of these departures when each hole, each break in the pattern, was only one among many.

  But she did regret them. All of them. She was tidy by nature, and she would rather knit than unravel.

  No, she would add no more to her brief letter right now. She wiped the quill and set it aside.

  After sanding the paper to dry the ink, she folded the note to Aunt Annie and slid it into the bodice of her gown, along with a gummed wafer. Once she knew more, she would complete the letter. Tonight, in her small bedchamber, with the stub of a pencil.

  When she had an opportunity, she would shuffle her letter into Sir William’s others and take it to the post. Just one bit of correspondence among the many she had written for the man who thought he owned her loyalty.

  Just one, to the person who truly claimed it instead.

  Order Theresa Romain's first book

  in the Romance of the Turf series

  A Gentleman’s Game

  On sale February 2016

  About the Author

  Theresa Romain is the bestselling author of historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, and the Royal Reward series. The Sport of Baronets is a prequel novella to her racy new Romance of the Turf trilogy of Regency romance. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), her highly acclaimed novels have been chosen for the Smart Bitches Trashy Books Sizzling Book Club, featured in the DABWAHA tournament, and deemed “Desert Isle Keepers” by All About Romance. A member of Romance Writers of America and its Regency specialty chapter the Beau Monde, Theresa is hard at work on her next novel from her home in the Midwest.

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