His Lordship's Filly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Too bad he couldn’t sell Waterloo. Haverly would buy the stallion in a shot. But Bridget would never stand for it. And he’d given the girl his word.

  It was a puzzle, it was. If he sold the stallion, the girl would hate him. And if he didn’t sell, he might be carted away to prison. Bridget could never run the stables alone. She knew enough—she knew as much, maybe more, than he did—but men wouldn’t deal with a girl, even one who knew horses.

  He straightened his shoulders. Maybe tomorrow’s race would be different. Maybe this time he’d pick a winner. If he could get some money together to bet.

  * * * *

  Three days later Andrew decided to go back to Durabian’s. He wanted to tell the man to save the bay colt for him and to give Durabian a bank draft as a down payment. But it wasn’t just because of that. He wanted to see the stallion—and his rider—again.

  So he had Sable saddled, the stableboy sweating profusely as she shied about. Finally he had to go calm her himself. The ride into the country was pleasant in spite of the filly’s skittishness. The trees were just coming into full bloom and everything had the fresh clean scent of spring, but even as he held the prancing filly in check, Andrew’s thoughts raced ahead.

  What was there about the strange girl that kept bringing her back into his mind? True, she had a kind of natural beauty, even in those awful male clothes, but he had seen—indeed, had been with—many beautiful women. Perhaps it was just her unusual occupation that intrigued him. And the stallion. That stallion would stay in anyone’s mind.

  It was midmorning when he turned Sable in at Durabian’s gate. The Irishman came hurrying out to greet him. “Milord! I didn’t expect to be seeing you so soon agin. And ye brought the filly. How grand!” He turned an expert’s eye to the horse’s flanks. “Aye, they weren’t lying about the fine lines she has.”

  Andrew swung down and hooked the reins over his arm. “Yes, I’m quite pleased with her. I believe I made a good choice.”

  “That ye did, milord. That ye did!” Durabian ran a hand over the filly’s gleaming withers. “Oh, she’s a real beauty.”

  He turned toward the stables. “Bridget, girl, get out here and see his Lordship’s filly. She’s a rare sight.”

  The girl came out, wearing the same leather breeches and the same expression of cold disdain. But when she saw the filly, her expression changed. “Oh Papa! She’s better even than they say. Look at her beautiful eyes!”

  “Oh, you wonderful creature!” She drew the filly’s head down and blew softly into her nostrils. When the horse whiffled in return and moved nose to nose with the girl, Andrew stiffened in amazement. Where was the high-strung creature who shied off at the mere approach of a stranger?

  Bridget finished communing with the beast, who now stood docile, all her skittishness vanished. “She’s a lovely horse,” she said, her glowing eyes meeting his gaze. “You’re a lucky man to have her.”

  “I know,” Andrew said humbly. And basking in the light of her smile, he felt himself indeed fortunate.

  “I hear she’s a good racer,” Bridget went on, laughter coming into her eyes. “Would you care to have a try against us?”

  “No thank you,” Andrew replied. “I’ll happily concede that the stallion’s the faster of the two.”

  She smiled again. Two smiles from her in as many minutes. How lucky could a man get?

  “But perhaps you’d like to give her a run,” he went on. “Alone, that is. She’s feeling the fine weather and I kept her reined in on the way here.”

  Bridget started to reach for the reins then drew back. “I—-I don’t know, milord, she’s your horse and—”

  “I’d appreciate your doing it.” He kept his voice normal. “Peter says you can handle any horse alive. And I believe it.”

  She didn’t smile at him again. In fact, she lowered her head as though the compliment embarrassed her. But the mention of Peter seemed to have reassured her. “Well then, I’ll just take her once around the track.”

  She led the horse off, and Andrew, watching her go, wondered how he could ever have thought this bewitching creature a boy.

  The girl swung up, and Andrew swallowed. Peter was right about those infernal breeches. They made it deucedly hard for a man to think of their wearer as just another fellow.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said to Durabian. “I had quite a time taming that filly. Took me days before I could get her confidence. And there your girl has her eating out of her hand in mere minutes.”

  Durabian chuckled. “She has a way with horses, Bridget does. They trust her right off. Too bad she ain’t that good with people. She’d do better if she weren’t so prickly.”

  The Irishman’s smile turned into a frown and Andrew wondered idly what was bothering the man. Then his attention was again taken by the girl. She sat the filly like an extension of the animal, horse and rider moving together in one easy motion.

  The beast pranced a little, eager to let loose, and the girl dropped a hand to her glossy neck, obviously soothing her.

  “I can’t get over the way she rides,” Andrew said.

  Durabian filled his pipe. “I had her in the saddle afore she could walk. Tied her on an old mare. Only way I could keep her from crawling round ‘tween their hooves.” He lit the pipe and took a big draw.

  “She ain’t never had no fear. Not even when she should’ve. I had a bad stallion once—meanest creature I ever seen. Kicked a couple stableboys just about into the next world. Bridget were about ten at the time. I come out one morning and seen her asleep in his stall.” He shook his head. “The big devil like to kill me afore I could get her to wake up. Then she just looks at me, sober as a magistrate, and says, ‘Papa, let me handle this.’ And then she did.”

  “Where’s the stallion now?” Andrew asked idly, his gaze on the girl and horse racing round the track in one smooth flowing motion.

  “Sold him,” Durabian said, “to yer friend Lord Peter, in fact.”

  For a moment Andrew forgot the girl and the horse. “You don’t mean—”

  “Aye,” Durabian said. “I mean Diablo.”

  Andrew shook his head in bewilderment. “But that stallion’s the best-mannered animal around.”

  “Course he is,” Durabian said complacently. “Bridget had the fixing of him.”

  Andrew resumed watching the girl. “Perhaps I should give her Sable to train.”

  “As ye wish, milord. I don’t know what it is, but Bridget’s got the gift. She trusts horses and they trust her.”

  She came off the track then, swung down, and began walking the filly, speaking to her soothingly. At last, judging her cooled down sufficiently, she led her back to Andrew.

  “She’s a real beauty, milord. And well-trained, too.” A hint of mischief crossed the lovely face. “She’s a little on the flighty side, but she’s got a good heart. And she tells me you’re a good master.”

  Andrew straightened. This was too much. “She what?” Bridget laughed—pure tinkling notes of pleasure. “Really, milord, you ought to shut your mouth. With it hanging open like that you look rather foolish. The horse doesn’t talk to me, not really. But all I have to do is look at her. Her mouth. Her coat. And her eyes. Her eyes are happy.”

  For once in his life Andrew was left speechless. He knew how to converse with elegant ladies and not so elegant ladies, though with the latter he didn’t do much talking. But he had no idea how to speak with a girl who dressed like a man and yet looked more desirable than any woman he’d ever met. And whose only topic of conversation appeared to be the life and times of horses.

  Chapter Three

  Several weeks later Bridget paused in working a colt and frowned, uneasiness stirring the fine hairs on the back of her neck. It was a lovely morning, clear and bright, but something wasn’t right in the stables. It wasn’t with the horses, though. She could sense when something went wrong with one of them. This was something else, some uncomfortable presence close by.

  The colt
pricked up his ears, staring toward the lane. And then she saw why. Wichersham was riding up. His horse looked tired, poor creature, and though she couldn’t see its eyes from this distance, she knew they would hold the beaten look she’d seen there before. Wichersham, for all his fine clothes and fancy manners, was a rotter. A bad master, a bad lord—a bad man.

  Why had he come out to the stables today? Months ago Papa had taken one look at his mount’s drooping ears and dragging tail and refused to sell him any animal in the stables. And that was before this business over Peter’s vowels. Papa was fond of Peter. So was she. And neither of them thought it right for Wichersham to try to send Peter to debtor’s prison.

  She liked Peter’s friend Haverly, too, though somehow not in the same way. He was fun like Peter, and she found she could joke with him and talk horses, but there was always that little something different that made it hard for her to entirely relax in his presence. And always in the back of her mind was the thought of that first day, the day that he’d touched her.

  He hadn’t touched her again. She was glad of that, of course, that was what she wanted—not to be touched again. Yet she felt a little shiver of curious disappointment. Had she imagined that strange feeling of excitement or would she feel it again if he—

  “No!” Papa’s voice carried clear across the paddock. She looked up and saw him glance hastily around. She couldn’t hear any more, but she knew he was angry. The whole set of his body proclaimed it. He was angry at whatever Wichersham was saying to him.

  But strain as she might, she couldn’t hear another word of their conversation. She forced herself to concentrate instead on the colt she was training. Papa would deal with Wichersham. He knew the man. He wouldn’t let him do them any harm.

  Maybe Haverly would be coming round to the stables today. She hoped so. Strange, why should she think about him? And why should she get a picture in her mind of his lean dark face? She tried to push it away and concentrate on the colt—a frisky one who wanted off the long line to go play with his fellows in the pasture. “Not now, boy,” she told him. “Work first, play later.”

  * * * *

  Across the paddock Victor Durabian swallowed a bitter curse. “You can’t mean it.” He kept his voice carefully down. Couldn’t let Bridget know what was going on. He tried to think, to keep his voice reasonable. That was it. He had to reason with the man.

  “Oh yes,” Wichersham said, his eyes bright with evil intent. “I mean it. I have your vowels, you see. To the tune of a thousand pounds.”

  “A thousand—” Durabian lowered his voice still more. “Ye can’t. I’ve never wagered with ye.”

  Wichersham shrugged and patted his coat pocket. “Nevertheless I have them. And I want the stallion.”

  “Ye can’t—” Durabian swallowed hastily. He couldn’t give the stallion to Wichersham. The horse wouldn’t live long with the likes of him. He couldn’t do that to any beast. And Bridget herself would die if anything happened to that horse.

  “And if I don’t pay—” He wouldn’t concede that he couldn’t. Not yet.

  Wichersham shrugged. “You mean no money and no horse? I shouldn’t think that would be wise. I hear debtor’s prison isn’t a particularly healthy place.”

  “I’ll get the money.” Durabian said it calmly, firmly.

  But Wichersham just laughed. “There is another possibility,” he said.

  Durabian didn’t allow himself to hope. Wichersham was enjoying this. And he was not the sort to give any man quarter. “And what is that?”

  “Give me the girl instead.”

  Holy mother of God! “Bridget?” he asked, his heart gone cold, his voice carefully controlled. “Ye want me daughter?”

  “Yes, your darling Bridget.”

  “Ye want to—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

  “I want to have her.” Wichersham smiled evilly. “For my paramour. For a while, at least.”

  Durabian bit his tongue and thrust his clenching fists deep into his pockets. He had to keep his temper under control. He needed all his wits about him. And knocking Wichersham to the earth and stomping on his face wouldn’t change things a bit. The man would still hold his IOUs, and after a beating he’d be even more vindictive.

  Wichersham chuckled, a sinister sound, turning Durabian’s blood still colder. “I’m in no hurry. I’ll give you a week to talk her into it.” He sneered. “She’ll do it to keep her papa out of prison. One week, and I’ll be back.”

  Fighting the urge to throw something after him, Durabian watched the man go. The dirty, lily-livered bastard! He’d never give innocent Bridget to that evil-eyed rotter. At least he’d kept his temper. He’d bought them some time.

  Time. But what could he do with it?

  * * * *

  Andrew arrived at the Durabian stables in mid-afternoon. Something, he wasn’t sure what, had prompted him to make the ride out to Pentonville. He told himself he was just going to see the bay colt, to check on his progress, but he knew there was more to it than that. He felt, somehow, that Bridget was in danger.

  Durabian came out to greet him, pipe in hand. “ ‘Tis good to see ye, milord.”

  “Good to be here,” Andrew returned. “Thought I’d come have another look at the bay.” Durabian didn’t look quite up to snuff, but Andrew couldn’t say exactly why.

  Durabian nodded. “He’s in the south paddock, milord.” He hesitated, seemed about to say something more, then clamped his teeth on his pipe.

  Leaning on the rail fence, they looked the colt over, a sturdy fellow, lively and quick. Andrew decided he’d been foolish. Nothing was wrong here.

  And then Durabian spoke again. “Milord, I been thinking.”

  “Thinking?” Andrew repeated, turning.

  “Aye, milord. Thinking ‘bout a little race.”

  “A race?” Andrew felt ridiculous, repeating phrases like a child, but this had taken him completely by surprise.

  “Aye. And a wager.”

  “I don’t—” Andrew bit off the words. Durabian knew he didn’t wager. There was something about the man’s face, something that told him this wasn’t just a race they were discussing. “What kind of wager?”

  Durabian took a deep breath. Andrew heard it plainly and it told him this was serious business indeed.

  “Well, it’s like this, milord. Everyone’s been talking ‘bout Waterloo and yer filly Sable. And I been thinking, that is, mebbe we should have us a race—’tween the two of ‘em.”

  “Go on,” Andrew said, controlling his voice. “And the wager?”

  Durabian shuffled his feet. “If Waterloo wins, I get Sable.”

  What kind of race was this? What was Durabian after? He had to know the stallion would win. “And if he loses?”

  Durabian didn’t meet his gaze. “If the stallion loses, you get him and . . . and Bridget to wife.”

  “Wife?” Andrew felt like he’d been dealt a sharp blow to the breadbasket. Surely he couldn’t be hearing right.

  “Aye. I’m worried ‘bout the girl,” Durabian said. “She needs a husband. And she ain’t about to get one on her own. She likes ye well enough, I think. Ye could deal together.”

  Andrew tried to meet the man’s eyes, but the Irishman kept his gaze on the ground. “Durabian, my friend,” Andrew asked, “is something wrong? Are you ill?” What could the man be thinking? Bridget would never agree to wagering the stallion. And it looked like her father was in some kind of financial trouble.

  Andrew thought fast. If he consented to the race, the stallion was sure to win it. Durabian would get the filly and— That was it. He could do that. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

  Durabian’s head snapped up; he looked startled but relieved. “An’ what’s that, milord?”

  “That if the stallion wins, you let me buy the filly back. For five hundred pounds.”

  “But milord—”

  “That way and no other,” Andrew said. “And only if Bridget consents.”


  “She’ll consent.”

  Maybe she would. After all, she knew the stallion and she knew the filly. He swallowed a sigh. This was a foolish thing he was doing. It would probably earn him the derision of the ton. But he was still going to do it. Durabian was obviously in some kind of trouble. And if Durabian was in trouble, the girl was too. A little ridicule meant nothing if he could help Bridget, innocent, fresh Bridget.

  “Name the date,” he said with resignation. “And the place. I’ll be there.”

  “Two days from now,” Durabian said. “At my track here.”

  “Done,” Andrew said. “If Bridget agrees.”

  Bridget turned the colt into the paddock and tried not to hurry toward the fence where Papa and Lord Haverly stood talking. Since Wichersham had left, Papa had been behaving strangely. That awful man had said something to him, but she hadn’t been able to find out what. When she’d asked if anything was wrong, Papa had just puffed away on his pipe and shaken his head.

  Maybe his Lordship would be able to discover what was going on. She hoped so. She didn’t like seeing Papa like this.

  “Hello, Bridget,” his Lordship said. “That colt you were working looks good.”

  “Thank you. He’s a little on the frisky side, but he’ll learn. What brings you out today?”

  Haverly shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I just felt like it.” He turned, directing a strange look at Papa.

  Papa cleared his throat. “The stallion in good form?”

  She snorted. “Of course he is. The best.” What was wrong with Papa, asking such foolish questions?

  “That’s good,” Papa said. “That’s very good.”

  What was he talking about? And why did he look so strange? “Why?”

  “His Lordship here—”

  Haverly started, giving Papa another peculiar look.

  “His Lordship here,” Papa continued, “has made us a wager.”

  “Oh?” She looked from one man to the other. What was going on? “What kind of wager?”

  “He thinks his filly Sable can beat the stallion.”