His Lordship's Filly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  She swallowed, trying to get calm. There must be more, else why was Papa there? “Papa, what else did Wichersham say to you that day?”

  He avoided her gaze. “I didn’t want to tell ye. I couldn’t. The bounder—he wanted the stallion—or— or—” He puffed furiously.

  She kept her gaze on him, waiting, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Or what? Go on, Papa. Tell me all of it.”

  “He wanted—” Papa cried, his face gone scarlet. “He said he’d take ye instead of the blunt. Make ye his—his—oh Lord, girl, I can’t say it!”

  “Oh, Papa!” Leaping to her feet, she hurried to his side. “Oh, that horrible man! How could he?”

  Papa’s scowl got fiercer. “He ain’t got no heart, that’s how. Ye can always tell a bad ‘un from the way he treats his stock. And you know how bad he were to them.” He frowned. “I’d of gone to prison, but I had to think about ye. I couldn’t be sure what’d happen to ye—and the horse.”

  Bridget backed off. That explained the whole curious thing. “Papa! The race!”

  “Aye,” he said, his face reddening even more in embarrassment. “That race with Sable, it were fixed.”

  “Fixed!” She could hardly believe her ears. Her own father doing such a terrible thing. “Papa, how could you?”

  “I had to save ye,” he said stubbornly. “The both of ye. And that were the only thing I could think of.”

  “So you set up the race—and the wager,” she said, still hardly believing it.

  “Aye.”

  She stared at him—her own father cheating. “I wondered why Waterloo lost that race. I couldn’t understand it.”

  “ ‘Twas all I could think of to do. I knew his Lordship,” Papa went on. “He’d been coming out there long enough fer me to trust him. I knew he’d do right by ye.”

  She took a deep breath. As always Papa had done his best for her. “And he has,” she said. “It’s all right, Papa. We’re both safe.”

  “Aye.” Papa sighed deeply. “I thought so at the time. I thought I done right. But it weren’t enough. Ye ain’t safe.”

  Her heart began to pound again. Oh no! This sounded even more frightening. “Oh, Papa, now what?”

  “Wichersham, what else?” Papa cried, letting go with a string of curses that burned her ears. “He’s got his hands on some more of me notes.”

  “Papa!”

  He frowned at her. “Don’t be looking at me that way. It ain’t like that, girl. I don’t wager no more. He bought up me bills from the tradesmen. Business’s been slow lately, and I got behind on me payments. And now he’s got me bills.”

  Maybe business had fallen off because she was no longer there, but Papa didn’t want to say it. “What does he want this time?” she asked contritely.

  Papa looked puzzled. “That’s the peculiar thing ‘bout it all. He says he just wants a race—’tween Waterloo and his horse. He says he’ll consider me notes paid no matter who wins. So I come to ask you to race fer me.”

  Bridget’s heart tried to climb out of her mouth. Wichersham knew! He must have known about her promise to Andrew not to race. But how? Who could have told him? Only the two of them knew—and the girls and Aunt Sophie. But they wouldn’t be talking to Wichersham.

  She swallowed. She had to tell Papa something. “But, Papa, I don’t race anymore. It’s—It’s not ladylike.”

  Papa smiled faintly. “I know ye ain’t raced lately,” he said. “But knowing how ye love it, I thought ye might be willing. And to be truthful, Bridget, me girl, I ain’t wanting to go to prison.” He frowned. “But I couldn’t bring meself to ask Andrew fer blunt agin.”

  “You couldn’t anyway,” she said quickly. “Andrew’s away in Scotland. Though, if he were here, I’d ask him myself.” She tried to think. She couldn’t let Papa go to prison, but if she raced, if she broke her promise . . . She had to have time to think.

  “Listen, Papa, when does Wichersham want this race?”

  “Three days hence,” Papa said. “At the stables.”

  She led him toward the door. “Give me a little time to think about it, Papa. We’ll work it out. I’ll send word to Andrew right away.”

  “Aye,” Papa said, enveloping her in a quick hug. “I knew ye’d be there fer me. I’ll be by tomorrow then. Thank ‘ee, Bridget. Ye’re a good girl. Yer Mama’d be that proud of ye.”

  As soon as Papa left, Bridget hurried off to find Aunt Sophie. Fortunately she had just returned from making afternoon calls and was still in the foyer, removing her newest bonnet.

  “Aunt Sophie,” Bridget said, trying to remain calm. “Would you please come into the sitting room? I need to speak to you.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  Aunt Sophie followed her down the hall, closing the door behind them. “All right, Bridget, what’s wrong? Have the Lindens been calling again?”

  “The Lindens?” For a minute she couldn’t think. “No, no. Papa was here and the most horrible thing has happened.”

  “Tell me,” Aunt Sophie said, settling on the sofa beside her. “What has happened?”

  Bridget swallowed. “You’ll have to know the whole story. It starts before Andrew and I were married.” And she told Aunt Sophie the whole sordid tale, ending with, “So that is how Andrew and I happened to wed. But now you see, I love him. And if I race, if I break my promise, I will be duty-bound to leave him.” She blinked, trying in vain to hold back the tears.

  Aunt Sophie pressed a handkerchief into her hands. “But if you don’t race?”

  “Then Papa will go to debtor’s prison. And how can I let that happen? He could have—” She swallowed. “Papa could have told me what Wichersham offered before. And—And I would have done it. For him I would have done it!”

  She shuddered. “To save Papa I would have let that vile man set me up in keeping! And oh, Aunt Sophie, I think it would have killed me!”

  “Now, now,” Aunt Sophie said, patting her hand. “That didn’t happen—and it won’t. You’re quite safe from Wichersham.” She frowned. “But your father . . .”

  “Aunt Sophie, what will I do?”

  Aunt Sophie frowned. “First, we send word to Andrew. Surely when he knows the circumstances, he will understand.”

  Bridget sighed. “I don’t think so. There were to be no exceptions. Do you think he might get back in time to pay the notes? And I won’t have to race?”

  Aunt Sophie looked doubtful. “It takes time—the trip from Scotland. And he’s not due back till next week. But we’ll send anyway.”

  She rang for Purvey and when he appeared, she said, “Send word to the stable. We want the fastest horse—not Waterloo—and a light rider.”

  “Ned!” Bridget cried. “We’ll send Ned.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Sophie agreed. “Provisions for the first leg of the journey—and funds for the rest.”

  Purvey nodded and left.

  “Paper and pen,” Aunt Sophie said, hurrying to the desk. “You must write it all out for him.”

  Ten minutes later, Ned appeared in the doorway, cap in hand. “Yer Ladyship,” he said, his voice tentative. “They said ye’d be wanting me?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said, jumping up from the desk. “I’m sending you to Scotland with a message to his Lordship.

  “It’s important, Ned, very important. Don’t waste any time, but have a care for your horse.”

  She pressed the bag Purvey had brought minutes before into his hands. “There’s food in here, and here are some coins for later in the journey. And this is the letter.”

  He tucked the missive inside his shirt. “I’ll keep it safe, yer Ladyship. And don’t ye worry none. I’ll find him—he’ll be home soon.”

  “Thank you, Ned. Godspeed.”

  She watched him out the door. “If anyone can reach him in time, it’s Ned. I pray God he can do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The next day when Papa came round again, Bridget told him not to worry. If Andrew didn’t get
back in time, she would ride in the race. Papa went off content, and she turned to the girls, though she found it almost impossible to concentrate on the materials they were examining.

  But Papa hadn’t been gone long before Purvey appeared in the doorway again, this time his face clearly twisted in distaste. “Another caller, milady. Lord Wichersham.”

  “Wichersham! Now what—” She didn’t want to see him. “Tell him I’m not—” She stopped herself. Maybe she could reason with the man. “Wait, I’ve changed my mind. Show him in, Purvey. And—And then wait outside the door, out of sight but within hearing. Only come in if I call for you.”

  Purvey looked surprised, but he replied, “Yes, milady.”

  After Bridget sent the girls to the kitchen, she got to her feet, straightening her skirt and her countenance at the same time. She would stay calm, not let Wichersham provoke her. What could the man want here? Did he want just to crow over her? Or was it something else?

  He came sauntering in, his expensive clothes looking as ill fitting as usual. “Lady Haverly,” he said, his voice a raspy sneer. “Or should I say, my dear Bridget. Good afternoon.”

  Her name on his lips raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t want to bother with the amenities, but it was better not to aggravate the man. “Good afternoon.” She could hear the hint of fear in her voice. All she could do was hope Wichersham couldn’t. “What brings you here?” she asked.

  “You.” He let his gaze travel down over her body, then slowly up again, letting it linger on her bosom till she felt the color flood her cheeks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your father foiled me before—when I would have taken you in lieu of his notes.”

  She clamped her teeth together firmly. It was embarrassing that Purvey was hearing all this, but she had to have him close by. How could she have dreamed she would have let this awful man touch her? She’d never have been able to stand it.

  When she didn’t answer, Wichersham went on, his voice a harsh obscene caress. “And now, my dear, I have another chance.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no chance with me. You never had.”

  He seemed not even to have heard her. “I know your father told you about my first offer.” His little eyes gleamed with rancor. “And I know about your promise to your husband not to race.”

  “How?” she stammered. “How did you find out?”

  He smiled, a loathsome smile that made her blood freeze in her veins. “I have my ways. And my ears. The Lindens, for example.”

  “But I didn’t tell them,” Bridget said numbly, wishing this awful nightmare was over. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Wichersham replied, smoothing his hair with a gloved hand. “What matters is that I do know. And I also know that if you race, you lose your husband. That makes it all much sweeter.” He scowled. “I’ve been waiting for this. A score to settle with him. He paid up Varley’s vowels, you know. Spoiled my fan.”

  Fun? What was he talking about? “Why should you want to send Peter to prison? Or Papa either? I don’t understand.”

  “I like power,” he said. “And I like using it.”

  And she saw, incredibly, that he meant it. He actually enjoyed hurting people.

  When he took a step closer, she held her ground, grateful that Purvey was out there. But even so, she wasn’t going to let Wichersham get any closer.

  She swallowed hastily. “I’ll pay my father’s bills. How much does he owe?”

  Wichersham laughed, a cold caustic sound with no humor in it. “I’m not accepting payment from you. Or anyone else. I insist on the race.”

  Bridget twisted her hands into her skirt. “If you wait till Andrew returns, he’ll pay you double the notes’ value.” She knew before she spoke that it was futile, but she had to try.

  He laughed again, raising goose bumps on her bare arms. How could the man be so barbarous? Why did he want to hurt her?

  “Why?” she cried. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Wichersham shrugged, his expression bland and yet somehow evil. “It’s simple enough. I want you. And I get what I want. Come,” he said smoothly, “be reasonable. I don’t ask for so much. One night with me. Or even an afternoon. And I’ll forget the race—and your father’s bills.”

  He took a step toward her, his gloved hand outstretched.

  “No!” she cried. “I would never do such a thing! Never!”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Have it your own way, my dear. But think about it. A few hours—and Haverly need never know.” He leered. “I promise you an enjoyable time.”

  “I would die first,” Bridget said, her hands clenching into fists she no longer bothered to hide. If he touched her, she would hit him—hit him and scream. “Now get out of here before I call for someone to help you out.”

  “Very well. But mark my words. You’ll be sorry. I’ll see to it. Oh yes, I’ll see to it.”

  * * * *

  After he left, Bridget went back to the girls, trying to keep herself busy, so busy that at night she could fall exhausted into the bed she had shared with Andrew.

  But no matter how long or how hard she worked, sleep seemed forever in coming. The great bed was big and cold and empty. And lying there in the darkness, her cheeks wet with tears, she wondered if ever again she would share it with the man she loved.

  She tried to figure out where she could go, how she could provide for the girls. But the only thing she could think of was to take them to Papa’s, to raise them at the stables. Papa would let her do that—she knew he would.

  She even thought of telling Papa the truth, telling him about her promise. If he knew, he wouldn’t let her race, but then he would go to prison. And she couldn’t bear that. Not after he’d done so much for her.

  Tossing and turning till the bed was one great tangle of sheets and covers, she tried to think of some other way to help Papa, some way that wouldn’t mean breaking her promise to Andrew, wouldn’t mean losing him. She loved him so much. But there was no other way. Papa had to be saved.

  Wichersham had said he was doing this on purpose. He was determined to ruin her marriage. Of course. Papa had played right into his hands by falling behind on his bills, but even if he hadn’t, Wichersham would have looked for some other way to hurt them. As it was, he had them in a trap—there was no escape.

  Their only hope was if Andrew returned in time. If she could see him face to face, talk to him before she raced, surely she could convince him to let her ride. Or maybe he could make Wichersham take payment for the notes. Andrew could be very forceful. Even Wichersham would give way before him.

  She prayed that Andrew would return in time. She prayed and she waited. But the days passed—and the long nights, too—and Andrew didn’t come home.

  * * * *

  The day of the race dawned dark and dreary, like her spirit, Bridget thought, but by afternoon the weather was better. There would be no rain to cancel the race.

  Feeling like she was going to her own execution, she joined Aunt Sophie and the girls in the carriage. Waterloo would follow sedately behind, a groom sitting in the back to watch over him.

  Bridget had intended to leave the girls at home with Mrs. Purvey, so she was surprised to see them dressed and already in the carriage.

  “Aunt Sophie, I don’t know—”

  “They should be there,” Aunt Sophie insisted. “After all, it’s their future, too.” She forced a smile. “Don’t look so worried, my dear. All will be well. Andrew loves you. I’m sure of it.”

  Bridget wanted to believe that, but she wasn’t nearly as sure as Aunt Sophie. True, Andrew had been good to her. But he had never said he loved her. And the circumstances of their marriage had been so odd.

  No, she couldn’t count on love on his part. Andrew was very particular about doing the “proper” thing—and when he found she’d raced, that she’d broken her promise, he would
hold her to her word. He would expect her to do as she’d promised—and get out of his life.

  The stable yard was crowded with people, fashionable lords and their ladies all out for an exciting afternoon. Blacklegs, too, ready to take bets. “Look at this,” Aunt Sophie said in disgust. “Everyone is here. Wichersham must have talked the race all round London.”

  Peering out the window, Bridget nodded. “There’s a terrible crush out there. An awful crowd. Be sure the girls don’t get lost in it.”

  “Bridget,” Aunt Sophie said. “Please! Give off worrying about these girls. I’ll hold tightly to their hands. I promise you, they’ll never leave my side.”

  Bridget knew she was too anxious to make much sense. “Thank you, Aunt Sophie. I’ve got to go get ready.” She looked down at the girls, managing a smile for their sakes. She kissed them each on the cheek, got a hug from each. “You be good girls now. I’ll see you when the race is over.”

  She climbed out of the carriage before they could see her tears. “Come on, Waterloo,” she said, throwing an arm over the horse. “We’ve got to save Papa.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  On the road into the city, Andrew slowed his winded horse to a walk. It was either do that or risk the animal dying on him. He couldn’t kill a faithful mount, no matter how angry he might be at Bridget.

  If only the boy had been able to give him more information. But Ned hadn’t known much. Only that “the lady,” as he called Bridget, had been real upset and told him he had to get his Lordship to come home right off.

  Andrew cursed, a long string of maledictions that exhausted all the words he knew but left him feeling just as resentful as ever. Things had been going so well for them. Why didn’t Bridget just tell her father that she wouldn’t race? Let the old fool be carted off to debtor’s prison rill he got home to buy him out. The man knew better than to bet. If he were stupid enough to wager after what had happened to him before, he deserved to go to prison.

  Andrew pulled out his watch, glancing at it anxiously. Would he get there in time to stop this charade? Bridget ought to have known, or Aunt Sophie at least, that if they paid the man’s debts he couldn’t be sent to prison. Why hadn’t they done just that, paid what Durabian owed? Aunt Sophie was well set up; she could afford it.