by Allison Lane
“Why?” He had long suspected that truth, but wondered what reasons Graylock would give. And the track did exert a glamorous fascination.
“Your honor could not survive,” stated the older man baldly, a note of regret tingeing his voice. “Cheating and sabotage are firmly embedded. It is all too common to find promising horses maimed and even killed by rival trainers. And plenty of lesser crimes occur – inflicting minor injuries that affect performance, shocking horses with nervous dispositions, even bribing riders. Men are trying to root out the problems, but it will be a long battle with no guarantee of success. That is why I seldom wager on races. Regardless of bloodlines, training, and track conditions, cheating and sabotage make the outcome too chancy. Just last year fire destroyed Lord Dunhollow’s stable before Newmarket. Injured the odds-on favorite, and the rest of his horses couldn’t compete for months. Jockey up on the second favorite blew the horse out at the start and limped home in eighth. Not the careful handling one expects from an experienced rider.”
“Who did it? The ultimate winner’s trainer?”
“Possibly. Or his owner. Or any of the half dozen gentlemen who bet heavily on him at long odds. Or someone connected with one of the other top finishers. Or perhaps another individual whose scheme failed. There is no way to know and the imprudent jockey disappeared.”
“But surely an honest breeder can survive.”
“Possibly. As I said, there are efforts underway to clean out the scoundrels. But there are other factors. Consider the horses. Racers have been bred for short bursts of speed over a flat course. It is true a top runner can pull down big purses and stud fees. But what happens to those who cannot win races? They lack the stamina to cover longer distances. They tend to be nervous, which makes them unsuitable for riding or carriage work. Many are prone to leg injuries, rendering them useless for jumping. And a slow horse is hardly likely to breed speedier offspring.”
Thomas slowly nodded as the truth of the earl’s comments sank in.
“Now consider the hunter,” Graylock continued. “The best can be sold in the shires for top dollar. The terrain requires speed, stamina, strength, heart, and great jumping. But a horse lacking any of those attributes is still useful. One with less stamina can become an excellent hunter over more benign terrain. And even the least talented jumpers make outstanding riding hacks.”
Thomas reviewed that and other conversations he had held with Graylock over the years. Without question, the man knew hunters. His estate lay but a few miles from Melton. Four of his horses had sold for more than a thousand pounds each to top Quorn huntsmen.
He sighed in envy when the house came into view. Sprawled over an area several times larger than Crawley, Graystone Manor was the product of many generations and almost as many styles. From a great hall barely postdating the Conquest, it had mushroomed into a maze of wings and towers. Gothic arches graced a chapel. One tower boasted narrow archers’ slits, a second displayed leaded Elizabethan windows. Greek columns graced a neo-classic addition and Palladian austerity characterized another. But surprisingly, the gray stone from which the estate took its name unified these disparate parts into an attractive and welcoming whole.
Excitement over at last embarking on his dream left Thomas a trifle shaky as he turned the ribbons over to Jacobs and mounted the steps. Graylock was in the hall when the footman opened the door.
“Mannering!” he exclaimed in apparent pleasure, clasping Thomas’s hand in a firm grip and drawing him inside. Afternoon sun glowed on centuries-old paneling. “What brings you out this direction?”
“I was hoping to look over your operation with an eye to buying a horse or two.” He smiled.
The Earl of Graylock appeared more relaxed in his casual country clothes than he ever had in London, his shock of silver hair complementing light gray eyes. A widower in his early fifties, he had never remarried after losing both wife and heir in childbirth, content that his title would ultimately pass to a favored nephew.
“Wonderful,” he enthused. “Are you finally setting up your own stables?”
Thomas swallowed a surge of embarrassment at the words, for he had last discussed horses with Graylock before he met Alicia.
“Yes, and I would appreciate your advice.”
“Can you stay a few days? Sharpton, Heatherford, young Blakeley, and several other breeders are arriving tomorrow for a fortnight’s stay. We get together once a year. You are welcome to join us.”
“I would be honored, my lord.” Thomas’s eyes brightened and he blessed fate for dropping this opportunity in his lap. What better way to slip back into the society he had ignored for the past year? And a modest break might provide the distance he needed to decide what kind of relationship he wanted with Caroline.
“Are you still in town?” asked Graylock.
“No, I moved down to Crawley a fortnight ago.” Thomas shuddered. “Uncle Bertram cared nothing for the estate, and it shows. You would not believe the shape it is in.”
“What are the stables like?”
“Tolerable. That was my one surprise. The lone groom takes pride in his work and maintained the place on his own, even in the teeth of opposition from an inept – and soon to be out of a job – bailiff.”
“Sounds like a jewel,” commented Graylock. “How is he with horses?”
“Jacobs is impressed. I’ve not had time to watch him myself. Crawley is in appalling condition otherwise. I left my wife turning out the manor.”
Amazement lighted the earl’s face. “You are married? I hadn’t heard.”
“Ten days ago. To one of Waite’s granddaughters – old George, I mean, the seventh Waite. It should have been in the Post by now.”
“Congratulations. I will understand if you choose not to remain the full fortnight. But I have several mares you might be interested in. If you still have that black stallion...”
“Greatheart?”
“That’s the one.”
Thomas nodded.
“What a hunter!” Graylock enthused. “He would make an outstanding stud. Crossing him with my mares could create a line of truly superior horses. But why am I keeping you in the hall after such a long drive? Once you are refreshed, we can visit the stables.” He signaled a footman. “I will be in the library when you are ready.”
* * * *
Caroline spent the days of Thomas’s absence on cleaning and restoration. By working as hard as possible from dawn until long past dusk and devoting her evenings to music, she was able to hold thought at bay until enough time had passed to clearly evaluate her problems.
She moved into her own rooms the day he left, then initiated a turnout of the master bedroom. The carpet was really quite beautiful, she discovered, with a glorious pattern in blues and reds that had been invisible beneath twenty years of accumulated dirt and grime.
One of the rooms in the closed-off wing held draperies and bedhangings in a matching red that showed but slight fading. She located a chair in an attic that was not only in superior condition to the one drawn up in front of the fireplace, but whose color blended well with the restored room.
Another project she pursued was Thomas’s suggestion that she learn to drive. He had been too busy to teach her himself, but a still-usable dogcart was stored in the stables, and she prevailed upon Willy to hitch up a placid old gelding – the only horse on the estate when they arrived – and instruct her. Her aptitude for this skill proved adequate, and within three days she was sufficiently confident to pay a round of calls on the tenants. By week’s end she dared drive as far as the village where she made the acquaintance of the vicar, and of Mrs. Perkins, the squire’s wife.
Mrs. Perkins called the next day.
“I do hope I have not arrived at a bad time,” she apologized when Caroline bustled into the drawing room.
“Not at all,” she disclaimed as Peters arrived with a tea tray. She had taken a moment to straighten her hair, but despite streaks of dust near the hem, she still wore the gray rou
nd gown she had donned to supervise the day’s cleaning. “Besides, I expect you are curious to discover how derelict the manor has become. I would have been.” Brown eyes twinkled into Mrs. Perkins’s rueful face.
Only a few years older than Caroline, Edna Perkins boasted strawberry-blond hair and handsome features, though several childbeds had noticeably thickened her figure. Hazel eyes reflected whatever color she wore. Today it was green.
“You must understand that no one has been inside Crawley for fifteen or twenty years, my dear. And rumors have been rife since your arrival.”
“Started by those helping us clean, I suppose.” Caroline laughed. “Well, as you can see, conditions could be better. However, Mrs. Peters is a wonder, so we are slowly gaining control.”
The drawing room was half presentable to a discriminating eye. The carpet and French furniture complemented the room’s ornate ceiling, drawing attention to the four oval frescoes radiating from its center. The marble fireplace surround had been well cleaned and the piano’s satinwood case glowed with polish. But the draperies were worn and faded and the walls unacceptably bare.
“Was it really as bad as rumored?” Mrs. Perkins dared ask.
“Worse, I’ve no doubt. We could easily have grown crops in places. Mr. Bertram Mannering was horridly eccentric.”
“How?” Mrs. Perkins asked in breathless anticipation.
“Thank heavens he was unique in the family,” began Caroline. “My husband is nothing like him. The man was a nipfarthing of the worst kind, refusing even to maintain sufficient staff to clean more than the few rooms he used. There are rooms in the east wing that I suspect had not been entered for more than thirty years.”
“Heavens! Had he a wife?”
“She died young, in childbirth. He remained secluded even after mourning, becoming increasingly reclusive as the years passed.”
Thomas claimed his uncle was obsessed with his wife, continuing to talk to her daily until his own death forty years later, but Caroline refrained from offering that tidbit to the local rumor mill.
Her guest was again examining the drawing room.
“Have you planned the rest?”
“Not yet,” she admitted cheerfully. “There has been no time, and I have not received the latest edition of Ackermann’s. I need to go to Banbury, but am not familiar with the shops. Could you advise me? My husband is away on estate business and will not return for another week. Besides, he knows this area no better than I.”
“Delighted, Mrs. Mannering. In fact, I am going to town tomorrow. Perhaps you would care to accompany me.”
This met with Caroline’s approval, and she happily spent the next day arranging for new wallcoverings in the drawing room, dining room, and Thomas’s bedroom, hiring a painter for her own suite, and ordering new chair covers for the dining room and library. She managed everything at a very reasonable cost, with the promise that the work would be complete within a fortnight. Mrs. Perkins was amazed.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she exclaimed over a plate of cakes at the confectioner’s. “I have no head for color and dither forever over samples before finally choosing something abominable. And invariably expensive. Jonathan despairs of me.”
“I am sure he does not,” soothed Caroline. “Nor do I believe such fustian. You are doing it much too brown. But save the praise until the work is complete. As you pointed out, I took home no samples. It may be a dreadful mess.”
They visited more shops after their tea, finishing at the booksellers. Caroline was everywhere welcomed, the shopkeepers delighted that Crawley had a tenant at last. By the end of the day she and Edna were fast friends.
She had managed to ignore the problem of Thomas for several days and finally felt able to consider it. Did knowing of his attachment change anything? It did not. Why should he treat her any differently? He had known the situation from the beginning. If she allowed Alicia’s existence to alter her behavior, she could only drive him away – hardly what she wanted. The only change must be in her own expectations. She must not push her way into his confidence lest he turn on her in disgust. It would take far longer to create a true partnership. And she must redouble her vigilance over her own heart. Any tendre was out of the question. But with care, she could hope that eventually they might become friends.
Jacobs returned the next day leading a string of four broodmares, two yearlings, and a two-year-old stallion. He also carried a note from Thomas, inquiring about her activities and explaining that Graylock was hosting a gathering of breeders and trainers. He had been invited to stay and hoped to acquire valuable information. He would, he said, return in a fortnight and added that he missed her. I would invite you to join me, but none of the gentlemen brought their wives. It was signed, Fondly, Thomas.
She had overreacted, she concluded in relief. She would forget that Alicia existed and concentrate on the future.
* * * *
Thomas was enjoying his visit with Graylock. Two of the houseguests had started breeding operations in recent years and were able to offer invaluable advice about potential pitfalls. He spent many hours putting horses through their paces, finally settling on a reasonable assortment.
His most surprising discovery was how much he missed Caroline, especially at night. He did not love her, of course, but her passionate sensuality made her the most desirable bed partner he had ever encountered, and her instant availability added a previously unknown dimension to his life. He had never had the means to set up a regular mistress. Even his lengthy affair with Swynford’s widow had not been a dedicated relationship on either side, so marriage offered uniqueness. For the first time in his life he commanded someone’s entire attention.
Time had worked to ease his emotions, and his mind had been busy modifying its impressions. Caroline was not as accomplished as he had first thought. In his surprise that she played at all, he had exaggerated her abilities. She and Alicia were equally accomplished musicians, heaven having blessed his otherwise undistinguished wife with one exquisite talent. Musical prowess aside, she could not compare with Alicia in any other way. Nor did equity in one arena detract from his love’s other angelic qualities. He could once again enjoy music.
Truly, fate had offered him a reprieve from a lifetime of despair. He had a wife who could satisfy his passion and entertain him in the drawing room. He had Alicia, whose exquisite beauty could be called to mind whenever life grew dull. He had only to maintain his relationship with Caroline in a businesslike and friendly manner, and life would be sweet. He thus firmly remounted Alicia on her pedestal. Caroline would care for his house and eventually provide him with heirs. They were separate once more. Peace reigned.
Having reached this comfortable compromise, he penned her a friendly note, to be dispatched along with Jacobs and his new cattle, then joined Blakeley and Sharpton for a game of billiards and a discussion of effective training methods for recalcitrant horses.
But he received the shock of his life the next day.
He had just seen Jacobs off to Crawley when he noticed a crested coach drawn up to the front door. Curious at the quantity of luggage – for none of the breeders had brought wives to this annual meeting – he paused to decipher the crest.
“Well, Thomas,” cooed a well-loved, seductive voice just behind him, “I certainly never expected to find you gracing this mausoleum.”
“Ali– Lady Darnley, what a surprise,” he choked, spinning around as he scrabbled to recover his poise, knowing his mouth gaped at her unexpected appearance. “I did not know that Darnley was interested in horse breeding.”
Alicia laughed gaily.
Caught unawares, Thomas fought to bring his raging emotions under control. Honor, honor, he repeated in a silent litany until the word no longer conveyed meaning. All he wanted was to crush her in his arms.
“Horses hold no interest for the viscount,” she murmured, “but he is Graylock’s cousin and needs must confer on some trifling matter, so here we are. I suppose I will be
reduced to rusticating with horsemen’s wives.” Her eyelashes drooped demurely, her mouth drawn into a charming pout.
“Hardly. You will be the sole lady in residence. We left our wives at home for this meeting.” Pain ravaged him at the flicker of surprise in Alicia’s eyes.
“You are married?” she gasped.
“Just after Christmas. Caroline is one of the Earl of Waite’s brood,” he exaggerated in a flash of male need to flaunt what she had thrown away. But even as the words formed, he castigated himself. It was not her fault. Her parents had forced this situation on them both. The hurt in her eyes knifed his soul. Not only were they apart, he had now injured her with his own conceited tone. And she was all he had ever wanted.
Her beauty still captivated him. Today she wore a violet-blue traveling gown and matching pelisse that emphasized her incredible eyes and made her golden curls appear even brighter. And her smile could instantly enslave him. Yet he could not apologize without making things worse.
Again repeating his mental litany of honor, honor, he excused himself lest he forget his pride and admit how much he loved her, then lose all control over his need to possess her.
* * * *
Caroline was experiencing some of the happiest times of her life. Each day increased her sense of accomplishment, her efforts making immediate improvements in the house and estate. Given Tibbins’s ineptitude, she quietly assumed his duties, ordering the changes that would address the most pressing problems. Thomas had left in such a hurry that he had made no other arrangements.
He had hired three army veterans, and four more appeared in search of work the first week he was gone. She assigned them to the most urgent tasks on the grounds, including repairs of the estate wall, cleaning up the drive, and pruning around the entrance to the house. By the second week she moved one crew to the meadow to improve the drainage lest the spring rains again flood the road. Once Jacobs returned, half the veterans labored under his direction to repair fences and expand pasturage for the horses.