He remained on the course. The view was better from the grandstand, but he felt edgy, not in the mood to make conversation with slight acquaintances. He had arranged to meet the owner of Grey Flyer after he’d watched her run.
As the time for the stakes race neared, the atmosphere grew festive and feverish. There was plenty of money on the line, even for a race without a large purse. Grey Flyer had excellent breeding, but she was a two-year-old racing for the first time and competing against colts. Thomas had no doubt he could get good odds on her, most sportsmen preferring not to back a filly against the boys. Thomas liked her chances. She’d only be carrying six stone, and the condition of the turf after a dry week would suit her.
He ignored the cries of odds. His interest in horse racing came from his love for the magnificent creatures, their grace and courage. Nothing beat the thrill of nurturing a youngster or seeing a horse he owned throw its heart into the competition.
Grey Flyer was a lovely creature. He had a prejudice in favor of a good-looking horse. Strong, ugly brutes could win races, but in his stables adherence to points of beauty was important. She looked alert and lively at the start line, gamboling playfully and giving the occasional naughty buck, not enough to trouble her tiny jockey. Though an extravagance he perhaps should resist, he was fairly sure he wanted her. He’d sell a different beast to make up the difference.
The race started without incident. The field of ten horses was bunched at first, and Thomas’s heart constricted to see his filly on the inside at the first sharp turn where a stout post marked the course. A horse could be jostled and lose balance, especially an inexperienced one. Grey Flyer emerged from the turn uninjured and, as the field spread out, she was in the leading trio. By the home straight, the race was down to two, Grey Flyer and a big bay, just the kind of inelegant horse Thomas disliked. From the cries of the crowd, he gathered the bay was the bettors’ favorite. A collective groan arose as Grey Flyer stretched out her nose and managed to win by less than a neck.
Grinning widely, happy as he hadn’t been all day, he happened to look down a passage cleared by the departure of spectators from the railings. Someone besides him was pleased at the outcome, perhaps had backed Grey Flyer with excellent odds. Just a boy, and not from a well-to-do family. He wore sturdy laborer’s trousers and a plain reddish brown coat, shabby and too big for him. As he jumped up and down, waving his fists in the air in a paroxysm of ecstasy, his villainous wide-brimmed hat fell off.
The “boy” swooped down to rescue his headgear but not before revealing close-cropped curls in a distinctive shade of red.
It couldn’t be.
But this was the kind of crazy start Caro Townsend would indulge in. Now he thought about it, she’d been far too meek when he’d told her she couldn’t accompany him to the race meeting. No doubt she’d already been planning the escapade, and bribed that adoring youth to lend her his clothes.
Tossing her over his shoulder and dragging her away wasn’t an option. The idea was to avoid scandal. Even speaking to her would draw attention. Enough people knew him by sight to wonder what a duke was doing with an insignificant urchin. Yet he couldn’t leave her entirely alone. Should her disguise fail, she could get into trouble amid raucous racegoers who, at this point in the afternoon, were feeling the effects of the ale vendors. It seemed to him that several fellows, disappointed backers of the hulking bay, were eyeing her with disfavor. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d put some money on Grey Flyer. Knowing her, she’d found some flash-dealer who’d refuse to pay her, and she’d make a fuss. Agitation blinding him to the fact that Caro Townsend had years of practice with disreputable company, Thomas imagined her beaten, then ravished by the criminal element at the racecourse, unless he was there to save her.
She moved off, wandering into a sea of men. Thomas followed at a distance, helped by the russet hue of her coat. When she stopped to address someone, he braced himself for a fight, but it was no one more threatening than a pie seller. She gave the man a coin and took a hearty bite. Thomas, who had breakfasted some hours ago, envied her. He almost wished he’d brought her with him. They could now be celebrating the gray’s victory with shared pastry, and perhaps a tankard of ale.
“Your Grace!” he recognized the speaker, threading his way toward him. The owner of Grey Flyer. He took his eyes off Caro for only a matter of seconds, and then she was nowhere to be seen. Shoving into a solid mass of humanity elicited some rude objections but no sign of his quarry. He’d better take care of business, then go in search of her.
Distraction and anxiety were poor emotions under which to conduct a negotiation. The price, agreed to in under five minutes, was at least fifty pounds too much for the mare. Then followed a miserable hour at the end of which Thomas was hungry, bruised, and soiled by the proximity of unwashed humanity. He missed two more races because he was too busy scanning the unruly spectators for a small figure with a squashed hat. Finally, he thought to try the stalls where the animals waiting to run were housed. He’d visited them himself earlier, to see how the gray looked before the race.
The crowd was riveted by the much-anticipated match of horses owned by Lord Sackville and the Duke of Grafton. He’d been looking forward to it himself, with both animals contenders for big races later in the season. In a foul mood, he approached the almost deserted stables.
Caro had fallen asleep feeling miserable. She didn’t blame Castleton for kissing her. How could she? She’d wanted his kiss, and every expectation had been met. Those glorious, illicit minutes in his arms should be a memory to treasure. Then he’d ruined it. Instead of turning it off with a jest, acknowledging a minor mishap and moving on, he’d gone all Lord Stuffy on her.
Hardly a word was exchanged on the walk back to the house, but she could feel him exude judgment in every step. As though it was her fault for tempting him to misbehave. She’d done nothing! Nothing at all until he seized her. He had initiated the kiss. On returning to the house, he’d bidden her a stiff good night at her bedroom door and stomped off.
She awoke feeling defiant and went downstairs to give him a piece of her mind about noblemen who kissed their fiancée’s cousins in dark fields, then blamed the cousins. After that, of course, she’d forgive him. The time they’d spent together had been wonderful. And he’d been so kind and understanding about Horner and her debt. She’d make him an omelet.
Then she discovered he’d taken off without a word, the coward! Left unexpressed, her annoyance bloomed into rage, and she set about bending the hapless Henry to her will.
No one at the racecourse took any notice of her. She glimpsed Castleton a couple of times—he stood out in a crowd—but had no trouble avoiding him. When a gorgeous gray horse appeared, she fancied it was the same one she’d watched on the heath two days earlier. Her delight in its victory was marred only by her solitude. What fun it would be to have a friend with her. Castleton would doubtless know all about the horse.
She watched another race or two and discovered the stables. The gray was nowhere to be seen, but she made friends with a handsome chestnut. In London, she’d spent little time with horses, but Caro was fond of all animals and didn’t fear them. The chestnut seemed to appreciate having his nose rubbed.
“What a nice boy,” she said. “Are you going to run very fast? I think you are. Yes, I think you are.”
This satisfactory conversation was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. “What!”
She leaped around with a shriek, much to the displeasure of her chestnut friend. “Castleton! You almost scared me to death.”
“Guilty conscience, Mrs. Townsend?”
Hah! He was the guilty one. She raised her chin. “Since you refused to bring me here, I decided to come on my own. Don’t you like my disguise?”
“No one possessing eyes and an iota of common sense would mistake you for anything but a woman. I don’t see why you couldn’t have stayed in the house, as I asked, instead of behaving like a hoyden.”
Sh
e put her hands on her hips and glared. “What I do with my time, Castleton, is my own business. You do not own me, and you have no authority to judge or order my conduct.”
“I claim the authority of a host. I take responsibility for your well-being while you are a guest in my house—”
“—An unwilling guest—”
“—and running around a racecourse infested with drunk men is no place for a lady.”
He looked—and sounded—very like the Castleton she had first known, stolid and self-righteous.
“You are so stuffy.” She didn’t ask him why he’d kissed her, why he’d stopped, why he was betrothed to her cousin. She didn’t say what she wanted to say. Frustration weighed on her chest and emerged in a childish chant of the old slur. “Stuffy, stuffy, stuffy.” As her voice rose in volume, she ignored his attempts to hush her. She didn’t care if every stableboy in Newmarket heard her. “You never have any fun, and you want to stop everyone else from enjoying themselves, too. The way you’re going on, anyone would think I’d come to a haunt of thieves and prostitutes.”
He gave a superior little smile. “Many an unwary racegoer has been the victim of a pickpocket. As for the latter, Mrs. Townsend—”
Damn! She shouldn’t have mentioned prostitutes. If he brought up her behavior with Horner, she was going to hit him.
“—you are, after all, a lady who attended a masked ball with all sorts of unsavory elements.”
“Oooh!”
“And took her innocent cousin with her.”
She decided to hit him anyway. Hopping up and down, she belabored him about the shoulder with her hat while he stood like a rock, unaffected by the battery.
“Caro! Is that you, Caro?” A new voice penetrated her in the haze of her frenzy.
Dropping her weapon, she spun around to watch the approach of a familiar, and welcome, figure. “Max!” she cried, delighted to see him. Now she could tell Castleton to go to the Devil.
Max Quinton was every bit as calm and almost as large as Castleton, but he was never stuffy. “I heard you were in the neighborhood,” he said. “What scrape are you in now?” He smiled a little. “I suppose there’s a good reason why you are dressed as a boy and attempting to assault a duke.”
“You‘re back! Is Eleanor with you? How are the children?”
“All is well. We returned this morning. I have a horse running tomorrow. What are you doing here?” He turned to Thomas, whom clearly he’d recognized, with a question on his face.
“Your Grace,” Caro said. Forgetting she wore breeches, she dropped an exaggerated curtsey. “Allow me to present Mr. Max Quinton. I came to Newmarket to find him. Now I have succeeded, and I have no doubt he will assist me in my affairs. I have no need to further trespass on your very condescending and extremely gracious hospitality.”
Chapter 13
Hilsham Hall was a larger version of Little Tidmarsh Cottage, located five miles away, perhaps the work of the same local builder: a square, unpretentious house made of local stone and designed for a busy family of comfortable but not princely means. It suited Max and Eleanor Quinton and their children perfectly. Add the full complement of servants, including two harassed nursemaids, to the mix, and it was hard for the adult inhabitants to get a moment’s peace until long after dinner was over and most of the household asleep.
By blatant prearrangement, Max Quinton retired to his study under excuse of work, leaving Caro alone with her cousin.
“Well, my love,” Eleanor said. “You’ve got yourself into a rare pickle this time.”
Caro pretended to misunderstand her. “I’m sorry about the debt to Sir Bernard Horner though I don’t know how I could have been expected to know of it. But Max will do his best to persuade him to accept payment in installments.” She felt a little panicky about a new distraint on her slender income. Tomorrow, no doubt, she’d be summoned to Max’s study and would have to confess that, whatever she did, somehow her debts grew rather than diminished.
“You know I’m not talking about Robert’s debt.” Eleanor, serene and elegant in her simple evening gown, exuded the blunt sympathy that had always been such a contrast to Elizabeth Brotherton’s condemnatory histrionics. Had Eleanor been her mother, Caro had the fleeting thought, she might never have considered an elopement. “You dined alone in an inn with Horner and left with the Duke of Castleton, in whose house you have spent two days without a hint of a chaperone.”
“Who will ever know?”
“Someone always knows. Even if the duke can keep your stay at his house a secret, all Newmarket is talking about you and Horner and Castleton. Max heard about it as soon as he reached the course this afternoon. About you emerging from Horner’s rooms at the Greyhound and leaving the inn with Castleton.”
Of course. She’d been stupid to think no one would notice. There was no worse set of gossips in existence than a gathering of sports-minded gentlemen with nothing better to do than drink and exchange tales, especially racy ones.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve never had much reputation to speak of.”
“What about Castleton’s reputation? Max tells me the family is painfully correct, with never a breath of scandal. You, my dearest, have always gone your own merry way, but what of him?”
“It was by his choice, by his insistence, that I stayed at his house. I never asked for his help, and he burst in where it was none of his business to be.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“Of course not,” Caro replied with a bitter laugh. “He’s simply a domineering nobleman with an overblown sense of self-consequence and a desire to bend others to his authority.”
“There’s something I’m missing here. Why does he claim authority over you?”
“Because he is betrothed to my cousin!”
“Betrothed to Anne Brotherton? It certainly makes sense. A most suitable match for both of them.” Eleanor put her arm around Caro. “I am so sorry, my love. I thought perhaps you had finally found yourself a good man. Someone reliable.”
Tempted as she was to sink into Eleanor’s comforting embrace and have a good cry, Caro summoned her pride and cloaked a gnawing sorrow with indignation.
“I was married to a good man, and I never regretted it for one single day. I don’t fault Robert for his improvidence.”
Eleanor, who had said plenty on the subject in years past, was never one to pursue a fruitless argument. “I am a little shocked at Castleton’s conduct. Surprised, too. When his servant brought your clothes this evening, he delivered a note from the duke to Max. He intends to call on you tomorrow. Max’s reading of the letter, and mine too, is that he will make you an offer.”
“An offer? Of marriage?” Incredulity jolted Caro from her sulks. “Lord Stuffy would never offer me marriage.”
“Apparently not, if he is to wed your cousin. And I certainly hope he wouldn’t have the poor taste to offer you anything else. Just to be certain, I shall have Max speak to him when he calls. He shall make it very clear that if the duke will not address you with respect, he won’t see you at all.”
Whatever Max Quinton heard from Castleton, he must have found it satisfactory. Caro waited in the Quintons’ drawing room, a formal room used mostly for entertaining. She supposed she was to receive an apology, though a night’s sleep had made her less certain one was required.
Yes, the duke was an interfering, high-handed . . . duke. Yes, he’d kissed her when he was betrothed to another. But he’d also offered his assistance, and she could hardly be sorry at this point that she had not, in fact, gone to bed with Horner. Now she had Max’s help, that idea seemed more and more like a bad dream. As for the kiss, she’d happily reciprocated and, the truth be known, was sorry it couldn’t be repeated.
“Mrs. Townsend.” Castleton was at his Lord-Stuffiest, his bow military in its stiff precision. She curtseyed back but refused to cast her eyes modestly floorward. A slight quiver of the lips cracked the impassivity of his demeanor, but it wasn�
�t mirth. She believed that the Duke of Castleton was a little nervous about approaching her.
Of course, the last time she’d been in his company, she’d attacked him with a hat.
“Duke.”
“His Grace has something he wishes to say to you,” Max said. “I shall leave you alone.”
“I cannot imagine what. Won’t you sit down, Duke?”
“Thank you. I prefer to stand.” Actually, he paced for at least a minute after Max departed, closing the door behind him. “First,” he said finally, clearing his throat, “I am pleased to inform you that Sir Bernard Horner need no longer concern you. I saw him on my way here and discharged your debt.” He removed a familiar paper from his pocket and presented it to her with a bow.
“That’s very good of you, Castleton. Max was going to talk to Horner about letting me pay him over time. I hope you’ll allow me the same latitude.” A pride she didn’t know she possessed had come to the fore. It was damnably inconvenient, but she felt an unaccountable aversion to being in his debt.
“No. You are debt-free, at least as regards this sum.”
“Why have you done this?”
“Bear with me, and the reason will be plain.”
He stopped pacing and planted himself with his back to the fireplace, hands behind his back, chin square, radiating the solidity she found so unaccountably desirable. She barely held back a sigh of pleasure at the sight. She wished he wasn’t betrothed. If it weren’t for Anne, she’d agree to be his mistress like a shot.
“Mrs. Townsend, Caro. Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“What did you say?”
“Will you marry me?”
She was flabbergasted. “Anne,” she managed to blurt out. “What about Anne?”
A hint of color heightened his cheekbones. “As to that,” he said sheepishly, “I have a confession. Anne Brotherton and I did not, and never have, come to an understanding. I never proposed to her, and we are not engaged.”
The Importance of Being Wicked Page 14