“Which stallion are we talking about?” A boulder settled into Gard’s gut, not from the rich dinner, though he was unaccustomed to such food in such quantities. No, it was because he suspected which stallion Valentine referred to.
“Arcturus.”
His heart thumped against his breastbone. Arcturus. The stallion who was destined to be the foundation sire at Gard’s fledgling stud farm. Once he raised the money.
He spread his hands on his thighs, gripping hard. If Valentine and his cronies banded together and got into a bidding war, Gard would lose quicker than Spokane won the Derby. Would Freeman Schmidt honor the handshake agreement to sell Arcturus to Gard for the asking price after the Deep Haven Show? Or would he be swayed by a higher offer?
Gard couldn’t lie about the horse. If the deal fell through, then he’d have to trust that God knew what He was doing, and that another stallion would come along. But he couldn’t deny the disappointment that would come. Not just because Arcturus was everything he was looking for in a sire, but because, after spending time with the stallion, Gard had grown attached to him.
“Sir, Arcturus is sound. I’ve ridden him many times, and Mr. Schmidt has given me the ride on him at the Deep Haven Show before he retires him to stud. He’s got heart, and he’s smart. Learns quickly and jumps fearlessly.”
“I told you boys.” Valentine leaned back in his chair, smiling, his eyes narrowed as if looking ahead to a lucrative future as Arcturus’s owner.
“As to his confirmation, he’s well put together. No flaws.” Gard had even convinced Schmidt to enter him in the model class at the show. “As to what he will pass along to his get, it’s impossible to say since he’s not sired any foals yet. But there are no warning flags that I know of.”
“What about stable habits? Is he aggressive?” Van Rissingham tapped ash off his cigar.
“I won’t have a vicious stallion.” Bentley frowned, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Too dangerous.”
“He’s a stallion, not a lapdog. You always have to be careful with stallions, but so far he hasn’t shown himself to be aggressive. He’s stabled and pastured well away from any mares, so that helps. He’s easy in the barn, no pawing or cribbing or biting. And he loads fairly easily and travels well. I brought him up from New York City for Mr. Schmidt last month. His only quirk that I know of is that he’s reluctant to drink anything when he’s away from his normal routine. He didn’t drink anything on the train trip up, which wasn’t terrible, because he was only on the train a couple of hours, but Mr. Schmidt says he’s like that when he travels for shows, too. It’s hard to keep him hydrated.” Gard had a couple of things he wanted to try with Arcturus the next time they traveled, but he wouldn’t mention them now. “It shouldn’t matter once he’s installed at a stud farm. He’ll settle down.”
“He sounds perfect.” Bentley rubbed his narrow hands together. “The question is, where will he live? Whose farm?” He drew out a pair of pince-nez and perched them on his skinny nose.
Mr. Valentine’s brows darted toward one another. “I suppose he’ll stand at stud at the farm of the partner who puts up the most money toward the syndicate.”
“So you’re not proposing a three-way split of the cost?” Van Rissingham laid his cigar in the ash tray at his elbow and leaned forward.
“Actually, it would be a four-way split, if we decide to divide the cost equally.” Valentine nodded down the table. Lord Springfield raised his glass. “Neville is interested in joining our venture.”
Gard didn’t miss the look Van Rissingham and Bentley shared. The other five male guests looked bored, talking among themselves at the far end of the table. “Perhaps”—Gard stood—“Lord Springfield would like my chair so you can talk it over better? I don’t know that there’s anything I can add to the conversation. Arcturus is an excellent prospect as a stallion.”
“There is one more thing.” Valentine shot his cuffs. “I heard that Schmidt had another interested buyer, that they’d agreed to a price providing the buyer could get the funds together. Do you know who that buyer is, and even more important, what the price is?”
A tingle zipped across Gard’s chest, but before he had to answer that he was the buyer in question, the dining room door opened and Beryl entered a few feet. She winced at the cloud of cigar smoke, waving her hand before her face and backing up.
“Father, Mother sent me to fetch you to the drawing room. Melanie is going to play a song on the piano for us. She’s just waiting for the gentlemen before she begins.”
Gard followed his host into the room across the foyer, grateful for the interruption and wondering when he could decently escape this party. What was the protocol for leaving a society dinner party? But did he really want to leave if staying meant spending more time with Beryl?
“Oh, Lord Springfield, would you mind ever so much turning pages for me?” Melanie called from her place on the piano bench as they entered the drawing room.
Go, Melanie. Keep the Englishman busy and away from Beryl. Which I suppose isn’t very sporting of me. Lately he’d begun to suspect that if he had the means and the social standing, he might be willing to give up his bachelor status for Beryl.
“Of course, Miss Turner.” Springfield saw Beryl seated on a sofa and went to the piano.
Beryl sought Gard’s eyes and tilted her head toward the empty space beside her. He didn’t need to be asked twice. Easing down beside her, he couldn’t look away from her face, her hair, her dress that seemed to fit her right in all the right places.
“You look so different tonight. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Humor touched her eyes and she smiled. “Is that a compliment to how I look tonight or a dig at how I usually look?”
Gard knew his color was high, and he shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that you look very nice.” Which was insipid. She looked amazing, beautiful, gorgeous, striking … so many words that would’ve been better than just nice.
She leaned a bit closer and he did the same. “Truth be told, this get-up is uncomfortable and cumbersome. I’d much rather be in my riding clothes.”
He knew just how she felt. His own suit was stiff and confining. He longed for one of his old hacking jackets and riding breeches and his favorite pair of boots. Looking around at the sumptuous furniture, the valuable artwork, the gilding and carving, he wondered if he would treat Beryl differently at her next lesson. Knowing she was well off and seeing the extent of that wealth were two different things.
Melanie began to play, proficiently enough, he supposed, though he was no music expert. Springfield sat at her side, close because of the shortness of the bench, and when she nodded, he turned the sheet music.
“You had a question for me before dinner that you didn’t get to ask,” he said. If he could get the conversation onto something riding or lesson related, perhaps he could get his equilibrium back.
“The Garrison Hunt Club is going to have a hunt trial this weekend, and I wondered if you thought Lacey was ready, and if you would like to join us?” Beryl opened the pleats on her fan one-by-one, revealing the red floral design, and then just as slowly closing it, not looking at him.
He’d noticed that when the topic really mattered to her, she avoided eye contact. He found the trait endearing.
“A hunt trial?” He’d not heard of such a thing.
“Yes. The hounds need training, so the Hunt Club holds a trial … a practice hunt. Usually there are only a few riders, but a couple of times each summer, they assemble a larger field.”
“Do they hunt fox in the summer?”
She smiled, glancing up for the first time. “No. Someone drags a fox pelt over the route about an hour before the hunt. The hounds follow that trail … usually.”
“How long is the course? Lacey’s improving, but she isn’t in top form yet.”
“It depends upon how long it takes the hounds to pick up the scent, but Lacey and I have ridden in several, and
I don’t believe it taxed her too much. And you can drop out of a hunt at any time.”
His mind galloped through the list of available mounts at Schmidt Farm. Rita or Delaney could certainly handle the going, but Spanky would benefit the most.
“Sure, let’s go. Though you’ll have to coach me on the etiquette. I’ve never done any fox hunting.”
“Fox hunting?” Lord Springfield stood next to Beryl. Gard hadn’t even noticed that the music had stopped. “I love a good hunt. Do tell me there are some clubs nearby?”
Wallace Valentine, overhearing, leaned back in his chair to speak over his shoulder. “Garrison Hunt is one of the best. Beryl will be happy to introduce you to the master, won’t you, Beryl.”
The slight look of dismay in Beryl’s eyes only partially mitigated Gard’s feeling of disappointment that his lordship would no doubt be joining them on the practice hunt.
Chapter Five
Beryl arrived at the Garrison Hunt Club well before the appointed start time. She wore a dark blue velvet riding habit, derby, and face net. She kept the net up and off her face for the moment. There would be plenty of time, once the hounds were released from the kennels, to adjust it.
Lord Springfield accompanied her. He’d called for her at the house, something no doubt engineered by her mother. She had been throwing them together constantly for the last month. After the dinner party, Mother had gushed and preened by turns at how much Lord Springfield had enjoyed Beryl’s company, and what a catch he was, and wouldn’t it be something to be known as Lady Springfield?
Beryl had said nothing. Lord Springfield was a nice man, but much like the rest of the eligible bachelors her parents had paraded through her life, she felt nothing for him beyond polite interest.
Not like what she felt for Gard Kennedy.
Which was ridiculous, since they had only met a few weeks ago, and that first meeting had not exactly been cordial, what with him pointing out every flaw he saw in her riding and doubting whether someone of her social standing could be serious about horsemanship.
But she thought she had begun to dispel his doubts. And he had been correct in his assessment of her riding, something that made her wince considering she’d thought herself quite proficient up until now. It was seeing the difference between Lacey’s demeanor with Gard in the saddle as opposed to when she was riding the mare that showed he was right about her riding deficiencies.
“Is this a large kennel?” Lord Springfield looked over the early arrivals as he tugged on his gloves.
“They have a large kennel, but not all the hounds will hunt during this trial. Probably a dozen pairs will go out today.”
“Good. And is the Master competent?”
The way he said it set Beryl’s teeth on edge. Perhaps he didn’t mean to be patronizing, but that’s how it felt.
“He’s an excellent Master of Hounds. Speaking of whom, we should go and greet him.”
Before they could cross the grass to where the large man in the red hunting coat stood talking to his whippers-in, Beryl spied Gard and Asa approaching on horseback. Her heart rate kicked up, and she had to take a steadying breath. Gard rode Spanky and led Lacey, and Asa rode Bandit, the mount Lord Springfield had leased from the Schmidts for the summer.
Beryl changed course, going to greet them. Lacey nudged her hand for a treat, but she had to settle for some pats. Beryl had stuck to the feeding schedule Gard had set up for the mare, and it was already paying dividends. Lacey was getting fitter and leaner by the day.
She glanced at Gard’s attire, thankful that he’d gotten it right. Hunt etiquette was strict, and everyone was expected to adhere to it. With his black jacket, buff breeches, and black hunt cap and boots, he would blend right into the field of riders. Except that he would be by far the handsomest.
“Looks like a good day for it.” Gard slid from the saddle. He loosened Spanky’s girth while Asa did the same for Bandit.
“Hello, Asa. Thank you for helping get the horses here.” Beryl smiled at the old horseman. “They look to be in fine form.”
“My pleasure, Miss Beryl.” He bobbed his snowy head. “I’ll be right here to get ’em back home when you return.” He pulled a book from his pocket and went to sit in the shade of a huge pine tree away from the horses and people arriving.
Lord Springfield looked Bandit over. “I hope he gives me a good ride today. I’m wondering about switching to another horse for the rest of the summer. Do you think Schmidt would lease that stallion Arcturus to me? I imagine he’d be exhilarating over fences.”
Gard ran his hand down Bandit’s nose. “I don’t think Schmidt is interested in leasing Arcturus. Bandit will give you a nice ride, though I’ve noticed he likes to lie on your left leg. He could do with some straightening going into a jump.”
Lord Springfield’s eyes blazed. He took Bandit’s reins and led him away. Beryl almost laughed. Gard had no compunctions about giving out riding instructions, even to haughty English lords. Maybe that was what she liked most about him. The horses came first.
Taking Beryl’s arm, Gard guided her to the far side of the horses, keeping his voice low. “What’s the procedure here? I don’t want to do something stupid. Can you run through how things will go?”
“Of course.” She searched the growing group. “That tall man over by the fence is the Huntsman. He rides first and he manages the hounds. He carries the horn, and he’ll signal the pack as he rides. Helping him are the Whippers-in, or the Whips. They encourage the hounds who are straying or lagging to stay on track, and they keep an eye out for the quarry. After the Whips comes the Master. He’s actually in charge of the entire hunt. We’ll be part of the Field, and we come after the Master.”
At that moment, the handlers brought the pack around from the kennels. Beryl estimated twenty pairs—large, athletic, tricolored. Tails wagging, ears flopping, they went straight to the Huntsman, who patted and rubbed and greeted them.
Beryl took that time to introduce Gard to the Master, mentioning that Lord Springfield was also in attendance. The Master shook their hands, cordial and welcoming. “Beryl, always good to see you and meet your friends. The Field is small today, so we’ll all stay together, but if either of you is a novice jumper, hang to the back.”
Soon they were all mounted, and the Huntsman led them out. Beryl lowered the net on her hat brim to protect her face, and found herself neatly sandwiched between Gard and Lord Springfield.
“The Master said you’d stay together today. Is that unusual?” Gard asked as they trotted down the road.
“When the Field is large, they are divided into Flights. The First Flight goes with the Master and is made up of experienced hunters or good jumpers. The Second Flight is reserved for those who either don’t jump at all or those who are visiting or those who like to pick and choose which jumps they will take. But with only twenty or so of us in the Field today, there’s no need for Flights.”
“I say, Beryl,” Lord Springfield nudged Bandit closer. He smiled at her, brows raised. “I’m looking forward to seeing how that mare goes today. Your father has named his price, and I’m thinking it over. I would’ve ridden her myself, but your groom here refused.” He looked down his rather long nose and sniffed. “Something about not interfering with your lesson progress?” He said it as if he suspected Gard was being deliberately obstructive.
Though her throat was tight, Beryl said, firmly, “Gard is not my groom. And he’s correct. Lacey and I have been working very hard, aiming at competing at Deep Haven at the end of the summer, and today’s ride is part of that training.” Her father had named a price for Lacey? Without even telling her?
The Field followed the pack as they left the road and approached a covert. The Huntsman blew his horn—a short, sharp note—and the dogs spread out, noses down, casting about for the scent. They were silent, though the Huntsman’s calls of encouragement could be heard well back in the Field.
Before long, one of the hounds gave a short howl, and severa
l more joined it. A ripple went through Lacey, and she strained at the bit, ready to be off. Beryl’s blood thrilled to the sound as the pack found the scent trail and crashed after it, baying in full throat. The Huntsman blew “Gone Away” and the Master and Field were off in pursuit.
The trail led through the woods and pastures, over streams and ditches. Beryl concentrated on meeting each obstacle just right, keeping her hands on Lacey’s withers, reins loose as they cantered along. Lord Springfield seemed to have no trouble with Bandit, rising into a two-point stance at each jump, chin up, clearly an experienced rider.
Spanky was another story. Gard fell behind, and Beryl couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or if Spanky was giving him trouble. As they came to another open hayfield, Beryl slowed Lacey, looking back. Spanky appeared over the rise, Gard firmly in the saddle, and Beryl let go the breath she’d been holding.
Gard spied her and directed Spanky alongside Lacey. “He’s not sure about all this yet, so I thought it best to keep him in the back, give him plenty of time to size up the obstacles and not get jostled by the other horses.”
She nodded. “The trail narrows up here, so we’ll have to go single file, and we’ll have to wait our turn at the next gate.”
They rejoined the Field, staying near the rear, and Beryl enjoyed every minute. Though it was only a trial, she loved the speed and the sounds and the sense of partnership with her horse.
The hounds were still hot on the scent, baying and running, and the Field worked to stay close. They entered a stretch of woods, traveling on a faint bridle path. Beryl and Lacey went ahead of Gard and Spanky. Lord Springfield on Bandit rode just in front of Beryl. When they reached the next fence on the edge of an open glade, riders milled and circled, waiting their turn.
Lord Springfield circled on Bandit, who shook his head and stomped, up on the bit, eager to run. He sidled, bumping into a chestnut who wore a bright red ribbon on his tail. Without warning, the chestnut lashed out with his hind feet, startling Bandit, who charged out of the way, Lord Springfield lurching in the saddle.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 39