by Alex Stuart
Gay Cavalier
By
Alex Stuart
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Originally published by Mills & Boon Limited,
50 Grafton Way, Fitzroy Square, London, England.
Harlequin edition published February, 1967
CHAPTER ONE
Deirdre Sheridan saw her father's horsebox turn into the yard and tore herself away from the excited little crowd of children on ponies which surrounded her, with a quick:
"Look, I simply must go — our horses are here."
The children let her go reluctantly. As one of the instructors at their weekend Pony Club Camp, Deirdre was a figure of some importance — as "Hare" in the paperchase which was to highlight the end of the camp, she was vested, in their eyes, with the trappings of heroism. Besides, she was nineteen and therefore grown up.
But she made her escape at last and hurried into the yard. The horsebox was unmistakable, for it was new and very resplendently painted in maroon and grey — her father's racing colours — with his name boldly emblazoned in letters of gold across the board in front:
Captain Dennis Sheridan, The Sheridan Stud, King's Martin, Berks.
Beneath it was the head of Merry Marcus, which Sean had designed as a sort of trademark, an exaggerated portrait, done in oils, which showed the old horse with nostrils distended and ears laid back, as if his invisible body were arched up beneath him in a frantic effort to thrust him past the post a neck ahead of his equally invisible rivals.
It was extremely effective, but, in fact, Sean had painted it from his imagination, with old Marcus eyeing him benevolently over the door of his loosebox. It was four years since either of them had raced, six since Marcus's totally unexpected triumph in the Grand National had made his name, for a brief space, one to conjure with.
Deirdre stood looking up at the board, a frown drawing her fine, dark brows together in a worried pucker. Her father, catching sight of her, called out with eager pride:
"It looks very grand, does it not?"
His strong brown hand caressed the gleaming paintwork of the horsebox, and Deirdre's frown dissolved into the ghost of a smile. He was like a little boy with a new plaything, she thought affectionately, and hadn't the heart to disillusion him. Although her interview with the Bank Manager yesterday, when she had gone to draw the wages cheque, had not been particularly reassuring.
"Miss Sheridan," he had warned her, in his prim, flat voice, "if you have any influence with your father, try to make him see that matters cannot go on as they are. The Bank has been lenient with him, extremely lenient. But his overdraft is now a long way above the agreed maximum and he's made no attempt to reduce it. He's spending money like water! That new horsebox, now — surely it wasn't necessary?"
It depended, of course, on what you meant by necessary, Deirdre reflected wryly. Her father believed it was and, when she had tried to tackle him on the subject and on that of his overdraft, he had flashed her his charming, boyish smile and used her arguments and the Bank Manager's to reinforce his own.
"Sure now, if we can sell Moonbeam to this Carmichael fellow, Deirdre, for anything near what he's worth—well, that would take care of the overdraft, wouldn't it? And you can't be asking top prices for your horses if you're after carting them about in some broken-down old cattle truck, can you now? Be reasonable! Money breeds money—this horsebox is the finest advertisement I've ever had and, as such, it's an investment. It will pay for itself in no time at all, so it will. And if you're really worrying about the overdraft—ach, sure, 'tis the simplest thing in the world to be rid of it! Just ride Moonbeam in the paperchase tomorrow and sell him to Alan Carmichael—'tis all you have to do. He's only to see the horse's performance to want him. And he's rich and can afford to pay a decent price. They say he's wanting to race and he can't do that without good horses, can he? 'Tis fortunate that I've the animals to sell him, for his own sake. Isn't it then?"
Put like that, it all sounded perfectly feasible and absurdly easy. Dennis Sheridan never recognized the faintest possibility of his plans going awry: it seldom occurred to him that they might.
But, Deirdre reminded herself uneasily, as her father led Moonbeam out of the box, Colonel Alan Carmichael was a newcomer to the district, a complete stranger to her, whom she had seen only once—a tall, fair-haired man with a strangely forbidding expression—hurtling past her at the wheel of a powerful sports car.
Rumour, whilst crediting him with considerable wealth and a fine military record, also had it that he was unapproachable. People who had called on him at Manor Farm, which he had recently purchased, had met with a brusque welcome. He had stopped short of open incivility but he had not encouraged any friendly advances, nor offered more than the minimum hospitality which convention demanded.
It was said that he had only lately retired from the Army, having served in Korea where, like his brother Sean, he had been a prisoner in Chinese hands. The charitable excused his brusqueness on this account: the others were less tolerant.
Today, at Sir Henry Hollis's invitation, he had come to judge the Pony Club's Stable Management, but Deirdre, busy with her own classes, hadn't seen him. Her father was taking a good deal for granted, she thought—his judging over, Colonel Carmichael might quite easily go home, instead of waiting to watch the paperchase and Moonbeam's performance. And, in any case, whatever her father might say, Moonbeam wasn't everybody's horse.
Deirdre sighed as she watched Paddy, the Stud groom, tightening the horse's girths. Moonbeam was a handsome, showy grey, beautifully bred and up to any amount of weight: a fine, bold jumper with a great heart. But he was young and he needed riding: he was by no means the ideal horse for an amateur who just wanted to ride in a few point-to-point races. It would have been better to have offered him Snow-goose or even Rudolph, although, of course, neither could command Moonbeam's price. And there was that wretched overdraft…
She would have to do her best to sell Moonbeam to Colonel Carmichael, but it wasn't going to be easy, even supposing he stayed on for the paperchase. Deirdre knew that she need expect no introduction from any of the Hollises, whose guest he was today. The Hollises were snobs and disapproved of her only a little less than they disapproved of her father, because he bred horses for a living and wasn't "county." But Penelope Hollis at any rate could be relied on to point her out to the newcomer, if only in order to express her disapproval. Once identified as Dennis Sheridan's daughter, all she would have to do would be to keep Moonbeam prominently in Colonel Carmichael's sight and, if current gossip were correct and the colonel on the lookout for one or two horses, it was possible that he would approach her.
If he didn't, of course, then she would have to make the first move herself—a prospect she did not view with any great relish, after the stories she had heard. But— her father would expect it of her. And Dennis Sheridan, for all his more obvious faults, was the best and most indulgent of parents. Deirdre would have gone through fire and water for him, if at any time he had expected this of her. She adored her father. And selling his horses was her job.
"Well, child?" Dennis had come up behind her and she turned to smile at him, thinking, as she did so, what an attractive man he was, with his tanned skin and his gay blue eyes, his crisp fair hair and his slim, lithe body. He was in his middle
forties but he didn't look it, for he had an ageless charm and the light-hearted exuberance of a schoolboy.
Today, in his well-cut jodhpurs and yellow waistcoat, he looked both competent and elegant, and Deirdre regarded him proudly. "Well, Daddy?"
Her father returned her gaze with equal pride and an odd fleeting sadness. When he looked at her like that, Deirdre knew that it was because she reminded him of her mother, and her heart contracted. Not that she remembered her mother at all clearly: it had been twelve years since she had left them and only Dennis still felt her loss. But for his sake Deirdre was sorry and, impulsively, she went to him and linked her aim in his.
He said gruffly: "Time to get up, child. Come on."
He led her over to Moonbeam, his head on one side and his eyes narrowed as he studied the grey. "He's looking his best, is he not, Paddy?" he appealed to the old groom.
Paddy's lined, nut-cracker face split into a grin. "Ach, sure, Captain sorr, there's not a horse to touch him in the county, so there's not!" The grin included Deirdre. "Nor a lady to ride the equal of Miss Deirdre, I'd stake me life on it." He bent, a gnarled old hand extended, to give Deirdre a leg up. "Will I be getting Marigold out now, sorr?"
Dennis nodded absently and, as the old groom vanished into the horsebox, he continued to regard Moonbeam with a speculative but approving eye. He was so far away and so lost in his own thoughts that Deirdre said sharply: "Marigold, Daddy? I thought you were riding Rudolph?"
Dennis turned his gaze on her then. His blue eyes were innocent. "Oh," he said, "so I was, child, so I was. But I changed me mind, for Rudolph was just the least bit feely on his off fore. 'Twill do Marigold no harm to have a little canter behind the children and maybe pop a fence or two, when Sir Henry has his back turned."
"Yes, but—" Deirdre stared back at him suspiciously.
"Daddy, what is this, what have you been up to? You promised you'd be Hare with me and Rudolph was perfectly all right, yesterday. I don't see—"
"Do you not then? ach now, Deirdre!" Her father closed one eye in an elaborate wink. "I've unfortunately had to break me promise. But I've arranged for a substitute to take me place."
"Who?" Deirdre wanted to know and her heart sank as Dennis answered: "Who but Colonel Carmichael then? Sir Henry's lending him a horse. 'Twill give you the chance you need to sell him Moonbeam, will it not?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so. But—" This was worse than she had expected, much worse. It smacked of sharp practice, to use the Pony Club paperchase in order to thrust Moonbeam under the notice of a prospective purchaser, and Deirdre shrank from taking any part in it. But her father added, his tone unusually grave:
"We must sail the horse, you know."
"Yes, I know. Only—" it was so unlike Dennis Sheridan to display anxiety about anything that Deirdre asked, half teasing, half-serious: "Does the overdraft matter to you after all then?"
At that he laughed. "Ach, divil a bit! I've the assets to cover it twenty times over." He patted Moonbeam's impatiently arched neck. "This lad's on his toes. I'd walk him round a little—you're not due to start for half an hour or so, are you?"
Deirdre looked at her watch. "No. But I'd better collect the bags for the trail. Colonel Carmichael won't know where they are."
Her father nodded. "Sean has them in his car—he's about somewhere. In the park, I think. Go down past the terrace and let Sir Henry see all he wants of the horse while you're about it."
Deirdre concealed a smile. "All right, Daddy." Her father was annoyed with Sir Henry because, less than a week ago, the Pony Club's President had made what he considered an insulting offer for Moonbeam and this still rankled with Moonbeam's breeder. "I'll take him into the park."
"Do that, then." Dennis hesitated. "You know what Colonel Carmichael looks like?"
"Yes, I saw him the other day, in the village. He's tall and fair. And awfully young to be a colonel—but rather fierce-looking, so I suppose he must have been one. I'm sure I'd know him again."
"Indeed you should, from that description! But sure it fits him well enough." Her father chuckled but his eyes were still serious. "I've no doubt you'll find Penelope Hollis in his pocket—her mother's gone to enough trouble to get him here, and it wouldn't be for anyone else's benefit, of that you may be sure! Well off you go and the best of luck to you. I'll be giving Marigold a little quiet schooling, where she's out of the way of the children, for she's only a baby herself and her manners aren't as good as they might be in a crowd. But if you need me, you've only to send Paddy to fetch me along." He sketched her a salute. "Ach, but you're a sight to gladden, any man's heart, on that horse! Don't forget to let Sir Henry feast his eyes on the two of you."
"I won't," Deirdre promised. She wasn't at all happy at the thought of what lay before her but there wasn't really anything she could say. And, when all was said and done, her job was selling horses, not just enjoying herself at a Pony Club camp. She made her way slowly out of the yard to the front of Sir Henry Hollis's imposing residence.
King's Martin Manor was Georgian, a graceful terraced mansion, looking out over rolling parkland, where now the Pony Club's variegated tents were pitched at a little distance from the house.
The Hollises were well off by present-day standards, for Sir Henry had made a very successful career in the City until his retirement two years ago, and he was a very generous patron of all local affairs, including the Pony Club. But even he was feeling the pinch now: the gardens were no longer kept up as they had been, the deer had vanished from the park, farms had been sold off, one by one, from the estate and the indoor staff reduced to a handful.
Nevertheless, on this occasion, hospitality was being dispensed in the traditional grand manner. A buffet had been set out on the terrace in front of the open french windows, and the pale golden sunlight was reflected in silver entree dishes and great, shining tea urns, in preparation for the expected influx of parents and friends who would arrive during the afternoon. A few had already arrived and were being given hot soup and sandwiches by the butler and his underlings, but the children had had their meal, picnic-fashion, outside their tents and were now busy saddling their ponies for the paperchase.
As Deirdre rounded a corner of the drive, she saw that Sir Henry, very bluff and red of face, was standing on the terrace steps, talking to some of his guests, a cup of soup in his hand and a smile curving his full, cherubic lips. The smile faded as he recognized Deirdre. He bowed to her distantly and his small, shrewd dark eyes flickered over her, from boots to peaked velvet cap, before going to Moonbeam's handsome head. Then, with visible reluctance, he dragged his gaze back to his companions, only to find that they, too, were looking at Moonbeam admiringly.
Deirdre rode on down to the end of the drive, keeping Moonbeam bunched up under her. The horse, as her father had said, was on his toes, treading delicately over the gravel and snorting as he caught sight of the tethered ponies. He attracted many interested glances before she turned him into the park.
Here she found Sean, beside his parked car at the rear of the stable tent, with—of all people—Penelope Hollis, not yet mounted, who was talking to him earnestly.
Sean's blue eyes were as innocent as his father's had been a few minutes ago, but he gave her an impish grin. Penelope flushed and turned away as Deirdre came up to them, murmuring an excuse about secretarial duties awaiting her in the Staff Tent.
Her expression, Deirdre saw, was a curious mixture of guilt and defiance. She was a slim, dark-haired girl, whose natural good looks were off-set by a certain primness and whose mouth, in repose, took on a downward curve which was at once petulant and vaguely unhappy. A few years older than Deirdre herself, Penelope was not popular with the other girls in her set. But—the only daughter of a rich and influential father—she held an unassailable social position, and on this account she was invited everywhere by everyone, her outspoken intolerance and her conceit excused and explained, if seldom enjoyed or forgiven.
Sean, who was nearer her age,
had always professed his dislike of her and of all she stood for. He was casually liberal in his ideas, resenting few things save intolerance but that very bitterly, and Deirdre said, surprised: "I didn't know that you and Penelope were on speaking terms, Sean! What's come over you?"
Her brother shrugged: "Well, as you've seen, we are. The girl has unexpected depths—she's interested in art. She came to the Exhibition and expressed approval of some of my pictures. When I'd recovered from my astonishment, we started talking. She bought a picture and I took her out to lunch, so"—he laughed, and put out a thin, long-fingered hand to pat Moonbeam, who was nuzzling him gently— "we've been exchanging the time of day quite pleasantly. And discreetly, until you butted in! I must say, Moonbeam does you credit—he's a good looker. Move over a bit, Deirdre—I'll include you in my sketch."
Deirdre backed away and Sean reached into the car for his sketch book. "Over to the left a bit," he suggested, pointing, "and don't flap—you've plenty of time, none of the small fry are even up yet… yes, that's fine. Hold it like that, I'll not be a minute."
"I'm supposed to be looking for the other Hare," Deirdre objected, but she held the pose, "and collecting the bean sacks from you. You have got them, haven't you?"
Sean grunted abstractedly and jerked his head in the direction of the Staff Tent. "I gave 'em to Penelope. Stop agitating, I tell you, I'll not be long."
He worked busily with a pencil, leaning against the side of his car for support. Deirdre watched him, conscious— as she had been ever since his return—of a strange mixture of pity and pride and affection for this unpredictable brother of hers.
Sean had once been Ireland's leading amateur steeplechase rider, but a serious wound obtained in Korea— where he had done his National Service—had left him with a limp and a spinal injury which made it impossible for him to sit a horse. It had put an abrupt end to his promising career. He insisted that he did not regret this and, refusing his father's offer to take him into partnership or set him up as a trainer on his own account, he was now building up a new career for himself as an equine artist, with varying success but every appearance of enjoyment.