Sport of Baronets Page 5

  “The skill of the man you call a thief?” Hannah laughed. “You are no admirer of those old tales, I see. To those most in need of his help, Robin Hood is no thief. He is a savior.”

  “An apt word. His intervention is all but miraculous, taking from those with too much in the nick of time to save the desperate.”

  She set down her documents. “This is why you don’t like him? The gentry have much to fear from Robin Hood.”

  “You mistake the matter. I am much closer, at the moment, to the desperate hordes than I am to the corrupt nobles with fat coffers.” But who was going to save him? He had thought his colt would. Now all he had were crumbling documents. And what earthly good would be accomplished by knowing what had passed between their parents sixteen years before? Better to know what they had said to each other yesterday.

  “So you pin your trust on a horse rather than a human,” Hannah said.

  “Who would not, if given the chance?”

  Biting at her bottom lip, Hannah squared the papers she had already examined. “I suppose that depends on the person.”

  “Maybe so. But it does not depend on the horse.” There was no tricking a horse with empty promises. Horses only understood the truth, the now. And they remembered how you had treated them in the past: whether training lessons had been accompanied by kind words and slices of apple or whether the halter came with harshness, the saddle with fear.

  Winning the trust of a horse was therefore truly worthwhile.

  Winning the trust of a person would be too, he supposed. He had never done so. Before her illness, Lady Crosby had kept—to use an apt analogy—a tight hand on the reins.

  “I have found something,” Hannah said at last. “A paper from June…something. I cannot make out the date. It’s not a bill of sale, but a letter.”

  She half rose from her chair to extend the paper, and Bart met her in the same pose. Across the cluttered desk, they made a bridge, shoulder to shoulder, as they read the old lines from Sir William to Lady Crosby.

  As our association is at an end, I withdraw all claim on Nottingham and upon your time. In the future, I reserve the right to buy, without limitation, any of his offspring that I deem promising. This will, I think, be satisfactory to you. If it is not, return this letter with your instructions.

  “Do I,” said Bart, “want to know the sort of association to which he was referring?”

  Hannah sat down again, her brows furrowed. “I do. Because for them to have had any association at all means they didn’t always hate each other.”

  “Why should they? It’s not as though we’ve done anything so terrible to one another. Our families, I mean, not—not you and me in particular. It’s just…a habit that we’ve all got into.”

  “Yes. Maybe.” She scanned the letter again with great interest. “She didn’t return the letter, so she was happy enough to take Nottingham and promise away—”

  “Anything,” Bart interrupted. To gamble the future on a small gain in the present. There were the seeds of their ruin, tidily planted in this letter.

  It was not a surprise. He wondered whether anything would be a surprise again.

  He rather hoped not.

  “My turn to ask a question.” He sank into his chair again, facing Hannah across the paper-piled desk.

  Her hair was sliding from its pins, heavy and smooth and straight. “You are free to ask.”

  “Why are you helping me? Why do you want the colt so badly? Why do you care about the money? And yes, I know that’s three questions. But I suspect the answer to all of them is the same.”

  She was silent so long that he thought she would not reply. Another lock of hair slipped loose. “There is no answer that would satisfy you,” she finally said. “Because there is no answer that would satisfy me. It’s…for an escape, though I don’t know from what or to where. And that, I suppose, is an answer in itself. Isn’t it?”

  “Not enough of one.” Yet he had been wrong, for she had surprised him.

  And he thought he might like it after all.

  * * *

  How could she explain herself to Bart Crosby, of all people? He wanted nothing more than to stay. She wanted money to leave.

  “I would like,” she began, the idea taking shape as she spoke, “to hire a companion. I want to travel to London and see things before my youth gallops away.”

  Her parents had raised her to think she was too good for everyone in Newmarket, especially the Crosbys, but she had never met anyone else in the world. How was she to trust or marry?

  “You would like to go to London, you say. You don’t like your life in Newmarket?” He leaned back in his chair, which ought to have appeared casual. Grasping the edge of the desk though, he almost vibrated with tension.

  This reassured her somehow that what she was saying was all right. “My life is the life others have chosen for me. I know I’m fortunate in my circumstances, and yet—I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve never done anything.”

  “You bought a colt.” His eyes crinkled in a teasing smile.

  “Yes, that was the first step. I intended that he should…” She bit her lip. “I wanted something that was mine.”

  Even so, her father had signed his name to the bill of sale along with her. He had been the one to choose the colt, too. The irony of her hamstrung attempts at independence did not escape her.

  Bart’s shoulders rose with a deep breath. “I had a fine curricle and matched grays the year before last.” He said this in the offhand manner Hannah had noticed before. Something he thought he ought to tell her but did not want to, so he weighted it lightly as though to float it over her notice.

  “And you do not anymore?”

  With a light ruefulness she thought he did not feel, he said, “After my mother fell ill, I sold them. For a fraction of their worth—or what they were worth to me. It is difficult to put a price on being able to control horses no one else can. To bring them to heel and send them beautifully through their paces.”

  Hannah laughed. “If that is what you value, I don’t wonder you have not yet married.”

  He colored. “I didn’t say that’s what I’d want in a woman. Though as with a horse, a listening ear would be welcome.”

  “I’ll grant you that. But why do you tell me this?”

  The noonday sun made a rectangle of light on the desk, turning the old walnut to a burnished bronze and picking silver out of Bart’s dark hair. “I said the horses were sold for less than what they were worth to me. Even so, there was something worth more to me than the horses.”

  “Pride?”

  His smile was slow and sweet. “The belief that it was the right thing to do.”

  Ah. Her heart gave a squeeze, startling in its intensity. If he had not been a Crosby, she would have fallen for him that instant. For that smile alone, and for the simple words that backed it.

  But he was a Crosby, and so she knew him better than she did a stranger. There was more to him—to them—than sunlit smiles and earnest words. She could permit no headlong tumble, not now that she had shared her deepest-held wish.

  Maybe, though, she could permit a careful tumble instead. “And—what would you want in a woman?”

  Thunk. He abandoned his relaxed pose. “That’s not a question I’ve ever pondered.”

  “Why not?”

  “Er. Have you ever pondered what you would do if you inherited the throne of England?”

  “No, but surely it’s more possible for you to court a woman than it is for me to become a king. You’re a not-hideous baronet.”

  “I was wondering yesterday what the kindest thing was that a Chandler had ever said to a Crosby. I believe that’s my answer.”

  Hannah folded her arms. She had seen Bart do this when he was displeased by an answer, so there was a decent chance it would work on him.

 
And she waited.

  After a few moments, he shoved back his chair and stood. “It’s never been something I devoted a lot of time to. I mean, I did, but I only courted the woman everyone else courted, because one ought to court someone if one is a bachelor in London. Otherwise why be in London during the Season?” As he spoke, he began tidying papers, then knocking at stacks and having to start over.

  She hid a smile. “For the dances and parties, I suppose.”

  He adopted a look of great patience. “Those are for women, not men.”

  “They must be for both. If men do not attend, there won’t be anyone for women to dance with.”

  He picked up a penwiper, then set it down again. “Dancing is…all right in its way. But it’s difficult to ask someone to dance, you know.”

  “I wish I did, but I don’t know. I’ve never been to a ball. And even if I had, I wouldn’t be doing the propositioning. That would be unfeminine, and I’m already far too blunt spoken for most men’s tastes.”

  “What do you mean? There’s nothing unfeminine about speaking your mind. That’s as admirable as it is difficult.” He tugged on the fob at his waistcoat pocket. Another bright waistcoat today, a watered silk woven in the colors of peacock feathers. “The way you look in a dress—or trousers, for that matter—doesn’t have anything to do with the state of your mind.”

  Her careful tumble accelerated a bit. “If my ways don’t bother you, then maybe you could dance with me sometime.”

  His fingers slipped from the fob to splay flat atop a stack of papers. “I—how? We would need several couples to make the figures with us.”

  “Not if we waltzed.” She realized that he was right. It was indeed difficult to ask someone to dance.

  “We could waltz.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Sometime. Yes.”

  She rose from her chair, facing him. Though the desk separated them, he was close, quite close. Close enough for her to see the gold about the rim of his dark eyes, the shadow of dark stubble on his jawline that indicated how early he had arisen.

  And then she started picking out more shadows, the places of him that were a bit more hidden than the rest. Deep-set eyes below dark brows. The plane below his cheekbone. The softer hollow behind the hard line of his jaw, below his ear. And hidden by his cravat, a muscled neck and sharp-cut collarbone, each with its own shadows.

  She could not see those last two, but she could imagine them. In fact, she could not stop imagining them.

  “Something on your mind?” Without her noticing it, he had leaned closer. Like her, he rested his hands atop the fallen stacks of paper, balancing. Again, they made a bridge, but instead of shoulder to shoulder, they were face to face.

  “Yes, I was wondering…” She pulled in a deep breath. “I was wondering what it would be like if you kissed me. Or I kissed you. Either way.”

  “No wondering,” he said. “No speculation.”

  “No?” Her heart gave a leaden thump.

  “No. There is no need.” Another of those sweet smiles—and then his lips were on hers, warm and sure.

  It was sunlight in a touch; it set her skin to tingling as it never had in the hottest bath or the iciest stream. Her mouth opened, tasting and matching his kiss with her own, and her eyes fell closed as though her lids could hold the sharp pleasure of this kiss. As though they could preserve the sight of him, shadow and sun at once.

  She did not want to stop kissing him, even as the papers shifted under her hands. She leaned farther across the desk, then farther, wanting to get closer. If she could pull him into her arms—or if he could embrace her—ah, a gentle brush of his tongue tip on hers was enough to melt her completely. “More,” she moaned against his lips.

  “Yes. Good. More. Good.” Each word was punctuated with a kiss on her cheeks, nose, brows. He shifted his weight, then hitched one knee atop the desk and leaned farther over it. “I could just—”

  His knee slid, and at the same instant the stacks on which she had been leaning slipped and fanned out flat. Thump. She fell to her elbows, jarred.

  In an instant, Bart had regained his balance and lunged around the desk to reach her side. “I’m a cursed fool. I ought to have come around to you in the first place. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Hannah straightened up, smoothing the tailored lines of her clothing. He had not undone a single button, had hardly touched her skin, and yet she felt as though she’d been bared.

  Or she had bared herself. A small difference in words, but a large one in meaning. “I’m all right,” she repeated, and this time, his worried expression changed to a grin.

  “More than all right,” he agreed.

  The conversation that followed was somewhat abashed, at least on Hannah’s part. She wanted to leave, and she wanted to kiss him again, and she wanted to kick herself across Suffolk for wanting such contrary things at the same time.

  At last they agreed that they had found enough answers from the papers, and so they had better part ways for the time being.

  But there was more to do. Always. They kept to their common purpose.

  “I shall speak with Russ and Jack, the stable boys,” Bart said, looking all masculine determination. “They might have observed something helpful and could give us some clue as to where Northrup has taken the colt.”

  “And I,” said Hannah, “shall question the staff of the Chandler stables and see whether my father has learned anything of note from his solicitor.”

  The sparkling feeling had begun to fade, but there was enough of it left to make her steps feel light as they bade one another good day and she went to retrieve her maid. They had ended by agreeing to meet at the racecourse the following day to watch hopefuls training for the Two Thousand Guineas.

  “And maybe we’ll happen upon someone who knows something of use,” were Hannah’s parting words.

  It was just an excuse, spoken because to say I want to be with you again was impossible.

  Though not as impossible as it had once seemed.

  Five

  Morning saw Bart enter the Jockey Club rooms, a short ride up Newmarket’s High Street from the racecourses. Horses were early risers, active before dew had evaporated from the turf, and during race week, many of their owners became the same way. In the masculine bounds of this private club, the rooms seemed never to empty. A few hounds loped about, belonging to everyone and no one at once. Men imbibed coffee, tea, and spirits in the arched booths of a wood-paneled room; they strode past walls covered with gilt-framed equestrian paintings and engravings.

  And above all, they talked about horse racing. Everyone here lived for the sport of kings. Everyone had a racing stable to maintain or hoped to breed from the next foundation sire. The club’s headquarters was an intense and bustling space, but a courteous one. Absent were the sharp connivances of the bookmakers who populated so many corners of the city—though this was not to say that club members were uninterested in enriching themselves through a wager if the occasion presented itself.

  As Bart passed through the coffee room, he was waved over by one of the most venerable members of the club. Sliding into a private booth opposite him, Bart greeted Sir Jubal Thompson, who had been knighted by the horse-mad royalty decades before. Sir Jubal’s stallions had sired many champions, though the knight had no colt in the Two Thousand Guineas this year.

  “Wondered when you’d be turning up, Sir Bartlett.” Sir Jubal wore his powdered hair in a queue. His jowls sagged with age, but his eyes were sharp under pouchy lids. “Lost your most promising colt, have you?”

  “Lost is not the right word,” Bart said grimly.

  “True, true. Thought you ought to involve the law, myself,” drawled the older man before draining a cup of black coffee.

  “I intend to once the thief is caught. Finding my horse is the first priority.” Faced with a likely resource, Bart collected
his questions. “Have any bays been found wandering? Or have any stables reported an extra horse or changed their exercise schedule? I haven’t time to search each one, but—”

  “Word gets around,” agreed Sir Jubal. “I haven’t heard of anything like that, though one of my own grooms found a brown horse outside the paddock two days ago. No black points. So he’s not the one you want.” He wagged his heavy head. “Poor creature. He looked to be of good blood, but he’ll never race again. Had a crack in one hoof, and the others were unshod. Surprised no one’s reported him missing. But with the state of his hooves, he might have wandered a long way.”

  Bart managed enough polite interest to hear out this rambling aside, then to decline the elder man’s offer to share a pot of coffee. He needed no help in remaining alert. Until he found some clue as to Golden Barb’s whereabouts, he felt as though he might never sleep again.

  “I have an appointment at the track,” he said, excusing himself.

  “Ah, going to watch the colts exercise? You might find a good bit of bone to wager on. Lessen the loss, you know.”

  Bart refrained from replying to this suggestion, only thanking the old knight for his time. “And if you do hear any word about a mysterious bay colt or a groom of the correct appearance”—he described Northrup—“then…”

  “I’ll send word at once.” Sir Jubal’s clap on Bart’s shoulder as Bart rose was friendly. “This is a gentleman’s sport, or it ought to be. We watch out for one another.”

  The old knight would spread the word, Bart trusted, and anyone with knowledge would come Bart’s way. Unless Northrup and Golden Barb had left the city entirely, they would soon be rooted out.

  Bart retrieved his horse from the stables and cantered to the track. He had arranged to meet Hannah near the white-painted finish post of the Rowley Mile course.

  When he arrived at the chosen spot, she was there already, sidesaddle atop a lanky gray mare. In the saddle, she looked elegant and proper in a high-collared habit of dark green, with a spill of fine lace at the collar and cuffs. On her head was a military-looking cap, softened by the fluffiest plumes imaginable.