She climbed out of the carriage before they could see her tears. “Come on, Waterloo,” she said, throwing an arm over the horse. “We’ve got to save Papa.”
Chapter Twenty-two
On the road into the city, Andrew slowed his winded horse to a walk. It was either do that or risk the animal dying on him. He couldn’t kill a faithful mount, no matter how angry he might be at Bridget.
If only the boy had been able to give him more information. But Ned hadn’t known much. Only that “the lady,” as he called Bridget, had been real upset and told him he had to get his Lordship to come home right off.
Andrew cursed, a long string of maledictions that exhausted all the words he knew but left him feeling just as resentful as ever. Things had been going so well for them. Why didn’t Bridget just tell her father that she wouldn’t race? Let the old fool be carted off to debtor’s prison rill he got home to buy him out. The man knew better than to bet. If he were stupid enough to wager after what had happened to him before, he deserved to go to prison.
Andrew pulled out his watch, glancing at it anxiously. Would he get there in time to stop this charade? Bridget ought to have known, or Aunt Sophie at least, that if they paid the man’s debts he couldn’t be sent to prison. Why hadn’t they done just that, paid what Durabian owed? Aunt Sophie was well set up; she could afford it.
Bridget was entirely too good-hearted, letting people take advantage of her.
Her letter, obviously written in haste and trepidation, didn’t tell him very much. Only that he must hurry home, that she
had
to race or her father’s freedom would be forfeit. And that she begged his forgiveness.
Forgiveness! How could he forgive her when she had promised, promised so vehemently, so tearfully, never ever to race again?
He would blister her ears, the foolish chit, for causing him so much trouble. All that haste in leaving Scotland—he hoped in his rush to get away he hadn’t ruined things there. And since then he’d been riding posthaste back to London, riding so fast that Ned was left behind.
As he neared Durabian’s farm, the road grew crowded. He couldn’t have run the filly even if she’d been rested—there were too many riders, too many carriages. Had all London turned out to see his wife make a fool of herself?
He dismounted near the gate, tossing Sable’s reins to a stableboy. Then he began to elbow his way through the crowd. He was going to find his wife and put an end to this stupidity.
But the area around the track was packed. People stood shoulder to shoulder, waving their hands about, chattering happily. Blacklegs had set up their stands and were shouting out their odds to prospective clients. Oh yes, London wouldn’t soon forget this day.
Where was she? He tried to make his way closer to the track, but the press was too tight. He pushed, even shoved, but all he got for his efforts were hard looks and a few muttered oaths.
The crowd did part for a moment and he had a glimpse of her—Bridget in her leather breeches, her red hair tossing as she swung up on the great stallion’s back. “Bridget!” he called out. He thought he saw her turn momentarily in his direction. But her expression was blank. Maybe she didn’t see him.
Or if she did, she wasn’t going to admit it.
She turned again, guiding the great stallion toward the track. Damnation! He’d never get to her now. He’d arrived too late to stop this.
“Andrew! Andrew, over here.”
He glanced around. That sounded like Aunt Sophie. Of course, she would be here, egging Bridget on. Whatever had possessed these women? He would have a few words for her, too. Some help she’d been!
There she was. And, by God! she was holding a little girl in each hand.
Grumbling, he made his way toward them.
“Andrew,” Aunt Sophie cried happily. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Did you talk to Bridget yet?”
“No.” He glared. “I couldn’t get to her.”
“Well, never mind. You can talk to her later.”
“Never mind!” he thundered. “Later! She broke her promise. She’s racing!”
“Now Andrew.” Aunt Sophie leaned toward him, her expression conciliatory. “Be sensible. She has to save her father.”
“And why?” he demanded irritably. “I paid the old reprobate’s gambling debts once. Why did he wager again?”
He noted her expression of shock, but he was too angry to care.
“He didn’t,” she retorted. “Didn’t Bridget explain in her letter?”
“Not really. She said she
had
to race to save her father from being sent to debtor’s prison. So I assumed he’d wagered again.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Aunt Sophie said firmly. “It was some regular bills he owed to his tradesmen. Wichersham bought—”
“Wichersham? That bastard?” He might have known.
“Yes,” Aunt Sophie said. “Wichersham. He’s over there by that oak. And do watch your language in front of the children.” She pulled the girls closer. “Wichersham bought them up.”
He frowned. “Well, why didn’t you pay him off instead?”
“Andrew, really. Give us credit for some sense. We tried.” She glared at him indignantly. “He wanted the race. He would not take money.” She glanced down at the girls. “He said he would take—take—you know. . . . But Bridget refused.”
Anger made him almost incoherent. “Take what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Andrew! Please! Your language.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Didn’t her father tell you what Wichersham said before—before you and Sable raced Waterloo?”
What had that to do with it? “Yes, he told me that Wichersham said he would take the stallion in lieu of the money. That’s why Durabian arranged the race.”
Aunt Sophie nodded. “And?”
“And what?” Andrew asked suspiciously. “I suspect he fixed the race, but I didn’t ask him.”
“He told you no more? No more than that?”
His temper, never the evenest, threatened to erupt. “Only that he owed Wichersham. Great galloping cannonballs, Aunt Sophie! Will you tell me the whole thing? Now!”
Aunt Sophie slowly turned red. “He—He said he would take the horse—or—or her.”
“Her whom?” Andrew demanded. Why must the woman talk in riddles?
Aunt Sophie met his gaze squarely. “Or Bridget. Wichersham told her father before the race that he wanted to set Bridget up in—” She glanced again at the girls and lowered her voice still more. “Set her up in keeping.”
A great surge of anger pounded through him, closing his hands into fists. “You’re telling me he wanted to—” He stared at her. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill the dirty bastard!”
“Andrew, please.” Aunt Sophie glanced around them in obvious embarrassment. “Restrain yourself. We don’t want all London to know about this. Besides, you cannot
kill
the man. It just isn’t done.”
“Perhaps not,” Andrew said fiercely. “But I can beat him to a pulp. And I will.”
And before she could stop him, he set out through the crowd toward the oak where Wichersham was holding court.
* * * *
As she waited for the starter to give the signal, Bridget leaned forward, caressing the stallion’s neck. “Good Waterloo,” she crooned. “Let’s win this race now.”
Waterloo tossed his head as though to say, “Of course we’ll win,” and heartsick as she was, Bridget had to smile.
At least Waterloo loved her.
He would never desert her. She swallowed over the lump in her throat. Had that been Andrew she’d glimpsed in the crowd—Andrew with a face like a thundercloud?
She tried to tell herself she’d been mistaken. When Andrew got home from Scotland, he would forgive her. But she knew better. That
was
Andrew out there, all right, and he was mad as he could be. And with every reason. She had broken her promise, so she would have to leave him.
The thought tore at her heart, made her eyes fill with tears. She loved Andrew. She loved him so much she didn’t know how she would live without him. But she would learn, she told herself as the horses took off and the stallion settled into his stride. She would learn because she had to. Just as she had to ride in this race to save Papa from going to prison.
* * * *
Impervious to everything but the object of his anger, Andrew made his way through the crowd. He was vaguely aware of startled looks and muttered imprecations from those he jostled aside in his passage, but he paid them no more heed than he did the race itself, now taking place on the track. He’d had enough of Wichersham’s nefarious schemes. This was all going to stop. And right now.
The man was standing, his back to the oak, pontificating to the cronies gathered round him. “Of course,” he was saying in that raspy irritating voice of his, “Bridget may know horses and—” When Andrew came to a halt in front of him, Wichersham laughed, the most infuriating, unsettling sound Andrew had heard for a long time.
“Why, if it isn’t Haverly!” Wichersham cried. “Come to see his—lady race.”
He smiled evilly at his sycophants. “As I was saying, Bridget may know horses but—”
His words were cut off in mid-sentence when Andrew grabbed him by the waistcoat and yanked him away from the tree.
“That’ll be enough about
my wife,”
Andrew commanded, shaking the man roughly to and fro. “If ever I hear her name has passed your lips again, you’ll rue the day. And you’ll be getting more of
this!”
In one swift motion he released Wichersham’s waistcoat and dealt him a punishing facer, right to the nose. Wichersham went down, hitting the grass with a satisfying thud. He lay there, his bulging eyes wide and staring, his hand pressed to his bloody nose. The coward didn’t even offer to get up—or fight back. And his so-called friends faded quickly away.
Andrew snorted in disgust. “I’m telling you. Leave my wife alone.
Or next time it’ll be pistols.” And he stalked off, satisfied with himself, if with nothing else.
He had gone some feet when a great roar went up from the crowd. He whirled in time to see Waterloo cross the finish line—the winner, if that was any help.
Now what should he do? Was he supposed to go to the winner’s circle and pretend to be proud of his wife? Proud! When he wanted nothing more than to put the spoiled chit over his knee and give her a good thrashing!
No, he wouldn’t go to her. Let her come to him, let her beg forgiveness for this debacle.
When he reached Aunt Sophie, she was practically jumping up and down, and the little girls with her—their faces all alive with smiles. “She won! Bridget won!” Aunt Sophie cried. The little girls echoed her. “The lady won!”
They were all possessed! And Bridget was the worst of them—the instigator of this madness.
She came slowly through the crowd toward them, her face pale and worried, her white shirt and those godawful breeches streaked with dust and sweat. He stood waiting, his anger almost choking him.
She reached him and stopped, looking hesitantly up. “Andrew,” she whispered. “You came.”
“I got here too late,” he growled, “to stop you from this stupidity.”
“My— My letter,” she faltered, her face going even paler. “Did you get my letter?”
“Yes. Such as it was.” Why must she be so beautiful, even in her distress, that he wanted to clasp her in his arms and forgive her anything?
He hardened his heart. She wouldn’t get by him that easily. He wasn’t going to forgive her yet.
“I . . .” she mumbled, hanging her head. Then she straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye—her own filling with tears. “I have broken my promise,” she said firmly. “And I am sorry. I had good reason—” She swallowed. “Or thought I had. My Papa—before—”
“I know,” he said brusquely. “Aunt Sophie told me the whole sorry story.”
Hope flickered in her eyes and then went out. “Then you know why I rode. That doesn’t excuse it, of course.” She looked toward the girls, hanging onto to Aunt Sophie’s hands, their little faces solemn. “So I will keep my word. I’ll leave your house and take the girls with me. Just as soon as I can get ready.”
His breath left him in a great whoosh of air. By God, she actually meant to leave him! In all his anger, he’d never really considered she’d do
that.
And in that instant he saw, with appalling clarity, the rest of his life—a life empty of Bridget, empty of love. And the image was more than he could bear.
“No!” The word shot from his mouth. “You may not take the girls.”
Bridget stared at him, not understanding. “Can you care for them yourself? Well, I suppose you can,” she went on, answering her own question. “Mrs. Purvey knows what to do and they—”
“Bridget, me girl!” Durabian came grinning through the crowd. “Ye won! Yer the greatest rider ever was!”
“Thank you, Papa.” Bridget turned to him. “I—I’ll be coming back to live with you.” She paused, obviously overcome with emotion.
Durabian turned on him, then, his face reddening. “I collect Bridget told ye about the race what made ye a married man. It weren’t her fault. ‘Twere all mine. I did it all. To save ‘em both—me girl and the stallion. But I didn’t think ye’d be holding it against her. What kind a man . . .”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Bridget interrupted, clasping his arm. “This isn’t about that. This is about me. I promised Andrew not to race, you see, and I broke my promise.”
“Promise?” Durabian said, clearly surprised. “I didn’t know ye prom—”
“I know, Papa. I didn’t tell you because I thought you might not let me ride and—”
“Sure and I wouldn’t!” the old man cried. “Not when ye’d promised.”
“But I had to, you see, because of what you did for me.”
She faced Andrew again. “I knew I might have to leave. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to forgive me.”
“Man!” Durabian cried. “How can ye be so cold-hearted? And to yer own wife what loves ye, can’t ye see? And—”
“Papa,” Bridget said with great dignity. “That’s enough. We don’t beg.”
She’d never looked more beautiful than she did standing there in her leather breeches, her hair all tousled, her face so firm in resolve.
“I knew what I was doing. And I’d do it again.” She looked to Andrew, her face white. “I can’t leave the girls with you, though I suppose it might be better for—”
“No,” he said again, finally finding his voice. “No. You can’t take them. You’re not going anywhere. You can talk horses all you want. You can ride astride through the streets of London. You can race every day of the week. God knows, you can even take in more children! But you can’t leave me, Bridget, you just can’t.”