Joan Smith (13 page)

“Nick is up to all the rigs,” Peter said, eyeing his friend in an assessing way that Sir Charles found very suspicious.

“What of it?” Sir Charles bristled.

“Can I tell him?” Clappet asked, and Trudie nodded.

“But don’t tell Norman,” she said to Nick.

“Tell him what? What the deuce are you two up to?” he asked angrily.

“Luten called me a lightskirt, and I had him rent me a cottage at Tunbridge Wells, only I didn’t go to live in it, of course,” Trudie said, the words tumbling out all in a heap. She felt terribly like crying and was thoroughly ashamed of herself for bothering these two young boys with her problem, except that there was no one else to turn to, and even if they were young, they were city boys at least, whereas Norman was a complete flat. And really she didn’t want to ruin Norman’s one year of pleasure.

Sir Charles put a consoling arm around her shoulder and patted her wrist. “There, there, m’dear. Pull yourself together and try if you can make sense this time. It sounded as if you said Luten rented his lightskirt a cottage at Tunbridge Wells, which he never would do. Not for a minute. He always puts his ladybirds up in the first style of fashion, right in London.”

“You heard her right,” Peter said, and removed Sir Charles’s hand from Trudie’s wrist. He kept hold of her fingers, but Sir Charles felt he had the better of it. He still had his arm around her shoulders.

Trudie shook off both her protectors and took a deep breath, then explained exactly what had happened. Sir Charles counted himself very much a man of the world. He had the rules of Almack’s and the Code Duelo by heart. He belonged to the best clubs, was accepted in the best saloons, and was the object of the only word of praise ever heard to issue from the lips of Mr. Weston, London’s premier tailor. It was once said that Sir Charles did Mr. Weston’s jackets justice. Even Beau Brummell had called him “a pretty fellow.” Obviously he would must know what was to be done in this case.

He cocked his well-coiffed head, grimaced to hide his dimples, and took his decision. “You must find yourself a real beau, Miss Barten. It stands to reason, if Luten sees you are attached to someone else, he won’t fear you are dangling after Peter. That’s what has got his dander up, you know. He thinks you’re making a play for his nephew’s title and blunt. He’ll have to apologize; you accept. It will all blow over without going to the Court of Twelve Paces.”

“But I don’t have a beau,” she pointed out.

“Newmarket is full of bucks. You won’t have a spot of trouble,” Peter assured her.

Sir Charles cleared his throat a couple of times in a meaningful way, but Trudie didn’t jump to the obvious point he was making. Even that clunch of a Peter didn’t twig to it.

“Auntie is particular about my friends,” Trudie objected.

“Then Norman will have to demand an apology from Luten, and be prepared to do the right thing,” Peter said flatly.

Again Sir Charles cleared his throat and again was ignored, so he gave a verbal clue. “Really no problem, Miss Barten. I shall be happy to act your beau, if Luten comes hounding down here after you, as he’s bound to do. Demme, I wish I’d been at White’s though! No point thinking he’ll take Tunbridge Wells sitting down either,” he added aside to Peter. “If he knows you are here, he’ll be down on your head before you can say one, two, three. You haven’t time to find a beau. You’ll have to use me.”

“That’s a shabby trick to serve a friend,” she said. Her demurral was said so prettily, and her little face in the moonlight looked so kissable that Sir Charles found himself infatuated into folly.

“Not at all. It would be an honor, Miss Barten. ‘Pon my word, it would. You’ll have to let me call you Trudie. Been meaning to ask you if I might. My friends call me Nick, by the by. Might as well get used to it, so it will come out natural after Luten gets here.”

That word “Luten” struck her heart like cold steel, after hearing the two young men discuss him in such uncompromising terms. “Do you think it would work? Will it satisfy him if he thinks you and I are
...
”

“He won’t raise any ruckus when I am involved,” Nick said confidently. “He is my aunt Marion’s first cousin. He wouldn’t want to shoot a connection, especially a
young
connection. Not the thing. Luten is too proud to involve the family in such a low sort of a scrape. He’ll knuckle under— hasn’t any choice actually.”

“We’ll do it, then,” she decided.

The solution cheered her, especially since it gave Luten a well-deserved comeuppance. If he were a real gentleman, he would apologize. She found herself looking forward to his apology with eager anticipation.

“Tell you what, Trudie,” Nicolson said. “I’ll take you to the assembly if he comes. Let him see us standing up together. We’ll all go, Peter and your aunt and Norman and us. Luten will look nohow.”

Trudie returned to the house with a lighter heart. She  hadn’t really so much feared Norman would be forced into a duel as that he would do something harebrained like apologize to Luten. Norman wasn’t a hot-blooded young man, but apparently Luten was of quite a different kidney. Only pride would stay his hand from murdering a boy. It would be interesting to see his pride crumble when he realized he’d been made to look a fool and had no recourse but to smile and apologize for it. In the midst of all her thinking, she didn’t forget that Luten was a womanizer. And he put his ladies up in the first style in London, whereas he had bought
her
a broken-down jig and hired a cheap cottage at Tunbridge Wells!

Norman was up and out before the ladies arose the next morning. The Bogmans arrived, and the arduous task of bringing order to the chaos of Northfield was begun. Norman had told them it was the sand gallop being used that day, not the one nearest them. It wasn’t till the next day that they had the pleasure of listening to the thud of hooves and enjoying the constant shower of dirt that filled the air.

In the afternoon, Trudie walked out to the edge of the heath and watched the horses training on the nearer turf gallop. There were more men than women present, but several respectable ladies were there, so that Aunt Gertrude could not call it ramshackle, as she was wishing to do. She did insist that Trudie be accompanied by a groom, and since Norman’s was not busy, he went with her.

It was a novel experience to stand and watch the racers pelting down the heath, with various trainers, jockeys, and owners standing about talking, drawing out watches to time their bloods, and jotting notes in little books. The groom explained to Trudie what was going on.

Later, her brother and his two friends joined her.

“Lightning is going beautifully,” she complimented Nick.

Peter took instant umbrage and informed her that Lightning was even then being withdrawn from practice due to a case of bucked shins. “Furthermore, Fandango outdistanced her by five seconds in the last trial.”

Nicolson didn’t remain long. He had to go back and look after Lightning’s shins. Norman and Peter soon followed after him. “I shall go home now,” Trudie told the groom.

As she turned to leave, she was diverted by the sight of an animal that put in the shade every other horse she had admired that morning. The filly was being led by a buck who outdistanced all other gentlemen to a similar degree. He smiled to see her admiring his filly and soon used it as an excuse to speak.

“Good day,” he said politely, and lifted his hat. Manners were easier on the turf than in London. She had exchanged a few words with other strangers and didn’t take exception to this greeting.

“Good morning. What a beautiful filly you have there,” she complimented him.

“Why, thank you. Thank the pretty lady, Sheba,” he commanded the animal, and drew to a halt, stroking his filly’s neck. Sheba rolled a mischievous eye at him and tossed her mane. “You are a newcomer to the turf, I think?” he asked. He spoke with an echo of Irish brogue, just enough to make his speech interesting, without rendering it comical.

“This is my first trip to Newmarket,” she replied as she took the man’s measure. She beheld a startlingly handsome young fellow. His jet black hair glinted in the sun, but even more striking were his eyes. They were of a clear and very bright dancing blue, fringed with lashes a mile long. The severe geometry of his face and its weather-beaten complexion prevented any air of fragility, however. It was all angles, from the square jaw to the straight line of his nose. His physique was without flaw, unless his shoulders could be called almost too wide. His toilette was in the highest kick of fashion, though it was the fashion of the turf: buckskins, topboots, and a Belcher kerchief at his throat.

“You must have a string of racers training, since you are here so early,” the man said.

“Oh, no! My brother and his friends are each training one entry for the races. I do not own any racehorses.”

“I meant your family, of course,” he answered, smiling. Sheba took into her head to rear up and paw the air with her front legs. The man busied himself quieting her down, giving Trudie a chance to continue examining him, and his calmly masterful way of dealing with this lively one. “You must excuse Sheba’s manners,” he said, laughing. “She’s always jealous when she sees me speaking to a young lady. She is half human, I swear.”

“Have you raced her yet? Is she a winner?” she asked. She didn’t want to break off the conversation just yet. Really the man was incredibly handsome and seemed every inch the gentleman.

“She’s won several small races. I shall be entering her in the Oaks this year.”

“My brother and his friends also plan to enter the Oaks,” she told him.

“Oh, really? I probably know them. I’m an old hand at racing. Would it be presumptuous of me to inquire your brother’s name?”

“Norman Barten,” she answered with a little blush, for his manner indicated it was her own name he was angling for.

“Mr. Barten,” he said consideringly. “I don’t seem to recognize the name. I know mostly everyone who comes regularly.”

“My brother just arrived a few days ago. We have hired that lodge, just there,” she told him, and pointed over her shoulder to Northfield,
.

“Johnson’s place has excellent stabling. A good location too, so close to the heath,” he praised.

A few more comments were exchanged, and soon the gentleman told her his name was Ralph O’Kelly, more usually called Okay by his friends.

“I thought I detected a hint of Irish,” she exclaimed, pleased at having caught it,

“I was born on the ould sod, but nowadays I’m an habitué of Newmarket, Ascot, Doncaster—all the leading meets.”

Mr. O’Kelly sounded the very sort of gentleman to appeal to her brother, and possibly to help him, since Norman was a very tyro at the turf. In a few moments, Trudie said she had to leave. He warmed her heart by saying he hoped they would meet again soon, and meanwhile he would be looking out for her brother. She mentioned that evening that she had met Mr. O’Kelly, and asked Norman if knew anything about him.

“A tall, good-looking fellow?” he asked.

“Yes, he has a filly, Sheba, and probably a whole string of racers,” she replied.

“I’ve seen him around. He knows everyone—at least everyone seems to know Okay O’Kelly, if that’s who you mean.”

“His friends call him Okay,” she admitted.

To make up for taking the afternoon off, Trudie helped her aunt in the drawing room that evening.

“It will never be elegant,” Mrs. Harrington pointed out, quite unnecessarily, “but at least let it not be said the Bartens have sunk to living in squalor.”

The next day Miss Barten was on thorns to get back to the heath to look for Mr. O’Kelly. The awful image of Lord Luten was slipping to the back of her mind. She was by no means an accomplished rider, but Norman’s hack was in the stable and required exercise. It was not so high a stepper that a lady couldn’t handle it.

The air was cool as she cantered along, viewing in the distance a mist rising up from the uneven heath, but in the trees overhead, the birds sang of spring. She took up a position along the edge of the track, where a few gathered groups waited patiently for some action.

Soon a pair of fillies came galloping along, the divots from their heels thrown up behind them. Other groups and single colts and fillies went past, each causing a ripple of excitement. At last Trudie spotted her quarry. Mr. O’Kelly came riding by, mounted on a bay hacker, not his Sheba. He recognized Miss Barten at once and drew up to speak. “Good afternoon, Miss Barten. All alone?”

She felt ill at ease and wondered if perhaps it wasn’t quite the thing to be in this raffish place, without the excuse of its being at her very doorstep. “My brother and friends will be along shortly. I just rode out to exercise my brother’s mount.”

“May I join you?” he asked, already dismounting.

“I would be very happy for your company.”

“It might be best if I stay with you till they come” was all he said, but she surmised she had strayed into error to have come alone.

“It’s very exciting, watching the runs,” she said, to account for the happy smile she could feel lighting her face.

“In my opinion, we are standing on the most interesting piece of land in the country. How does your brother’s training program come along?”

“Well, I believe. He has a filly, True Lady.”

Their interest was diverted to the track as a few racers pounded past. Mr. O’Kelly named each one and gave an opinion of its chances. “The Duke of Welsham’s Barb,” he said a moment later, when one lone horse and rider darted past. He was apparently familiar with every bit of blood on the turf.

“Do you know all the horses?” she asked.

He turned and smiled down at her. The sun struck his handsome face, casting a magical glow over it. “No, I haven’t met True Lady yet, but I look forward to making her acquaintance. I have learned your brother hired Bingo Rourke to ride her. Though he is a countryman, I can’t give Bingo my complete approbation. Too soft—the national failing of his race—but at least he won’t break the lady’s spirit. Your brother is out in his hopes if he thinks to win the Oaks with her.’’